#protect yourselves in this time that is ever shifting

[boyczar]

recent words of the day as applicable and accurate as a tarot reading

[aetherraeys]

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

(part ii)

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

[dior-luxury]

This is just comes to my mind but can you write how the students of all the dorm (if you don't mind♡) reacted when they saw f!yuu being bullied & teased at the same time by other students in their dorm

Love you btw💝🌷

Bullied & Teased

Pt.2

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . drama - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] heartslabyul guys ! - [𝐩:𝐬] mentions of bulling ofc

Note: I'm going to make this into individual parts because tumblr has an image limit on posts <(＿　＿)> . . . Also, this is written in the boys pov!! Also very sorry for the late response on your request, and this work also mentions the reader as "his girlfriend" !

Riddle Rosehearts

The crisp autumn air felt heavy as Riddle walked across the garden, heading toward the dormitory’s courtyard. His steps were precise, as always, but something in the air felt off. As he approached the scene, his eyes narrowed when he saw a few of his dormmates sneering at his girlfriend, making cruel remarks about her appearance. His blood ran cold.

Without a word, Riddle’s expression hardened into a tight, angry frown. The world around him seemed to blur, all his focus fixed on the injustice before him.

“Enough,” he called out sharply, his voice laced with authority.

The bullies froze, the tension palpable as Riddle’s eyes glinted with the sharpness of a leader who had no tolerance for disrespect. “No one will ever treat my girlfriend like that again,” he said, his tone low and cold. He stepped forward, forcing the students to take a step back. “If I hear one more word from any of you, I’ll make sure you're punished according to the dorm rules. Consider yourselves warned.”

His gaze shifted back to his girlfriend, his anger momentarily softening as he moved closer to her. “Are you alright?” His voice was softer now, his hand gently reaching out to support her. Riddle’s protective side was in full force, the rigid rules of his heart quickly morphing into something far more gentle when it came to her.

Ace Trappola

Ace was casually walking through the halls, his usual cocky grin plastered on his face, when he heard the unmistakable sound of hushed voices and laughter. His curiosity piqued, Ace peeked around the corner, only to see a few students from his dorm taunting his girlfriend. They were whispering nasty things, no doubt making her feel small. His grin instantly vanished, replaced by a look of sharp annoyance.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ace’s voice rang out loudly, drawing the attention of both the bullies and his girlfriend.

The students turned, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. Ace’s usual playfulness was gone; in its place was a fierce glare, one that could make even the bravest flinch.

“Don't even think about messing with her, alright?” Ace spat, his stance defensive. He took a few steps forward, his hands in his pockets but his body language radiating that unmistakable protectiveness. “If you’ve got a problem with her, you’ve got a problem with me.”

The bullies stammered, not expecting such an outburst from the normally carefree Ace. Without waiting for them to reply, he turned back to his girlfriend, his grin returning, but this time it was full of reassurance.

“Are you okay, babe? Don’t listen to them. They’re idiots,” Ace said, offering a hand to her. “I’ll make sure they leave you alone from now on. Count on it.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce’s heart raced as he walked into the common room, only to freeze when he saw a few members of his dorm cornering his girlfriend. They were clearly mocking her, their laughter cruel and biting. A surge of protectiveness hit him like a tidal wave.

“Hey! What’s going on here?” Deuce’s voice came out louder than he intended, startling everyone in the room.

The students looked at him, trying to stammer out an explanation, but Deuce’s eyes burned with determination. “If you think it’s okay to make her feel like that, you’re gonna have to answer to me.”

Deuce’s fists clenched, his body tense with anger. He wasn’t one for confrontation, but seeing his girlfriend in distress was a line he wouldn’t cross.

“This stops now. If I catch any of you bothering her again, you’ll regret it,” Deuce said, his voice firm. The students hesitated before nervously backing off.

Turning to his girlfriend, Deuce rushed to her side, his expression softening immediately. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. Are you alright? Don’t worry, they won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.” His usual timidity was replaced by a fierce loyalty, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do anything to protect her.

Cater Diamond

Cater’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and as he pulled it out to check the notification, he caught sight of the scene unfolding before him. His girlfriend, standing alone, surrounded by a few of his fellow dorm members who were laughing at her. His usual playful smile faltered as his eyes narrowed.

“Oh, no, no, no. Not happening,” Cater muttered under his breath, slipping his phone back into his pocket and strolling over with his trademark confident swagger.

“Alright, you guys are seriously overstepping here,” Cater said, a fake smile plastered on his face, but his eyes betrayed the annoyance simmering beneath the surface. He stood between the bullies and his girlfriend, hands on his hips.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, voice calm but edged with a subtle threat. “I’ve got a lot of followers online, and if I wanted, I could make you famous for all the wrong reasons. So how about you all back off before I get real creative?”

The bullies hesitated, not knowing what to make of his sudden shift in tone. Cater leaned closer, his smile growing. “Just letting you know, I’m not joking. She’s with me, and I’ll make sure no one gives her a hard time. Got it?”

After they scurried away, Cater turned back to his girlfriend, his usual charm slipping back into place. “Hey, don’t worry about them. They’re not worth your time.” He grinned, offering her a wink. “You know I’ve got your back, right?”

Trey Clover

Trey had been quietly observing from the distance, his eyes catching sight of a group of students picking on his girlfriend. His calm demeanor faltered for a split second, and a wave of anger washed over him. He took a slow, measured breath, collecting himself before approaching the situation.

“Alright, what’s going on here?” Trey’s voice was steady, his tone not threatening but carrying an authority that immediately commanded attention.

The bullies, realizing they were in the wrong, stammered, trying to make excuses. Trey didn’t let them finish.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” Trey said, his voice colder now. “If any of you think it’s acceptable to treat someone like that, you’re mistaken. Apologize, and then leave.”

There was no doubt in Trey’s mind that he was going to make sure they knew their place. His usual playful demeanor was gone; all that was left was a serious, commanding presence.

The students, visibly shaken, muttered apologies and quickly dispersed. Trey turned to his girlfriend, his expression softening immediately. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. Are you alright?”

He gently took her hand, squeezing it comfortingly. “I won’t let anyone make you feel like that again. I promise.”

[goldenroutledge]

i wish you roses

pairing: lewis hamilton x fem!reader

word count: 8.0k

warning(s): angst !!

summary: inspired by ‘i wish you roses’ - kali uchis. in which no one can have it all, not even lewis hamilton. sometimes the best way to love, is to let go.

a/n: my first time writing for lewis! i just had to take a break from the blurbs to write this, and honestly i love how it turned out 🥹 enjoy!

masterlist

“Now we have one more question, Lewis…” The interviewer teases with a grin, “You and your girlfriend Y/n Y/l/n have been the most talked about couple inside the paddock ever since you debuted your relationship. If you’re comfortable answering, what does your future look like together?”

“If I had a crystal ball, I would tell you.” Lewis jests, deflecting as he always does best. The personal questions have never been his favorite.

“Of course you’ve been very protective of your personal life, and rightfully so, but the people wanna know! Do you see yourselves getting married? Possibly raising a future World Champion or two?”

Lewis chuckles, wondering how he’ll successfully play this off. “Like I said, I can’t predict the future. What I can tell you is that I’m absolutely committed to Scuderia Ferrari and what we plan to achieve together. That’s the only “marriage” I’m focused on.” The interviewer thanks Lewis, leaving him to carry on with the rest of his day of his media day.

But not even hours pass before the interview is published, making headlines on every platform possible, with each one more gossipy than the last. It wasn’t until your best friend sent you an ‘Everything okay?’ text that you started to panic.

Your first instinct was to check Google first, knowing the press has more access to your life than you’re comfortable with. One of the many tradeoffs you’d come to accept with dating Lewis. There was always something to talk about, you have to brace yourself for anything.

‘Still He Rises… Alone? SHOCKING Revelation on Hamilton’s Next Chapter’

‘What’s that Sound? Not Wedding Bells, says Lewis Hamilton’

‘All that Glitters isn’t Gold: Trouble in Paradise for F1’s Golden Couple’

‘Not so Fast: F1 Bachelor Lewis Hamilton ENDS Marriage Rumors with Longtime Girlfriend Y/n Y/l/n’

Your eyes couldn’t stop scanning over the headlines that lit up your screen, as if reading them again and again would somehow change the words or make them disappear altogether. It wasn’t heartbreak that struck you, it was anger. Usually it wouldn’t have been your first resort. You’d learned to take everything in the media with a grain of salt, especially when it pertains to Lewis. You always gave him the benefit of the doubt, always believed him above everyone else.

This time, as you listen to Lewis give the answer on video, something shifts. Sure the headlines are dramatic, carefully crafted to get clicks, but there’s not much to be misconstrued when he very clearly answers the question. The only ‘marriage’ he’s focused on is his partnership with Ferrari. Hell, you almost wished he’d said nothing at all. Before you can react any further, his keys are jingling in the door as he unlocks it.

“Honey, I’m home!” His footsteps sound through the hallway, and you remain silent in your place on the sofa, pouring yourself a glass of wine. “Y/n?”

“Hi, Lewis.”

His brows furrow at the cold tone that sharpens your response, combined with the way you barely acknowledge him as he takes his coat off. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great. How was your day?”

“Long. Sorry we couldn’t meet for lunch today. With joining this team there’s always someone new to meet, you know how it goes.”

“Sounds busy.”

“It was, but in the best way.”

“Right.” You chide sarcastically. “You couldn’t have lunch with me today because you were a little busy telling the world that you have no intentions of marrying me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please Lewis, don’t play clueless with me tonight, I watched the interview. It’s only been covered by every major celebrity news publication today.”

He rolls his eyes, knowing exactly the moment you’re referring to. Honestly, he expected for you to praise how well he shut down the conversation, knowing how sacred privacy is to you. “Come on, sweetheart. You know you can’t take that stuff seriously.”

“They may be making a mockery out of it but you were quoted, Lewis. I heard it, I read it, I saw it… there’s no way you can downplay this right now.”

Lewis moves to your spot on the couch, sitting down beside you and placing a hand on your thigh. “We’ve always agreed to keep our life away from the vultures, haven’t we? I didn’t think it would be fair to share something with the world that we’ve barely discussed ourselves.”

“That’s only because you never let us talk about it, Lewis. You act like the ‘future’ is something so distant and far away that you don’t even have to think about it yet. Every time you get a question like that, you give the same bullshit answer. Everyone thinks you’re not serious about our future together and honestly, I’m starting to believe it.”

His eyes widen as he registers that you have, in fact, had enough of his non-answers. “Honey, you can’t possibly believe that. They have no idea what our life is like, they’re taking crumbs to make it seem like we’re having problems!”

“And those are crumbs that you fed them!” You remind him, not wavering under any circumstances. Not under his gaze that usually takes your breath away, not under his touch that usually leaves you warm and tingly inside. He can’t keep getting away with this. “I mean, what am I supposed to think when I hear you say something like that?”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that! I wanted to keep the conversation focused on my career and the team.”

“Yet at the mention of making me your wife, you answered the question like they asked you what you ate for dinner last night! You were indifferent, Lewis. There was no sparkle in your eyes, no small smile that you try to keep to yourself. I know you well enough to know by now when there isn’t anything there.”

His head hangs low and he tries to take in what you’re saying. “I’m sorry honey, hurting you is the last thing I’d want to do. You know that right?”

“I do.” You nod, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Deep down, you want so badly to believe him with all of your heart. “But I need you to tell me that they’re lying. I need you– no, I need us– to prove them wrong. We’ve come this far, Lewis. I can’t stand the thought of it being for nothing.” Your eyes lock with his, and it’s comforting to notice that you both share the same look of sincerity, the same commitment to never turn your back on the other.

He cups your face in his hands and presses a kiss to your forehead, then engulfs you in his arms as he whispers gentle words. “It’s not for nothing, it could never be. I promise, Y/n. I’ll prove them wrong. We’ll prove them wrong.”

His promise sticks with you. Silently, you hope and pray that he’s trying to convince you instead of himself.

–

The nightstand looks much prettier the next morning, decorated with your favorite red roses standing on top of it. Somewhat of a tradition between you and Lewis, as he would buy them sometimes to make up and sometimes ‘just because’. They were always nice to wake up to, especially when your bed would be empty come sunrise.

A note rests underneath the bouquet.

My love,

I’m sorry about last night, I wish we could have woken up together this morning.

Figured I’d let you sleep. Text me when you get this, we’ll make up that lunch from yesterday.

I love you.

Lewis

–

The pitter-patter of raindrops falling outside the cafe window are distracting. Almost enough to keep you silent all through lunch, unable to stop your mind from wandering. Lewis sits opposite you, occasionally brushing his thumb across your knuckles as he holds your hand in his.

Sometimes the quiet moments are the best. You can simply bask in each other’s presence without a word being said between you. It’s unfortunate to realize these moments must always come to an end, even by your own doing.

“Can I ask you a question, Lewis?”

“Anything.”

“When we first started dating… What did you envision for us?”

“This.” Lewis meets your eyes, smiling peacefully. You can’t help but give him a smile back.

“Do you still dream about it?”

Lewis furrows his eyebrows, confused as to where this is coming from, but lingering questions from the previous night haven’t stopped playing in your head. “Honey, of course I do. There’s nobody else I’d rather be on this journey with.”

You nod, still somewhat unconvinced, even though you try to tell yourself differently. Lately, that hasn’t been enough. The pit in your stomach only seems to be growing.

When you don’t respond, Lewis continues. “If I remember correctly, when we first met, you dreamed of becoming a florist and opening your own shop. Do you still dream about that?”

Your eyes snap back to his at the mention of something you’d told him years ago. You’re a little surprised he still remembers, after all this time. “Of course I do. Maybe my dreams changed a little bit when I fell in love with you, though.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. I guess you have dreams big enough for the both of us. Doesn’t leave much room for mine.”

Lewis frowns. “How long have you been feeling like that?”

“How long have we been together?” You answer rhetorically with a chuckle, but Lewis doesn’t laugh with you. “It’s not your fault, by any means. I choose to be with you and I embrace everything that comes with loving you. But it’s the truth.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way. I always figured we would explore that after I retired, when our life is a little more stable.”

You sigh at his admission, calling his bluff before you can stop yourself. “You’ll never be retired, Lewis.”

He gives you a puzzled look. “As much as I love Formula 1, I won’t be racing forever.”

“Sure, maybe you’ll retire from racing. But you’ll fill your calendar with a million other things. Film projects, fashion partnerships, Almave, jumping out of planes in between… There will always be something else.”

He smiles softly in reflection and it makes your stomach turn. Whether he acknowledges it or not, Lewis knows you’re telling the truth. “Maybe. But there’s always room for you in that plan, and for your plans too. It’s not just you and me, it’s our life together. We’ll make room for it all, won’t we?”

You chuckle at his relentlessness. “You’ve got to be the most insatiable man in the world, Lewis. You’re never satisfied. And for some strange reason, I love that about you. I can’t help it.”

Lewis grins, leaning over to kiss you across the table. “Good. Promise you’ll never stop?”

“I promise.” Your forehead rests against his for a moment, needing to hear him vow the same to you. “Will you do the same for me?”

“Always.”

–

“So love, I’ve been thinking…” Lewis starts, getting dressed for the day on one side of the closet while you get ready on the other. “We should walk the carpet together at the MET this year.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I am a co-chair after all, so it’ll be extra special. What do you say?”

“Sure, but isn’t it a little early to be thinking about that? The first Monday in May is still months away, honey.”

“It is.” Lewis agrees, making his way over to you as he wraps his arms around your frame from behind, locking eyes with you in the mirror. “But it would mean a lot to me if it was us up there together.” He presses a kiss to the back of your neck to emphasize his point, before he helps you clasp your necklace together.

“Well, forgive me for being the slightest bit surprised. A lot of people will be talking about it, you know.”

“Exactly. And we’ll be there to show them a united front.”

You freeze in his hold, connecting the dots out of pure skepticism. His choice of words doesn’t exactly help your worries. “United front?”

“Yeah, we’ll show the world that our relationship is not ‘on the rocks’ or whatever those bullshit articles were saying.”

You take a step away from him, turning around so you are standing face to face. “Is that why you’re asking me? To squash the media’s narrative about the strength of our relationship?”

“Y/n.” Lewis sighs. “I don’t want to do this again. I just want us to live our lives, everyone else can go fuck themselves as far as I’m concerned.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Are you asking me to go with you for appearances; Yes or no?” He pauses, attempting to say something, anything to put your mind at ease, but the words fail to come out. “Don’t lie to me, Lewis.”

“It’s not the only reason!” He defends. “Maybe I want to stick it to the media because they have no idea what they’re talking about. They shouldn’t get to make these stupid claims about my life while I just take it on the chin! I’ve had enough of that.”

“And I agree, but you can’t just use me as a pawn to make a point or whatever you’re trying to do! I’m not your accessory, I’m supposed to be your partner.”

“And you are my partner in this, forever. I just want everyone to be reminded of that.” Lewis explains, placing his hands on your hips to keep you from retreating away.

“So do I. But you’re so caught up in blaming other people that you can’t even acknowledge that these rumors only started because you fed them the story!”

Lewis retracts his hands, growing defensive. “Oh, so this is my fault? Well, excuse me for trying to fix it!” Your movements are quick as you lace your sneakers and throw on a jacket, leaving the bedroom with haste. “Where are you going?” Lewis questions, defeated.

“For a walk. Don’t follow me.” And with that, you were out the door before he has a chance to protest.

–

The London weather is typical, cloudy skies with the fresh smell of rain filling the atmosphere. It couldn’t better reflect the way you’re feeling about your relationship with Lewis, the uncertainty consuming your thoughts more often than not lately. It’s the first time in your life that you’ve wondered if you and Lewis would make it or not. It’s the first time you’ve wondered what life without him would look like. It’s scary, but not impossible.

Autopilot has consumed you for so long, that taking control of your life attracts you now more than ever. The beautiful greenery in Hyde Park reminds you of it. If only the rose garden were in full bloom. Still, it’s amazing to see how some of the bushes have survived through the first frost. It’s oddly inspiring to look at what appears to be so delicate, remain standing through rough conditions. You can’t help but imagine if things would be the same for you, too. Maybe there’s a reason why this has always been your favorite trail to walk.

About 40 minutes pass before he finds you, having left the house 10 minutes after you did. He even stopped to get a bouquet of roses on the way, knowing they always find a way to cheer you up. Lewis figures you need some time to clear your head, and he understands that feeling better than anyone. He’s more than happy to give that to you, but needs to know you’re safe above anything else.

You’re standing in front of an empty building when he spots you. It’s old and rustic, but not quite to the point of collecting dust. It has charm, you can tell just by looking at it. Even though there’s nothing here anymore but a ‘For Sale’ sign hanging in the window, a phone number listed below it, you can’t stop gazing through the glass.

“Honey?”

The familiar sound of Lewis’ voice startles you, breaking your trance. “What are you doing here?” You’re surprised more than anything, but you really shouldn’t be. It would be unlike Lewis to leave you alone for too long after an argument.

“I come bearing roses.” He laments, handing you the bouquet, albeit smaller than what he usually gets. Those ones are large enough to fill a room, but he can only carry so many at once.

“And I also come bearing an apology. We’ve been having the same fight lately and I’ve been so frustrated in trying to stop it. The only opinion in this world I care about is yours, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did in the interview. Me not wanting to marry you? That couldn’t be further from the truth. Everyday I wake up the luckiest man on Earth because I’m laying beside you.”

“They’re lovely, Lewis. Thank you.” You smell the roses, instinctively feeling that familiar calm take over as you do. “The apology isn’t so bad either.”

He chuckles, letting himself relax. By the looks of it, the fresh air and a little space did you both some good. “This has been a struggle for me, too. I should be talking to you about these things instead of trying to control them on my own. I just want to protect you from everything I can.”

“I know. You always try your best to do that.” You offer, hoping to assuage some of the guilt he’s feeling.

“It’s just… My life has been Formula 1 for so long that I guess I never imagined a time where Lewis Hamilton spends his day at the office and comes home to the wife. I’m not wired that way.”

“I know you’re not. I’ve always known that, it would be unfair of me to try and change you now. Not that I would want to, anyway.”

Lewis’ heart warms at your understanding nature. It’s both exciting and scary how well you know him, and love him through all of it. “What’s unfair of me, is to pretend that what you’ve imagined for us isn’t important, or that it doesn’t exist at all. I’ve been narrow minded and I’m sorry about that.”

His apology fills you with the hope that you’ve been needing, in order to move past this once and for all. “You’ve always been stubborn, I’ve gotten used to it.”

Lewis smiles. “You love all of the things I wish I could change about myself. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“You don’t have to. Kiss me, instead?”

Lewis grants your wish and places his lips on yours. You’re careful not to drop the beautiful bouquet of flowers into the puddle on the ground below you. Your free hand cups the side of his face and you smile against his lips, finally feeling some peace as you open yourselves up to each other. It’s been a long time coming.

When you pull back, he holds your body close to his, wishing to never let go. It’s something he should do more often. “So, what brought you over here?”

“Oh, I was just walking through the park when I noticed this building, I couldn’t help but stop and stare. It’s cute, right?”

“Very.” He agrees, picking up the way you glance between your roses and the empty building space. “You see yourself here, don’t you?”

“A little bit.” You admit reluctantly, never letting your hopes get too high. Not yet, anyway. “But it would never happen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

You give him a confused look, remembering that he knows exactly the reason why it won’t happen. “Me, starting a business right now? It’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it?”

Lewis’ expression is one of indecision. “Maybe you wouldn’t open tomorrow, but I’d say it’s worth looking into.”

“Of course you would say that, you’ve had the entrepreneur title for a while now.” You tease lightheartedly, and he laughs.

“I’m not saying for me, silly. It’s your dream and I want to support you, no matter how long it takes.”

“If I decided to pursue it now, I don’t know what that would mean for us.”

Lewis sighs, taking your free hand in his. “Me neither.”

You might use that to distract from the truth, but it goes without saying that you both know exactly what it means. The goodbye would be tough; it’s not one either of you are ready to say yet. Neither of you can even acknowledge that it would take saying goodbye for your dream to step out of your imagination to come to fruition. For now, denial feels like the better of the two options.

“We should get home, I want to take care of these roses, not all of them can stand the cold.”

“They’re strong enough, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

You nod along, remembering your thoughts from earlier. These roses are a lot stronger than one might think, their fragile appearance would throw anyone off. “You’re right, I’m sure they will be, too.”

Lewis offers his arm so yours can link with his. If all it took was this walk to be able to talk with him openly again, you would’ve gone on it weeks ago.

Maybe your newfound serenity can be attributed to reconciling with Lewis, or the phone number for the building space that’s folded up in your back pocket.

–

“Hyde Park Realty Group, this is Sandra.”

“Hi, Sandra, this is Y/n Y/l/n. I’m calling about a property I came across the other day, a commercial space.” You inform her, listing off the address.

“Oh, Y/n! You’re in luck because it just went on the market this week! It’s in great condition despite what the pictures may show.” Sandra advises cheerfully, until her tone drops ever so slightly. “It’s so nice that we’ve actually received an inquiry already.”

“Oh wow, I guess I’m not really surprised. It’s a great little place. Did I mention that I’d be willing to pay above the asking price?”

“I will be sure to keep that in mind! Anything for my favorite client.”

You laugh at her enthusiasm on the other end of the line. “Well, since you mention that… Is there any way you can give me a name? Find out who’s interested in the place?”

“The listing agent happens to be a friend of mine, so I’m sure I can figure it out. Can I give you a call back when I do?”

“Absolutely, I’d appreciate that very much. Thank you, Sandra!”

“Always a pleasure.” She returns your pleasantries, ending the call immediately after.

–

Lewis sits in his office, unable to remain focused when he’s waiting for his phone to light up with a phone call. A few minutes turns into a half an hour, and it’s almost as if he’s manipulated the call into existence when his phone finally rings. He wastes no time in answering.

“So, I have good news and I have bad news.” Mark, his real estate agent, starts over the phone.

“What’s the bad news?” Lewis queries.

Mark pauses. “Someone has their eye on the property near Hyde Park, so we might be looking at a bidding war.”

“And the good news?”

“The good news is there’s no need for a bidding war, because the person interested happens to be your girlfriend, Y/n.”

Lewis' eyes widen and he can feel his heart beating out of his chest in anticipation. “What?! How is that supposed to be good news?”

“It’s simple, one of you buys the building and the other sleeps on the couch.” Mark jests.

“Yeah, very funny. The whole point of this is that it’s supposed to be a surprise. I don’t want her to know I’m buying the property. She doesn’t know that I’m putting an offer on it right?”

Mark hesitates on the other end. “Her realtor and I owed each other a favor… So I can’t promise that Sandra won’t let the cat out of the bag.”

“Isn’t there some kind of realtor-client confidentiality? What happened to that non-disclosure clause in the contract we signed?” Lewis admonishes, wanting to be furious when in reality, he’s a little thankful to get the heads up on this.

“Look, this information is just as useful to you as it would be to her. We’ll make a cash offer and I’m sure the seller will accept instantly. Just make sure Y/n doesn’t get to them first. You’re a fast man, aren’t you? I’m sure you can make that happen.”

Lewis sighs. “I can try. Thanks for the call.”

“No problem, I’ll take care of everything.” Mark assures, hanging up the phone.

Lewis lets his head fall into his hands. This certainly isn’t how he planned for things to go. The more you kept quiet, the more he did too, desperate to maintain control of the situation before it’s too late. He wants nothing more than to give you this gift, convinced that this is the one thing he can do to make it up to you after everything.

Lewis’ mind wanders, as it often does when he has a rare moment alone. He wonders why, after you two made up in Hyde Park, would you be inquiring about the building so soon? Were you planning to lease it until you both can spend more time in London? Surely you can’t start a business and still travel with him to races.

On the other hand, if there’s anyone that can do it, it’s you. But he knows you, and he knows that you don’t do anything halfass. Especially not something like this.

Maybe that’s partly why he’s still drawn to you so intensely after so long. You’re two peas in a pod in that regard; burning with an unyielding desire to tune out the world while you pursue your dreams.

An uneasy feeling settles inside of him, knowing that you’re getting restless. Lewis doesn’t know if you’d ever be sick of travelling with him, putting your dreams on hold while he continues chasing his. If the tables were turned, he knows how he would feel.

He doesn’t want to hold you back anymore, but it will be a cold day in hell before he sets you free. At the end of the day, he loves you. If Lewis can’t decide on his own, the velvet ring box in his desk drawer will do it for him.

–

Not even a day goes by before Lewis is asking you out to dinner again. A part of you wonders if he’s truly trying to make up for lost time, or if he knows that you’ll have one foot out the door if he doesn’t. Ever since Sandra called you back, this time with a name, you didn’t know what to make of Lewis’ behavior. All you did know was that you wouldn’t be playing any games with him. Not about this.

When you’d asked him what the occasion was, he played it off, giving you something sly like ‘Since when do I need an occasion to treat my girl?’. Corny, you’d admit. But there was something about it that made it feel like the beginning of your relationship again. Those butterflies came back out to play. You decided to make the most of it, hoping that this time, they’ll last.

“Wow, Lewis. This is a lot, even for you.” Your eyes scan the private balcony, decorated with red roses all around. The weather is chilly, but not cold enough to stop you from enjoying an evening under the stars, secluded from the world.

“It’s nothing for you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to you or do for you, honey. Never forget that.” He charms, squeezing your waist gently.

You kiss him softly, hoping to relieve some of his nerves. Your thumb glides across his lips, wiping away a faint smudge of your red lipstick. “I know, and I love you very much for it. You have this way of making me feel like we’re the only two on Earth, and I could never get sick of it.”

“It does feel like that, doesn’t it?” Lewis muses, taking your hands in his as he smiles to himself. He bites his lip, feeling that he has so much more to say. “Somedays I wish that were true, we’d be spending a lot more time together.”

“Yeah but before me, you had a dream way bigger than us. And you’ve achieved that dream not only once, but seven– technically eight– and now almost nine times.” You beam with pride, knowing how much Lewis has dedicated himself to his career, and managed to rise up again after a tough few years.

Instead, Lewis gulps at your comment that your dreams individually might be bigger than the ones you have together. He wonders if that’s how you feel about your precious flower shop, too. It’s certainly not the best of moments for his mind to go there, not when this ring box is practically burning a hole through his pocket.

“Since I met you, I’d say this dream has grown on me quite a bit, too. Spending my life with you, having a family one day. Those have become my dreams too now.”

“And they’ve become mine.” You smile, squeezing his hands reassuringly. “Gosh, you don’t know how badly I’ve dreamed of that. But I understand why you’re hesitant to rush into it.”

“Yeah, about that.” Lewis wavers, clearing his throat to regain some steadiness to his voice. “What if I was done hesitating? I think I’ve done enough of that, haven’t I?”

You shake your head at his insinuation. “I’m not going to pressure you into marrying me, Lewis. That can only come from your heart.”

“It does come from my heart.” He reassures you. “I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time now, I just… I’ve been waiting for the right moment to come around. But you know what? I’ve waited long enough.” Lewis retracts one of his hands from yours, reaching into the pocket of his wool coat.

To you, it happens in slow motion. You can barely register what you’re seeing as he lowers down onto one knee, opening the small velvet box for you to see, a beautiful diamond ring cushioned inside.

“Y/n, my love, will you marry me?”

You freeze.

Through all the times you’ve pictured this moment, none of them were like this. You never imagined that your answer could be anything but a resounding yes being shouted from the rooftops. You definitely didn’t imagine this would happen after the series of arguments you’d been having lately.

You remember that building in Hyde Park, how Sandra told you that it was someone close to you who was interested in buying it. Lewis does happen to be the most calculated man you know, and always uses it to his advantage, in business and on track. Not even in your worst nightmares have you imagined that he would ever use it against you.

But looking into his eyes as they search yours for some kind of answer, you realize this isn’t a nightmare. This isn’t some fantasy that’s too good to be true. Being Lewis’ wife, having him as your husband… that’s been written in your dreams for some time now.

“If you’re not ready, I understand. I’ll wait, I’ll give you however much time you need to think-”

“Yes.” You breathe out, so quiet that he needs to hear it again to be sure.

“What?”

“Yes, Lewis. I’ll marry you.”

The man has never gotten on both feet so fast, as he literally sweeps you off of yours, holding your body close to his. Heat radiates off his body as he embraces you tightly, but maybe that has less to do with his designer coat and more to do with the nerves that have been consuming him since you arrived.

Lewis pulls back, but only to kiss you with every ounce of passion he carries around, and has carried around with him from the very day you met. He slides the diamond ring onto your finger and you both admire the way it shines under the stars.

“I’ll love you forever, Y/n.”

“I’ll love you forever too, Lewis Hamilton.”

–

“Just keep them closed!” Lewis pleads, carefully guiding you beside him as you walk through Hyde Park together.

Sandra had been unusually quiet lately, and in all honesty, your heart was beating out of your chest to get a glimpse of that building that’s grown on you so much. You see it all the time. In your daydreams, imagining yourself fixing it up, one day making your own arrangements and selling flowers.

“We’re here!” Lewis exclaims, telling you to open your eyes. Sure enough, standing in front of the address you’ve become quite acquainted with over the last few weeks.

“What are we doing here? What is the surprise?” You take a look around, heart throbbing as you notice the ‘For Sale’ sign has been removed from the window. One look at Lewis’ smirk, and your stomach drops. “No, Lewis. Tell me you didn’t.”

“Surprise, baby.” He kisses your cheek excitedly, handing you a shiny golden key to unlock the front door. “Go ahead, it’s yours.”

“I was gonna buy this place.”

“I know! And I talked to Sandra, and convinced her to keep it a secret so I could surprise you. Please don’t hold it against her, okay?”

“So if you knew I wanted to buy it, why didn’t you let me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you blow your savings on this place just as we’re about to get married. It didn’t make sense to me.” Lewis explains, eyes scanning yours to figure out why you’re not leaping into his arms joyously, like he thought you would. “Come on, you’re not mad at me are you?”

“No, I’m not mad.” You reassure, a smile growing on your face as you examine the building all over again. Your building. “I really don’t know what to say, Lewis. I guess thank you would be the best place to start.”

“You deserve this. You deserve everything, and I intend on giving it to you.”

Lewis smiles against your lips as you kiss him, losing the words you wish to say. “I guess you’re right. Whether it was you or me to buy the space, it doesn’t really matter. I just thought it could’ve been a fun process, buying it on my own. I’ve never had something all to myself like this.”

“I don’t want you to worry, okay? It’s in your name anyway. Now, shall we go in?”

You take the hand he holds out for you. It’s reassuring to have Lewis as your partner in all of this; there’s no greater gift. There’s not a single house or building that could top that, not even a hundred red roses to wake up to in the morning.

–

‘Can’t wait to celebrate you tonight xx’

You re-read Lewis’ text from hours ago, to make sure it was still there. You’re not going crazy, right? He said he’d be here, at the opening party for your flower shop.

To say you were embarrassed would be an understatement. Everything had been going so well. Remodeling and decorating the place to fit your taste, something that your customers would love too. Lewis was always sure to offer his advice when you asked for it.

Now, as the party full of your family and friends is in full swing, you can’t help but wish you hadn’t asked him for anything at all. Hours had gone by before people stopped asking where he was, you ignored their obvious, hushed whispers.

Some of your friends even suggested texting him again to make sure he’s not busy dealing with some kind of emergency. You brushed them off, knowing that any of those excuses would be far from the truth.

Maybe he didn’t intend on missing your big night, but did it really matter? He’s not here to see the bright bunches of florals elevating the space from what it once was; hollow rooms and cream walls so plain that they were begging for someone to bring them to life.

The arms of the clock keep inching forward, yet the front door to your shop never moves. You have to look away every time you subconsciously glance at it, your eyes daring to water as each person that congratulates you, isn’t the man you’re waiting for.

For now, you have to pretend it doesn’t bother you, when nothing has ever infuriated and saddened you so much at once. You have to lie to your friends when they offer to stick around after the party’s over, instead telling them that you just need a minute to let it all sink in.

They assume you mean embracing your accomplishment in becoming a business owner, a dream you’ve sought to fulfill for as long as you can remember. Your parents brought it up when they congratulated you in a toast, reminiscing on how their daughter stopped to smell every flower she came across growing up. They spoke about how proud they were to see how far you’ve come. What a shame it was that your fiancé wasn’t standing beside you when they did.

Tonight is about growth, but never in the way you expected. You’re left here to mourn the loss of something you never really had to begin with. Lewis; but more specifically, his undivided love and attention. The diamond ring pulls at your left hand, weighing it down more than usual. You fight the urge to take it off altogether. Even if you did, would it really matter? Given that the man who put it there isn’t here to witness it.

Until the bell on the front door chimes. The sound is more chilling than anything, in the midst of the quiet that’s fallen over your shop. Only soft jazz music plays throughout, you haven’t bothered to turn it off after the party ended.

You swallow the lump in your throat, and you don’t look up from your drink before speaking. But you can feel his eyes on you. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Don’t say that, honey. I’m the idiot.” He protests, heart dropping in panic as he realizes that it’s just you and your flowers in here, he missed the whole thing. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“No, Lewis. You may be hyper focused on your career but it’s taken the both of us to get to this point. I’ve only been enabling it. Forgiving you even when I don’t really mean it. I haven’t been honest enough.”

“Please, stop blaming yourself. I fucked up, okay? I lost track of time at a business dinner, but there’s no way I should’ve missed this. I can’t believe my assistant didn’t pull me out early, at the very least.” Lewis rants, though he knows the fault doesn’t belong elsewhere.

“Don’t you dare do that to me. Again.” You finally look in his direction, this time you can’t stop the tears from flowing. “You don’t get to blame your assistant, or your team, or anyone else! We can talk semantics, and if we do we’ll be here all night. Let’s face it, if tonight was really important to you, you would’ve been here!”

“And I’ll never forgive myself for missing it. Please, honey, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Stop fucking calling me that, Lewis! And I hope you don’t forgive yourself, you don’t deserve to! I mean I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you just don’t care enough, or that all of this is just one big fucking game to you because you can’t stand the thought of me living a life without you. You tell the world you’re not thinking about marrying me, and it’s not until I want to do something on my own that you propose within fucking weeks. Not to mention snatching up this property before I could.”

He stands there, silently, which only fires you up more. Truthfully, you don’t need the press, you don’t need Sandra, you don’t need anybody to tell you about the man you’ve known, the man you’ve loved for several years now. And it guts you, but that feeling comes straight from your intuition. It rips your heart in two to see all of it go down the drain.

Nevertheless, when one door closes, another one opens.

“Now that I think about it…” You trail off, the weight on your ring finger now growing unpleasant. “I think it’s time you got this back.”

Lewis’ eyes widen as he watches you tug at the jewelry and rip it off with haste. He strides to you in a few quick steps, yet the distance between you has never felt greater. “Y/n, please. You have every right in the world to be upset with me but we can work through this, we always do!”

You scoff, offended by the way he’s diminishing you. “Of course you think we could just move on! Because to you, this is just a fucking launch party. You’ve had plenty of those. But Lewis, this was my one. My one night that I wanted to share with you, and you couldn’t do it! You couldn’t be there when I needed you to. I wasn’t asking for one whole day or one whole week of your time. Hell, I wasn’t the one who asked for the rest of your life! All I wanted was an hour or two. And you couldn’t do that.”

“I love you.” Lewis utters, his voice shaking. The words aren't as promising as they used to be. Instead, he’s begging you to remember what he hasn’t yet convinced you of. Maybe you haven’t felt loved by Lewis in quite a while, grand gestures aside. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“You know, I used to believe you when you said that. The twisted thing is, a part of me still does. A part of me really wants to.” You cry, wishing nothing more than for this nightmare to come to an end. If you don’t say something now, it won’t. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. Like you said, we’ve been waiting long enough right? Maybe we should’ve had this conversation a long time ago. We were never going to make things work.”

“Please don’t do this, I’ll do anything to make it better.” Lewis breathes out, a few stray tears slipping down his cheeks.

There was a time when you’d wipe them away, no matter if the two of you were fighting or not. It’s a rude awakening to not feel that urge anymore. No urge to lean forward, to run into his arms. No urge to step backward or run for the door. You just stand there and face him.

“Lewis, when you said you’d love me forever… did you mean it?”

“Yes!” Lewis rushes, cradling your face in his hands, needing you to see it in his eyes that not an ounce of him feels differently. “I absolutely meant it, from the bottom of my heart. I still mean it, I will love you forever, Y/n. As long as I live and then some.”

“Then do me this favor? Just this one…” Lewis shakes his head in denial— in refusal— as you grasp at his wrists, disconnecting his hands from your face. They trail down your frame, as a way to hold onto you. To remind himself that you haven’t disappeared yet. And you let him, committing his touch to your memory for a final time.

He takes a deep breath. “Anything.”

“Just let me go, Lewis. Don’t put up a fight. Don’t put me through any more of this hope and disappointment. Please? I don’t think I can stand to resent you more than I already do.”

His jaw clenches, you’re unsure of what he’s holding back. It might be the first time that you don’t want to know. It’s the first time that Lewis’ closed off nature hasn’t sent you spiraling, desperate to find some kind of sign to cling onto. The silence for once, is quite refreshing, despite his repressed cries that sound through the air. Yours, too.

He presses his lips to your forehead, and your cheeks feel wet with tears as they flow. The gesture strikes through your heart, and the weight of it becomes heavier. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m so, so sorry, Y/n. Please remember that.”

Lewis walks out of the shop, your shop, but not without taking one last look at you in it. A part of him wants to weep with pride and joy, knowing you’ll be just fine here. After tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that, this burden will become easier to carry.

How ironic, for it’s the exact reason that this tears him up inside. When the sun comes up in the morning, this won’t be a nightmare he wakes up from. The bed will be empty, and everything will come rushing back to him like a riptide when he feels for you and you’re not there.

That pattern will repeat itself day in and day out, only with the outside noise growing louder. Pictures from your grand opening will be published and the comments will flood with questions about his absence. Those same gossip rags spreading speculation about you two breaking up some time ago, will resurface with something new to talk about.

Little by little, pictures of the two of you, and your life together, will disappear from your feed. He won’t know what to make of it, seeing the pure joy on your face while you interact with your customers, living the life you were made for.

Guilt will consume him as he wonders if that unbridled happiness is what he was keeping you from all along? You just might come to regret the relationship entirely, if you knew then what you know now. You’re closing one chapter as you begin another one, and you’re writing it on your own this time. He has no choice but to carry on with writing his too.

As time passes, Lewis knows that you’re somewhere out there thinking of him, just as he’s thinking of you. When he wakes up he rubs the sleep from his eyes, wondering how long he’s been living like this. Where his days blur together and all he can think about is where he went wrong.

Lewis notices a decadent arrangement sitting on his marble countertops after he drags himself out of bed. Those bright red roses are unmistakably and undeniably, your own. The sight alone brings a fresh wave of tears to his eyes, and a few drip onto the note sitting beside the arrangement. He reads it again and again until his vision clouds over completely.

–

I think it’s your turn to have these.

I wish you roses, Lewis. Take care of yourself.

Y/n

💌: reblogs & comments are always appreciated! thank you for reading :)

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[hisfavegirl]

Fire and Rose Petals - Daemon Targaryen x Reader

summary : your marriage with daemon is no longer based on duty, but love. you and daemon become more and more inseparable, until good news comes and you both love each other even more.

It’s been nearly a month since you and Daemon married, and you’ve both decided to stay for a while at Dragonstone, where the quiet and solitude allow you both to enjoy each other’s company without the looming pressures of the court. The island feels like a world of its own, a place where the noise of the kingdom fades, and it’s just the two of you.

The bond between you and Daemon has only grown stronger during these weeks. You’ve become inseparable, finding comfort and peace in each other’s presence. Wherever you are, Daemon is there too, and vice versa. It’s as if the two of you were always meant to be side by side. There’s a certain intimacy in this, a closeness that even the eyes of others can’t break.

Today, you find yourselves in the garden of Dragonstone, surrounded by the wild beauty of the island. The sun is setting, casting an amber glow across the sky, and the air is cool, perfect for an evening spent outdoors. You’re seated comfortably in Daemon’s lap, your body relaxed against his chest as he holds you effortlessly.

You’re both at ease, content in each other’s presence. Daemon’s hand rests on your waist, the gentle touch of his fingers grounding you as you chat softly. His presence is warm and protective, and in this moment, there’s no need for words. His eyes are focused on you, but it’s the soft smile he wears that makes your heart flutter every time.

“I never thought I’d enjoy the quiet so much,” you murmur, looking out at the horizon, where the sun dips lower behind the cliffs of Dragonstone. “Back at court, there was always something happening. It feels so peaceful here.”

Daemon chuckles softly, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve always preferred the calm,” he says. “It gives us time to focus on what truly matters.”

You smile and turn your head slightly, catching his gaze. “And what matters most to you?” you ask, a teasing tone in your voice.

Daemon’s eyes soften as he looks at you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something deeper in his expression. “You,” he replies simply, his voice full of sincerity. “You matter most to me, always have.”

His words settle in the space between you, and you feel a warmth spread through your chest. It’s moments like these that remind you of the strength of the bond between you both, a connection that goes beyond the expectations of marriage or royalty. It’s something entirely your own, something deeply personal.

“You’re quite good at making me feel special,” you say with a smile, resting your hand over his. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

Daemon smirks, his confidence never waning. “You didn’t get lucky,” he says, his tone playful. “You chose wisely.”

You laugh softly, feeling the weight of the moment sink in. In this peaceful space, with the sunset casting a soft glow around you and Daemon holding you close, everything else seems far away. It’s just the two of you, and in that simplicity, you find a happiness you hadn’t anticipated.

As you sit there, gazing at Daemon with a soft smile, you can’t help but notice the way his expression shifts. He’s usually confident and calm, but there’s something in his eyes today that seems distant, almost preoccupied. You catch his gaze, sensing that something is weighing on his mind.

“Daemon,” you ask gently, your voice laced with concern. “What’s on your mind? You seem… lost in thought.”

He hesitates for a moment, then sighs, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s nothing,” he begins, his voice carrying a hint of reluctance. “It’s just… my father asked me today if you were pregnant yet. If we were expecting.”

You blink in surprise, the words catching you off guard. You’d heard whispers about the expectation of an heir, but to have it brought up so directly by his father feels like an unexpected turn in your still-fresh marriage.

“Your father asked that?” you repeat, trying to process the weight of it. The idea of bearing an heir to the Targaryen name had always loomed over you, but the pressure of it suddenly feels more real.

Daemon nods, his jaw tightening slightly. “Yes. He’s… eager for grandchildren, for the line to continue. And I’m sure he thinks it’s time.”

You feel a flicker of discomfort at his words. It’s clear that Daemon, though he is fiercely independent and unwilling to be controlled by anyone, still feels the weight of his father’s expectations. You can sense the subtle pressure he’s under.

“I see,” you reply, your voice quiet, unsure of what to say next. Part of you feels the weight of this expectation too. While you’ve grown closer to Daemon and found happiness together, the idea of bearing an heir for House Targaryen, and the eyes that would be on you because of it, is daunting.

Daemon catches your eye again, his expression softening as if sensing your unease. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, a hint of his usual smirk returning. “I told him we’ll let things happen when they do. But my father’s… persistent.”

You let out a small breath, relieved by his words, but still, the notion lingers in the back of your mind. The idea of starting a family with Daemon, of continuing the Targaryen legacy, feels monumental in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Daemon leans in slightly, his gaze intense but comforting. “We’ll handle it together, as we always do. Whatever happens, we’ll decide when the time is right.”

His words ease some of the tension in your chest, and you nod, smiling up at him. For now, you remind yourself, you have each other, and that is enough. The rest—whether or not you bear an heir—will come when the time is right.

“You’re right,” you agree, a sense of peace returning. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You gently caress Daemon’s cheek, your fingers tracing the familiar lines of his face as you move closer, pressing your lips softly against his. A small sigh escapes you as you pull back slightly, your eyes searching his for any hint of doubt. There’s a quiet longing between you both, a shared desire that hasn’t been fulfilled yet, despite your efforts.

“I do want to bear your child,” you murmur softly, the words heavy with meaning. “But perhaps the gods have yet to grant us that blessing.”

Daemon’s gaze softens, his hand moving to cup your face gently, as if to comfort you. “Don’t worry, my love,” he says, his voice steady and filled with warmth. “The gods move at their own pace. We have time.”

You smile faintly, nodding in agreement, but deep down, you can’t help but feel the weight of expectation. While both of you are deeply connected and share a powerful bond, the idea of bearing an heir—especially in the eyes of the Targaryen family—is something that looms over you.

But as Daemon holds you close, his words offering reassurance, you remind yourself that love and patience can make even the most difficult paths seem easier to navigate.

At night, the sounds of passion fill the room, your connection growing stronger with every shared moment, every whispered promise. You know that your efforts are not in vain, and while the gods may have their own timeline, you and Daemon will keep trying. Together, there is nothing you cannot face.

For now, you savor each moment, each touch, knowing that in time, the gods may choose to bless you with the family you both yearn for. And when that moment comes, you will face it hand in hand with Daemon, as you always have.

You position yourself to sit facing him, he quickly hugs your waist and looks at you. You smile and kiss his lips, he who understands your intention then lifts your heavy dress to reduce the distance between you.

His hands began to untie your dress enough for you to let out your chest, he slowly squeezed it which made you moan softly. He broke his kiss and started to kiss your neck, then his mouth went down to your chest and devoured it. you gently squeezed his hair and closed your eyes, "are you sure you want to do it here? now?"

You just nodded and started to untie his pants, daemon smiled and kissed your lips again. You held his hard cock, then you directed his cock towards your wet core. Daemon removed your small cloth and began to insert his cock, you moaned as you felt him enter you completely and fill you. "Gods, how can you still be this tight after all the nights we've had?"

you laughed softly before finally moving your hips, you moaned softly. in this position you could feel him filling you, you could feel his hands on your waist following the rhythm of your hips.

"I want you to fill me up, full of your seed, round with your child" you whispered and bit his ear softly, He growled before finally lifting you up and pinning you against the wall, you moaned as he started pounding into you fast and rough. his mouth found your nipple again and sucked on it, you could only moan at the pleasure he was giving you.

"you want to be filled with my seed? you want to have my child?" you just nodded and moaned as his rhythm got faster and rougher. he growled and choked your neck softly, something inside you woke up and made you hotter. "give me your child daemon, i want you to impregnate me"

He growls and you can feel his cock twitching inside you signaling he's about to peak, “Gonna fill you up,” he growls. “With my cum until you're leaking and breed you until I'm satisfied."

you moaned as he continued to hit your sweet spot, "you take me so well, I never thought my sweet wife could turn into a whore when she was with me" Daemon growled softly and thrust his cock inside you before he finally painted your walls white.

Your breath was still, he pulled out his cock and laughed softly as he saw your juices running down your legs.

He then kissed your forehead and helped you adjust your dress before finally putting his pants back on. "If we do this more often, soon we will see little daemons or little you running around this park" you laughed hearing his words.

You let out a small yelp as Daemon suddenly lifts you off the ground, his arms strong and steady as he cradles you against his chest. Surprise quickly melts into laughter, the sound light and carefree as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Daemon!” you exclaim, still laughing as you glance around. “People are gonna watching!”

He tilts his head to look at you, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let them watch,” he replies, his voice laced with that familiar cocky charm. “Let them see how much I cherish my wife.”

Your cheeks flush, not from embarrassment but from the warmth his words bring. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, hiding your smile as you feel the steady beat of his heart against you. His confidence has always been something you admired, and moments like this remind you of how much he truly doesn’t care for the opinions of others.

The soft murmurs of servants and the subtle glances from guards don’t faze him in the slightest. His focus is on you — only you. His steps are firm and unbothered as he carries you through the corridors of Dragonstone, his gaze unwavering as if daring anyone to question him.

The cool stone walls surround you as he makes his way toward your shared chambers. Every so often, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering longer each time. It’s a gesture so tender, so genuine, that your heart feels as if it might burst.

“You enjoy this too much,” you tease, glancing up at him with narrowed eyes, though your smile betrays you.

“Of course I do,” he says with a smirk, his voice low and smooth. “Carrying the most precious thing in this keep? I’d do it every day if you’d let me.”

You shake your head, your smile never fading. “You’ll spoil me.”

“That’s the point,” he replies, his eyes full of affection.

When you finally reach your chambers, he doesn’t put you down right away. Instead, he lingers in the doorway, holding you close as if unwilling to let go. His eyes meet yours, filled with a kind of devotion that words could never fully express.

“Home,” he says quietly, his gaze unwavering. “Wherever you are, that is home.”

Your breath catches for a moment, but you quickly lean up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Then don’t ever leave,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Never,” he promises, his voice as firm as the stone around you.

With that, he steps inside, kicking the door closed behind him. No words are needed, only the warmth of his embrace as he carries you deeper into your shared sanctuary — a place where it’s just the two of you, far from the eyes of the world.

You sit comfortably on Daemon’s lap, his arms wrapped securely around you, holding you close. The cool breeze from the sea drifts in from the balcony, carrying the crisp scent of salt and the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocks of Dragonstone. The night sky is vast and endless, stars twinkling like tiny flames scattered across a sea of darkness. The pale glow of the moon bathes everything in silver light, casting a serene glow over the world around you.

Daemon’s hand moves slowly up and down your back, his touch firm yet gentle, like a constant reminder that he is there — steady, unyielding, and yours. His warmth seeps into you, chasing away any hint of chill the breeze may have brought. You sigh contentedly, letting yourself sink deeper into his embrace.

You feel him press a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering just long enough for you to feel his breath against your hair. It’s a gesture so simple, yet it makes your heart feel fuller than you ever thought possible.

“Comfortable?” he asks softly, his voice low and rough from the stillness of the night.

“More than comfortable,” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean your head against his chest. You can hear the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you — a sound that has become more familiar and soothing than any song.

A hum of satisfaction rumbles in his chest, and then, without warning, he begins to hum a soft, low melody. It’s a tune you don’t recognize at first, slow and deep, like a lullaby that’s been forgotten by time. His voice, though unpolished, has a certain rough charm to it — raw and real. The sound vibrates through his chest, and you feel it resonate in your bones, warm and comforting.

You smile to yourself, your eyes still closed, letting the sound wash over you. It feels like the world outside has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, perfect moment. Your fingers trace lazy patterns on his tunic, your breathing slowing to match the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“You’re humming,” you tease lightly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that a problem, wife?” he replies, tilting his head slightly to glance down at you, a playful edge in his tone.

“Not at all,” you answer with a soft smile. “I like it. I think I could fall asleep like this.”

“Then sleep,” he says, his hand moving up to tangle gently in your hair, fingers combing through it with slow precision. “I’ll keep watch.”

And with that, he continues to hum, his voice low and steady, a melody meant only for you. The stars seem to flicker in time with his tune, and for the first time in a long while, you feel utterly and completely at peace.

No thrones. No expectations. No whispers from the court.

Just you, Daemon, and the quiet song of the night.

The soft glow of the morning sun filters through the heavy curtains, casting golden streaks of light across the stone floor and the plush blankets draped over you. Slowly, your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you remain still, letting the warmth of the bed cocoon you in comfort. But something feels different.

You reach out to the space beside you, expecting to feel Daemon’s familiar warmth, only to be met with cool, empty sheets. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, you sit up, your gaze falling on the small piece of parchment resting on his pillow.

Curiosity sparks in your chest as you reach for it. His handwriting is unmistakable — sharp, bold strokes with a slight flourish at the ends of his letters.

“You looked far too peaceful to disturb. I’ve gone to the training yard. I’ll return before midday. — D.”

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your lips, warmth blooming in your chest. Typical Daemon. No grand farewell, just a simple note left behind, thoughtful in his own way. Your fingers trace over the ink as if the gesture alone could bring him back to you.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet touching the cold stone floor. The coolness sends a small shiver up your spine, urging you to stand and stretch. The quiet of the room is peaceful, broken only by the distant calls of seabirds outside and the faint rustle of the wind through the cracks of the stone walls.

With a soft sigh, you walk toward the washbasin, splashing cool water onto your face to chase away the last of your sleepiness. You glance at your reflection in the polished metal mirror. There’s a softness in your features that wasn’t there before — a glow, perhaps, born from the love you’ve found here.

After dressing in a simple yet elegant gown, you call for your handmaidens. They enter with quiet efficiency, brushing and braiding your hair with practiced hands. All the while, your mind drifts to Daemon. You wonder if he’s still at the training yard, swinging his sword with that sharp precision that always left you in awe.

Once you’re ready, you take one last glance at the note, your fingers brushing over it once more before tucking it into the drawer of your bedside table. It’s a small thing, but you want to keep it — a reminder of the quiet, thoughtful side of the man you call your husband.

With a final glance at the now-empty bed, you head for the door, ready to face the day. Your thoughts linger on the training yard, and you can’t help but wonder if perhaps you should pay him a visit. Seeing Daemon in his element, confident and in control, always had a way of making your heart race.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d be just as happy to see you there too.

You walk through the long, winding corridors of Dragonstone, your footsteps echoing softly against the cold stone floor. The air smells faintly of salt and ash, a scent you’ve come to associate with this ancient castle perched atop volcanic rock. Around you, servants bustle about, their arms full of linens, trays of food, or buckets of water. They nod respectfully as you pass, some offering small smiles. You acknowledge them with a nod, your thoughts focused on reaching Daemon.

As you descend the staircase leading to the training yard, a wave of dizziness suddenly washes over you. Your vision blurs at the edges, and your breath catches in your chest. You grip the stone wall for support, eyes closing as you take a deep breath. The world tilts ever so slightly, and for a moment, you feel the familiar tug of nausea rising in your throat.

Not now, you think to yourself, swallowing hard to push the feeling down. It’s nothing. Just a little fatigue.

You press a hand lightly against your stomach as you steady yourself. Perhaps you hadn’t eaten enough this morning, or maybe you were simply still recovering from the long nights spent with Daemon. The thought of it brings a faint flush to your cheeks, but you shake your head, determined not to let a little dizziness slow you down.

With measured breaths, you push yourself off the wall and continue walking. The fresh air of the courtyard is close now, and you tell yourself that the open sky will help. As you step outside, the cool sea breeze greets you, brushing against your skin and carrying with it the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. The sun feels warmer than usual, and you lift your face to it, letting the warmth ground you.

Ahead, you spot Daemon. His silver hair catches the sunlight like molten steel, and he moves with the grace of a dragon in flight. Every swing of his sword is precise, every movement calculated and efficient. His tunic clings to him, damp with sweat, and his eyes are focused, sharp as Valyrian steel. For a moment, you stand there, watching him with quiet admiration.

He must sense your gaze because he turns his head toward you, his eyes locking with yours. A grin spreads slowly across his face — that familiar, cocky smirk that he wears so well. He lowers his sword and walks toward you, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” he teases, his voice low and playful as he stops in front of you. His eyes scan your face, his grin softening into something more tender. “You look pale, sweet wife. Did you not sleep well?”

“I slept fine,” you reply, managing a small smile. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

Daemon narrows his eyes, his gaze lingering on you with quiet concern. He raises a hand to your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing your skin softly.

“You’re warmer than usual,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“I’m sure,” you insist, placing your hand over his to reassure him. “I just need some air. Watching you swing that sword of yours seems like the perfect cure.”

He huffs a short laugh but doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “If you faint, I’m carrying you straight back to bed,” he warns, his tone only half-joking.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to stay on my feet,” you reply with a playful tilt of your head.

He stares at you for a moment longer before letting out a sigh, pulling you closer so you can rest your head briefly on his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath the damp fabric of his tunic.

“Stubborn woman,” he mutters into your hair, but his arms tighten around you nonetheless. “At least stay in the shade if you’re going to watch.”

“Yes, husband,” you reply, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

You don’t tell him about the flicker of nausea or the way the world tilted for just a moment. It’s probably nothing, you tell yourself. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time you’d ignored something small, only for it to pass on its own.

But as you rest your head against Daemon’s chest, a quiet thought lingers in the back of your mind. What if it’s not nothing this time?

You keep your eyes on Daemon, watching his swift, controlled movements as he trains. Each swing of his sword is a show of precision and power, his muscles coiling and releasing with the grace of a predator. You smile faintly, feeling the warmth of pride in your chest. But then, it happens again.

A sudden, sharp wave of dizziness hits you harder this time. Your breath stutters, and the world around you tilts. Your heart races as your knees weaken beneath you. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision, but everything around you blurs into swirling shapes and shifting shadows.

Your hand instinctively reaches for the wall, but it isn’t close enough. Panic flickers in your chest. Not here. Not now. You hear the distant clang of steel hitting the ground, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps.

“Hey!” Daemon’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “What’s wrong?!”

You try to answer, but your lips feel heavy, and your tongue won’t move. The pounding of your heart grows louder in your ears, drowning out the world around you. Your knees buckle, and you feel yourself falling. The ground rushes up to meet you, but before you hit it, strong arms catch you.

“Stay with me!” Daemon’s voice is closer now, urgent, commanding. His hands are firm as they hold you, cradling you against his chest. You feel the heat of his body, hear the rapid thudding of his heart. “Look at me, look at me, love.” His voice is strained, as though he’s fighting back fear.

But your eyelids feel so heavy. Your head tilts against his shoulder, and the world slips further away. His voice sounds far away now, as if he’s shouting from across the sea.

“Call the maester! NOW!” Daemon’s roar echoes through the courtyard. You think you hear the hurried footsteps of servants rushing to obey, but everything is growing quieter, darker.

“Please,” Daemon’s voice cracks, low and desperate. His hand presses against your cheek, his thumb stroking softly, as if willing you to stay awake. “Stay with me, don’t you dare leave me.”

But the pull of darkness is too strong. Your eyes close, and the world fades to nothing.

The world comes back slowly — sounds first, distant murmurs that sharpen into voices. You hear someone shouting, sharp and commanding, a tone you know well. Daemon.

“… If you missed something, I’ll have your head on a spike, Maester!” His voice is laced with barely contained fury, each word like the edge of a blade. “Check her again. Now.”

You blink slowly, your vision still hazy, but familiar shapes begin to take form. The ceiling of your chambers, the soft glow of firelight flickering from a hearth nearby. The scent of lavender and burning wood fills your nose. Your body feels heavy, but warmth surrounds you.

Your eyes shift, and there he is. Daemon stands by the foot of the bed, his eyes wild with barely restrained panic, his jaw set tight as he glares at the old maester hovering by your side. His silver hair is a mess, strands falling over his face, his tunic wrinkled as if he hadn’t cared to fix it. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

“Daemon,” you call his name softly, your voice barely above a whisper. But it’s enough.

His head snaps toward you so fast you’d think he’d heard a dragon’s roar. His eyes lock onto yours, and all the tension in his face breaks at once. His shoulders drop, and his eyes widen in disbelief. “You’re awake,” he breathes, rushing to your side. “Thank the gods.”

He drops to his knees beside you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with the gentleness of a man who thought he had almost lost something precious. His eyes search yours frantically, like he needs to see every part of you to believe you’re real.

“You scared me,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. “You terrified me.”

You smile weakly, leaning into his touch, letting the warmth of his hand ground you. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“A scene?” he repeats, his eyes narrowing as he huffs a short, incredulous laugh. “You fainted in front of half the courtyard, and you think that’s a scene?” His eyes flicker with something deeper — fear, relief, and anger all tangled together. “You could’ve died.”

The maester, still cautious under Daemon’s watchful gaze, steps forward. “Her pulse is steady, my prince,” he says carefully, his hands raised as if to calm a dragon. “I believe it was exhaustion, perhaps a fever. But with your leave, I will check her once more.”

Daemon doesn’t move at first, his eyes locked on you as if afraid you’d disappear the moment he blinked. But when you nod, he releases a breath and shifts aside, still holding your hand.

The maester presses his hand against your forehead, checks your pulse, and hums thoughtfully. He glances at you, his brow raised with quiet curiosity. “My lady, have you felt any nausea as of late? Dizziness? Sensitivity to certain smells?”

Your eyes dart to Daemon, then back to the maester. The memory of the past few days flashes through your mind — the dizziness on the stairs, the waves of nausea you had brushed off, and the exhaustion that had clung to you like fog. Slowly, you nod.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “I thought it was nothing.”

The maester hums again, his expression shifting into something more knowing. He presses a hand lightly against your abdomen, glancing at you as he does so. “It may not be ‘nothing,’ my lady,” he says with a small smile. “In fact, it may be everything.”

You blink, confusion flashing across your face. But Daemon is quicker to understand. His eyes dart to your stomach, his lips parting as if he’s about to speak but finds himself momentarily speechless.

“You mean…” His voice trails off, his eyes narrowing at the maester. “Say it plainly, old man.”

The maester smiles as he steps back, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “It is still early, my prince, but I believe congratulations are in order. The lady may very well be with child.”

Silence fills the room, thick and heavy. Daemon stares at you, his eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt, as if needing to see your reaction before he believes it himself.

“With child,” you repeat, your hand slowly drifting to rest on your abdomen. The realization washes over you slowly, warmth spreading through your chest. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and wonder swirling inside you. “I’m… with child.”

Daemon’s face shifts from disbelief to something you’ve never seen before — pure, unguarded joy. He lets out a breathless laugh, his eyes shining with something fierce and untamed. “With my child,” he says, his voice thick with pride and wonder.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he breathes you in. “Our child,” he whispers, his voice trembling just enough for you to notice. “Our blood. Our legacy.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, his hands cradling your face like you’re the most precious thing in the world. His lips brush softly against yours, slow and deliberate, before he pulls back just enough to look at you again.

“You’re mine,” he says firmly, as if staking a claim. “You, and now this child, belong to me. No one will ever take you from me.”

His words should sound possessive, but you hear the love behind them — the desperation of a man who has lost too much and refuses to lose again. You nod, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

“And you,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “You belong to me too, Daemon Targaryen.”

His grin is sharp and wild, full of pride and love. “Always, love. Always.”

You sit by the warm glow of the fireplace, the soft crackling of the flames filling the quiet chamber. Your hands rest gently on your rounded belly, your fingers tracing slow, soothing circles over the fabric of your gown. It’s been five months since you learned of your pregnancy, and though the changes to your body were gradual at first, there’s no hiding it now. Your belly is firm, round, and undeniable — the unmistakable mark of a child growing within you.

Daemon sits across from you, his eyes never straying far. He leans back in his chair, legs spread casually, one hand holding a cup of wine, the other lazily draped over the armrest. But his gaze is sharp, focused entirely on you. His eyes soften when they meet yours, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re staring,” you say, your voice carrying the light tease of familiarity.

He tilts his head, his smirk growing bolder. “How could I not?” he replies, his eyes flicking down to your belly. “You’re carrying the future of House Targaryen and House Tyrell in that little frame of yours. It’s quite the sight.”

You huff a laugh, brushing a hand over your stomach. “If it gets any bigger, I won’t be able to stand without help.”

Daemon raises a brow, his grin wicked. “Then I suppose I’ll have to carry you everywhere, won’t I?”

You shake your head, unable to stop the smile pulling at your lips. His confidence is relentless, but you know his words aren’t empty. He’d carry you across all of Westeros if you asked.

For a while, the two of you sit in comfortable silence. The fire casts dancing shadows on the stone walls, and you feel the gentle thrum of life within you — small movements, faint but unmistakable. You place a hand firmly over the spot and smile.

“Daemon,” you say softly, looking up at him. His gaze sharpens instantly, like he’s ready for anything. “It’s time, isn’t it? We should tell them.”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing the idea. “You’re certain?” he asks, setting his wine aside and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Once they know, the whispers will spread. Our child will be at the center of it all.”

“I know,” you reply, voice steady but firm. “But I don’t want to hide it anymore. This is our child, Daemon. They will have to accept it.”

Daemon studies you for a moment, his eyes flickering between pride and protectiveness. Then, slowly, he nods. “Very well,” he says, standing and walking over to you. His hand extends toward you, palm up. “Shall we make them bow to our legacy, my lady?”

You smile, placing your hand in his. He pulls you up gently, one arm curling protectively around your waist to steady you. “They will bow,” you reply, your voice filled with quiet determination. “They always do.”

You and Daemon prepare to leave Dragonstone and make your way back to the Red Keep. The journey ahead seems long, but your mind is focused on the upcoming announcement. You know that today, you will finally share the news of your pregnancy with the royal family and the court. It’s a moment you’ve been anticipating, though a part of you feels a bit nervous about the attention it will bring.

The pregnancy, however, hasn’t been easy. The baby seems incredibly active, a constant reminder of the life growing inside you. At night, when the world falls silent, the tiny kicks and movements keep you wide awake, and though the thought of carrying Daemon’s child fills you with love, the exhaustion from sleepless nights weighs heavily on you. You’ve grown accustomed to his reassuring presence, his hand resting on your stomach as he murmurs comforting words whenever the baby moves restlessly.

Daemon, always attentive, notices your fatigue as you pack. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, concern flashing across his face. He steps closer, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his eyes softening. “You’ve barely slept these past nights.”

You smile up at him, grateful for his constant care. “I’m fine, just tired,” you reply, trying to mask the truth. “It’s just that our little one seems to be more active than expected.”

Daemon chuckles softly, his thumb gently stroking your hand. “A fighter, just like their father,” he says with a smirk. “They’ll be strong.”

Despite his teasing tone, you can see the pride in his eyes. He’s looking forward to being a father, though he won’t admit it outright. You’re sure that, deep down, he’s just as eager for the day when you can finally share this joy with the rest of the realm.

As you prepare to leave, Daemon’s hand finds its place on the small of your back, guiding you through the halls of Dragonstone. His presence is a constant comfort, a solid anchor that helps you feel steady despite the whirlwind of emotions and changes that come with your pregnancy.

“Let’s get to the Red Keep,” Daemon says, his voice a soft command. “It’s time.”

You nod, though your mind is full of thoughts and worries about what awaits you. But for now, all you need is Daemon by your side—just as he always has been. Together, you make your way to the waiting ship, and as you board, you take one last look at the land you’ve called home for so long before turning your gaze ahead, to the future that awaits you both in King’s Landing.

The journey by ship proves to be much more difficult than you anticipated, especially while pregnant. Despite the fact that it’s a relatively short trip, the constant rocking of the boat leaves you feeling nauseous and exhausted. The salty air, though refreshing for most, seems to exacerbate your discomfort, and you clutch the railing tightly as a wave of dizziness washes over you.

Daemon, noticing your discomfort, approaches quickly, his face filled with concern. “You should rest,” he insists softly, his hand on your back as he guides you to a seat. “The sea isn’t kind to those with child.”

You give him a tired smile, trying to brush off your unease. “I’m fine, Daemon. Just a bit of nausea. It’ll pass.”

But Daemon isn’t convinced. He kneels before you, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for any sign of further distress. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Let me help.”

He places a gentle hand on your stomach, his touch grounding you as he speaks with a soft authority, “Rest, my love. I’ll be here.”

Reluctantly, you lean back against the cushioned seat, allowing yourself to close your eyes and rest. Daemon remains close by, his presence a source of comfort. Though the rocking of the ship doesn’t stop, his soothing words and touch help ease the discomfort. You focus on his steady presence, allowing the steady rhythm of his voice to lull you into a moment of calm.

Time seems to blur as the journey continues, but you’re grateful that Daemon is there, taking care of you. His concern is unwavering, and even though he can’t control the sea, you know he will always do his best to protect you and your child.

After a while, the worst of the nausea passes, and you feel able to sit up again. The horizon begins to show signs of King’s Landing in the distance, and though the trip wasn’t the easiest, the thought of being close to your destination gives you a sense of relief.

“We’re almost there,” Daemon says, his hand gently resting over yours.

You nod, still a bit fatigued but glad to be nearing the end of this journey. “I just hope I can make it through the announcement without embarrassing myself,” you say with a light laugh, trying to push aside the lingering discomfort.

Daemon chuckles, his gaze softening as he looks at you. “You’ll do just fine,” he reassures you. “And I’ll be right by your side.”

As the carriage rolls through the familiar streets of King’s Landing, you feel a sense of anticipation building within you. The city is bustling with activity, and though you are returning to a place filled with memories, this time everything feels different. You are not just returning as a member of the family—you’re a wife, carrying Daemon’s child.

Daemon’s hand never leaves yours, his fingers gently gripping yours as if to reassure both you and himself. He occasionally rests his other hand on your growing belly, his touch warm and comforting. Each gentle caress brings you a sense of peace, easing the lingering discomfort from the journey.

You glance at him, a soft smile on your face, and he looks down at you with an expression of quiet affection. His eyes are filled with a rare tenderness as he watches over you, his usual confident demeanor softened by the love he has for you and your unborn child.

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly, his voice laced with concern. Though he’s done his best to shield you from any discomfort, you can see the worry in his gaze.

“I’m alright,” you reply with a reassuring smile, “just a bit tired. But I’m happy we’re finally here.”

Daemon gives you a small nod, but his gaze lingers on your face, his thumb brushing along the curve of your belly. “I will make sure everything goes smoothly,” he promises. “You don’t need to worry about anything.

The carriage jolts slightly as it turns toward the Red Keep, and you feel a sudden wave of nerves. The announcement of your pregnancy is fast approaching, and you know that soon, all eyes will be on you. Daemon notices your subtle shift in mood and squeezes your hand gently.

“Whatever happens,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring, “we will face it together.”

You smile at him, grateful for his strength and presence. As the Red Keep looms closer, you feel ready. With Daemon by your side, you know you can face anything the future holds.

You’re taken by surprise as the carriage comes to a halt. Before you can even step down, Daemon swoops you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly. The sudden movement startles you, and you instinctively swat at his shoulder in protest.

“Daemon!” you exclaim, though there’s a mix of laughter and disbelief in your voice. “What are you doing? I can walk on my own!”

But Daemon, with that familiar mischievous smile, simply tightens his hold on you. “You’ve had a long journey. The least I can do is carry you to the Red Keep.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an underlying tenderness in his words. He doesn’t wait for any further protest before he addresses a nearby guard.

“Go,” he commands, “gather my father and my grandfather in the throne room. It’s time.”

The guard nods quickly and hurries off to fulfill the order. Daemon doesn’t hesitate as he continues carrying you towards the entrance of the Red Keep. You can feel the eyes of the castle’s residents on you, some surprised, others whispering, but Daemon pays them no mind. His focus is entirely on you, and you can’t help but smile at the attention, even though you’re still a little flustered by his boldness.

“Daemon, seriously,” you say, laughing as you rest your head against his chest. “I can walk. You don’t have to carry me like this.”

But Daemon only chuckles softly, the sound rich with affection. “You’re carrying my child. The least I can do is make sure you’re comfortable, even if it means looking like a fool in front of everyone.”

You shake your head at his words, but there’s a warmth in your heart that spreads every time he speaks like this. His care for you—and for your child—shines through in everything he does.

As you reach the throne room, Daemon gently places you down, and you both enter, ready to make the announcement you’ve been anticipating. The weight of the moment lingers in the air as the doors close behind you.

When you finally enter the throne room, the air shifts. The room is filled with the sound of conversation, clinking cups, and footsteps echoing on stone. King Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne, his wise, tired eyes watching all who enter. Prince Baelon stands nearby, deep in conversation with the Hand of the King — Otto Hightower.

The moment you and Daemon cross the threshold, silence falls. All eyes turn to you.

Daemon’s arm tightens around you as he leads you forward, his steps slow and deliberate, every movement calculated for effect. You lift your chin, refusing to shrink under the weight of their gazes. Every eye is on you, and you meet them all without hesitation.

“Father,” Daemon says as he stops before the king, his voice clear and commanding. “Grandfather.” He looks to Jaehaerys, his tone carrying the weight of unspoken meaning.

The king leans forward, his brows lifting with curiosity. “Daemon,” he says, his voice slow but firm. “What is this interruption? What do you wish to declare before the court?”

Daemon looks at you then — only you. His eyes soften, and the barest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Turning back to face the king, he says loud enough for all to hear:

“We come with news of House Targaryen’s future. My wife,” he says, tilting his head toward you, “is with child.”

A ripple of gasps echoes through the hall, followed by murmurs that spread like wildfire. Your hand rests on your belly, your gaze steady, unyielding as you watch their faces shift from shock to recognition.

King Jaehaerys’s brows rise high, surprise flashing across his face. His eyes flick to your belly, then to Daemon, and finally back to you. Slowly, a smile begins to spread across his face. “A child,” he repeats, his voice growing louder as he leans back into the Iron Throne. “A child of fire and rose petals.” He laughs, a deep, hearty sound. “You have done well, Daemon. And you, my dear, you have done better.”

Baelon grins broadly, stepping forward with a clap of his hands. “A new dragon is always cause for celebration,” he declares, looking between you and Daemon. “The gods have blessed you both.”

But not everyone is smiling.

Otto Hightower’s face remains stone-cold, his sharp eyes flicking between Daemon and you. His fingers tap lightly against his sleeve, his mind clearly working through the implications. He does not congratulate you, but he does not dare speak out either — not here, not now.

As you and Daemon walk toward your old chambers, there’s a comforting quiet between you two. The weight of the announcement has settled, and now, you can feel the moment becoming more intimate, more personal. Daemon helps you sit by the fireplace, his strong presence beside you grounding you in a way only he can.

He watches you carefully, his eyes soft with concern and affection. The crackling of the fire fills the silence for a moment before Daemon speaks, his voice low and steady.

“I will not leave you for a single moment,” he says, his words filled with such intensity that they seem to echo in the room. “Not now, not ever. You’re carrying our child, and I will be here, by your side, through everything.”

You smile gently, touched by his promise. The weight of the world feels lighter when he’s with you, and the thought of raising a child together fills you with warmth. Daemon’s devotion is clear in his words and actions, and you feel a deep sense of peace knowing that, no matter what the future holds, you won’t have to face it alone.

Daemon reaches for your hand, gently intertwining his fingers with yours. “I will protect you, and I will protect our child. You have my word,” he adds, his voice filled with unwavering certainty.

You look into his eyes, and in that moment, you know that you are exactly where you’re meant to be. No matter what challenges come your way, Daemon will be by your side, just as he promised. The love between you both is unwavering, and with that love, you feel ready to face whatever comes next.

You and Daemon turn to see the door open, revealing Prince Viserys, Princess Aemma, and their daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, who is just 10 months old. The warmth in their eyes is immediate, and you can see the genuine joy as they come forward to congratulate you. Aemma, in particular, seems taken aback when she sees how much your belly has grown.

“Oh, my dear,” she exclaims, her eyes widening. “You’re quite large already! How many months along are you?” She smiles gently as she steps closer, her hand instinctively resting on her own belly. “You may be carrying twins, perhaps?”

Daemon chuckles softly, his hand tightening around yours. He shoots Aemma a playful look, but there’s also a hint of pride in his gaze.

“I don’t think it’s twins, but she certainly makes the pregnancy look easy, doesn’t she?” he responds with a lighthearted grin, though there’s tenderness behind his words as he watches you.

You smile, feeling the love and excitement in the room. Aemma’s question is followed by Rhaenyra, who babbles softly in her mother’s arms, her curious eyes shifting toward you and the growing bump.

Viserys, ever the wise and gentle prince, smiles warmly as he steps forward to offer his congratulations as well. “Congratulations, my dear,” he says, his voice filled with fatherly affection. “It is a joyous occasion for our family, and we are thrilled for you both.”

Daemon gives you a reassuring smile as he squeezes your hand, standing proudly beside you as your family surrounds you with love. The room is filled with joy, and for a moment, it feels like everything is in its right place, the world ahead of you brighter with each passing moment.

After the departure of Aemma and Viserys, you find yourself lost in thought, reflecting on Aemma’s earlier comment about carrying twins. You couldn’t help but wonder if she might be right. The thought lingers in your mind, and the curiosity grows.

You turn to Daemon, who has been beside you, supportive as always, and ask, “Daemon, could you please have the maester check on me? I keep thinking about what Aemma said… could I really be carrying twins?”

Daemon looks at you with concern, but his eyes soften with understanding. “Of course, my love,” he says, his voice gentle but steady. “I’ll send for him right away.”

Not long after, the maester arrives and begins his examination. You hold your breath, waiting for his verdict. After a few moments, he looks up from his work, a slight smile on his face.

“It appears that you are indeed carrying twins, my lady,” he confirms. “Your body is showing signs of it, and the examination has revealed two heartbeats.”

Daemon’s eyes widen in surprise, but there’s an undeniable spark of joy in his gaze as he turns to you. His hand instinctively reaches out to yours, his grip firm, yet tender. “Twins,” he repeats softly, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “Our family will grow even stronger.”

You can’t help but smile at the news, the thought of two little lives growing inside you filling you with a sense of awe and excitement. “Twins…” you whisper, feeling the weight of the news settling in your heart. “It’s going to be quite the journey.”

Daemon nods, his expression one of complete devotion. “Whatever it takes, we will face it together,” he says, his voice firm and full of love. “And our children will be loved beyond measure.”You and Daemon walk hand in hand through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the soft glow of torches lighting your path. Your heart feels lighter knowing that tonight is a celebration, not just for your safe return but for the lives growing within you. Daemon’s thumb gently rubs the back of your hand, a silent gesture of reassurance and love.

When you reach the King’s private solar, the guards open the doors, revealing a warm, lively scene. The King, Prince Baelon, Princess Aemma, and a few members of the royal family are already seated, their conversation filled with light laughter and the clinking of wine cups. The air smells of roasted meat, sweet honeyed bread, and spices from across the Narrow Sea.

“Ah, there they are!” King Jaehaerys says with a smile, gesturing for you to enter. “Come, sit. We were just speaking of Dragonstone and its rough seas.”

Daemon leads you to your seat, pulling out a chair beside Princess Aemma. She smiles warmly at you, her eyes glancing down at your growing belly. “You look radiant,” she says with a soft voice, leaning in to whisper, “Motherhood suits you already.”

“Thank you, Aemma,” you reply, your cheeks warming at her kind words. You glance at Daemon, who sits beside you, his eyes scanning the room.

Once everyone is seated and the servants have poured wine and served food, Daemon stands, raising his cup with a sharp grin on his face. His gaze shifts from the King to his father, Prince Baelon, before settling on you. His voice cuts through the air with ease, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“I have news to share,” he declares, glancing down at you with a soft smile before turning back to the others. “Not only have we returned safely from Dragonstone, but my wife carries not one, but two heirs of House Targaryen and House Tyrell within her.”

The room falls silent for a moment, then erupts into cheers and applause. King Jaehaerys laughs heartily, his voice echoing through the solar. “Twins! The gods have truly blessed you both.” He raises his cup higher. “To the future of House Targaryen and House Tyrell!”

“To the future!” the others echo, their cups raised in unison.

Aemma turns to you with wide eyes, her face a mixture of surprise and excitement. “Twins? No wonder you look as you do,” she says, glancing at your belly with newfound understanding. “I knew it the moment I saw you. You’re carrying them well, truly.”

“Thank you, Aemma,” you say with a smile, resting a hand on your belly. “They’ve been restless, but I can feel their strength. I suppose it runs in their blood.”

Daemon sits beside you again, his hand resting protectively on your lower back. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “They’ll be strong, like their mother.”

Your heart swells at his words, and as you look around the table filled with smiling faces, you realize that this moment will stay with you forever. The joy of family, the promise of new life, and the unwavering love of your husband — it all fills the room with a warmth greater than any fire.

The moment feels surreal, but there is a deep sense of happiness in the air, and you both know that your lives have just become even more intertwined, not just as husband and wife, but as parents preparing to welcome two new souls into the world.

As you and Daemon sit at the table, the warmth of the fire and the clinking of cups around you create a cozy, intimate atmosphere. Laughter echoes from the king and Baelon as they recall old stories, but your attention is solely on Daemon. His gaze is fixed on you, his lips curled into a sly smile.

“I should have known you were with child the moment Caraxes coiled himself around you,” Daemon says, his eyes glinting with amusement. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the back of your seat, his fingers lightly playing with a loose strand of your hair. “That beast never lets anyone near him unless I command it, but with you… he acted as if you were his hatchling.”

You laugh softly, remembering that moment. “I thought he was going to eat me,” you admit, shaking your head with a fond smile. “But then he lowered his head and nudged me like I was one of his own. I suppose he knew before any of us did.”

“Dragons always know,” Prince Baelon adds, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “They sense life in ways men cannot. It is why they bond so deeply with their riders.” He raises his cup to you both. “If Caraxes sees fit to protect you, then there is no safer place in the world than by your husband’s side.”

Daemon tilts his head, his grin growing wider. “Safer, perhaps, but not quieter. The twins have made sure of that,” he teases, glancing at your belly. “They’ve been keeping her awake every night with their little war games in there.”

“Already battling for dominance, are they?” Aemma chuckles, resting her chin on her hand. “They’ll make fine Targaryens, then.”

“Or Tyrells,” you add with a playful raise of your brow, earning a round of laughter from the table.

Daemon looks down at you, his gaze softening. His fingers trail from your hair to your shoulder, his touch gentle but firm. “They’ll be the best of both,” he says quietly, his voice filled with certainty.

You lean into his side, letting his warmth seep into you. As the conversation flows back into tales of Dragonstone’s storms and your quiet days by the sea, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. These moments — the love of family, the bond you share with Daemon, and the promise of new life — are treasures you will protect fiercely, just as Caraxes had protected you.

You and Daemon asked permission to go to your rooms first, Daemon said that you needed to rest after the journey you took from Dragonstone to here. As you and Daemon walk hand in hand through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, the cool night air drifts in from the open windows. The faint glow of torches flickers against the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance with each step. The gentle breeze carries the fresh scent of the sea, a reminder of your recent journey from Dragonstone.

Daemon’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, his grip firm but tender. He glances at you, his eyes filled with quiet concern. “Are you tired, my love?” he asks, his voice low and warm, as if he’s afraid to disturb the peace of the night.

“A little,” you admit, resting your head lightly on his shoulder as you walk. “But it feels good to be home.”

He hums in agreement, his gaze fixed ahead, but you catch the slight tug of a smile on his lips. “If I had my way, you wouldn’t have had to sit through all those pleasantries tonight,” he says with a hint of frustration. “The king could have celebrated without us. Your rest is far more important.”

You chuckle softly, tilting your head up to look at him. “You know we couldn’t refuse. Besides, the king was happy to see us.”

Daemon lets out a small, reluctant sigh but doesn’t argue. His free hand moves to your lower back, steadying you as you walk. “I suppose,” he mutters, glancing down at your growing belly. “But from now on, you’ll rest when you need to. No one will dare object, not even the king himself.”

You roll your eyes at his protectiveness but feel a warmth bloom in your chest. He has been more attentive than ever since learning you were carrying twins. No request, no matter how small, was ignored.

As you approach the door to your shared chambers, two guards stationed at the entrance bow their heads respectfully before pushing open the heavy wooden doors. The room is dimly lit with the soft glow of a hearth fire, its warmth chasing away the chill of the evening air.

Daemon steps inside first, his eyes scanning the room before turning back to you. His hands find your waist, steadying you as you step in. “Straight to bed,” he orders softly, his lips quirking into a teasing smile. “No arguments.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply, your voice laced with playful defiance.

He raises a brow, his eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Hmm, I’ll hold you to that.”

With careful precision, he helps you to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before you to remove your shoes himself. His touch is gentle, his fingers lingering on your ankles a moment longer than necessary. When he looks up at you, there’s a softness in his gaze that makes your heart ache with love.

“You’ve done enough for one day,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your knee. “Let me take care of you now.”

You smile down at him, your fingers threading through his silver hair. “You already do, Daemon. Every day.”

He tilts his head into your touch, eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment. Then, with one smooth movement, he stands and helps you further onto the bed, pulling the covers over you. He joins you a moment later, his arms wrapping around you from behind, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“You and the twins,” he whispers, his voice laced with affection. “My whole world."

You sigh contentedly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. The warmth of his embrace, the soft crackle of the fire, and the steady beat of his heart lull you into peace. Here, in this moment, with Daemon’s arms around you, the weight of the world feels a little lighter.

Time seems to pass in the blink of an eye. Your belly, once a subtle swell, has now grown large and heavy with the weight of the twins you carry. Every movement feels like a challenge, and walking even a few paces leaves you breathless. Daemon, ever the protective husband, has declared that you are to remain in your chambers at all times. No council meetings, no strolls through the gardens — not even a visit to the balcony without him at your side.

Your mother has recently arrived from Highgarden, her presence as comforting as the scent of fresh blooms in spring. She sits beside you now, her hands expertly braiding your hair as she did when you were a child. Her touch is gentle, but her voice carries its usual firmness.

“You mustn’t push yourself, dear,” she says, her gaze focused on her work. “Carrying one child is hard enough, but two? You need all the strength you can gather for what lies ahead.”

You nod, resting your hands on the curve of your belly, feeling the subtle shifts and kicks of your unborn children. “I know, Mother. But I feel so restless. Being confined to one room all day is maddening.”

She hums in sympathy, securing the braid with a small ribbon. “I know it is. I was much the same when I carried you and your brother. But trust me, you’ll be grateful for every moment of rest when the babes arrive. They will demand more of you than any lord or lady ever could.”

Her words make you smile despite yourself. “I can handle it. I have Daemon, and now I have you.”

Your mother leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yes, you do. And you are stronger than you think, my sweet girl.”

Just then, the door creaks open, and you glance up to see Daemon entering the room. His armor is gone, replaced with a simple black tunic, his hair slightly damp from a recent wash. His eyes scan the room, and when he sees you sitting comfortably with your mother, his shoulders relax.

“How are my three loves?” he asks, crossing the room in a few long strides. He kneels before you, his hands settling on your belly, his palms warm and grounding. His eyes flicker to your mother, and he offers her a polite nod. “Lady Tyrell.”

“Prince Daemon,” she replies with a small smile. “Your wife is growing restless, as expected.”

Daemon smirks, his gaze locking with yours. “Is that so? I warned you, didn’t I? No wandering about, no sneaking off to see the training yard.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your grin. “I haven’t stepped a foot outside this room, husband. Not even to the balcony.”

“Good,” he says, his hands tracing gentle circles over your belly. “Our little warriors have been making trouble, I see.” His eyes soften as he feels a strong kick against his palm. “Eager to meet their father, are they?”

You watch him with quiet affection. It’s moments like this, when Daemon’s sharp edges soften with love, that you feel most at peace. Your mother watches the two of you with a knowing smile before rising from her chair.

“I’ll leave you two for now,” she says, smoothing the front of her dress. “But call for me if you need anything, darling.”

“Thank you, Mother,” you say as she departs, leaving only you and Daemon in the quiet glow of the room.

Daemon shifts, sitting beside you on the bed, his arm slipping around your shoulders to pull you against him. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His other hand stays on your belly, feeling every small movement of your children.

“Are you afraid?” he asks softly, his voice a rare whisper.

You think for a moment, then shake your head. “Not afraid. Just… uncertain. I’ve never done this before, and there are two of them.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re the strongest woman I know. Stronger than any knight with a sword.” His hand tilts your chin up so he can look into your eyes, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll bring them into this world, and I’ll be right here. Every moment. Every breath.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, letting out a soft laugh. “If you cry when they’re born, I’ll never let you forget it.”

Daemon grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “If they have your eyes, I just might.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence, the warmth of his embrace lulling you into calm. The weight of the world outside the room melts away. Here, with Daemon’s steady presence and the promise of your mother’s support, you feel ready to face anything.

Even the challenge of bringing two little dragons into the world.

The next morning, boredom settles over you like an unwelcome guest. The same four walls, the same view from the window, and the same well-meaning advice to “rest” have begun to wear on your patience. You glance toward the door, a spark of defiance flickering in your heart.

“I just want some fresh air,” you mutter to yourself, running your hand over the curve of your belly. The weight is undeniable, every step a little heavier than the last, but you refuse to let it stop you.

With the help of your ever-dutiful maids, you rise slowly from the cushioned chair, your body protesting with every shift of weight. One of the maids, a kind girl with gentle hands, offers her arm for support. “My lady, should I inform the prince of your walk?”

You shake your head. “If Daemon finds out, he’ll lock me in this room himself.” Your tone is light, but you know it isn’t far from the truth.

The maid hesitates but nods, her grip on your arm steady as you take your first steps. Each movement is slow, deliberate. The hallways of the Red Keep seem to stretch endlessly before you, but for the first time in weeks, you feel a sense of freedom.

Servants pause as you pass, their eyes wide with surprise. Some bow their heads respectfully, while others glance at one another as if silently debating whether to alert Prince Daemon. You ignore them all, your gaze focused forward, step after step.

The cool stone beneath your feet and the faint draft of air are small reminders that you are not a prisoner, no matter how much Daemon worries for you. You walk further, passing familiar banners and tapestries, the clang of distant swords from the training yard faint but comforting.

“She shouldn’t be out here,” you hear a voice whisper behind you. “She’s due any day now.”

You don’t look back, only lifting your head a little higher. Let them whisper, you think. I am no fragile flower.

As you reach a balcony overlooking the training yard, you pause, leaning against the stone railing. Below, you spot Daemon, his silver hair catching the sun like polished steel. He’s sparring with Ser Lorence Roxton, their movements sharp and powerful. Each swing of Daemon’s sword is as precise as it is forceful, a dance of deadly grace.

Your heart swells with pride as you watch him. He moves as if the weight of the world is nothing to him — unlike you, burdened with the weight of two small lives within you. Yet somehow, watching him move with such confidence gives you strength.

He doesn’t see you at first, too focused on his opponent. But then, as if sensing your presence, his head turns sharply in your direction. His eyes narrow.

“Seven hells,” you hear him mutter before he throws his sword to the ground and storms toward the stairs leading up to you.

Your maids glance at each other nervously. “Should we—”

“Stay where you are,” you say calmly, folding your hands atop your belly.

Moments later, Daemon appears before you, his chest heaving from exertion, a light sheen of sweat on his brow. His gaze shifts from your face to your belly, then back to your face, his jaw set in a hard line.

“You were supposed to be resting,” he says, his voice low but firm.

“And I’ve been doing that for weeks,” you reply with equal firmness. “I needed to walk, Daemon. I’m not made of porcelain.”

He steps closer, his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with surprising gentleness. “You’re carrying my children,” he says, his voice softer now, though still edged with worry. “You’re more precious than Valyrian steel, and twice as fragile right now.”

You raise a brow at him. “Then perhaps you should forge me into a sword, husband. I’m no frail thing to be locked away.”

Daemon stares at you for a moment before letting out a low, amused chuckle. His hand moves to your belly, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles. The babies respond with a sudden kick, and he blinks in surprise.

“That one’s a fighter,” he says with a grin.

“Like their father,” you reply, your eyes softening.

He sighs, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. “Fine,” he relents. “But if you feel even the slightest pain, you call for me.”

“Always,” you promise.

Daemon’s arm snakes around your back, and he guides you slowly back toward your chambers. No matter how independent you try to be, you lean into him, letting him bear some of the weight. Just this once.

As you two walk slowly through the familiar halls of the Red Keep, your hand resting lightly on Daemon’s arm, you can’t help but voice your frustration.

“I’ve been cooped up in that chamber for far too long, Daemon,” you huff, your tone carrying a hint of playful defiance. “Is it really so dangerous for me to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on my face?”

Daemon arches a brow, his lips twitching as if fighting back a smile. “The sun will still be there tomorrow, wife. You, however, are one slip away from being carried back to that chamber in my arms.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “You already carry me enough as it is. Let me walk.”

His grip tightens protectively on your waist, and just as you prepare to argue further, your attention is drawn to the sound of laughter. A soft, innocent giggle followed by the familiar voice of Aemma.

Turning your head, you spot her in the lush green garden just beyond the archway, sitting on a blanket with little Rhaenyra crawling excitedly toward a cluster of flowers. Her chubby hands reach for them, and she squeals with delight when she manages to grab a soft pink petal. Aemma’s face lights up with joy as she guides Rhaenyra gently, careful not to let her crush the delicate blooms.

Your heart warms at the sight, and you slow your steps. You glance up at Daemon with wide, pleading eyes, tugging lightly at his sleeve.

“Please, Daemon,” you whisper, tilting your head like a cat asking for affection. “Let me stay with them, just for a little while.”

Daemon follows your gaze toward Aemma and Rhaenyra. For a moment, he says nothing, his lips pressed into a line as he considers. His eyes flicker back to you, filled with hesitation.

“You’ll sit,” he says at last, his voice firm but not unkind. “No standing, no walking about. If I see you on your feet for more than a moment, I’ll carry you back myself.”

You nod quickly, a grin spreading across your face. “Deal.”

Daemon sighs in defeat, clearly unable to deny you anything. He leads you toward the garden with slow, careful steps. Aemma notices you approaching and waves cheerfully, her face bright with warmth.

“Look who’s come to join us,” she says with a smile. “I thought you’d be resting.”

“I’ve rested more than enough for one lifetime,” you reply as you lower yourself carefully onto the soft blanket with Daemon’s help. Once seated, you let out a contented sigh, leaning back against a plush cushion one of the maids swiftly provides. “I saw you both and couldn’t resist.”

Rhaenyra, curious as ever, turns her wide violet eyes toward you. Her gaze lands on your belly, and she crawls over with surprising speed. Her tiny hands press curiously against your swollen stomach.

“Ba,” she babbles, tilting her head as if trying to understand. She pats your belly again with more determination, her face scrunched up in concentration.

“She knows there’s someone in there,” Aemma says with a soft laugh, leaning forward to adjust Rhaenyra’s hair. “Or two, in your case.”

You glance at Aemma and smile knowingly, placing your hand over Rhaenyra’s. The baby stares at the motion, eyes wide with wonder. Then, as if on cue, one of the twins in your belly gives a strong, sudden kick right where Rhaenyra’s hand rests.

The little girl gasps, pulling her hand back in shock before letting out a delighted giggle. She claps her hands together and points to your belly. “Ba! Ba!”

Aemma laughs, her eyes crinkling with joy. “She thinks they’re playing with her.”

“Perhaps they are,” you muse, rubbing gentle circles over the spot where the kick came from. “These two are as mischievous as their father.”

Daemon snorts, sitting on the edge of the blanket. “They’ll be clever, not mischievous,” he corrects, though there’s a hint of pride in his voice. His eyes flicker to your belly, his hand briefly resting atop it. “They already know how to get attention, after all.”

“Like their father,” Aemma teases, her gaze flicking to Daemon with playful mischief.

Daemon raises a brow at her but says nothing, his smirk betraying his amusement.

The four of you sit together in peaceful silence for a while, the only sounds being the rustle of leaves and the sweet babbling of little Rhaenyra as she explores the flowers around her. Your eyes drift closed, the warmth of the sun on your skin lulling you into a calm, dreamlike state.

“Are you tired?” Daemon’s voice is close to your ear, soft but attentive.

You hum in response, your head leaning against his shoulder. “Not tired. Just… content.”

He wraps an arm around you, his fingers trailing lightly along your back in slow, soothing patterns. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then stay like this for a while. The world can wait.”

And for now, you believe him.

You tilt your head back to meet Daemon’s gaze, giving him a soft, reassuring smile. His eyes narrow with suspicion, his lips pressed into a firm line.

“I’m not a prisoner, Daemon,” you say lightly, resting a hand on his arm. “Go back to your training. I’ll stay right here, I promise.”

He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. “You’ll stay seated?”

“Yes, I’ll stay seated,” you reply, your tone sweet but firm. “I won’t stand, I won’t walk, and if I need anything, I’ll have the maids or guards fetch you.” You gesture to the maids and guards stationed nearby as proof. “See? Plenty of eyes on me. I’m perfectly safe.”

Daemon stares at you for a long moment, his violet eyes scanning your face as if searching for any sign of deceit. You stare back with innocent determination, unyielding.

Finally, he sighs heavily, running a hand down his face. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

“And you love me for it,” you counter with a grin, earning a short, breathy laugh from him.

“I do,” he admits, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a moment longer than usual, warm and soft against your skin. “But if I see you on your feet, I won’t hesitate to carry you back inside.”

You wave him off, feigning exasperation. “Yes, yes, my fearsome husband, everyone has heard your threats. Now, go.”

Daemon snorts but stands, giving you one last look — a warning glance that says, Don’t test me — before turning on his heel and striding back toward the training grounds. His silver hair catches the light of the sun, and you watch him until he disappears from view.

Satisfied, you lean back against the cushion behind you, letting out a soft sigh of relief. Your hand comes to rest on your belly, your fingers tracing small circles over the taut skin. You can already feel one of the twins stirring inside, pressing against you with a gentle but firm push.

“Yes, little one,” you murmur quietly, gazing down at your belly with a soft smile. “He’s always like that. But he means well.”

One of the maids approaches, holding a cool drink in her hands. She kneels beside you, offering it with a polite bow.

“Shall I call for the prince if you need anything, my lady?” she asks, glancing toward the direction where Daemon disappeared.

“No need,” you reply, taking the cup and sipping slowly. “He’s watching even when he’s not here.”

The maid smiles knowingly, stepping aside to give you privacy.

You recline comfortably, feeling the warmth of the sun, the steady flutter of life within you, and the distant sounds of swords clashing on the training grounds. Even though Daemon has gone back to his duties, you feel his presence as if he’s still right there beside you.

You squirmed slowly in your seat, the pain and discomfort returning. You slowly rubbed your stomach and controlled your breathing. Aemma’s expression shifts instantly from serene to serious, her brows knitting in concern.

"Do you feel uncomfortable ot pain?" you nodded and smiled. "Since earlier, maybe because I was walking to the training yard."

She turns to face you fully, her eyes scanning you carefully. “Since earlier?” she asks, her tone gentle but firm. “Where exactly is the pain? Is it sharp or dull? Does it come and go?”

You take a slow breath, pressing a hand against your swollen belly. “It’s more like a tightening,” you admit. “At first, I thought it was just the babies shifting, but it’s been happening more often. It comes, stays for a moment, and then fades.”

Aemma’s eyes widen slightly, and she sits up straighter, her gaze sharp with experience. “Those sound like contractions,” she says, voice calm but with an underlying urgency. “Did your back start aching too?”

You nod slowly, realization dawning on you. “Yes… I thought it was just from walking too much.”

Aemma reaches for your hand, squeezing it firmly. “That’s how it starts,” she says, her voice gentle but commanding. “We need to get you back to your chambers now. It could be nothing, but if it’s something, you don’t want to be far from the maester.” She glances over her shoulder, waving toward one of the guards nearby. “Fetch the maester and tell Prince Daemon his wife needs him. Now.”

The guard bows quickly and rushes off. You can hear the urgency in his footsteps, and it only makes your heart race faster. You grip Aemma’s hand tightly, your breathing shallow.

“It’s too early, isn’t it?” you whisper, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “They’re not supposed to come for a few more weeks.”

Aemma squeezes your hand again, her eyes meeting yours with a steady, reassuring gaze. “Sometimes babies have their own plans,” she says softly. “But listen to me — you are strong, stronger than you know. You’ll be fine, and so will they.” She places a hand on your belly, her fingers gentle but firm. “Breathe with me, slowly, in and out. We’ll get you back to your chambers.”

Her words steady you, and you nod, exhaling slowly as she helps you stand. Your legs feel unsteady, but Aemma is right there, her arm around you for support. Two more guards approach to help, one on each side.

The tightening in your belly comes again, sharper this time, and you gasp, clutching at Aemma’s arm. “It hurts,” you mutter through gritted teeth, leaning forward slightly as the pain grips you.

Aemma presses her forehead lightly against the side of yours, grounding you with her presence. “I know, I know,” she murmurs. “Just breathe. Slow and steady. You’ll be back in your chambers before the next one comes.”

Your heart pounds as you’re guided back toward the keep. Each step feels heavier than the last, and you’re dimly aware of voices calling for Daemon, the clatter of footsteps on stone, and the worried looks of servants and guards. But your world narrows to Aemma’s calm, steady voice.

“You’re doing so well,” she says, her words soothing even as you feel the panic clawing at the edge of your mind. “Daemon will be there. He’ll be right by your side.”

You nod, your breath hitching as another wave of pain crashes through you. “He… he better be,” you manage to say through the pain, forcing a small smile despite it all.

Aemma smiles back, her eyes filled with pride and quiet strength. “He will,” she promises, her tone unshakable. “He always is.”

The chamber feels warmer than usual, the air thick with the scent of burning candles and fresh linens. You pace back and forth, one hand pressed firmly against the small of your back, the other gripping the edge of a chair for support. The tight, rhythmic pain that pulses through your belly is growing sharper and more frequent. Sweat beads on your brow, and your breaths come in short, strained bursts.

“Daemon!” you call out, voice cracking with urgency as another contraction grips you. Your legs tremble, and you brace yourself against the bedpost, squeezing it so hard your knuckles turn white. “Daemon, now!”

The door bursts open moments later, and Daemon strides in, his eyes wild with alarm. He takes in the scene instantly — the way you’re leaning forward, the strain in your face, and the tremble in your body. He moves to your side in a heartbeat, one arm wrapping around your waist to support you.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice unusually soft but firm. His eyes meet yours, and you can see the worry simmering just beneath the surface. “You should be lying down.”

“No,” you snap, breathing hard as you shake your head. “I can’t — it hurts more when I lie down.” You grip his arm tightly as another contraction rolls through you, and a groan escapes your lips. “It’s too soon, Daemon… it’s too soon.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, his gaze darting toward the doorway. “Where is the maester?!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the halls. “Now!”

The sound of hurried footsteps follows his command, and soon Maester Gerardys enters, flanked by two midwives carrying fresh cloths and basins of warm water. Gerardys’s eyes narrow as he takes in your condition. “Her labor has begun in earnest,” he says gravely, stepping forward with calm authority. “We must prepare her.”

“Prepare me?” you hiss, clinging to Daemon as another wave of pain hits. Your nails dig into his sleeve, and he lets you grip him as tightly as you need. “They’re not supposed to come now. It’s too early.”

“Babes come when they wish, princess,” Maester Gerardys replies gently but firmly, moving to check your condition. “The fact that you’re still walking is a good sign. But you must save your strength.”

Daemon presses his lips to your temple, his hand sliding up and down your back in soothing strokes. “He’s right,” he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Come, love. Sit, just for a moment.”

Reluctantly, you nod, letting him guide you toward the bed. Your legs feel weak, and the moment you sit, another contraction wracks your body. You cry out, head bowing forward as the pain takes you. Daemon is right there, kneeling in front of you, his hands on your thighs, his eyes locked on yours.

“Look at me,” he says firmly, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of pain. “Breathe with me, alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He exaggerates each breath, making you follow his lead. “Just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and you shake your head, frustrated and exhausted. “I’m scared, Daemon,” you admit, voice barely a whisper. “I’m so scared.”

His hands move up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have begun to fall. His violet eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes the world feel just a little less overwhelming. “You’re not alone,” he says, voice low but fierce with conviction. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Another contraction hits, this one even stronger, and you cry out, your whole body tensing. The midwives move to your side, readying fresh cloths and water.

“Steady, princess,” Maester Gerardys says, his tone calm but commanding. “The babes are coming. You’ve done everything right. It’s time now. Let them come.”

Daemon doesn’t leave your side, his hands firm but gentle, his eyes never once looking away from you. “You’ve faced dragons, love,” he says with a faint, crooked smile. “What’s two little babes compared to that?”

His words make you laugh, but it’s short-lived as another wave of pain comes. You grip his hands with all your strength, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I hate you right now,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

His grin widens, his eyes filled with nothing but love. “Then you’re doing it right,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “Hate me all you like. But you’ll love me again when you’re holding them.”

With those words, you feel something shift, a pressure that tells you the time is near. Panic threatens to rise again, but you hold on to Daemon’s gaze, his steady presence like a flame in the darkness. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever.

The door swings open with a thud, and your mother rushes in, her face etched with worry and determination. Her gaze locks onto you immediately, and she moves with practiced grace, her skirts swishing as she makes her way to your side.

“My sweet girl,” she says softly, her voice like a balm against the storm raging inside you. She kneels next to you, brushing the damp hair away from your face. Her eyes flicker with both concern and reassurance. “I’m here now. Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

Another contraction seizes you, sharper and stronger than before. Your back arches, and a guttural cry tears from your throat. Daemon grips one of your hands, and your mother takes the other, both anchoring you as you ride the wave of pain.

“You’re doing so well, love,” Daemon says, his voice low but steady, his forehead pressed to yours. “Just a little longer.”

“Easy for you to say,” you snap, panting as the pain finally subsides, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “You’re not the one being torn in half.”

Your mother huffs a short laugh, though her eyes are misty with unshed tears. “She’s strong, this one,” she says, glancing at Daemon. “Stronger than she knows.” Her eyes return to you, full of fierce pride and love. “You’ve got this, my brave girl. We Tyrell women are made of steel wrapped in silk.”

Her words give you strength, and you nod, tears spilling down your cheeks. “It hurts so much, Mother,” you whisper, your voice cracking with exhaustion.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” she soothes, pressing her cool hand to your burning forehead. “But you’re almost there. The pain means they’re coming.”

Another sharp contraction strikes, and you scream, your body tensing as you grip their hands with all your might. The midwives rush to your side, exchanging quick, knowing glances.

“She’s crowning,” one of them announces, her voice firm but excited. “It’s time, princess. You must push now.”

Your heart races in panic. “I can’t— I can’t do this—”

“You can,” Daemon says firmly, his eyes blazing with conviction. His hands cradle your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Look at me. Look at me, love. You are fire and fury. You can do this.”

Your mother nods, her grip on your hand tightening. “We’re right here, my darling. You’re not alone.”

With a loud cry, you push, every muscle in your body straining as the weight of the world seems to press down on you. The pain is unbearable, but Daemon’s voice in your ear, your mother’s hand in yours — they ground you, keep you from slipping into fear.

“That’s it, princess,” the maester says, his voice suddenly more urgent. “Again. Push!”

With a scream that echoes through the chamber, you push with everything you have. Time slows to a crawl, your senses overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. Then, at last —

A loud, piercing wail fills the room. A baby’s cry.

“You did it!” your mother exclaims, tears now freely streaming down her face. “You did it, my love!”

Daemon lets out a breathless laugh, his head falling forward in relief as he presses his lips to your temple. His voice is choked with emotion. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, his voice rough with pride and awe.

The midwife lifts the baby high for you to see — a tiny, wriggling form with a head of damp, silver hair. “It’s a boy, princess,” she says, her smile wide as she hands him over to a waiting midwife to be cleaned.

But the moment of relief is short-lived. Another sharp, searing pain cuts through you, and you gasp, clutching at Daemon.

“Another one?” you choke out, eyes wide in panic. “It’s happening again—”

The midwives move quickly, already prepared. Your mother is instantly back at your side, wiping your brow. “Of course it is, darling. Twins, remember?” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “You already did it once. You can do it again.”

“You were made for this,” Daemon adds, his voice steady as steel. “One more, my love. Just one more.”

With a shaky breath, you nod, drawing on every reserve of strength you have left. Your eyes meet Daemon’s, and you see nothing but love and certainty in his gaze. You nod again, gritting your teeth.

“Alright,” you breathe. “Alright. Let’s finish this.”

“Push, princess!” the maester calls.

With a roar that comes from the deepest part of your soul, you push once more. Every muscle, every fiber of your being strains with effort. The pain is unlike anything you’ve ever known, but you don’t give in. Not now. Not when you’re so close.

Another wail fills the room, this one higher, sharper, but just as strong. The sound of it sends a rush of relief through your chest.

“It’s a girl!” the midwife cries, holding up the second babe, her tiny hands waving in the air. “A strong, healthy girl.”

You fall back against the pillows, utterly spent, tears running freely down your face. Daemon’s hand never leaves yours, and his lips press to your knuckles as he lets out a breathless, joyful laugh. “A boy and a girl,” he says, his eyes shining like twin stars. “Our boy and our girl.”

Your mother presses a kiss to your damp hair, her eyes filled with nothing but pride and love. “You did it, my sweet girl. I’ve never been prouder of you.”

The midwives place the two swaddled babes in your arms, one on each side. You gaze down at them, your heart so full it feels as though it might burst. The boy’s face is scrunched in a tiny scowl, while the girl yawns, her tiny hand curling into a fist.

“They’re perfect,” you whisper, tears still falling. “Daemon… they’re perfect.”

He kneels beside you, his face so full of love that it’s almost unrecognizable. He touches the top of his son’s head, then his daughter’s, his fingers trembling as if he can’t believe they’re real.

“They’re ours,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “You did this, love. You brought them into this world.”

“We did,” you correct, leaning your head against his shoulder. “We did this.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment as the weight of everything settles in. Your mother watches with a smile full of quiet pride, her eyes fixed on you as though she’s seeing you for the first time.

Your breathing grows shallow as another sharp, searing pain tears through you. Panic surges in your chest, your heart pounding like a war drum. You clutch Daemon’s arm, your eyes wild with confusion and fear.

“Daemon—” you gasp, your voice trembling. “Something’s wrong.”

Daemon’s eyes snap to yours, his face instantly shifting from joy to alarm. “What’s happening?” he demands, turning to the maester. “Why is she still in pain?”

The midwives and maester exchange frantic glances before one of the midwives moves swiftly to your side, pressing a hand to your belly. Her eyes widen, and she glances up with a mix of shock and urgency.

“Another one,” she breathes, eyes darting to the maester. “There’s another babe still inside.”

“What?” you choke out, your breath hitching in disbelief. “No—no, you said two! You said it was twins!”

The maester steps forward, his face pale but resolute. “Sometimes, princess, one can be hidden behind the others. It is rare but not unheard of. This child is presenting breech.”

Breech. The word echoes in your mind, filling you with dread. You’ve heard the stories. It’s dangerous — for both mother and child.

Daemon’s grip on your hand tightens, his jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle twitch. “Then fix it,” he growls, his voice like the crack of thunder. “Do whatever it takes. She survives. They all survive.” His eyes are wild, his protective fury ignited like dragonfire.

Your mother moves to your side, her face steady but her eyes sharp with focus. She grips your hand, leaning in close. “Look at me, darling,” she says softly but firmly. “You’ve done this before. You can do it again. This one will be stubborn, yes, but so are you.”

Tears streak down your face as another wave of pain crashes over you, your body tensing against it. You sob, pressing your face into Daemon’s shoulder, clutching him as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“I can’t,” you cry, your voice muffled by his tunic. “Mother, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she insists, cupping your face with both hands. Her eyes burn with fierce, unyielding determination. “You’ve already brought two dragons into this world. You are stronger than you know. This little one is just as stubborn as you, that’s all. Now breathe.”

Daemon presses his forehead against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head. “You’re not alone, love,” he whispers, his voice rough but steady. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The maester kneels between your legs, his hands moving carefully. “Princess, we’ll need you to push as before,” he says, his tone urgent but calm. “This one is turned, but I will guide them as best I can.” He glances at you, his gaze firm. “When the pain returns, you must push as hard as you can.”

“Push?” you cry, a wave of terror threatening to consume you. “I’ve nothing left to give!”

“You do,” Daemon growls, his voice fierce as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You have more. You’re fire, you’re fury, and you are mine. Our dragon needs you now, love.”

His words strike something deep within you — deeper than the pain, deeper than the fear. Your heart thunders with a surge of resolve. You grip your mother’s hand, your knuckles white, and nod.

“Alright,” you gasp, drawing in a ragged breath. “Alright. I’m ready.”

“Good girl,” your mother praises, brushing back your damp hair. “Breathe. When it comes, give it everything you have.”

The next contraction is like a tidal wave, surging through you with a force that takes your breath away. But this time, you don’t fight it. You push, screaming with everything in you, every last shred of will and fury.

“Again!” the maester calls, his voice sharp as steel.

You push again, your vision blurring, the world reduced to the roaring fire of your pain and the steady, grounding weight of Daemon’s hand gripping yours. His voice is in your ear, low and commanding. “That’s it, my love. Again. Again.”

Another push. Another scream. Time loses meaning, the world spinning into a haze of pain and exhaustion. You feel like you’re being pulled apart, but you don’t stop. You won’t stop.

Then, at last—

A cry. Sharp. Strong. Alive.

The room stills for a breathless moment. You fall back against the pillows, sobbing with relief. The weight of it all crashes down on you like a wave, and all you can do is cry, shaking from exhaustion.

“Another boy,” the midwife announces, her voice filled with awe and wonder. She carefully lifts the baby, his tiny fists waving in the air as his loud cries fill the chamber. “A strong, stubborn boy.”

Your tears come faster as you gaze at him, your heart too full to hold it all. Your body feels like it’s been shattered and remade, but none of it matters. He’s here. They’re all here.

Daemon lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, his head dropping against your shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you so tightly that it’s as if he’s afraid to let go. “Three,” he mutters, his voice thick with disbelief and pride. “Three dragons. You gave me three dragons.”

The midwives place the third baby on your chest, and you weep as you hold him close, feeling the warmth of him against you. His tiny face scrunches, his cries loud and defiant. Your fingers trace his soft cheek, and you let out a shaky breath of pure, unfiltered love.

Your mother sits by your side, wiping her own tears as she strokes your hair. “Three babes,” she says with a wide, teary smile. “The gods have blessed you greatly, my darling. Greater than most.”

Daemon rests his head beside yours, his gaze locked on the three sleeping babes now swaddled in soft cloth and placed beside you. He shakes his head, his face a mask of awe and disbelief. “They’ll sing songs about you,” he murmurs, his voice filled with wonder. “The woman who bore three dragons at once.”

You turn your head toward him, tears still clinging to your lashes, and give him a tired but triumphant smile. “Only if you tell them,” you murmur, your voice hoarse but filled with quiet pride.

He smiles back at you, leaning in to kiss you softly, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll tell them,” he says, his eyes shining like molten gold. “I’ll tell them every day for the rest of my life.”

With the weight of his love and the warmth of your three little dragons nestled by your side, you finally let yourself rest. The fire in you has not dimmed — no, it has only grown stronger. You are the mother of dragons, and the world will remember.

You lie propped up against a mountain of pillows, exhaustion still weighing down your limbs, but the sight before you fills your heart with warmth. Daemon sits beside you, one arm draped protectively around your shoulders while the other rests lightly on one of the cradles where your three newborns sleep soundly. Their tiny breaths are soft puffs of air, their small hands curled into delicate fists.

The gentle creak of the door draws your attention. Your gaze shifts, and you see King Jaehaerys enter, his regal presence filling the room despite his age. Beside him walks Prince Baelon, his broad smile impossible to miss. Following close behind are Viserys and Aemma, the latter carrying little Rhaenyra in her arms, her chubby hands clapping with excitement at the new faces in the room.

“Three,” Baelon says, his booming voice filled with wonder and amusement. “Three dragons at once. The realm will be talking about this for years to come.” He steps forward, his eyes shining with pride as he approaches the cradles. “Which one is the fiercest?” he asks with a grin, peering down at the swaddled babes.

Daemon snorts, his smirk lazy but proud. “All of them,” he replies, his voice thick with exhaustion but filled with unmistakable pride. “They’re mine, after all.”

The room fills with soft laughter. Aemma approaches your side, setting Rhaenyra down carefully before leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “You are incredible,” she says, her eyes filled with admiration. “Three at once… I can hardly imagine it.” She sits beside you, gazing down at the sleeping babes with quiet awe.

“Neither could I,” you murmur, glancing at the tiny faces of your children. Your heart swells with so much love it feels as though it might burst. “I only thought I’d have two. But the gods had other plans.”

Viserys steps forward, his eyes gentle as he kneels to get a closer look at the babes. He tilts his head, a thoughtful smile tugging at his lips. “Do they have names yet?” he asks, his voice soft so as not to disturb them.

Daemon glances at you, his eyes seeking yours for confirmation. You nod, and he speaks with quiet certainty, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. “Maegon, Vaelya, and Aerion.”

The names settle in the air like sacred vows. King Jaehaerys nods approvingly, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Strong names,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom. “Names worthy of dragons.”

Rhaenyra toddles forward, her curious eyes fixed on the cradles. She reaches out with her small hands, her face scrunching in concentration as she points at one of the babies. “Bebby,” she says with a little giggle. “Bebby!”

Aemma chuckles, scooping her daughter into her lap. “Yes, sweetling, those are babies. Your cousins.”

Rhaenyra looks from the cradles to you, her wide eyes blinking with fascination. She points at you next. “Mama?”

Your heart melts. A soft laugh escapes you as you reach out, brushing a hand through Rhaenyra’s silver-gold hair. “No, little star,” you say with a smile. “I’m their mama.” You gesture to the cradles. “They’re my little dragons.”

Rhaenyra tilts her head, clearly thinking hard. After a moment, she smiles and points to you again. “Mama dragons!” she declares, giggling to herself as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Baelon bursts out laughing, his voice filling the room. “That’s it!” he says, still chuckling. “The Mother of Dragons herself. That’s what they’ll call you now.”

You glance at Daemon, expecting him to roll his eyes at the dramatics, but instead, you find him gazing at you with that look — the one that makes you feel like the most powerful woman in the world. His hand moves to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“They’ll call you that,” he says, his voice low but certain. “And they’ll be right.”

The warmth of his words wraps around you like a cloak, stronger than any fire. The exhaustion in your bones suddenly feels worth it. Every ache, every pain, every sleepless night — all of it was for this moment. For them. For him.

The children sleep soundly, the world quiet except for the soft crackling of the hearth and the murmured conversations of family. You lean your head against Daemon’s shoulder, letting his warmth lull you into a peaceful haze.

Three dragons. Three beautiful, strong, fierce little dragons. And you, their mother, are ready to protect them with every ounce of fire in your soul.

The gentle knock on the chamber door draws everyone’s attention. Daemon rises from his seat beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder before he moves to answer it. The door creaks open to reveal a Red Keep guard, standing beside one of the dragonkeepers clad in dark leathers lined with scales. The dragonkeeper holds a large wooden box, his stance careful and deliberate as if he were carrying something precious — and he is.

The moment you see it, your breath catches in your throat. The box is unlatched and opened slowly, revealing three dragon eggs nestled in soft layers of blackened ash and cloth. Each egg glimmers with an otherworldly sheen, their surfaces glinting in the warm glow of the chamber’s fire.

Gasps echo throughout the room. King Jaehaerys leans forward, his sharp gaze fixed on the eggs, while Prince Baelon lets out a low whistle of appreciation. Aemma presses a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with wonder. Even little Rhaenyra stares in fascination, her small hands clapping in delight.

“By the gods,” Aemma breathes, awe clear in her voice. “Three eggs… for three dragons.” Her eyes shift to you, full of meaning.

The dragonkeeper steps forward, bowing his head respectfully. “Gifts from Dragonstone, my lady,” he announces. His voice is steady but reverent. “Freshly laid from the hatchery. They are yours by right.”

Your heart swells with emotion. Three eggs. Each one is as beautiful as it is dangerous — a promise of power, legacy, and fire. You glance at Daemon, who is watching you with a fierce pride, his gaze shifting between you and the eggs. He nods, his jaw set with resolve.

“Come,” Daemon says, his voice firm but soft as he walks back to your side. “Let them see.”

Carefully, the dragonkeeper places the box on the small table beside you. You lean forward, your eyes drawn to the eggs like a moth to flame. One egg is a deep crimson red, flecked with streaks of black, like molten lava cracking through stone. Another is a pale silver-blue with swirls of icy white — reminiscent of the sea during a storm. The third is a deep, smoky green, its surface marked with flecks of bronze that shimmer like sunlight on leaves.

You reach out with a steady hand, fingers grazing the surface of the red egg. It’s warm to the touch, alive with subtle vibrations, as though something inside is already stirring. Your gaze flickers to Daemon, and he watches you intently, as if witnessing something sacred.

“They’ll bond with them,” Daemon says quietly, his eyes shifting to the cradles where your three newborns sleep. “They’ll grow together.” His voice is filled with certainty, like it is a prophecy already written in stone.

You glance at the sleeping babes. Maegon, Vaelya, and Aerion. Three children, three dragon eggs. Fire and blood. Legacy.

King Jaehaerys rises from his chair, his face thoughtful but pleased. “This is a sign,” he declares, his voice echoing with authority. “The blood of the dragon runs strong in them. They will be great, as their father and mother are.”

Prince Baelon grins wide, his eyes sharp with excitement. “Aegon the Conqueror had three dragons,” he says, tilting his head as he gazes at you. “It seems history has a fondness for repeating itself.”

Aemma steps forward, her gaze moving from the eggs to you. “Have you decided which egg belongs to which child?” she asks, her smile soft but curious.

You look down at the eggs, fingers brushing over each one in turn. It feels as though they call to you, whispering their secrets through the warmth beneath your palm.

For Maegon, you choose the red egg, fierce and untamed, a symbol of strength and fire. He will be a warrior, you think. A flame that will never be extinguished.

For Vaelya, you choose the silver-blue egg, cool yet powerful, like the stillness before a raging storm. She will be steady and wise, but never weak. The sea and sky will answer her call.

For Aerion, you choose the green egg with bronze flecks, vibrant and wild, a reflection of growth, change, and rebirth. He will be a force of nature, ever growing, ever changing.

With each choice, you feel a weight lift from your heart, as if the decision had been waiting for you to realize it all along.

“They are theirs,” you say aloud, gazing at the eggs with quiet reverence. “Maegon, Vaelya, and Aerion. Their dragons will rise with them.”

Daemon’s hand rests on your shoulder, his fingers curling softly against you. “They will,” he says, his voice low with conviction. “And the world will never forget it.”

The dragonkeeper bows his head once more before backing away, his task complete. The box is left behind, its contents no longer just eggs but something far greater. The fire crackles softly, casting warm, dancing shadows across the eggs, as if they, too, are dreaming of the future.

You lean into Daemon’s side, exhaustion settling back into your bones, but your heart is full. Your children have their dragons. Your legacy is secured.

tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd

[sundropflowerr]

Trace Your Constellations | Steve Harrington

★ Warnings: no use of y/n, post s3 before s4, fluff, mutual pining, awkward tension, idiot duo in love, light teasing, longing glances, emotional vulnerability, quiet moments, quiet comfort, moments of personal growth, slight self-doubt.

★ Summary: After everything Hawkins put you through, you and Steve find yourselves on the roof of Family Video, stargazing and toeing the line between friends and something more. It’s quiet, it’s soft, and maybe—just maybe—he’s finally seeing the stars the way you do. 2k

★ Pairings: steve harrington x fem!reader

★ Fic Inspiration: “Constellations: Piano Version” - Jade LeMac

★ Author's Note: thank you to @enchanthings for the star divider, it’s greatly appreciated and i love love love it. this is my first writing piece, i can’t believe it! though it might be messy and only a one-shot, i hope you all enjoy it.

You and Steve Harrington were stuck together like glue.

Not by choice at first, but that didn’t seem to matter now.

Somewhere between the Byers’ house, where Steve first swung that nail-studded bat like a maniac to protect everyone, and the tunnels beneath Hawkins, where he grabbed your shoulder and told you “We’re getting out of this. Just keep moving,” something shifted. After Starcourt—after fire, smoke, and holding his hand in the parking lot while you stared at the wreckage—it stopped being just survival.

It was the last-night drives when neither of you could sleep, the lazy afternoons when he’d lean on the counter at the music store you worked at, flipping through cassette tapes just to annoy you.

Steve still insists he just hangs out with you because your music store is “conveniently” across the street. He’ll pop in during his shifts at Family Video, lean against the counter like he owns the place, and pick apart the stack of cassette tapes you’re organizing. “What’s this? Too cool for a little Springsteen?” he’d say, tossing you his signature smug grin. You’d roll your eyes, toss it right back, and remind him he only listens to what you tell him to.

Robin called it weeks ago. “You guys are, like, weirdly close.” Eddie had chimed in too, smirking like he knew something you didn’t: “You two ever gonna admit you’re basically one soft moment away from a rom-com montage?” You brushed them off every time—what did they know?

But it’s harder to brush them off when you’re here, on the roof, the quiet of the summer night pressing in around you. It’s the kind of quiet you only get after midnight in Hawkins, where the cicadas buzz in the distance and the stars shine brighter because half the town’s lights don’t work right. The air smells faintly of asphalt and cut grass, warm but with the promise of cooler hours ahead, and everything feels still—so still it’s like the world’s holding its breath.

It had been Steve’s idea, though he acted like it wasn’t a big deal—like he didn’t spend half his shift thinking it up. Earlier that afternoon, you’d walked into Family Video, the bell above the door jingling like it always did, announcing your presence. The store smelled faintly like stale popcorn and cleaning spray, and Steve was leaning back against the counter, his green vest rumpled, hands shoved in his pockets. Robin, crouched on the floor with a stack of tapes, only glanced up long enough to mutter something sarcastic before diving back into organizing the horror section.

“Finally,” Steve said, pushing himself up with exaggerated relief. “Someone who’s not Robin to keep me entertained.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m here for you,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips as you perched yourself on the counter next to him. The surface was cool against the back of your legs, and you kicked your feet slightly, heels bumping the cabinets beneath.

Robin, without looking up, waved a hand in Steve’s direction. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been staring at the clock for twenty minutes.”

Steve groaned loudly in her direction, rolling his eyes before turning back to you. “Slow day. Feels like we’re in some kind of weird dead zone where no one in this godforsaken town likes movies anymore.”

“Or maybe they just don’t like you.” Robin’s voice was muffled as she slid another tape onto the shelf.

Steve ignored her, squinting at you like he was trying to gauge your mood. “What are you doing later?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Why?”

He scratched at the back of his neck, looking down like he was embarrassed to even ask. “I was just thinking…” He paused, tilting his head slightly to the side as if he’d decided to go for it. “It’s a nice night. After my shift, you wanna hang out? On the roof.”

“The roof?”

“Yeah. Of this fine establishment.” He knocked his knuckles lightly against the counter like he was showing off prime real estate, a little smile tugging at his lips. “You can see the stars better up there. Plus, it’s quiet. Robin and I go up sometimes. It’s… nice.”

You tilted your head at him, watching the way he shifted his weight slightly, like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes. “The stars, huh? No thrilling Steve Harrington monologue about life and the meaning of the universe?”

He groaned, throwing his head back in dramatic exasperation. “Forget it. Invite taken back.”

You laughed, nudging his arm with your shoulder, feeling the soft warmth of his skin through his vest. “Relax. I’ll come. It sounds nice.”

He looked back at you, his face softening into a crooked smile, his eyes lingering on yours for a beat too long. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And now, here you were. Hours later, the summer night stretching endlessly above you, blanketed by stars that seemed impossibly bright. Steve had climbed up first—grabbing onto the edge of the roof like it was nothing and pulling himself up before leaning down to offer you a hand. His fingers were warm and solid when they wrapped around yours, tugging you up with more strength than you’d anticipated. You’d stumbled slightly when you landed, but Steve’s other hand shot out, steadying you with a muttered, “Careful there.”

The roof wasn’t the most comfortable place in the world, but Steve had brought a blanket—some old, ugly checkered thing that smelled faintly of fabric softener and the inside of a car that’s been baking in the sun. You sat shoulder to shoulder, your knees bent, elbows resting against them as you both stared at the sky. The gravel beneath the blanket shifted slightly every time you moved, the crunch of it loud in the otherwise perfect stillness.

Steve stretched his arms out behind him, fingers splayed against the gravel as he leaned back to look at the sky. The muscles in his forearms flexed slightly, catching in the faint light from the streetlamps below. “Told you the roof was a good idea,” he said, breaking the quiet.

You tilted your head, glancing over at him. His hair—wild as ever—stuck up slightly, the edges catching the faintest breeze. The light shadow of stubble along his jaw was more noticeable from this angle, and you caught yourself lingering on the sight before you could stop.

“It’s alright,” you said, teasing. “Not as magical as you made it sound, though.”

Steve turned to you, lips parting into a look of mock offense. “Not as magical? What more do you want? I brought you here, gave you a prime stargazing spot—this is, like, peak effort.”

You laugh, stretching your legs out a little, the soles of your sneakers scuffing against the gravel. “Peak effort would’ve been snacks. Maybe a soda.”

“Oh, sorry I didn’t roll out the red carpet for you.” He shook his head with a dramatic sigh, though there was a smile pulling at his lips. “Next time I’ll bring a waiter.”

“Next time, huh?”

His shoulders froze for half a second, like he hadn’t realized he’d said it, before he relaxed again. “Yeah, well… if you’re lucky.”

You smiled faintly, looking back up at the stars. The quiet slipped back in, the kind of quiet that feels like a blanket wrapping around you—soft and warm and perfectly still. The cicadas buzzed faintly in the distance, their hum mixing with the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees far below. The sky stretched endlessly above, a wash of navy and scattered constellations, and for a moment, it was easy to forget about everything else.

And when Steve shifted beside you—just barely, so his shoulder bumped yours—you felt yourself still, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you.

Steve stretches his arms behind his head, breaking the silence. “You know, I still don’t get constellations.”

You look over, amused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, like…” He tilts his head back, gesturing vaguely at the sky. “They say that’s a guy with a sword, or whatever? That’s just dots. Someone’s connecting invisible lines, and we’re all supposed to be impressed.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s Orion’s Belt, and you just have no imagination, Harrington.”

Steve turns to you, his mouth twitching into that lopsided grin he always gets when he’s ready to argue with you. “I have plenty of imagination, thank you very much. I’ve survived monsters and alternate dimensions. I just think stars are trying a little too hard, you know?”

“Stars are trying too hard?” you say, incredulous. “What does that even mean?”

“It means…” He pauses, looking up at the sky again, brow furrowed like he’s actually trying to make sense of it. “I think people try too hard to make them something they’re not. Can’t they just be stars?”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway. “Or maybe you’re just too stubborn to let yourself see them.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. The quiet slips back in, softer this time, and you watch as he exhales slowly, his gaze lingering on the sky. “Maybe,” he finally says, almost too low for you to hear.

Something about it makes your chest ache a little. You don’t know when it started—this feeling you get when Steve’s around—but it’s been there more and more lately. It’s in the way he drops by the music store to kill time, like he doesn’t have anywhere better to be. It’s in the way he always lets you pick the music, even if he pretends to hate half of it. It’s in the way he remembers the tiniest details about you—like how you can’t sleep without white noise, or how you take your coffee with exactly one and a half sugars because two is too sweet but one isn’t enough.

And now it’s here, in the way he looks so at ease next to you, like there’s no place he’d rather be.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” you ask suddenly, your voice breaking the quiet. “Like, leaving Hawkins?”

Steve hums in thought, eyes still on the sky. “Yeah, sometimes. I mean, how could I not? This place is cursed.”

You huff out a quiet laugh. “No kidding.”

“But…” He trails off, turning his head to look at you. His voice is quieter when he continues. “I don’t know. I think it’s different now. Before, I wanted to leave because I didn’t have anything here. I thought I’d find it somewhere else. But…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to ask him to. You’re pretty sure you already know what he’s trying to say.

The air between you shifts, subtle but noticeable. Steve’s looking at you now, really looking at you, and it makes you hyper-aware of every inch of space between you—how close your hands are on the blanket, how his knee bumps yours every time he shifts.

“What?” you ask softly, because the way he’s staring at you is starting to make your heart do stupid things.

Steve shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, fine.” He sighs, tipping his head back against the gravel like he’s trying to play it cool. “It’s just… nights like this, you know? When it’s quiet, and you’re here. Makes me think maybe Hawkins isn’t so bad.”

You freeze, your breath catching in your chest. He says it so casually, like it doesn’t mean anything, but you know Steve. You know when he’s being flippant and when he’s saying something real, and this? This is real.

“Yeah,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter now. “I get that.”

You don’t look at him, but you feel his hand brush against yours—barely there, just his pinky against your knuckle. It’s so small you could pretend it didn’t happen, but you don’t. Instead, you let your hand relax, let your fingers rest just close enough to his that you know he can feel it.

Steve doesn’t say anything about it, but you can tell he notices. You can tell because his breathing changes, because he’s suddenly so still next to you.

“Hey,” he says after a minute, voice soft.

“Yeah?”

“I see it.”

You blink, finally turning your head to look at him. “See what?”

He grins, barely there but still so Steve, and nods toward the sky. “Orion’s Belt. The dots.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Took you long enough.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

And you don’t seem to mind.

thank you so much for reading! please like/reblog or comment if you did, it would be greatly appreciated. have a great day!

[benzene-babe]

The Gala

Peter Sutherland x reader fic

Synopsis: You are Peter’s best friend and fellow night agent. You both get invited to the presidential gala and Peter gets to see you in a whole new light.

Warnings: Kissing, a protective Peter, tooth rotting fluff :)

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"Hey, you ready for this?" Peter asked, his voice coming through the speaker on your phone.

"As ready as I'll ever be," you replied, glancing in the mirror one last time. Your reflection stared back at you, dressed in the elegant gown you had picked out for tonight's gala at the White House. The fabric shimmered under the soft glow of the room's lighting, hinting at the chaos of the evening ahead.

"You're going to knock 'em dead," Peter said. “I’ll see you when you get here”. Peter’s voice held a warmth that you had grown to rely on over the years of working together. Best friends and fellow night agents, you two had been through thick and thin, but this was new territory. The president had personally invited the two of you to the event, a rare occasion for agents of your caliber to step out from the shadows.

The ride to the White House was filled with anxiety. You knew that underneath the glitz and glamour, the gala was a minefield of potential threats and diplomatic tension. You also knew that no one had seen you dressed like this before. You knew how to clean up nice, but you weren’t sure what people would think of you. But for now, you allowed yourselves to enjoy the moment. The car pulled up to the grand entrance, and the doors swung open, revealing a sea of people dressed to impress.

As you stepped out of the vehicle, Peter's gaze swept over you. His eyes widened, and his voice hitched. "Wow," he murmured, the compliment hanging in the air unsaid. It was the first time he had seen you in anything other than your usual tactical gear, and you felt a blush creep up your neck. The romantic tension between you had always been there, a subtle dance of feelings unspoken.

Inside, the grandeur of the White House washed over you. Crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling light across the marble floors, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and perfume. You and Peter melded into the crowd, blending in despite the eyes that occasionally strayed in your direction. It wasn't every day a new face graced these hallowed halls.

Other agents began to approach, their gazes lingering a bit too long, their smiles a tad too eager. You felt Peter's hand gently rest on the small of your back, a silent assertion of his presence. It was a gesture that was both comforting and surprising. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, but you kept your cool, flashing a professional smile.

"I'm not used to all this attention," you admitted to Peter, leaning in so he could hear you over the din of the crowd.

"You look amazing," he said, his voice low and earnest. "But you know what? I think you're even more beautiful when you're not all dressed up."

His words resonated within you, a reminder of the friendship that had always been the foundation of your relationship. You felt a weight lift off your shoulders as you looked into his eyes, the unspoken romance between you suddenly less burdensome.

And then, as the evening unfolded, you realized that the night had only just begun. The gala was a whirlwind of handshakes, polite conversations, and the constant scanning for threats. Peter was always at your side, a steady anchor in a sea of unpredictability. Yet, amidst the glamour and the danger, there was a shift in the air—a charge that you couldn't ignore. The night was far from over, and you had a feeling that the real adventure was just about to start.

As you moved through the throng of guests, an agent you had never met before approached you with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was handsome, you'd give him that, but his hands were a bit too eager. He grazed your arm, and you felt a chill run down your spine. Before you could react, Peter stepped in, his eyes narrowing.

"Everything okay here?" Peter's voice was a low rumble, a warning that didn't go unnoticed. The other agent's smile faltered, his hand retreating from its unwelcome perch on your arm.

"Just admiring the company," the agent replied with a smarmy smile, not quite taking the hint.

But Peter's grip on your waist tightened, a clear message that you were not to be touched by anyone else. You felt a rush of warmth at his protective stance, a feeling that was both comforting and thrilling. "I think she's got enough admirers for one night," he said, his voice a subtle challenge.

The agent took a step back, his smile slipping into a scowl before he turned and melted back into the crowd. You looked up at Peter, your heart racing. "Thanks," you murmured, your eyes searching his for a clue to what he was feeling. But Peter's expression was unreadable, his focus on the task at hand unwavering.

As the night grew late and the gala wound down, you found yourself longing for the simplicity of your apartment, away from the prying eyes and the suffocating formality. "I think I'm going to head out," you told Peter, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll walk you home," he offered, his voice steady.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the cool night air a welcome respite from the stuffiness of the gala. You were grateful for the solitude, your thoughts racing with the events of the evening. The touch of Peter's hand on your arm was comforting, his presence a balm to the tension that still lingered from the unwanted attention.

Once you reached your building, you turned to him with a smile, your heart thudding in your chest. "Do you want to come up for a bit?" you asked, hopefulness coloring your voice. "Just to hang out, I mean. I know it's been a long night."

For a moment, Peter hesitated, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a nod, he said, "Yeah, I'd like that."

As you rode the elevator to your floor, the silence stretched out between you, filled with the promise of something more. When the doors finally slid open, you stepped into your apartment, the familiar surroundings feeling somehow foreign with Peter by your side. You offered him a drink, which he accepted, his eyes taking in the personal touches that made the space yours.

With a deep breath, you slipped into your bedroom, eager to shed the weight of the gala. You changed into a soft, oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, washing away the layers of makeup that had painted a different version of you. As you emerged, feeling lighter and more like yourself, Peter's gaze found yours. He was sitting on the couch, his tie loose and a small smile playing on his lips.

"There's my girl," he said, the words so simple, yet they hit you like a sucker punch. Your heart skipped a beat, the endearment echoing in your ears. He had never called you that before, not in that way. The warmth of his smile spread through you, chasing away the chill from the evening's tension.

"What do you mean?" you asked, trying to play it cool despite the sudden heat in your cheeks.

"You know, the one who can kick ass and take names without breaking a sweat." He chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours. "But tonight, you got to be someone else, and I kind of missed this version of you."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound mingling with the music that played softly in the background. "I never got a chance to dance tonight," you said wistfully, looking down at your comfortable outfit.

Without a word, Peter set his drink on the coffee table and extended his hand. "Then let's dance," he said, his voice low and inviting.

You took a step closer, placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, his thumb brushing gently against yours. He pulled you into his arms, and you felt his heartbeat against your chest as the music swelled around you. The living room of your apartment was a far cry from the grand ballroom of the White House, but in that moment, it felt like the most luxurious dance floor you had ever stepped onto.

You moved in sync, your bodies fitting together as if you had been doing this for years. The awkwardness of the evening's encounters faded away, replaced by the familiar rhythm of your partnership. Your eyes met, and you felt something shift between you, a current of understanding and desire that had always been there, just beneath the surface.

As the song came to a close, Peter didn't let go. Instead, he held you closer, your foreheads touching. You could feel his breath on your skin, and the closeness was intoxicating. The silence stretched out, filled with the thunder of your own heartbeat.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the city outside.

"For what?"

"For being you," you said, looking up into his eyes. "For making me feel like this."

And before you could second guess the moment, Peter leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. It was a gentle kiss, filled with the promise of more. It was a kiss that could change everything.

As you pulled back, breathless, the air between you crackled with the tension of what had just happened. But Peter's smile was soft, his eyes filled with the same affection and friendship you had always seen. It was as if he knew that this was just the beginning, and that the real dance was about to start.

Author’s note: Eeeeeep I can’t believe I’m finally posting writing. I’ve been a long time reader and enjoyer of fanfiction, but never a writer so this is all very new to me. If you have any advice or edits, please let me know!

[sxftkxssxs]

Sleeping habits with and without their S/O

Not a request but I had some ideas so I decided to make them into little Headcannons! Hope you all enjoy!

Asra

Because they run warmer they often sleep in silky pants and no top.

He is so touchy in their sleep!! You will never go to bed without him touching you somehow.

If he’s sleeping alone then they won’t move much, maybe shifting occasionally but no more than that.

If you’re going to bed with them however, they’ll end up staying in the same position all night.

When you two are sleeping in the same bed together they like to sleep with their head on your chest, hearing your heartbeat.

Asra doesn’t snore in his sleep at all, but he does occasionally hum!

Julian

He doesn’t like layers at all and this means he’s going to sleep in just his underwear.

This also continues into how many blankets he has, which is just one and it’s pretty thin.

If he’s sleeping alone he has no problem taking up the whole bed. He’ll end up with limbs everywhere and no idea how they got there.

If you’re with him you’ll have to either adjust or figure out a way to get him to relax. He moves almost the exact same amount, somehow avoiding hitting or pushing you most of the time.

Julian runs extremely cold. He likes it cold but he also loves your warmth, and he will touch you will his cold feet/hands in the middle of the night.

Julian does snore but it’s not super loud. His snoring is almost like background noise.

Nadia

Nadia sleeps in a silk nightgown, with short sleeves and that ends near her knees.

She also has a robe to wear over it, which she wears if she needs to get up for any reason.

Nadia runs chilly, though not as cold as Julian nor will she randomly torture you with her cold limbs during the night.

She doesn’t mind who ends up in which role, but she always loves spooning. It’s her favorite way to fall asleep with you.

Nadia doesn’t make any noise in her sleep other than occasional deep breaths.

Muriel

This guy is a personal heater. He still sleeps with pelts due to the forest getting chilly during the night but his hut is always warm and cozy.

Due to how warm he runs he generally sheds some layers ending up in pants and whatever top he’s currently wearing

Muriel always wants to hold you, wants to feel like he’s protecting you even while you both sleep. He also really likes if you face him. He won’t ever verbally express that but the way it flusters him gives it away.

He doesn’t make much noise. Much like Nadia, he might take a deep breath or a heavy exhale. Occasionally, if he’s having a bad dream he might grunt.

Inanna has her own little pile of pelts and pillows next to your bed. Somehow she always worms her way into the bed though…

Portia

Portia sleeps in a sleeveless top and shorts.

She tends to run chilly, but has so many blankets that she gets extremely warm during the night.

She doesn’t care how you two position yourselves for sleep, but she would enjoy getting to hold you!

Portia sleep talks during the night. It’s soft and quiet but definitely there. She’ll be amused if you tell her stories in the morning about what she said.

Pepi can often be found in the bed with you both, near the bottom of the mattress.

Lucio

Somehow this man runs hotter than anyone else on this list. He has no shame in sleeping in just his underwear, even with you around.

Lucio has a robe and thinks it makes him look the royalty role, with its red and gold color scheme he always adores.

He would love to be able to hold you all night but eventually, two bundles of pure white fur end up between you both.

That’s right, the M&M duo aren’t afraid to take what they want even during the night.

Melchior end up on your side, nudging his way into your arms and onto your chest. Mercedes just sits herself on top of Lucio and decides it’s his problem to cope with that.

They’ll push and whine and kick in their sleep. Only if they’re having a very intense dream.

Lucio will snore, grunt, and sleeps insanely light. If you so much as try to leave the bed before dawn he’s snapping his head up asking where you’re going.

[javier-pena]

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You've been estranged from your husband for years. When you finally track him down to make him sign the divorce papers, you get what you want and what you need - but it comes at a price.

Warnings: divorce | angst | alcohol consumption | masturbation (f) | fingering (f) | pussy pronouns | multiple orgasms | oral (f receiving) | (protected) p in v sex | some butt stuff 🤭 (but in a blink and you'll miss it kind of way) | to no one’s surprise there’s some stuff with hands and fingers too

Notes: Do you guys remember my 10k follower celebration I started about a year ago? I'm still working on all your prompts, I promise!! This one goes out to @milla-frenchy who requested "My tongue still remembers the way you taste.", "I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried.", and "Don't make me jealous." with Javi P, so naturally I had to make this about estranged married people who have a lot of history. This is set during S3E6 ('Best Laid Plans') btw because I couldn't stop thinking about Curaçao (the pink shirt doesn't make an appearance though 😔). As always, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who not only came up with the divorce plot but also with the ending, and yet she still said this fic is one of her favorite things I've ever written like 🤯 and the truth is, I really really like it too 🤭

The heat is oppressive, even during the evenings and nights when the sun is taking a break. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, not even after the three years you now have been living on Curaçao. Your dress sticks to your back and your whole body sticks to the leather chair you’re sitting in, while your palms are slick with sweat. That, at least, you can’t blame on the heat.

You take a sip from your strong cocktail and resume your vigilant watch of the hotel lobby that you can make out perfectly through an open doorway. Despite the late hour, people are still checking in – old men with young women on their arms, families with children sleeping in strollers or in their mothers’ arms; young couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, even when the receptionist looks like she’s about to despair at the line forming behind them.

You were like them once, you and Javi. Not that you would have been able to afford a place like this for your honeymoon. But you remember the feeling of being newly-weds, the way you couldn’t let each other out of sight, how it felt like you were the only two people in the world, and nothing else mattered. You despise them, all the young people who arrive. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them. Wake up, it’s all a lie, leave right now and save yourselves the heartbreak. You don’t do it, of course. Instead, you take another sip of your cocktail, the cool glass moist with perspiration, and straighten the envelope that is lying on the table in front of you.

A man approaches you, asking if you need company. You touch your neck self-consciously, wishing there was a way to soothe your burning nerves. “I’m waiting for someone, I’m sorry,” you tell him with a sweet smile. You truly are sorry; any other night, you would have said yes, despite the cruel streak around his mouth. Loneliness doesn’t ask questions.

The man accepts your rejection with a shrug, but his eyes linger on you, even when he has retreated to the bar to order himself another beer. For the first time in an hour, you turn your attention away from that familiar doorway and watch as his thick fingers grab the bottleneck tightly. Heat rises into your cheeks and you shift in your chair, tired and frustrated and sore.

“Hi.”

Your head snaps back toward the doorway, but he’s already standing right in front of you. You knew this moment was coming, had two whole days to prepare for it, yet the sight of him makes you lose what little composure you had left as you sharply suck in air, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Sorry I’m late,” Javi goes on when you don’t acknowledge his greeting. “I – give me a minute.”

He too moves away toward the bar, then leans on it right next to the man and his already empty beer bottle. You use the moment to gain back some control, straighten your back, calm your nerves with another sip that turns into a gulp. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, his sudden appearance wasn’t supposed to rattle you so. But it’s been so long since you were in the same room together, so long since the thought of him didn’t feel like a knife being plunged into your heart, that you have completely forgotten how to be around him without it feeling like you’re dying.

He lets himself fall into the chair opposite yours, groaning with relief as he sinks into it. In his hand, he holds a glass of whiskey, neat, and in his expression he holds nothing but exhaustion.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Long day?” you ask, unable to kill off that instinct that makes you want to take care of him.

He snorts. “You could say that.” Then he empties his glass with one big gulp.

You watch his throat work, follow it down to where his light blue shirt is undone one button too many. How often did you kiss his neck until he was complaining about your tickling breath? You stop yourself before you can think about it for too long. Nothing good can come from going down that particular path.

“It’s about these.” You pick up the envelope and open it. Your hands are steady after having practiced this moment over and over again. Now you’re supposed to say, “It’s only three signatures,” but he’s already holding out his hand, waiting for you to give him the papers.

It’s with a creased brow that he looks at them, eyes skimming from the header (“Divorce Agreement”) all the way down to the bottom where he has to place his first signature. You feel compelled to justify it, even after years of living apart and not being faithful to each other, but you hold your tongue. You owe him nothing, and he knows that.

Finally, he says, “And you’re sure about this?”

You laugh. “When was the last time we acted like husband and wife?”

“It’s not about that …,” he says slowly.

“I don’t care what this is about,” you snap, nerves frayed from the heat and the tension of the evening. “I’m not leaving until you sign these.” You rummage around in your bag, pull out a heavy, silver fountain pen, and hold it out to him.

He accepts it but doesn’t make any move to use it. “Beatriz tells me you live here now.”

You lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest. “I do,” you confirm.

“Do you like it?” Immediately after he’s said it, he pulls a grimace.

“You were never good at small talk.” There’s no malice in your voice, but you speak those words so softly you’re not sure he catches them. “No, I don’t,” you answer honestly. “I hate the heat and the tourists. But the money is good.”

He nods as if he knows exactly what you’re talking about. Then he places the pen and the papers on the low table between you. “Do you want another drink?”

You glance at your cocktail, the glass still almost full. “Javi, please –,” you start, but he stands abruptly.

“Be right back.”

You sigh, watching him head back to the bar. Months of trying to chase him down, months of your lawyer trying to get him on the phone … you should have known this wouldn’t be easy. But there is no reason for him to make this quite so hard.

“Tell you what,” he says as he lets himself fall back into his chair, another glass of whiskey in his hand, “tell me how you’ve been and I’ll sign those papers.”

“Don’t act as if you care.” The words are out before you can stop them, years of hurt erupting violently like a geyser.

His lips thin into a straight line. “I don’t care what you think of me, but I’ll always care about you.”

You know there is some truth in that, or at least you want there to be. Your eyes move back to the bar and land on the man who approached you earlier. He’s with a young woman now, the cleavage of her dress cut so low there isn’t much left to the imagination. Still, his eyes keep searching for yours, and a strange heat begins to simmer in the pit of your stomach. There was a time the man sitting opposite you desired you like that, and you miss that feeling like a former junkie misses the high.

“He just wants to fuck you,” Javi interrupts your thoughts, still the observant cop you’ve known him to be.

You hate the crude way he talks to you and you want to make him hurt. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

Javi smirks. But by the way he knits his fingers together you can tell you’ve landed a blow. “Don’t make me jealous.”

“Tell me, how many women have you been with since you walked out on me?” You’re surprised at your own question, steeling yourself for an answer you never wanted to hear.

“It wasn’t about that, and you know it.” For a split second, Javi’s eyes drop to where the thin straps of your dress rest against your shoulders.

You sigh. “I know. But it still hurt.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” Javi says quickly as if trying to get out words that are threatening to choke him. “It’s who I am though. You knew that when you married me.”

For the first time since he sat down, you allow yourself to smile at him in soft familiarity. “I did. It’s why I found you so attractive, too.”

Javi returns your smile. “So how have you been?”

You laugh then. “Is that how you get your suspects to make a confession? Rile them up, pretend to lower your walls, and then go in for the kill?”

Javi just sips on his whiskey, waiting for you to answer his question.

“I’m okay,” you say after brief consideration. “I got a promotion at work. And I’m not seeing anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“And how are you really?” Javi presses.

The smile vanishes from your face. “Lonely.”

He nods at the papers. “And you think that’ll change when I sign these?”

“The closure won’t hurt.”

“Neither will staying married if there isn’t anyone in the picture.”

You flex your hand in frustration. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Maybe I like hearing from you.” He empties his glass a second time. “Once I’ve signed these, you’ll be out of my life for good.”

“You’ll have to let me go eventually.” Your voice trembles slightly. “You can’t have your cake –”

“I know,” he interrupts you sharply. “But this,” a wave of his hand to encompass the two of you locked in your stand-off, “it reminds me of how good we were together.”

“We were,” you agree, “and I’d rather remember us that way than as the couple who dragged things out until they hated each other.”

“I could never hate you.” He says it quickly, and he doesn’t quite look at you.

You can’t make him that same promise in return. Right after he left, there was a time … hate might be too cruel of a word to describe what you felt then, but you cursed him every day for choosing his job over the perfect thing you two had. You would’ve gone anywhere in the world with him, just not straight to hell where all you could have done was sit at home and wait for that cautious knock at the door preceding the news that he had been killed. And he went anyway. You still can’t quite bring yourself to forgive him for that.

“You made your choice when you took that plane to Colombia.”

He looks at you, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on his brow, pupils blown wide by the darkness of the bar and the alcohol in his blood. “Come up to my room. Just for a little while. Just to talk.”

You shake your head. “Why do you think I asked you to meet here instead of at my apartment?” He shakes his head too, acting as if he has no idea how to answer that question. “Please, just sign the papers.”

“Why did you want to meet here?”

This man sitting opposite you used to be your husband. Legally speaking, he still is. And even though you haven’t seen him in years, you still feel that same old pull tugging you toward him. “I’m not setting foot in a room with a bed. And I don’t think I need to explain why.”

He laughs, something he so seldomly does. “We don’t need a bed for that.”

It’s loud now in the bar, and the ice in your cocktail has melted. What was supposed to be a quick meeting has eaten away your entire evening. You blink fast, and let your gaze wander across the bar. The man who approached you is gone.

“Come up to my room with me,” Javi tries again. “Just for one drink. Then I’ll sign your papers.”

He’s an asshole, and you have every reason to hate him, set your lawyer on him, but he knows you won’t do that. You know it too.

“One drink,” you say emphatically. “That’s it. And then I’m gone.”

He nods, his face serious. But there is a sparkle in his eyes as he stands, victorious. He straightens the papers and picks them up, hands you back your pen. You take it and stand too, straightening your dress.

“I should warn you though,” Javi says as he offers you his arm, “there’s a bed in my room.”

You shake your head, your shoulders tight with determination. No matter how charming he is, no matter how much he tries, you won’t let him in. It’s just one drink, and then you can finally put this marriage behind you.

Javi leads you to a large elevator that opens just as you approach it. An old couple steps out; he’s walking a few paces in front of her, not checking if she can keep up, while she hobbles after him, braced on a cane. At least you didn’t stay married to Javi long enough he started to resent you, you think as he crowds you into the elevator and presses the button for the third floor.

He's standing too close to you – you can feel his hot skin right next to your own naked arm, making your heart do a little dance in your chest. It’s funny how the body remembers, and how much it craves things that are decidedly a bad idea. Javi shifts, and moves closer still, his eyes firmly fixed on the closed elevator doors. You’re alone, there’s no need for him to put on this little show, but it still feels like you’re being claimed.

Javi’s room feels small compared to the grand entrance hall and the broad hallways of the hotel. He opens the door and lets you in first, but he doesn’t turn on the ceiling light once you’re alone with him. Instead, he walks over to a desk in front of the window and switches on a small lamp.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestures at the bed, neatly made by the hotel staff.

You think about pushing past him to sit in the upholstered chair that comes with the desk, but he lets himself sink into it, crossing one leg over the other. The bed it is, then.

While you try to find a comfortable position to sit in, one that lets Javi know you’re not here to play, he opens a small door in the desk, and the minibar hidden behind it. “Vodka or whiskey?” he asks.

“Vodka,” you answer without thinking about it.

He shoots you a surprised look but hands you a small bottle without questioning your choice.

You unscrew the bottle, the seal breaking with a satisfying sound. “What do you want to talk about?”

Javi places his bottle of whiskey on the desk. “Nothing, really. I’m just not done being in your company.”

You laugh and take a sip. It tastes cheap. “Well, we should talk about something.”

“Or we could just enjoy each other’s company.”

“You were never good at that,” you remind him. “Always answering calls, always jumping when your pager went off. There were times I thought you’d do anything just so you wouldn’t have to be in my company.”

“I did make it feel like that, didn’t I?”

You’re caught off-guard by this rare moment of reflection. “I’m enjoying this, you know. I don’t think we ever spent this much time together when we were married.”

“We still are,” Javi reminds you.

You take another sip of your tiny bottle. There isn’t much left now.

“Ah,” Javi makes, “but I haven’t even opened mine yet.”

It shouldn’t catch you by surprise, the way he reads you so well. “You keep changing the rules of the arrangement.” An hour ago, you would have crossed your arms over your chest and glared at him. Now it’s a soft smile that accompanies your words.

“One drink,” Javi replies, one finger raised in reprimand. “I just never clarified when I would have mine.”

You like this. You shouldn’t, but you do. “Alright,” you say. “I’ll allow it.”

Javi huffs in satisfaction and leans back in his chair. “I always liked it when you were like that.”

“Like what?”

“So confident.”

Your face heats up. Standing up for yourself (in front of others but in front of Javi too) – that used to lead to … interesting consequences. “What else did you like?” you ask, the vodka warming your blood.

Javi runs the knuckle of his index finger over his lips. “Better not ask something you know you’re not gonna like the answer to.”

Your heart skips a beat. “How do you mean?”

“Baby …” That name, so familiar, sounds like a plea coming from his lips.

You inhale sharply. “Tell me, Javi.”

He shakes his head, lowers his eyes to the floor. The light from the single lamp casts soft shadows across his face. Maybe you overstepped a line you didn’t know was there. Or maybe you should push him just a little bit further.

“Tell me, Javi,” you repeat.

He remains seated in his chair, the perfect image of composure, wound tighter than a coil. “I liked watching you,” he answers finally, eyes still downcast, “when you knew I wanted you.”

You stop breathing as the memories wash over you. You, wearing that pretty red dress, Javi’s pupils blown wide when he sees you. You, lying on the bed, naked, Javi standing at its foot, tearing off the well-pressed shirt he was in the middle of buttoning up. That one night you danced for him in that shabby motel room, your hips stiff, your arms always awkwardly in the way, but when he palmed himself through those tight jeans all the shame and embarrassment evaporated. You miss them, all those little moments. And you miss how Javi made you feel beautiful, worthy, desired. You miss that most of all.

You try to play it all off by taking that final sip of your bottle. “Yeah,” you agree, “I liked being wanted by you.” Your voice is steady. Right?

Javi finally raises his eyes to look at you. “Do you think you’d show me? How much you liked it?”

The air in the room is thick now, like it is right before one of those tropical storms you’re used to by now. Your tongue is heavy when you reply, “I could do that.”

Javi nods, as if you’ve just come to an understanding about who is going to pay for dinner. He reaches for his bottle of whiskey, opens it, empties it with one big drag. You watch his throat work as he swallows, think you see the flutter of a nervous heartbeat at the base of it. He runs his tongue over his lips, chasing the taste, before giving you the smallest of nods.

You kick off your sandals slowly, your heart thundering in your chest. The wooden floor of the hotel room is pleasantly cool beneath your feet when you place them there, chasing something solid. Because you feel like you’re floating, high on the way Javi’s arms flex as he balls his hands into tight fists. The air is so thick now you can barely breathe.

Your dress is long, a light cotton blend, and it feels soft between your fingers as you bunch up the fabric and pull it up toward your hips. Javi’s eyes shoot to your legs as more and more skin is exposed – calves, knees, thighs. It’s as if he’s seeing you for the very first time, and he clears his throat almost bashfully as a light giggle escapes you. Both these things do nothing to ease the tension.

You manage to take off your panties without the dress falling down your legs, and Javi’s eyes shoot to where you drop them to the floor. He licks his lips again, a sight to which your body responds with a throbbing sensation at the base of your spine. It’s impossible to stop your hand from shaking as you lightly touch your thigh; it’s impossible to deny how much it affects you when Javi shifts in his chair in eager anticipation either. You shift too, spreading your legs a little further, but leaving the fabric of your dress draped over your thighs as it is – there is no point in giving it all away at once.

You’re soaked. It catches you by surprise, more so than the familiar touch of your fingers, made unfamiliar by the way Javi is watching you, both fists pressed tightly against his thighs, as if he’s trying to control himself. Your mouth forms a surprised O, a gasp escaping from it, as the tip of your index finger brushes your clit and your hips jerk forward, desperate for more. Javi’s mouth falls open too, his chest heaves with deep pants, his eyes now glued to where your hand vanishes beneath the hem of your dress. You push yourself into your touch, your fingers drawing tight little circles over that swollen bundle of nerves, while you clench around nothing, desperate to be filled.

You didn’t expect your body would remember so well.

“I’m so wet,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

Javi groans in response and shifts in his chair, but his fists remain firmly planted against his thighs. That won’t do. You spread your legs even further and lean back on one elbow while moving your hand lower. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers, and it brings a smile to your face, one that makes Javi bite down on his bottom lip. Hard. Normally, you like to work yourself up to accommodate a bigger stretch, but tonight, two fingers glide into you with ease, and you moan at the sensation, nothing bashful about the way you throw back your head. You pump them out, then back in, once, twice, before you add a third finger, burying them three knuckles deep. Your entire body is shaking with arousal.

Your eyes land back on Javi, whose chest is heaving. “Guess how many fingers I have inside of me,” you challenge, your voice unsteady. You pull them out slowly, teasingly, the sensation making your head spin.

“Shit,” Javi groans, and now you notice the bulge straining against the fabric of his jeans. “Shit. I don’t know – two?”

“Three,” you correct him with a self-assured smile.

He breaks. One fist uncurls, and he palms himself, his hips jerking up into his touch. “Let me see her,” he rasps.

You’re not sure if you heard him correctly, but then he repeats the words with sharp command in his voice, that tone making you clench around your fingers. You fall back against the mattress and pull up your dress until it’s bunched against your stomach, leaving the bottom half of your body exposed. Javi’s chair creaks as if it’s about to break, but when you look at him, he has stopped touching himself. He has stopped breathing too as he takes in the sight before him, eyes impossibly dark.

You press the fingers of your free hand against your clit, and your hips jerk upwards, a movement that Javi’s hips mirror. What you can see of his chest is flushed in a deep, dark red, and the sight spurs you on. There is nothing gentle or teasing about the way you’re pumping your fingers into yourself now, nothing gentle or teasing about the way you’re rubbing your clit. Javi ruts his hips in desperate little circles, but you’re not sure he’s aware of it at all, too busy drinking in the sight of you sprawled on the bed, too far gone to care about what you’re doing. Everything tightens, and suddenly your toes are pressing down against the hard floor as you push your hips up into your hand, shoving your fingers impossibly deep. Your cunt clenches around them eagerly as you come with a deep, drawn-out moan of “Yesyesyes!”, eyes closed now, completely lost in the sensation of one of the best orgasms you’ve had in years.

When you open your eyes, Javi is kneeling in front of you, unbuttoning his shirt deliberately. Everything still feels soft and hazy, so you don’t protest as he gently takes your wrist and pulls out your fingers. “She’s just as beautiful as I remember,” he whispers, his breath tickling your thigh.

You try to push your dress down to cover yourself, but he only tightens his hold on your wrist. “No, no, no.” He’s determined, the pleading from earlier having long since disappeared from his voice. “Can I taste you?” he asks.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want him to, but because this is so much more than that single drink you agreed to. You should tell him no, make him finally sign those papers and leave this godforsaken room that now smells of sex. But your body is still thrumming with arousal, and the way he’s kneeling between your legs, dark eyes looking up at you, makes it impossible to refuse him anything.

You nod.

You expect him to approach this cautiously, but he delves in like a man starved. You hiss from the overstimulation, but he strokes your thigh soothingly, and you let him lick a broad stripe from your opening all the way up to your clit. Both your moans, and the sounds of his wet tongue against your wet cunt – it’s lewd. It turns you on so much the way you clench around nothing is actually painful.

Javi pulls away, teases your folds with a curious, probing finger. His dark mustache glistens in the dim light as he looks up at you. “My tongue still remembers the way you taste,” he admits, slinging one of your legs over his shoulder, his biceps flexing with the movement. “Especially with your cum all over you.”

“God, Javi,” you groan and, unable to keep looking at him, you let yourself fall back into the mattress.

He kisses your clit, licks it, sucks it in between his lips. You squirm, but he holds you down tightly with both hands, making it clear who’s in charge. You inhale deeply, but there is no way you can hold on for much longer. When he moves lower, licks at the wetness he finds there, has the audacity to moan as if he’s tasting heaven, you break.

“Please, fuck me, Javi,” you groan, arm slung across your eyes so you don’t have to look at him.

He chuckles, and you can feel the sound vibrate all the way into your core. “Didn’t you say you wouldn’t fuck me?” he asks before rolling his tongue over your clit.

It presses all the air from your lungs. You raise your hips so your clit bumps against his nose. “You’re very confident for a man who just got hard from watching his ex-wife touch herself.”

With a growl, he lets go of you and your eyes fly open, worried you offended him. Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of him unbuckling his belt with shaking fingers before throwing his wallet down on the bed next to you. You think you hear him murmur, “You’re still my wife,” as he pushes down his jeans, but you could be mistaken because you’re busy pulling your dress over your head. Then you’re both naked, the air between you crackling with unspoken challenges.

Javi grabs his wallet and pulls out a condom. “Turn around,” he growls, before tearing the wrapper open with his teeth.

You’re too transfixed by the way he’s rolling it onto his thick length, hanging heavy between his thighs.

“Turn around,” he repeats sharply.

You snap to attention and do as you’re told. Lying flat on your stomach, breathing in the smell of the hotel’s detergent, you await the inevitable. The mattress beneath you dips as Javi climbs onto the bed behind you, pulling your hips up toward him. Then there’s a finger inside of you, and you flutter around it, eager for more. It’s replaced not by his cock but by his tongue, and you grab the duvet, pushing back with a loud moan. He curls it inside of you while spreading your ass cheeks with both hands, and before long, you feel another orgasm approaching.

“Javi,” you warn.

He pulls out and runs his tongue upward to where he’s spreading you open. With a strangled moan, you press your face into the duvet and push against him, chasing the crest of the wave that’s building inside of you. But instead of giving you the release you so desperately crave, he pulls away.

“No man’s fucking you like me.” It isn’t territorial possessiveness. It’s not even a question. It’s just a simple statement.

He pushes down your hips, the force of being pressed into the mattress knocking the wind out of you. One hand he braces right next to your head, the other he uses to guide himself into you, spreading you open so much wider than your three fingers ever could. Then both his arms are caging you in, and the weight of his chest against your back holds you right in place where he wants you.

It's a deep groan and the way his hips stutter that pull you back from the edge. You kiss his hand, then his arm, eyes half closed as your body adjusts to him.

“No other pussy feels as good as yours,” he mumbles into the sudden quietness.

That confession hits you like a bullet right to the heart. “You need to forget about me.”

He swears, but you don’t quite catch the word. “I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried.”

You wish it were true. You need it to be true, actually. Because when Javi starts moving, you know you’ll never want another man in your life. He has ruined everyone else for you. And it doesn’t matter where he wants to live or what kind of criminals he wants to chase down – you’re prepared to follow him wherever he might go.

“Shhh,” he makes, and strokes your hair. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

You clear your throat and lift your hips slightly, his cock sliding in impossibly deeper. He grunts at the sensation.

“Wait,” he says, then pulls out and flips you over with ease.

It’s exactly like it was on your wedding night, when he fucked you just like this, telling you to keep your eyes on him. Now your eyes widen at the memory as he pushes back into you, chest pressed against hot chest. Then two of his fingers are resting against your lips and before he even tries to pry them open, your jaw goes slack. He pushes them inside and your eyes flutter close in utter bliss.

“Yeah,” he grunts, “I remember how much you like sucking on these while I fuck you.”

He starts to pump into you, as both your hands close around his wrist to keep his hand in place. His fingers lightly press against your tongue, rich with the salty taste of sweat and arousal, and you massage them, sloppy, wet, eager moans vibrating in your throat.

He’s fucking into you now, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing through the air around you. You’re dimly aware of slinging your legs around his hips to pull more of him into you, and of him kissing your neck, but you’re so fucked out of your mind you might be imagining these things. When he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, your eyes fly open in protest only to see him gaze at you as if you’re the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.

His tongue finds his way in between your parted lips, and then you’re returning the kiss, chasing the sensation of coming home. He must feel it too because his hips are moving faster, and the entire bed is shaking beneath you. You moan, sounds that start low in your throat and come out high and breathless. They make him shudder against you.

Javi breaks the kiss first. “I want you to come for me.”

You nod eagerly and push a hand between your bodies, brushing against his stomach. God, there is so much of him waiting to be rediscovered.

As soon as your fingers find your clit, you give him a clipped, “Javi,” as a warning. It feels like you’ve been right there on the edge for hours, and now that you’re about to break, you’re no longer in control of anything. He bites down on his lip in concentration and then in bliss as you wrap your free hand around his biceps and dig your nails into his skin.

He stills, and groans, and gives you another three desperate thrusts, pulling you over the edge with him. Your orgasm catches you by surprise, makes you cry out with the force of it, and he leans down to reclaim your mouth while he empties himself, engulfed by your hungrily clenching cunt.

*******

Soft morning light tickles you awake. You stretch your aching muscles, then breathe in deeply. The scent surrounding you is unfamiliar and yet familiar all the same. Then you remember.

Javi!

Your eyes fly open. He’s not lying in bed next to you or getting dressed, and you also don’t hear the shower running in the bathroom. Maybe he went out to get breakfast. Maybe he got called into work. All you know is that you were so tired you didn’t hear him leave.

You sit up and roll your stiff shoulders. Sometime during the night, Javi must have draped the blanket over you. The blanket that still smells of sex. Your face heats up.

The empty whiskey bottle is standing on the small desk, right where Javi left it. If he went out to get breakfast, you should clean the desk so you’ll have a place to eat. If he got called into work, you should still tidy up – you don’t want the hotel staff to gossip about him.

As you approach the desk, you notice the divorce papers spread out on top of it. It seems silly how you came here last night in an attempt to make him sign them. You make to push them into a pile when you spot it – a neat signature on a line right next to yours. “No,” you whisper, but there’s the second one, and the third.

Right there on the line where it says “husband”, his signature flashes up at you: Javier Peña.

If you enjoyed the fic, I’d love to hear from you 🥰 feel free to leave a comment or drop into my inbox anytime …

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[sosa2imagines]

An Alley of Passion

Warning- Smut, Steve Rogers is a warning, sex in an alley, little bit of tearing of clothes, dominance.

Disclaimer- This is my submission for @mercurial-chuckles writing challenge, "Smutty September Fest" I hope everyone who reads likes it.

The plan was simple, enter the sophisticated nightclub, head to the back room, and collect the data.

But things rarely ever went according to plan. As soon as you and Steve entered the main floor of the club, the two of you were spotted by some goons.

You wore the expensive black halter dress, courtesy of Tony’s money. It was tight against your body, fitting perfectly against every dip and curve.

Steve, your partner on this mission, looked absolutely stunning in a tight black shirt and black pants. It hugged his body in all the right places and made his blue eyes stand out even more.

Despite the odds being against the two of you, you and Steve managed to fight off the goons and retrieved the data you came here for. However, just as you breathed a sigh of relief, more goons arrived, this time armed with deadly weapons, leaving you both cornered.

Steve grabs your hand and runs towards the exit. With the goons high on chase, Steve takes a turn towards an alley assuming it's empty.

However the two of you found yourselves in a surprising situation as you looked around. Instead of the empty, dark alley you'd expected, it was filled with couples. Some were engaged in deep conversation, others were whispering sweet nothings, and yet others were passionately making out.

Steve and you knew that the best way to avoid suspicion would be to blend in.

Steve leaned over and whispered against your ear, “Do you trust me?” You could hear the edge in his voice, the hint of urgency in his words. You nodded, looking into his eyes and hoping he had a plan to get you both out of this sticky situation.

In a swift and unexpected move, Steve pushed you against the wall. His body was so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. He then turned, placing his back facing the goons, effectively shielding you with his body, his hand slipping around your waist.

Steve's grip on your waist was firm, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own. The steady rise and fall of his chest provided a sense of stability amidst the chaos.

Despite the dire situation, the sensation of being held so closely by him was electrifying, both comforting and thrilling at the same time as your heart pounded in your chest.

Time seemed to stretch out impossibly thin as the two of you stood there in silence. You could hear the goons continue their search nearby, their footsteps echoing through the alley, each sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through your system, making your heart rate quicken.

All the while, Steve stood close, his body acting as both a shield and a safety net, providing a sense of security in the midst of chaos.

As the silence continued, you swallowed, attempting to moisten your suddenly dry throat. The close intimacy of your shared space, with your body firmly against Steve's, added a new layer of intensity to the danger that surrounded you.

Every part of your being felt more alive than ever before, and as he shifted and tightened his grip on you, you felt a flutter deep within your stomach, a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

Steve could feel the tension radiating from your body as you leaned slightly into him. He drew in a steady breath, attempting to calm himself. His own heart was beating erratically, and the realization of this took him by surprise.

It wasn't just the adrenaline from the situation that heightened his awareness, the proximity of your body to his had added a new layer of complexity. The protectiveness he was feeling towards you was no longer just professional; it had become deeply personal.

With the goons closing in, checking the couples around them, Steve knew he had to act fast. In a split second, his instincts kicked in, and he acted on impulse, pulling you closer and kissing you.

The action was abrupt, unexpected, but undeniably necessary to sell their cover. He could feel the soft surprise of your lips against his, the taste of your gasp, and the heat that suddenly emanated from your body.

The moment his lips met yours, a rush of heat and electricity surged through your body. Despite the shock of his impulsiveness, you found yourself responding, your body instinctively leaning into the kiss. The world around you faded as the warmth of his mouth against your own washed over you, making your head swim for a brief moment.

As Steve's lips pressed against yours, his body trapping you against the cold, rough wall, the action held a multitude of meanings. On one hand, it was a desperate measure to keep their cover, to blend in with the other couples in the alleyway. But on a more primal, subconscious level, it was also a release of the built-up tension he hadn't even been aware he'd been carrying until that very instant.

The battle between Steve's mind and body was palpable. His body responded in a way that he hadn't anticipated, his mind striving to catch up and make sense of the situation.

The kiss deepened, and he pressed you closer against the wall. While on some level, he knew it was a necessary part of the act to maintain the ruse, the way your body fitted against his, the taste and feel of you, felt intensely real, igniting a sense of awareness that he couldn't deny.

The goons finally moved on, leaving the narrow alley once again secluded. Steve slowly broke the kiss, his breath ragged and his voice a low rumble against your ear as he spoke. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” The words were tinged with a hint of frustration and pent-up desire, suggesting that he was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension in his taut muscles as he slowly backed up, allowing some space between the two of you. His gaze was intense, filled with a mix of protectiveness and frustration, his eyes burning into yours.

You mustered the courage to speak up, meeting his gaze with a hint of daring. “I don't regret it…” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

A flicker of surprise flickered across Steve's face, replaced quickly with a look of desire that sent your heart racing. “Good.” he murmured in response. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you once again, claiming your lips in another heated kiss.

The kiss was hungry, filled with a raw need that caught you off guard. Steve's hands came up to cup your face, angling it to deepen the kiss, his tongue seeking entry into your mouth. You responded willingly, your bodies pressing closely together, both seeking and taking what the other offered.

The world faded away, the only point of focus being the heady sensation of Steve's mouth on yours. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, craving the contact. The kiss was primal, filled with an untamed passion that left you both momentarily breathless.

Steve's voice was a low, commanding growl, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “I. need. you. Now!” he emphasized, his words filled with an possessive intensity that sent heat pooling in your stomach. The need in his voice was undeniable, a demand that was impossible to resist.

You turned around, with your back pressed against his chest. Steve's hands roamed you body, as they slowly guided up your chest.

His palms perfectly cupped your breasts, feeling their weight, he kneaded them. An obscene moan escaped his lips.

Steve's hands were everywhere as he turns you around, rough and impatient, he began to tear the fabric of your dress, creating a perfect slit down the center. The sound of the material giving way was loud in the silence of the alley.

Steve's gaze roamed over the torn dress, a lopsided smirk playing on his lips. “Much better,” he declared, his voice roughened with desire. “I'll buy you a new one.”

You could only shake your head in response, your mind too wrapped up in the haze of desire to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak.

In one swift motion, Steve's hands moved to your hips, lifting you up and bringing you against his body, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The action left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, heightening the sensation of his hard muscles pressed against your curves.

Steve's mouth claimed yours again, his kiss deep and urgent, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate dance of lust and need. His body moved against yours, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire within you. Your hips rocked slightly against his, seeking more of that delicious friction.

Steve's hands moved from your hips to your thighs, his fingers gripping the delicate material of your flimsy underwear. Your breath hitched in your throat as he began to tear the fabric in a one swift, possessive motion.

The thought of how much your torn panties had cost flickered through your mind, but as soon as Steve's teeth found your neck, at the sensitive spot that sent waves of pleasure through your body, any concern about the ruined garment vanished.

Your sharp intake of breath was both involuntary and a clear indication that you were entirely focused on the sensations Steve was stirring within you.

His teeth nipped at the skin softly before his tongue soothed the sting, his lips trailing down to your collarbone and sucking gently. You arched into his touch, silently begging for more, your body responding fiercely to his kisses and bites.

Steve's command, delivered in a low, urgent tone broke the silence between you. “Undo my pants, doll, set me free!” he ordered, his voice filled with a raw desire that sent shivers down your spine. Your hands trembled slightly as your fingers worked to undo his pants, your obedience a testament to the power he held over you in that moment.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the restraint he was exercising to keep himself in check. Finally, his pants fell open, giving you access to what you both craved. You could feel the heat of his hardness against your core.

A soft whimper escaped your lips, your body reacting instinctively to the contact. Steve's hips moved against yours, his hard length pressing against your sensitive pussy, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through your body. His mouth claimed yours again, his kiss now more desperate, urgent, mirroring the fire that was burning between the two of you.

Steve dipped his fingers inside you, to see if you are ready for him, before putting them in his mouth, making a show of sucking them making an obscene sound that made you crave him more.

“Steve please…” You moan, gently rolling your hips against him, the anticipation almost driving you over the edge. He pauses as his eyes move over you, drinking in the sight of you, his breathing is heavy. “You're so beautiful...” he says, sliding a hand up your thigh to your hip.

Steve kisses you deeply as he pushes into you, your pussy takes all of him in. His thick length stretches your walls.

“Yes...” escaped your lips, the word a mix of pleasure and relief.

His breath catches in his throat, at the feel of you wrapped around him. His hips soon found a suitable pace, as he starts to move against you slowly. “So tight and perfect...”

You cling to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, only the primal need to claim you entirely. Each thrust was a testament to his desire, a reminder of the pent up tension between the two of you.

Your bodies moved together in desperate harmony, desperate need driving each movement. The sound of skin against skin, the harsh pants and moans filling the air, created an intimate symphony that was a reflection of the intense connection.

Steve speeds up, making your breath hitch. He presses deeper and your nails slightly dig into his shoulders. “Steve...” you moan his name, as he hits deep in your cunt, making all your thoughts scatter.

“Look at me, doll,” Steve's command was punctuated with a powerful thrust, the words spoken between grunts and pants. He wanted your eyes on him, needed to see your reaction as he claimed you, his gaze burning into yours.

Each movement was a testament to his dominant presence, his desire to take control and possess you entirely. With each breath, the air grew hotter between the two of you, the connection both physical and emotional.

His grip on your hips tightened, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and tenderness. In this moment, you were entirely his, your body responding to his every touch, your desire matching his own. The world outside faded away.

He watched intently, his gaze fixated on every flicker of pleasure that flitted across your face, his name becoming a mantra on your lips, a silent testament to the power he held over you.

He increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent and desperate. He was losing himself in the feel of you, the way your body responded to his touch, the sounds of pleasure that escaped your lips.

His mouth found yours, his lips hungry and demanding. He kissed you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours in a frenzy of passion.

As he hit a spot deep inside you that made you cry out in pleasure. He smiled against your lips, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

He continued to move, his movements becoming faster and more frantic. He was lost in the sensations, consumed by the feel of you and the sound of your moans in his ears.

His movements were growing more erratic as his own desire threatened to overtake him. He could feel himself getting closer to the edge, but he forced himself to hold back, wanting to make you come first.

“Just let go, doll…” he whispers in your ear, his hips moving faster, his lips against yours. The words push you over the edge and you cry out his name, against his lips, as waves of pleasure wash over you.

You moaned into the kiss, as you came hard, Steve followed suit as he spent himself inside you. Filling you up to the brim. Catching his breath, he buried his face in your neck.

Steve gently set you down, his hands supporting your shaking legs until you were steady on your feet. Despite the intensity of the moment, his touch was tender, a stark contrast to the fierce need that had consumed him moments before.

As you stood there, trying to get your bearings, Steve smirked, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Can you walk, doll?” He asked, his tone light but filled with a smug satisfaction.

“I...I think you were a little too rough...” you retorted, a playful pout on your lips as you tested your legs, finding them shaky and unreliable.

As you took a few tentative steps, you found your legs still weak and unstable. Before you could even react, Steve scooped you up in his arms with an ease that made your heart skip a beat.

“I know you can walk,” he said, his tone amused but affectionate. “But I'm not done with you yet, doll, and I want you to save your energy.”

You couldn't help but gasp as you saw the look in Steve's eyes. The intensity in his gaze, the fire that burned within him told you that this night had only just begun. A mix of anticipation and trepidation filled your heart, knowing that the night would be long and passionate.

Also dedicated to @rogerbarnesss @buckysdoll85 @caplanbuckybarnes

[izzih22]

Epilogue: Ours, Out Loud

Note: the final chapter of this series. Enjoy!!

The first time they told someone, it wasn’t planned.

It had been a bit since Paige left Virginia, and in that time, the two had gotten used to the rhythm of loving each other from afar. FaceTime calls that lasted until the sun rose. Stolen photos sent mid-practice with hearts drawn sloppily over their faces. Handwritten notes slipped into care packages—Azzi’s soft curls drawn in blue ink by Paige with the caption “My favorite painting.”

They were happy. Still private. Still theirs.

But when Azzi’s mom, Katie, came into Azzis room on a Friday night and Azzi layed in bed with her head tucked under Paige’s hoodie—Paige’s hoodie she was very obviously wearing again—it only took about three seconds for Katie to squint knowingly.

“You’ve been wearing that hoodie for days,” Katie said casually, sipping from a mug. “Is that your girlfriend’s or something?”

Azzi choked. Paige, visible one FaceTime, froze like a deer in headlights.

Katie blinked. “Wait—what.”

Azzi looked at Paige, then back at her mom. Her heart pounded.

Paige leaned over in screen and said gently, “Hi, Mrs. Fudd.”

Katie blinked again, then slowly broke into the warmest, smuggest smile Azzi had ever seen on her.

“Oh,” Katie said, setting her mug down. “So it is my daughter’s girlfriend’s hoodie.”

“Mooooom,” Azzi groaned, burying her face into Paige’s side.

“You didn’t tell me!” Katie laughed. “I’ve known for years you two were orbiting each other like little lovesick planets. I thought I was going to have to wait until your wedding to get the confirmation.”

“We… weren’t ready yet,” Paige said quietly, arm wrapping protectively around Azzi.

Katie’s teasing softened into something gentler. “I get that. Really. But I’m so happy for you both.”

Azzi peeked at her mom, cheeks flushed. “You’re not mad we didn’t say anything?”

“Mad? Sweetheart, I’ve been praying for this since… well forever,” Katie grinned. “Just promise me you’ll be kind to each other. Protect what you have.”

Paige smiled staring at Azzi and without thinking. “I already do.”

⸻

Telling Tim, John, and Jose was next. It came in the form of a chaotic game night. Paige and Azzi had joined as a team—playing Spades like they were trying to qualify for the Olympics—and when Paige casually dropped a “babe, your turn” mid-play, all three of Azzi’s family members stopped talking.

John blinked. “Wait, babe?”

Jose pointed. “Yo. Did Paige just—did you just say—”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Am I going to need to give a speech, or is this the part where I say I’m proud?”

Azzi laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Paige smirked, unapologetic.

“We’re dating,” she confirmed, hand resting possessively over Azzi’s knee.

There was a pause. Then:

John: “Knew it.”

Jose: “Finally!”

Tim: “Took you long enough.”

Paige glanced sideways at Azzi, her smirk shifting into something tender. “Worth the wait.”

Azzi leaned her head on Paige’s shoulder and whispered, “Definitely.”

⸻

By the time they told Paige’s family, it was nearly summer. Paige flew home again, and Azzi joined a few days later—invited under the pretense of just “hanging out before training camps.”

Her mom had packed snacks for the flight. Paige had sent her a picture of her freshly cleaned room with the caption “Your throne awaits.”

They didn’t hide it anymore.

Azzi held Paige’s hand in the airport.

Paige carried her bags.

They shared a quiet kiss outside the terminal while waiting for Paige’s brother to pull up, and Paige didn’t care who saw.

The Bueckers’ home had always felt like a second one to Azzi—but this time, everything felt different. This time, she was more than Paige’s best friend. She was hers.

Paige’s mom, Amy, wrapped Azzi in a hug the second she stepped through the front door.

“I figured it out awhile ago,” she said softly against Azzi’s shoulder. “I just waited for you two to figure it out yourselves.”

Azzi laughed, teary-eyed. “We’re slow, huh?”

Amy smiled knowingly. “The best love stories take time.”

⸻

Late one night, curled up on Paige’s couch with a movie playing and no one else awake, Azzi rested her head on Paige’s chest and traced invisible shapes over her stomach.

“We still haven’t told our teams,” she whispered.

Paige’s fingers played with the ends of her curls. “I’m not rushing that. We’ll know when.”

“I kind of like it like this,” Azzi admitted. “Quiet. Just us. No noise.”

Paige kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

Azzi sat up slightly, propping her chin on Paige’s shoulder. “But when we do tell them, can we just… show up holding hands and let it click?”

Paige grinned. “Classic.”

“Dramatic.”

“My style,” Paige teased, stealing a kiss.

Azzi melted into it, soft and sweet, fingers gripping Paige’s shirt.

Their world was still theirs. Still quiet. Still sacred.

But now, it was also expanding.

⸻

The first time they called each other “girlfriend” out loud, it happened like this:

Azzi was on FaceTime, giggling at something Paige said while standing in the middle of a hotel hallway during a team trip. One of her teammates called out, “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

Azzi, without thinking, answered, “My girlfriend.”

There was a pause on the line. Then a chorus of whoops behind her.

Paige heard it and grinned into her pillow. “Smooth.”

Azzi looked proud. “About time I said it out loud.”

Paige smiled, heart full. “Say it again.”

“My girlfriend,” Azzi repeated, slower this time, letting it roll off her tongue like it belonged there.

And it did.

⸻

In the fall, when they returned to their teams, the long-distance routine became real again—but different now.

There were weekend visits and handwritten letters. A Spotify playlist that only grew longer. Pictures of workouts captioned “don’t forget who your favorite point guard is.”

They didn’t tell everyone, but they didn’t hide.

Paige would kiss Azzi’s cheek before boarding a flight. Azzi would wait by the gate to watch her disappear.

They had something real. Something rooted in years of friendship, loyalty, love.

And now they had each other, fully and openly.

No more waiting.

No more almosts.

Just Paige and Azzi. Together.

⸻

One Year Later

Their first anniversary was quiet.

They were at a small cabin near the lake where they used to train in the summer, completely off the grid for the weekend. No social media. No cameras. Just them.

Paige brought a photo album she’d been secretly building all year. Azzi brought a necklace with both of their initials carved into the back.

They sat by the fireplace, curled up under a blanket, music low, hearts full.

“You’re it for me,” Azzi whispered, forehead pressed to Paige’s.

“You always were,” Paige replied, voice soft, hands holding hers. “Even before we knew.”

And then they kissed, slow and deep, wrapped in a love that had taken years to grow but was now entirely theirs.

Their love wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And it was finally, finally theirs to share—with the world, with their families, with each other.

No more hiding.

No more waiting.

Just Paige and Azzi.

[binniesbooks]

• YOU DON'T WANT HIM TO KNOW, DO YOU?

SB 000 .F23 2024

wc 4k

pairings brother'sbestfriend!Soobin x fem!reader

warnings lot of curses, mouth to mouth passing of liquid, making out, oral sex, slight somno, degradation, protected sex, pet names, dom!soobin (idk what else did I miss)

faye's note I saw Soobin's ig post last night and the cogs and wheels of my brain started working lmao. But I wasn't able to post it immediately because of power interruption, it sucks. Tsk. Anyway, hope you enjoy this! Oh, btw, fuck Tumblr for messing it up again agh!

You had known Soobin for years now. He was your brother's best friend, the kind of guy who was always around, cracking jokes and lending a hand in whatever task you were working on. Soobin has been the most gentle person you've ever met, or so you thought.

But lately, things have shifted. You found yourself drawn to him in a way that was more than just friendship, a stirring attraction that you couldn’t seem to shake. Soobin is not that dumb to not know and knew how to connect the dots.

From the way you welcomed him even if his best friend was not around, the way you gave him water or food, the gazes he could feel you were throwing at him even if his back was turned to you, the lingering touches you were giving with simple grazes of fingers, the way you changed your hairstyle to a high ponytail, the way you kept on using thin clothes whenever he was around and the way you join them whenever they are playing because you never did these things before.

On your brother's birthday, the three of you had been hanging out in your brother's house. Laughter echoed through the rooms, and the smell of barbecue wafted from the backyard where your brother was busy grilling. The moment felt all too ordinary, yet sparkles of tension crackled between Soobin and you when you found yourselves alone in the living room, the rest of the world felt like it was fading away.

The air thickened with unspoken words as you sat close, the TV flickering in front of you. Soobin was just as aware of the shift, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, his usual carefree demeanor replaced with something more serious.

Your heart raced as your knees brushed against each other, a simple contact that sent electricity coursing through you.“Do you think he’ll be done soon?” you asked, trying to lighten the moment as you rocked yourself back and forth, but your voice trembled slightly.“Who, your brother? He loves taking his time,” Soobin replied with a smirk, but his gaze lingered on your lips for a moment too long.

"I'm done grilling, let's start drinking!" your brother announced as he marched with the container of barbeque in his hand.

The night passed with your brother's blabbering and boasting about things, like how he managed to raise you alone even when it's just the two of you, how he takes care of you and he doesn't want you to be taken by a man who didn't treat you with respect. You throw a few more glances at Soobin who's just sitting across you, and you can tell he's staring at you as well with the simple grins he shows whenever your eyes meet.

Your brother is most likely the kind of guy who can't handle his liquor, Soobin does handle his oddly fine, enough to stay conscious and aware of his surroundings. Aside from the bit of redness on his cheek and ears, you couldn't tell he was tipsy.

"He's out." You muttered as you stared at your brother snoring with his cheek pressed on the table, causing Soobin to snort as he poured the remaining alcohol into his glass. It's almost two in the morning.

"Can you carry him to the couch? I'll grab his blanket and pillows," you said dusting your shorts from anything you have sat on. Soobin just simply nodded.

"Stop staring, you'll end up making a cave in my head." You can feel how he's watching you behind your back as you are tucking your brother to sleep. Giving him pillows for him to sleep comfortably at least.

"Y/n," Soobin called the moment you're done. You replied with a simple "Hmm?" as you started to pick up the bottles, glasses, and plates cluttered around the table.

You turned your head to him when you did not hear him answer. He's sitting on one of the couches across the one you're brother was sleeping on, your eyes meet, the ends of his lips curving up.

"Have you tried drinking?" he asked, swirling the liquor in the glass he was holding. "I haven't. I wanna try though, I'm already beyond my legal age. But this asshole brother of mine does not want me to do so." You pouted as you jokingly raised the bottle you were holding to hit your sleeping brother.

"Your brother does seem to care for you so much." He grins once again, sipping on the alcohol.

"Why, of course. I'm his only family." You say as you sit at the armrest of the couch where your brother sleeps.

"Say, have you broken any of his rules?" he asked, running his hand through his hair. You nodded, causing his plump lips to stretch a bit.

You looked at your sleeping brother, "He used to tell me not to go out at night, but well, sometimes I sneak out, to be with my friends." You chuckled as you bit your lip. "Please don't tell him." You looked back at Soobin again. "Anything else?" He tilted his head to the side, still staring at you. "I...I was told not to be too close or friendly to other guys. He also told me not to like any of his friends because they're total assholes." Your voice slowly becomes faint as you fidget with your fingers.

The clink of glass he picked up on the table made you realize you were straight-out confessing, to one of his friends. You snapped back to him, "I-i mean..." You were out of words as you stared at his mused expression. Scared that he might tell your brother. You're screwed.

"Come here," he motions you to come in front of him. "You don't want me to tell this to him, is that right?" You nodded, embarrassed at what you've said and done. "Only if you do me one thing." He leaned back to the couch he was sitting on, his hand once again running through his hair. "That is...?"

"That is if you break one more damn rule of your brother. For me." He smiled at you, purposely pausing, emphasizing the last two words."I... I'll do it." He feels you're desperate as he watches you ball your fist while he can hear your thumping heart in the dead of night.

"Sit here." He tapped the space beside him as he picked up his glass of alcohol once again, his face painted with pure amusement. Just like being bewitched, you obeyed, sitting beside him.

He places his hand on the space behind you, "Pft, you're so tensed," he snickers. "One more rule, yeah?" He inquired, bringing his face closer to yours. "One..one more. Just one only..." You confirmed voice barely above a whisper.

He sipped on his glass as he held and tilted your face towards his. You breathed, gripping the couch to steady yourself. In an uncharacteristically bold move, Soobin closed the gap between you. You were too stunned to push him away. Hell, you liked it too much you couldn't push him away. He brushed his thumb on your lower lips before pressing his lips on yours, slowly letting the liquid flow out from his mouth to yours. That was it—the final push you needed. Maybe it was the fear you felt that he might tell your brother about your secrets or him being the reason you're breaking the rule, but at that moment, you wanted to break every unspoken rule. You parted your lips, you loved the taste, either his lips or the liquor, you don't know anymore. You place your hand on his chest ultimately clutching on his button-up shirt. His lips danced skillfully on yours, the liquid escaping, dripping to your chin.

He pulled away for a bit to look at you. Only to see you drooling as you look up at him with your hands tightly clutched on his button-up. "More... Please." his smile widened at you begging. "Greedy little girl, aren't you?" You lean unto his hand that is gently caressing your cheek. "Please.." you begged once more. He chugged the remaining liquor in his glass as he held your nape, crashing his lips on yours a little bit harder than last time, his other hand flew up your neck, feeling how you slowly gulped on the liquor mixed with his spit, he gently squeezed your neck, emitting a soft gasp from you as you sightly opened your mouth. He wasted no time shoving his tongue into your throat, practically making the dirtiest and nastiest kiss you've ever experienced.

You rubbed your thighs when he gently pulled at your hair, he's rough yet gentle. He's aggressive but careful. How ironic. You know this is wrong. You're kissing-- no you are making out with one of your brother's best friends, who was sleeping in front of you.

"You like this, don't you?" He taunted as he pulled your hair once more. It takes everything in you to not scream out in pleasure. His lips captured yours once more in a fervent kiss that ignited a wildfire within you. You melted into him, the taste of anticipation on your tongue, the weight of what you were doing fueling the heat of the moment. The kiss deepened, and you felt yourself surrender to what was happening. You pressed your body closer to his, your connection growing more urgent. It was reckless, forbidden—everything that made your heart race. You knew the stakes: if your brother found out, you're done. Yet, that thrill, that desire to break one of your brother's rules, is pulling you closer to Soobin.

He pulled you by your hair once again, a string of saliva hanging on both of your lips, you're panting as you snap your head towards your brother. Thankfully, he's still sound asleep. You looked back at Soobin, plump lips red from the pressure and heat of the kiss. He licked his lips, "Such a good girl for me," he chuckled, his hand still on your nape. "Now, come here, we're not done yet." He stood up and grabbed you by your wrist marching towards your bedroom, turning off the light in the living room in the process. Hearts pounding, adrenaline coursing through your veins as he locked the door behind.

The moment you two stepped inside your room, your mind immediately processed what would happen. You are in your room with a boy, Soobin. Your brother's best friend. Whom you recently grew interested in. You even made out in the living room with him. He even made sure your door was locked. What makes you think this won't reach the most intimate part? There’s no doubt about it—something significant was bound to happen. Why wouldn't it? Soobin is experienced. You've heard him and your brother talk about it multiple times. How they shared the same girl, how he ended up with a one-night stand with the girl from the bar, how he made his enemy's girlfriend sneak out with him, and many more nasty things they've done.

"Climb up the bed, pumpkin." He's ordering you around again, yet you are following him without restraint. He unbuttoned his shirt as he was staring down at you sitting tensely on the bed, with your hands in between your folded thighs. You were staring up at him, eyes blown, maybe you just can't handle the shots of liquor, or maybe you're eyes were just filled with lust. He scoffed, running his hand through his hair for the nth time today. He climbed up the bed, the black piece of cloth he was wearing long discarded.

With his back pressed on the headboard, he motioned you to move closer to him. "C'mere pumpkin. I won't tell, any of your little secrets to your brother~" his voice clearly mocking you with a sing-song tone. "Can't afford to let you get screwed, anyway." You were sitting between his legs. You can't decline to anything he wants. Aside from you being scared of your brother, deep inside you, you also wanted this. You also want to break the rules just to be with Soobin.

Your eyes ran through his long legs, his dress pants comfortably hugging the lean muscles of his legs. "Your hands are pretty, you're actually creative," he was probably referring to the artworks you've been doing, "I wonder what else these pretty hands can do." He unzipped his pants as he grabbed one of your hands, placing it on his aching bulge. He rubbed himself with your hand, humming at the sensation. His other hand flew to your lips, rubbing your lower lip as he stared at your eyes filled with need. "Soft lips that give tender and sloppy kiss," he muttered, "What else can you kiss better, pumpkin, hm?" He pressed his thumb on your lip.

You scoot closer, moving your hand on its own accord as he lets go of your hand, eyes still looking at him with unfulfilled pleasure. He pushed your head down towards his bulge, "Why not try going down on me, let's see what you can do." You carefully stroke him once more within the confinement of his boxers. "Fuck. Your hands are quite good." He moaned as he gripped your wrist. You pulled his boxers to expose his girthy length. You're not bewitched, you want him. He stroke his exposed cock as he pushed you down a little bit more, making you almost kiss the base of his cock.

Your tongue prodded out, licking the base of his cock as both of your hands were holding to his legs to keep yourself steady. "Shit!" His cock pulsated as he flinched, he was unprepared. He chuckled at your quirks. "Start. Your secrets depend here." He taunted.

Your dainty fingers wrapped around his cock got him reeling. You licked the tip of his cock, it's red and it feels burning. You slowly took him in your mouth as he puffed out muffled moans and grunts. He crossed his arms behind his head, " Wondering how your brother will react if he finds out that this precious little sister of his is doing something very very naughty behind his back." You took him whole in your mouth, gag reflex kicking in. "Fuck angel, you'll be the death of me." He huffed as he tightly closed his eyes. He's restraining himself to hold you, keeping his arms behind his head.

You continuously bobbed your head with your tongue occasionally wrapping around his cock. "You're quite skilled. Have you ever done this? You don't look and act innocent at all." His grin grew wider at the thought. You pulled away, shaking your head.

"N-never... But I f-fantasize over you." You admitted. The smug look on his face becomes heavier as he lets out a mocking laugh. "Look at you acting innocent and all. Yet you have a dirty little mind." The shit-eating grin on his face looks devilish. "My little slut." You tweaked at his words. Embarrassed at where you have put yourself into. "Now don't be shy and show me who you really are, kitten." The pet names he's been calling you, you can't react to it other than getting wet. You wanted to be degraded by him. You've wanted this for so long.

You continued giving him head, " shit, you are so dirty," his light laughs makes your heart flutter, and his degrading words make your pussy clench. He started thrusting carefully in your mouth when you started moaning, the vibrations giving him extra sensation. He holds your head to stay still as he started fucking your mouth, you could tell he does not care about hurting you but his thrust was controlled, holding you as if you'll break easily, just letting the tip of his cock kiss your precious throat. "Delicious. Fucking. Mouth." He grunts at every thrust. He stilled, your mouth overflowing with his white sticky cum.

He gently pulled you on his lap, "Did you just swallow it?" He asked, his stares at you were intense. You simply nodded "I did, am I good?" You were seeking validation amidst the forbidden thing you two have done. A playful smile shined on his face, "More than good, angel." He gently lays you on his chest, and you could feel his heart thumping as if it were about to burst out of his chest.

"Rest for a while, I'll wake you up before I leave." He said as his long fingers combed your smooth hair, he hugged you tight, pulling your blanket to cover the both of you.

He was in awe, how can you possibly sleep when it's still dangerous around you? He lays you on your bed, registering in his mind how you look. His hand travels around your body, lightly squeezing your neck as you gasp in your sleep. He pushed your shirt above your chest, scoffing at the sight, did you purposely not wear a bra the whole night he was here? He lightly pinches your nipple, rolling his fingers on it, making you squirm. His eyes traveled from your chest to your waist as he hovered above you.

His warm hands enveloped your tiny waist, smiling at how it first perfectly on his huge hand. His hands moved down, gently tugging your shorts off you. "What a little mess we have here." He mumbled, staring at how your panties stuck at your cunt. The baby blue piece of cloth was drenched with your slick. He moves it sideways, prodding his middle finger in your wet pussy. He touched you achingly slow, causing his cock to twitch inside his pants.

His hot tongue finally comes in contact with your cunt. He knows that you'll wake up anytime. "Wake up, pumpkin," he mumbles while lapping on your pussy. You grunt and squirm, feeling the uncomfortably extra wetness in your cunt. Your eyes fluttered open at Soobin eating you out. Your hands immediately clutched your mouth to refrain from being noisy. His tall nose kept on touching your clit, making it more sensitive. You clutched his blond locks, pulling him closer to your cunt as you chase your high.

"I-i'm gonna cum," you whispered, voice muffled as you were almost biting your hand. His two fingers entered you freely, pressing inside, finding your sweet spot. "Let me have a taste of you, kitten," he kept on lapping and pushing his fingers in and out of you, making you shudder and grip his hair tighter as you came on his tongue. Soobin gently sucked on your clit emitting soft whimpers from you.

He hovers above you once again, his veiny hands propped on both sides, his chest rising and falling, toned abs clenching. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, bringing out a condom packet. He wraps his cock in one swift motion, as he prepares at your entrance. He penetrates slowly, grunting at how tight you feel on him, he covers your mouth, "Don't you make a noise-fuck, I'm warning you pumpkin." He stilled inside as you gasped for air, "Stay still, I won't move for a while," he muttered as he kissed your forehead.

The once dark and dead night is almost gone. The bluish color of the sky makes the surroundings a little bit easier to see. You two came to your senses when you heard a knock, then the rattling sound of the door knob. "Fuck!" You shout-whispered, pushing Soobin off of you. He pulled out, both of you immediately wincing at the pain.

"Y/n?" Your brother called you, you panicked as you stood against the door instead of lying down on your bed. "What the hell are you doing there?" Soobin's furrowed as he whispered enough for you to hear.

"Have you seen Soobin?" Your brother asked, you were about to answer when Soobin pinned you on the door.

"Hey, is everything fine? I heard a noise." The rattling sound of your doorknob can be heard once again.

You faked a yawn, "I-i'm good! I just fell from bed! Ouch!" You made your voice as sleepy and hurt as possible but ends up shaky. "You sure? Should I come in?" He asked. "No! No need! I'm fine! I'm good!" You panicked.

"W-what were you asking again?"

"I said if you saw Soobin? Or did he talk to you before leaving or something?"

You gasped when you felt something penetrate you once again.

"Fucking tight, pumpkin." Soobin was gripping your waist, penetrating you from behind. He covered your mouth.

"Y/n?" Your brother knocks again.

Your legs were wobbly, about to give up. "Answer him. But be careful, you don't want him to know, do you?" The grin of mockery is once again plastered on his face. He started thrusting in you. "Shit, what a dirty doll. Likes being taken from the back." He pinned you more on the door, no longer muffling your mouth, making you whine and whimper, you clenched on his cock.

"What the fuck? Are you turned on? Oh fuck, you're really dirty." Soobin whispered in your ear.

"Hey, y/n, if you don't answer I'm gonna break this door open." Your brother's voice is irritated.

"Answer him, doll." Soobin taunted.

"I... I did not see h-him.. mmhhh.. maybe..maybe he had gone h-home." Your voice ends up whiny. "Please s-stop banging the door, i-i'm... I'm gonna sleep some m-more.." you tried your best to answer your brother. Soobin smirked.

"Maybe he did go home, his things are in no sight. Well then, I'll just call him later, rest more, I'll go to my room my head is spinning." You heard the footsteps gone faint. That's when Soobin started thrusting a bit harder on you.

You clawed the door, face pressed on the cold wood. Taking every thrust he's giving you.

"Shit, such a dirty slut." Soobin has been gripping your waist for too long, that you're sure it will leave marks later on. You clenched at his words once again. He scoffed, "Wow, you really love being degraded?" His hand wrapped around your neck, squeezing it a little to restrain your lungs from acquiring oxygen. It makes you dizzy. Yet you love it. It makes you dizzy but you want him to cum inside you. It makes you dizzy but you crave for more.

"Good for nothing, cocksleeve." He keeps on pounding into you, bending you on the table near your door. You can't help but clench at his every word as he laughs lowly, enjoying what you two are sharing.

Your knees grew weaker. "Cum on my cock, I know you want it." He taunted. It was your last straw, "S-soobin.." you covered your mouth as you come undone, squirting all over his cock.

He bent down to your ear, licking your earlobe as he kept on pounding chasing his high once more. "Dirty. Fucking dirty. Fantasizing over her brother's best friend. Getting fucked and squirting on their cock." You wanted to cry at his words but it turns you on so much. He pulled out of you, discarding the condom and pumped his cock as he cums on your back.

He turned you around and kissed you, carrying you to the bed as he carefully laid you down. He picked up his discarded button-up shirt and wore it again.

"P-please don't tell him..." You tug at his shirt while he's buttoning it up.

"Your secrets are safe, my pretty slut." He saw how you melt at his words, he heard how you whine at his words. He pulled you for a kiss, a deep and passionate kiss. He removed something on his wrist and kissed your hand. His silver bracelet is now tied to yours, the cold metal kissing your skin makes you remember the heated moment you and Soobin shared.

You watch him peek outside your room as he steps out, tiptoeing to the front door.

@binniesbooks 2024

[leighsartworks216]

I would LOVE to see 28 or 31 from the touching prompt list with Sylus !!

I'm Sorry (I Still Love You)

Sylus x gn!Reader

Prompt from this list

28 - feeling for each other in the dark

I spent half the day making cake pops. I'm so tired ;-;

Warnings: hurt/comfort, no dialogue, established relationship, literal sleeping together, cuddling, arguing

Word Count: 725

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The argument was stupid. Certainly nothing worth remembering the source of, but its aftershocks rumbled enough to form a crack between you and Sylus. A deep, yawning chasm that neither of you is willing to cross. You’re both stubborn. Too stubborn to admit you’re wrong, let alone that the other is right.

But you’re also too stubborn to go to the guest bedroom. And Sylus isn’t one to give up territory easily.

That is how you found yourselves in his large bed, laying on opposite sides of the mattress, with your backs to each other. It’s not like this doesn’t hurt - you hate it, hate laying there without the warm, solid protection he brings wrapped around you - but this argument isn’t going anywhere when you’re both so pent up. It’ll just deteriorate into another big mess.

You try not to imagine his thoughts as you tug the blankets higher around your neck and shoulders. They do very little to block out the cold chill that is ever-present in his room, but you’d use paper towels if it meant proving a point. The rustling is deafening in the silence. His steady breaths and erratic heartbeat are too far away.

Seconds tick by, drawn out until each one feels as long as an hour or more. Sleep evades you. Mocks you. Taunts you alongside the dim light of your digital clock. Only 30 minutes have passed. You’re cold, emotionally exhausted, physically drained. If you can just fall asleep; if you can just close your eyes and drift away, you won’t have to think about it any longer.

You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your cold nose under the edge of the blanket…

…..

…….

Nothing happens. Time ticks by. You don’t want to be the first one to break. You don’t want to be the one to give in and give him the satisfaction of a victory, no matter how desperate you are.

The sheets rustle, but you remain still. You hate the jolt of panic that runs through your veins. The fear that he’s going to leave, sleep on the couch or even in another room entirely. Leave you utterly alone. Cold.

You jolt again when something touches your back. It pulls away just as quick, but you can feel its radiating warmth just behind you. Right there. A bridge across the canyon that divides this bed, a bed that has a divot in the center after so long.

Time passes, but it remains. You swear you can hear his anticipation. Hear the silent pleas of his heart that beg for permission to touch you again. Even if he can’t hold you, even if you don’t give him that much, all he wants is one small anchor to you.

You wonder how long he would wait there. Wonder if he would keep his hand resting on the bed inches away just for the chance to stay somehow close. Wonder if he’d wait minutes or hours before sliding it away, slinking back to his half of the bed, to his lonely island.

You wonder because you’ll never know the answers.

You slowly reach your arm out behind you, seeking. He stays still, waiting. The first brush of skin is ecstasy. His warm fingers that shift and curl to hold your hand. That slip so effortlessly between your own, like they’ve made a home there that can never be forgotten. He soothes his thumb over your knuckles, a silent message.

I love you. I’m sorry we’re fighting, but I still love you.

All it takes is one little tug to join the walls of the chasm together. One little tug to have this large, imposing man turning over and sliding over to your side.

His hand never lets go of yours as he curls himself around you. He exudes heat like a furnace. It chases the cold away, effectively banishing it out of the blankets, out of the bed. Your intertwined hands rest together on your stomach, adjusted so his palm rests against the back of your hand. You align your other arm along his where it wraps around you, your palm to the back of his hand this time.

The rustling settles for the final time tonight. SIlence blankets the room once more, relieved of its oppressive harshness. The only sounds are your shared breaths and beating hearts.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Simon had wondered what any of it had meant. Maddie's death, why he'd been the only one who could see her. And then he'd learned that, perhaps, everything that had happened...it hadn't been about him or Maddie at all.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.25

A roaring white noise erupted in the theater, smothering all other sounds. A TV static howl that seemed to come from within your own head, building and building until it was unbearable. You slapped your hands over your ears, gritted your teeth, pulse thundering almost as loud as the unnatural noise in your ears.

Muffled as if through cotton fluff, you heard someone yell, "What's happening!?" but no more than that, the voice swept away by the bellow. You lifted your head away from Xavier's shoulder and turned your body as much as you could within the tight band of his arms. Where the trapdoor should be, rising like a nightmare from its grave, the farmhouse door materialized in the middle of the stage. Your eyes widened in horror as the familiar screams from behind it began to gnash at the edges of the noise like teeth, "STOP! COME BACK! STOP! LET ME OUT!!"

You cast around, saw Maddie and Wally huddled together, Charlie tucked between two rows of seats, Ajay shielding Mina with his body, and Rhonda with her arms crossed in front of her face as the noise crashed through the theater like a physical force; a tempest of rage and violence that pierced the veil. The ground and walls shook, windows rattled, a stage light fell and smashed on the stage. The quake vibrated through your bones, motivated you to act, but you couldn't move. Xavier clung to you both protectively and in terror, his eyes pleading as he seemed to figure out what you planned to do. He trembled, fingertips bruising into your flesh through your sweater.

You'd never seen him so scared. Not once. Not ever.

Driven by adrenaline, "I'm sorry," you shoved Xavier off you, spun and rose in one fluid motion, and charged at speed down the center aisle toward the stage. The wind was sharp and stinging, pieces of glass and metal from the shattered stage light picked up and whipped about, but you didn't stop. Hurdled into it. Leapt onto the stage. Close, so close. Hand extended, fingers brushing the knob, about to brace against it to keep the monsters from escaping.

The door ruptured at its center, fragments of wood bursting outward and immediately captured by the storm. The force of the sudden explosion sent you sailing backward, followed by a tsunami of blinding, iridescent light that fell from the breach in the door and reached toward you. Cold. Clutching. You barely made out your name being shouted in varying degrees of desperate concern and fear. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter. Because as soon as you landed, hard—enough to knock the air from your lungs into your throat and choke you—the world shifted on its axis and went black.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question 1.

Why did Frankenstein create the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon lay in bed and stared at the ceiling above him, cracked and pillowed, a yellow-brown rash bloomed in patterns that he tracked in meditative circles with his eyes. He needed to shower, he thought dully. He hadn't had time that morning before being chauffeured to the station for another damning interrogation by Deputies Hayes and Stewart.

"Where is she, Elroy? Where's Maddie?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to us, kid, it'll only make things worse for you."

"I'm not lying, I don't kn—"

"God dammit, quit playing dumb!"

"That's enough," Mrs. Grace had snapped before Stewart's jaw had shut with an audible click. "Without substantiated evidence, this is all hearsay. Simon has given you everything he knows in his statement. Unless you intend to further make fools of yourselves, we're leaving."

Simon needed to get up. Get up. Get up. Get. Up.

He didn't move. Couldn't; his limbs grafted to his sheets, muscles like stone, bones elastic. His back was sore, his skin ached and he wanted to move around, stretch the discomfort out of his body, but...he didn't. Instead, he kept staring at the ceiling as the morning looped in his mind. Questions and suppositions, two manilla folders, one map, and then a tense drive home where he'd felt little-boy scared of his parents—his father—for the first time in years, their disappointment and anger palpable in the tight confines of the car.

Simon had been shown Maddie's file. A couple of graphic photographs that looked staged for a prime-time procedural drama. His best friend's blood splattered on the boiler room wall, evidence of the pain and torture she'd incurred when she'd been killed. Murdered in the bowels of the school while Simon had been three floors up in homeroom, bored and bleary-eyed, dozing on his backpack, mentally preparing for a night at the APEX with a group he felt a little on the outskirts of.

"Fuck." He choked, eyes stinging, rubbing over them with his wrist.

The photographs were seared into his retinas; there even when he tried to distract himself or ignore them or pretend that Maddie was still within reach and not one resolution away from vanishing forever.

Blood. Her blood. From a swing so violent that it'd projected onto the wall when the weapon had been hitched for another strike. How many blows had been delivered before Maddie's eyes had dimmed and her breath had stopped? His stomach lurched, but still, Simon didn't move.

The deputies thought Maddie was out there. Not enough blood on the scene to warrant a murder investigation, Stewart had informed Simon as if suggesting that Simon and Maddie might've tried to fake her death so no one would look for her. It was half-assed and ridiculous. Even Hayes seemed to think so, though she wouldn't have admitted it aloud.

Desperate to repress the images, Simon tried to remember the other file he'd been shown. The deputies insisted the cases were linked: Maddie's "escape" and a string of break-ins that spanned two neighborhoods that would've been one if it weren't for a railway track splitting it down the middle like a stapled wound. Simon had recognized the first immediately. Riverden Heights. A low-income area that had been chosen by the town council for regentrification, spearheaded by none other than Claire Zomer's stepfather.

The other, Warren Meadow, had taken him a moment to recognize, but when he did, it'd been a feat to conceal his surprise. He'd been there the night he'd found Mr. Anderson's stash, sat on a swing in the play park behind the house you called home.

What did it mean?

As he pondered the possibilities, a crisp gust of wind coasted over him, disturbing the curtains and ruffling the posters on his walls. At last, he moved, prompted to investigate because he was sure he'd closed it. He swallowed thickly, tense, heartbeat ratcheting up a notch. Propped on a hand, he looked in confusion and dread at his, yeah, closed window.

A slow, eerie creak snapped his attention toward his closet, the door open a sliver when he knew that, too, had been closed. The darkness within seemed even blacker than was natural. Inexplicable. Otherworldly. A shiver ran down his spine. Similar to the feeling he'd had when he'd caught Maddie's reflection in the classroom window on Monday.

The floorboards squeaked when he stood. Simon took one cautious step after another, muscles flexed, not prepared at all for an attack but willing to be brave.

Two. Three. Four. Five steps. His chest was tight. Hands shaking. Breathing shallow. As he hooked his fingers on the door to open it further, it started. The sound was faint and he had to strain to hear it, but it was unmistakable. Wet and rattled, punctuated by thick sniffles.

Someone was crying.

Someone was crying in Simon's closet.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Rhonda remained couched, braced against the wild, unholy wind until, bit by bit, she realized it'd stopped. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in shock, collapsing forward onto her hands. The world around her had changed; the theater was replaced by a span of paved ground enclosed by a chain-link fence, painted games bright against the black asphalt. A tingle crept down from her scalp to her nape, goosebumps pebbled her arms, and she panned her head to glance over her shoulder.

Panicked, she spun, landed on her ass, shoving herself backward with her feet to put distance between herself and the eerily suspended door. The void at its center flickered. It felt like a black hole trying to drag her into oblivion.

Rhonda flipped over and pushed herself up. Ran. Ran harder and faster than she'd ever done in life or death. Down the side of the building she'd found herself behind to skid around the corner and come to an abrupt stop.

She turned this way and that, disoriented, chest rising and falling quickly as she tried to suck in enough air to keep her upright.

"What the hell is happening?" She wheezed, every alarm in her brain going off at once as she began to process her surroundings: Outdoors. Too dark for how early she felt it should be, the air thin and cold, biting, and the sky obscured by a dense layer of gunmetal grey clouds. It was raining in sheets so thick Rhonda could barely make out the line of British inspired maisonettes on the opposite side of the street. "Where—?"

She cut herself off when the wide, double-door entrance to the building opened, releasing a soft glow from within that illuminated the pathway ahead of it. Children in raincoats and rubber boots bounced down the front steps, giggling as they jumped and splashed through puddles on their way to join clusters of adults who waited under umbrellas on the sidewalk.

"No. Fucking. Way." Rhonda walked toward the pathway, jaw slack, gaze fixed on the words etched into the stonework. She nearly tripped over her own feet, only just managing to correct herself as she turned fully toward the building.

Adelaide Meheive Schoolhouse for Boys.

The brick and mortar was as old as Split River itself, named after one of the town founders' wives. The school had been reestablished as Adelaide Meheive Elementary in the early '40s, ten years before Rhonda's family had moved from rural town Romania to Wisconsin. Rhonda had still been curious then, unjaded and excited and eager to learn. Her fourth grade desk had been right there, beside that window. Where she'd daydreamed as she'd stared at the houses across the street and had wondered what it'd been like to live somewhere so unlike her own home in the low-income district that bordered the factories.

Pressure stuffed her nose, her vision blurred, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the memory, instantly missing her parents, her sisters, her grandmother in a way she hadn't in countless years. Unfortunately, she didn't have more than a moment to grapple with it before her attention was forced back to the school's entrance.

Two figures emerged, one was small, obviously a child. A little boy, Rhonda discerned, with a Spiderman backpack and rainboots to match. The second was taller, slender, the hood of their sweater up so it concealed their face. They hauled the little boy by the hand as they complained, "Come on, stop messing around, I want to go home," as the little boy kept trying to gleefully splash his way through every puddle on his way to the front gate.

A spike of foreboding shot through Rhonda as she watched the pair.

She found herself trailing after them as they turned onto the sidewalk. That sense of unease continued to worsen, churning in her stomach like a bad premonition. Although it felt like every other bad gut feeling she'd experienced in her young life, it was somehow distinguished. And when the taller figure got so frustrated by the little boy that they pushed their hood off and threatened, "I'm so serious right now, I will leave you here and tell mom you ran away," Rhonda was once again stunned into stillness.

The taller figure was a girl, no older than eleven or twelve with features identical to ones Rhonda had seen mere moments before the theater had turned into a category 5 hurricane zone. Your hair was longer and your face was rounder, softer, yet you looked exactly as you had when Rhonda had joked about getting Wally a new wardrobe.

You began to tug the little boy along again, your foul temper tween-girl extreme to the extent Rhonda questioned whether or not it was really you. Regardless of whether or not it was, Rhonda decided, she needed help, needed an explanation. Where the fuck was she? When the fuck was she? How did she get here?

"Hey!" Rhonda yelled after you, "Wait!"

You didn't notice Rhonda. In fact, she was entirely nonexistent to you as you yanked and heaved Aiden every single step forward. He enjoyed being a pain in your ass, always elbowing his way into every sleepover, usurping attention, whining until you gave in and put on movies for babies because he didn't like what you and Xavier and Hana wanted to watch.

You'd already been grumpy when your mom had called to ask that you collect Aiden from school on your way home, consumed by thoughts of Xavier and Hana ditching you to hang out with another couple because, apparently, that's what boyfriends and girlfriends did.

Your face twisted in displeasure, jealousy seeping into your veins like toxic sludge as you barked again, "Aiden, come. on. Stop it!"

Xavier and Hana hadn't even kissed on the mouth yet, you grouched internally. Plus, they were still going to Dave & Buster's with Mrs. Baxter like all three of you did. As a group. Every Friday since 1st Grade. It wasn't fair that just because you didn't want to be kissed or have some gross boy who smelled like B.O. hold your hand like that, you weren't allowed to go too.

The rain came down harder, thunder rumbled overhead and lightning cracked across the sky. Aiden continued to resist, stomping in and out of the stream that flowed along the curb. Stupid mom being held up at work. Stupid Aurora being at university. Stupid Andrew for being away. And stupid, stupid Aiden, not listening to you when you were obviously in a bad mood.

"Aiden!" You yelled, tugging him back onto the sidewalk, "I said stop it!"

Your clothes were drenched, your limbs were frozen, and all you wanted to do was go home, rant to Nanna, and have her comfort you and tell you to forget Xavier and Hana and their dumb relationship had ever happened. Just as you were contemplating how upset your mom would be if you abandoned Aiden right then and there, you heard a car pull up behind you and a male voice call, "Hey, can I give you a ride?"

Rhonda stopped when she saw the car stop. More specifically, when she saw the face of the man behind the wheel. She didn't recognize him and he looked normal enough. Buzzed, military brown hair and a friendly smile and eyes that crinkled charmingly at the corners. Rhonda moved to peek into the open passenger window, squinting at him. Despite how normal he appeared, there was something inside her soul, a niggling feeling that made her gums itch, that told her that the man's aura was several shades of wrong.

Clumsily, she reared back and turned to urge you, "Don't go with him," as that prickly sense of unease increased, blaring like an air raid siren in her brain. Rhonda couldn't tell if you were familiar with the man and decided quickly that it didn't matter, "I know we aren't exactly besties," She said, standing directly in front of you now, "But you have to listen to me."

You looked right through her.

Leaning across the console was a man wearing a uniform like your dad's, his face familiar though you couldn't quite place it. Your grip tightened around Aiden's hand and you narrowed your eyes at him. A thousand and one speeches had been delivered throughout your life on the subject of which strangers are good and which are bad. And random men in cars were at the top of the bad list.

"You don't remember me?" The man chuckled and then explained, "We met at the barbeque on base. I'm Christopher." He raised an amused eyebrow, "You got me with your water gun a few times."

Rhonda's gaze ricocheted between you and Christopher as you hesitated, tilted your head, and chewed your lip, studying Christopher like a Wanted poster. That nagging feeling in Rhonda's gut swelled into a sick panic when the tension bled out of your shoulders, showing signs of finally recalling who Christopher was.

"Oh yeah," You grinned and stepped closer. Christopher was in the same unit as your dad. He'd been at the barbeque with his wife and daughter, the latter having hung out with you and Xavier all afternoon while the adults drank beer and got rowdy. "Xavier pushed you in the pool."

Christopher snorted and hung his head in mock shame, "That's me."

Rhonda shook her head, her mind screaming at her to stop you from going with him. That if you did, all the happiness and joy and pure, unconditional love in the world would be snuffed out as easily as the flame of a candle. Rhonda had felt similarly when Mr. Manfredo's demeanor had shifted in the split second before he'd revealed his true colors.

"Don't go with him," She repeated, trying and failing to grab your hand, shoulder, face, anything. But her hands kept missing, sliding away, your energy and hers two like poles that would never connect. "You need to listen to me!"

You smiled down at Aiden, "A ride would be great, right Aid?"

Aiden wasn't paying attention, staring off into space. He did that whenever you asked him to stop being annoying. Acted like he hadn't heard you or that you weren't there. Glaring at him, you repeated the question, only for Aiden to tug your hand so you had to bend to his level to hear him.

"What?" You demanded under your breath.

Aiden whispered, "I don't think we should go with him."

Relief flooded through Rhonda, however, it was short-lived.

You rolled your eyes, "Seriously, Aiden?" God, could he just not? For once, one time, could he be on your side instead of making everything difficult? You knew he was complaining just so he could keep splashing in the puddles, but you were over the wet and the rain and the cold.

Aiden stubbornly stared into space again—stared at Rhonda—and refused to budge until you poked him in the cheek. He reluctantly dragged his eyes to yours, looking up at you with a pout, "I don't want to, Sissy." Lip wobbly, brow furrowed. The same expression he pinched his face into when you refused to let him use your Switch.

You heaved a careworn sigh and put your hands on your knees as you spoke to him, forcing your voice to a sensitive register, "How about this: If you get in the car, I'll make you mac 'n' cheese with chicken nuggets when we get home. Alright?"

Rhonda lurched forward, "No no no!" She begged you to change your mind, to hear what Aiden was trying to tell you, her voice strangled, throat closing. "Don't!"

Aiden chewed his lip as he considered your proposal, eyes on the ground. At last, with an apologetic glance into the middle distance, he nodded. It was a small gesture, almost disappointed, and he mumbled, "Okay."

You grinned and hugged him, praising him for listening to you as you opened the car door and helped him into the backseat. Once he scooched over, you climbed in after him, thanked Christopher for his kindness, and made Aiden do the same.

"Thanks," Aiden muttered, staring at his lap, looking for all the world like he'd just been told he wasn't allowed dessert ever again.

Though she knew it was useless, Rhonda bodily flung herself at the car when you closed the door, banging and slapping the window with her palms until they stung bright red. "Don't! You have to get out! GET. OUT!"

You buckled your seatbelt, then Aiden's, and the car pulled away.

Rhonda stumbled into the street, shouting after you. Her hands gripped her head in panic, pulse racing. She watched the car stop at the corner and saw Aiden rise to peer out of the back window, chubby hand up as if he was waving goodbye. The emotion in his big, green eyes—

She inhaled sharply. Without any doubt, Rhonda understood that she'd just witnessed a child's future turn to ash. And she felt in her bones that Aiden knew it, too.

"Come back." She begged, tight and weak. Then, with everything she had in her, "COME BACK!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, an ominous creak drew her attention behind her. The farmhouse door. The deep, black void at its center. Eyes wide in fright, she shifted to run after the car but didn't get even a step before the blackness shot out, wrapped around her arms and legs, and wrenched her into its depths. The door slammed closed and disappeared.

In the backseat of the car, you asked Aiden, "What're you looking at?" when he continued to stare out of the rear window. You peeked over the seat in confusion, not seeing anything worth that much scrutiny.

Aiden slowly slid his gaze to meet yours and what you saw in them made your stomach twist, the look in them far too old for a six-year-old boy. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to brush it off, fixing Aiden in his seat after he'd lowered himself to sit properly.

"Nothing," Aiden responded, tone solemn. He began to draw a little stick figure in the condensation on the window, and then an upright rectangle with curly cues coming out of it.

You watched him for a moment, suddenly feeling uneasy. "You sure?"

Aiden nodded.

You wouldn't have believed him anyway.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Two.

Does Frankenstein learn from his mistake in creating the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You roused in pained stages, groaning as you hoisted yourself onto your hands and knees. The world was spinning, vision cloudy for a moment before the room settled around you. The damp and dark didn't feel right against you, pushing in from all corners like pressure in the depths of the ocean. Heaving a breath, you wobbled to your feet, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Even in the thin light filtering through the high windows, you recognized that, wherever you were, it wasn't the theater.

"Wally?!" You called out, "Maddie!?"

No answer.

"...anyone?"

It took a minute for your eyes to adjust. The space was wide and empty, the ceiling low, walls exposed slabs of thick stone. A cellar, you realized, stepping carefully across the packed dirt floor. Faded Persian carpets had been placed down in the center; thinner, longer ones like runners led from the base of the polished wood steps to the back wall, the tail end of the last carpet disappearing beneath the stone.

"Where am I?" You wondered, glancing about.

A few items of furniture stood against the wall directly opposite the staircase. A tall, fat cabinet with glass windows that displayed a variety of trinkets that reminded you of curiosities Victorian nobles had collected to be admired by their unworldly peers. Beside it was a sarcophagus, Egyptian-inspired but certainly not original. It was far too dark, menacing, the face demonic with ruby eyes that seemed to burn from within.

You kept a wide berth around it, its aura unsettling. Like walking into a forest after nightfall with no flashlight.

On the other side of the cabinet were wrought iron hooks nailed into the stone, neat rows of ten across, seven down. Most of them were bare, though a few still held gruesomely painted masks in the Venetian style. Some with long, pointed noses; others more feminine.

"What the hell is this place?" You murmured to yourself as you reached out to run your fingers delicately down the smooth nose of one of the masks.

It felt familiar. The exposed beams, the packed dirt floor, the draft that chilled you to the bone. You followed the runners to the back wall, turned, looked out the window above you. Twisty, naked branches speared the sky, a large gap in the middle where...where the road... Oh, God.

Your breath caught and you began to feel queasy, bile burning the back of your throat. This wasn't just any cellar. It was the farmhouse cellar. The place you'd been when you learned exactly how many minutes it took for a human body to die.

The room swam as your vision blurred and all at once, you doubled over, retching into the dirt, swaying on weak legs when it was over. Breath after breath felt like ice as you tried to get air into your lungs, your heart to calm down, your head to stop spinning.

"It's not possible," You choked, collapsing against the wall, "I shouldn't be here, this isn't right." You sank to the floor, completely devoid of energy in the wake of your realization. As if the darkness had sucked it all out. You sat there for minutes that dragged into each other, hitched little inhales and drawn, stuttered exhales. "I want to go home," You whimpered, but there was no one around to hear you.

In that instant, voices rose and the floorboards above creaked under the weight of several people. Panicked, you shot to your feet, casting about for something to protect yourself. Nothing good had ever happened in this farmhouse, you knew, and you doubted that now would be any different.

There was nothing. And when you tried to open the cabinet, a taser-like shock jolted through your arm and knocked you backward onto the floor. You didn't have time to question it, the door above opening—that door, the door, the one that had haunted you for six years—and the voices getting closer.

"Surely, Lord McNair, you jest. A stablehand!" A woman's voice spoke, sounding giddy as much as disturbed. "How on earth did that happen?"

A deep, male voice answered, that of Lord McNair assumedly, "I haven't a clue, Liza." He sounded dismayed, "He took off with all the money and my daughter, the wretched bastard." A pause before he growled, "I tell you, never trust a Clark."

"Certainly not." Liza agreed. "I had two in my employ, sisters. Irish though they weren't Catholic, and I wish I had known such an important detail before I had Beaty hire the little rats. They stole the diamonds right off one of my necklaces. Had they the fear of God in them, they wouldn't have done so."

"And they were Clarks?" A new voice asked, another male, though thick with an accent you could only describe as South Asian.

Liza answered, "Indeed. You'll have to be careful during your visit, Your Excellency. The poor have become a problem in recent years, I'm afraid."

You listened with half an ear as you scouted for a place to tuck yourself into. The sarcophagus was latched and the effort it would take to break the lock off would be both too loud and too obvious. You searched along the walls, in the shadowy corners. The best place would've been under the stairs but a large cord of chopped wood had been piled in front of the space.

The footsteps got closer as the group descended, talking amongst themselves. Swallowing thickly, you pressed yourself against the side of the cabinet, crouched beneath the rows of hooks, hands over your mouth to muffle your harried breathing.

A strange sensation passed through the cellar as the group stepped one by one onto the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. The air stilled and the shadows seemed to part for the group as they moved across the space. A man held out his hand to help a woman down her final few steps and then escorted her with her arm through his. The next man did the same for the next woman, and then the third man for the third woman.

All were dressed elegantly, the men in tuxedos with white ties and polished boots, and the women in beaded dresses that fell past their knees, gloves to above their elbows, and furs around their shoulders.

"It's truly wonderful that you were able to attend at last, Your Excellency," A new voice said, female, heavily accented. Eastern European, you believed, "My husband and I have been eager to introduce you to the leader of tonight's gathering."

"I appreciate it immensely, Lady Rose," His Excellency replied, "I was delighted to have received the invitation."

The sound of the men and women nearing made your pulse rush like a roar in your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut, turned to tuck yourself as close as you could to the wall, back against the cabinet, pleading that you wouldn't be found.

Closer. Closer. The footsteps and voices were right above you now.

"Here you are, Raj" Lord McNair said pleasantly as he claimed one of the nosed masks and handed it to His Excellency. "Your lovely bride can help you attach it, I'm sure."

With big, terrified eyes, you watched Lord McNair remove another mask, one without a nose, and hand it to the woman beside His Excellency. And no one—your brow furrowed—seemed to notice you. Not even the slightest acknowledgment that you existed.

You didn't want to push your luck, staying put with your hand remaining clapped across your mouth. However, you couldn't stop yourself from glancing up at the faces of the group gathered in front of you, helping each other tie the ribbons of the masks at the backs of their heads.

His Excellency turned around after helping his bride with her mask and you almost collapsed in shock.

"Ajay!?" You said before thinking about the consequences. You rose quickly and stumbled forward, attempting to clasp your hands around his forearms as he fiddled with the ribbon on the nosed mask he held. "Ajay, where are we? What's happening?" But...your hands passed right through him, his image distorting, coming apart like whisps of smoke before letting in again. "A-Ajay?"

With a strained whine, you studied his face and the longer you stared, the less he looked like Ajay. The resemblance, as uncanny as it was, was only that. A resemblance. And, furthermore, Not-Ajay, it appeared, couldn't see you. Couldn't hear you. In fact, none of the men and women paid you any mind whatsoever. To them, you were as real as a ghost.

"Fuck." The word punched out of you as you staggered back. The faces that hadn't been covered were eerily identical to ones you knew until you stared too long. Rhonda. Ajay. Maddie. And then the resemblances faded and left behind just the most subtle of like features. "What's happening?"

You were going crazy. Trapped in a nightmare of your own making after you couldn't keep the farmhouse door closed. God only knew where the others were. If the light that had ripped out from behind the farmhouse door had trapped them too. If they were experiencing the same thing. Or worse.

"Come along, Liza dear, we're already behind schedule." Lord McNair remarked, holding out his arm for her to take. He led the group to the back of the cellar, following the line of carpets before he paused at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, you trailed after them, observant though feeling faint as you tried to accept that you might never make it out of whatever coma or conjuring the farmhouse door had unleashed.

If this was a nightmare, you thought, there was only one way out. You had to see it through to the end.

You saw Lord McNair produce a pen-shaped piece of silver from his pocket. Sleek, smooth, nondescript, and rather unremarkable until Lord McNair pushed it tip-first into a tiny hole in the mortar that you never would've noticed on your own. When it was halfway in, you heard a heavy clank of metal then stone scraped against stone. Your jaw dropped as part of the wall sunk inward and then moved aside, revealing a steep stairwell carved into the rock, lit by a line of low-burning torches.

The group herded into the stairwell, continuing their conversation, the men attentive to the women as they descended down down down into whatever was below the farmhouse cellar. The stairs were uneven, some tall, some short, and you briefly marveled at the ease the men and women ahead of you exhibited as they gracefully carried themselves to the bottom of the staircase.

As soon as you entered the space below, you staggard in your steps. A shock of pitch black energy crowded against you, the same as what you'd felt when you'd put your hand to the tree last night. Dark and sinister. Evil.

It took a moment for you to gather yourself, and once you had, you stepped further into the space. What lay beyond the staircase took you aback. The sheer extravagance was so out of place for where you were.

The narrow walls on either side of the staircase opened into a massive cavern that had been structured and decorated to mimic a European palace. Italian marble floors, a grand fireplace with detailed carvings in the wood of the mantle, portraits of aristocratic men and women kitted in ceremonial costume.

Your attention lingered on the portraits. The subjects seemed to be related, some more distant than others, but they all shared the same piercing blue eyes and severe expressions. Ginger to auburn to mahogany hair. Sharp jaws and smooth skin. Not a wrinkle or blemish in sight.

The clothes were ceremonial as was usually the case when the rich were painted, but they were also...religious. In a way you had a difficult time putting your finger on. Not typical of the Abrahamic religions or Dharmic or Taoic. More Pagan. Celtic or Nordic, you weren't sure, but definitely Pagan.

The subjects wore cloaks and were ornamented with etched daggers and wooden laurels bent and shaped into antlers, and identical broaches pinned under the notches of their collars. Large, silver things with a symbol you'd seen in the pages of a book housed in your family's library. Three interlocking spirals. A triskele.

A tinkling sound, fine metal tapped on hollow crystal, echoed through the cavern, a man's voice calling out to announce, "Welcome all!"

You turned, gaze searching the crowd of what you guessed was about seventy people, one for every hook in the cellar above.

They stood in a semi-circle facing you though their focus was on the man who spoke. You couldn't see much of him since he had his back to you, poised proudly in front of the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered yet lithe, and had hair that had clearly once been blond though was turning grey.

"I am overjoyed that so many of you could join us on such a momentous occasion."

"Hear, hear!" The crowd exclaimed, lifting in unison their champagne coupes.

"My only regret is that my lovely wife seems to have gotten lost."

The crowd tittered at what you figured was meant to be a joke. Stepping closer, you tried to get a better look at the man, wanted to see if, like the men and women who you'd followed down here, he held any resemblance to someone you knew. Together, the crowd's focus shifted to something behind the man. He turned, a wide smile spreading across the part of his face that wasn't covered by his mask.

You went completely still as his eyes settled on you through the holes in his mask. They were striking; bright seafoam green that within them held a wisdom and respect that transcended time. You shivered as those eyes, far too old for the face they belonged to, burned through you, heart hammering behind your ribs.

Slowly, the man reached out his free hand, smile softening, and said, "Ah, there you are," in a quiet tone.

Private.

Just for you.

"We've been waiting."

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FOUR - PART TWENTY-SIX

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[bullet-prooflove]

New Year's Bingo Card 2024: Bang - Eddie Diaz x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @gatefleet @tigolebittiez @mckinleysbones @totalstitchlover19

Companion piece to:

Box Breathing - Eddie's been struggling since Christopher left.

Always - You make a promise to Eddie.

Real - Eddie tells you he wants something real.

A Future With You - Eddie makes a realisation during a one on one game of basketball.

Cash - Eddie discovers your secret Instagram profile.

Snake - You receieve a surprise gift from your ex at Halloween.

Midnight - Eddie makes you a promise.

Cherry Lipstick - Eddie gets better insight into you during a social event.

Eddie’s new year starts with a bang literally because a firework goes off in his face. He’s lucky at the time because he’s wearing his helmet and face guard. The glass protects him from the brunt of the explosion, casting a spattering of tiny red burns across his nose and cheeks instead of melting off part of his flesh.

“They look like little red freckles.” You tell him as he sits on his assigned bed in the empty bunkroom while you apply an antiseptic cream across the marks. You’re gentle with your touch, massaging the substance into his skin until you cradle his face in between the palms of your hands.

There’s something in your eyes, something he’s not seen before and it takes him a moment to realise that you were scared tonight. When you’d heard that explosion and he’d hit the deck, the glass of his mask cracking you’d been the first one there, tearing it off, searching for injuries.

“I nearly lost you today.” You whisper and before he sees it coming your mouth lightly  covers his and Eddie, he’s drowning.

All of that emotion he’s been keeping at bay, it breaks through the dam, spilling over until his hands tangle in your hair, drawing you down into his lap. The press of you against him, the sensation of it ignites something inside of him, something primal, something passionate. He’s not sure how you end up on the bed underneath him, only that his hands are roaming underneathe your LAFD t-shirt, caressing your bare skin and you’re making that noise, the one he hears in his fucking dreams.

It's the clearing of a throat that brings him back to reality. He looks up to see Buck standing there, his cheeks flushing pink as he lingers in the doorway.

“I’d ask you to join.” You sass from underneath Eddie. “But I really don’t think this bed can handle a third person.”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen Buck’s ears turn red before you utter that comment.

“The others are thinking about turning in.” He tells the two of you, already half way out the door. “I’ll stall them for a minute or two so you can get yourselves together.”

For a second Eddie has no idea what he means but then he looks down at you and sees those beautiful swollen lips, the hair he’s pulled loose from the braid. His hand is still inside your shirt, fingertips trailing over the elastic of your sports bra.

“To be continued?” He asks you because as much as he wants this he has to make sure you want it too, that what’s just happened tonight isn’t a reaction to him almost losing his life.

“We get off in twelve hours.” You tell him as you shift into a sitting position and start to rebraid your hair. “Maybe you should home with me so we can explore this a little more.”

“Yea.” He says, his voice husky at the prospect of picking up where you left off. “It’s a date.”

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[changetyre]

Size isn't everything (P2) II Carlos Sainz x Bodyguard!Reader

SUMMARY: The tension between Carlos and you continues and it takes one scary moment to bring your feelings to light. Part 2 of this

WARNINGS: Injuries.

A/N: Over on wattpad people requested a part 2 ;)

The following weeks after the club incident were different. Carlos, ever the charmer, had cranked up his flirting to full throttle. He teased you at every turn, leaning into that spark that had flickered between you. His cocky grin was now a near-constant companion, and while you maintained your professional composure, there were moments, brief moments, where Carlos could see your defenses waver.

"Careful, Sainz," you'd warned him one afternoon as you saw him to his hotel room. "You're treading on thin ice."

He leaned closer, his voice a low whisper, "What if I like the cold?"

Your eyes had flicked to his lips before quickly looking away, but he'd caught it. That tiny slip gave him hope.

Despite your best efforts, his persistence was wearing you down. He wasn't just some spoiled racer he was genuinely fun to be around. And though you hated to admit it, you liked the banter. There was a warmth to him, a charm that went beyond his good looks and fame. 

Still, you constantly reminded yourself that this was a job. You couldn't get involved with him, no matter how much he made your stomach flutter when he flashed you those big brown eyes.

But Carlos wasn't making it easy.

One evening, after a particularly intense race where he had secured a podium finish, you'd found yourselves on the balcony of his new Monaco home. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the city. He leaned against the railing, a glass of champagne in hand, watching you with that familiar playful glint in his eye.

"I have to ask," he began, his tone teasing, "what do you do for fun? Or are you always this serious?"

You'd been scanning the area like you were used to, but turned to him and gave him a deadpan look. "My job is to keep you alive, Sainz. Fun doesn't exactly factor into that."

He laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "Come on, you've got to let loose sometime. You can't be all uptight, all the time."

You rolled your eyes, trying to remain unaffected, but the truth was, you could feel your walls crumbling, piece by piece. There was something about him, something disarming, that made it harder and harder to keep up your professionalism.

"I know what you're doing," you said turning away from his intense gaze. "And it's not going to work."

He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "And what is that?"

You turned back to him, stepping closer, your eyes narrowing slightly. "Flirting."

His grin widened, shameless. "Oh, that? I thought I was being subtle."

This time you failed to hold back the smile. "Ha ha"

He laughed again, that warm, genuine laugh that always made your heart skip a beat. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to suppress the emotions stirring inside you. You couldn't afford to lose focus. Not with him.

"I should go, lock the door." You stepped away before you let your feelings control you. 

_____

The race day was a blur of noise and speed. Carlos was locked in a fierce battle for the last podium place, weaving through the track, every muscle in his body tense with focus. You watched from the paddock, your attention split between the live race feed in the garage and the bustling crowd. You never let yourself get too caught up in the race itself though. Your job was to protect Carlos from everything offthe track.

But as the final laps unfolded, an uneasy feeling consumed you. You scanned the crowd, your eyes narrowing when you spotted somone who didn’t quite fit. He was standing just behind the barriers at Parc Ferme, his eyes locked onto Carlos's car as it zoomed by for the cool-down lap.

As the the roar of the crowd filled the air signaling the end of the race you watched as the man moved through the people, his eyes steady on that 3rd place position Carlos would eventually pull into. His body language was tense, and suspicious as he inched closer to where Carlos would soon be.

Your instincts flared. You moved quickly, pushing through the multitude of people running to the podium, your eyes locked on the man.

Just as he climbed out of his car, the man made his move. He broke through the crowd, something glinting in his hand. You reacted quickly, rushing toward the man, and grabbing his wrist firmly. You would do your best to avoid causing a scene, costing Carlos his moment so with a firm grip on the man you quickly shoved him away. 

But the man was stronger than he looked, as soon as you'd gotten him away from the crowd, away from the cameras, calling for security, he managed to momentarily slip out of your grasp, the sharp object emerging from his pocket as it came to slice your arm. You had no time to react to the pain as you quickly subdued him, security there soon after ready to cuff the man. 

Carlos had embraced his team, he tried to remain happy and cheerful as he received pats and congratulations from those around him but as he looked around not seeing you around set off alarm bells in his head. You were good at your job, and you were good at sticking around unnoticed but he always knew you were there, he always felt your presence and this time he couldn't

He was rushed to give the interviews and proceed to the podium ceremony but that didn't take away from the fact that he was worried, where had you gone? 

After the ceremony, Carlos wasted no time asking about your whereabouts only to be informed that "a situation had occurred" which you had to attend to. 

"What does that mean?" Carlos tried to learn more only to be shut down. 

"She needs stitches she's heading to hospital now." he heard security from the track talking to his team. 

"Who needs stitches? Where is she?!" A great feeling of dread invaded Carlos's body. The silence of those around him was enough of an answer to him. 

_

“Y/N!” Carlos rushed to you, his voice tight with panic.

"Carlos, what are you doing here?" You asked surprised to see him rush into the hospital room. 

"What happened?!" He looked at your blood-soaked sleeve. 

“It’s fine,” you said through gritted teeth, cradling your arm. “It’s just a scratch.”

He wasn’t convinced. “You’re bleeding.”

"Not that much, they'll come to fix it soon. Carlos, you need to get back to-"

"I'm not going anywhere" Carlos didn't let you finish. 

“I said I’m fine! I’m still alive, aren’t I?” you tried to joke, but there was a slight tremor to your voice.

Carlos wasn't laughing. He held your uninjured hand, his fingers locking with yours. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. You could’ve been-.” he didn't dare finish the thought. 

Your defenses kicked back in, but this time, you could see the fear in his eyes. “It’s my job, Carlos. This is what I signed up for.”

He shook his head, he kneeled in front of you. “You got hurt because of me.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as the truth settled between you. He was right, you'd done this form him. But not because of the job. But because the thought of something happening to him terrified you more than getting hurt yourself.  

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said softly. 

The doctor arrived, ready to stitch you up. Carlos stayed by your side the whole time, his usual cocky attitude replaced by a quiet, anger. Carlos paced the room but when you'd occasionally wince in pain you saw the way Carlos's eyes increased with sadness. 

“Stop blaming yourself,” You said as soon as the doctor left. “This...it happens.”

He stopped pacing and turned to you, frustration evident in his eyes. “You think I’m just supposed to be okay with this? That you can get hurt- because of me? and I’m supposed to just let it happen?”

You sighed, getting up and walking towards him. “It’s not about being okay with it. It’s about understanding that I’m here to do a job, and sometimes that job comes with risks!” Your voice was once again stern. 

He closed the distance between you even more, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I don’t want you risking anything for me.”

You looked away, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze. “Well, that's not how this works.” 

There was silence, thick and tense, before he spoke again. 

“I care about you." he confessed. 

"No-" You avoided his gaze.

"More than you think. And I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me.” he didn't allow you to interrupt him as he approached you forcing you to face him again. 

You froze. This was exactly what you'd feared, why you had tried to keep your distance. 

But the look in his eyes, raw and honest, was breaking down every wall you'd had built.

“You're not supposed to care,” you whispered. “This is my job.” You sighed defeated. 

He cupped your face. “You think I’m just going to stop caring because you tell me to? You don't have a problem getting hurt for me, but why can't you admit you care about me too?”

Your breath hitched. You opened her mouth to protest, to shut this conversation down before it went any further, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, Carlos tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushing over your cheek in the softest of touches. 

“Let me in.” He pleaded. 

Your heart pounded in your chest, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to keep things professional. But as he leaned in, his breath warm against your lips, you couldn’t move. You couldn’t think straight, standing so close, his presence was overwhelming.

And when his lips finally brushed against yours, it was like every wall you'd built crumbled in an instant. The kiss was soft at first, hesitant as if he was giving you a chance to pull back. 

But you didn’t. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, letting yourself feel something you'd been trying to deny for so long. His hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let yourself get lost in the moment, the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips.