#there’s just this ever present hollowness in his chest

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one.

Song: After Hours · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 12.9k

MASTERLIST - F1

Charles sighed, another wave of that dull, persistent ache washing over him. It was the kind of feeling you attributed to a long day, an early morning, anything but the truth: a hollow space where his soulmate should be.

In this world, finding your soulmate was practically a given. A man simply had to pay attention to the pervasive sense of well-being that blossomed the closer he got, like basking in the sun after a long winter. Women, on the other hand, experienced the opposite. A gnawing anxiety, a yearning that intensified with proximity, only to be extinguished by the kiss that confirmed the connection.

Charles had always envied the ease with which others navigated this aspect of life. He'd seen friends practically vibrate with happiness as they zeroed in on their matches, their faces glowing with a newfound understanding.

He’d witnessed public displays of affection, the relief on the woman’s face palpable as the kiss settled the tremor in her soul. But for Charles, nothing. Just the ever-present, low-grade ache.

He was currently seeing Alexandra, a vibrant artist with paint-stained fingers and a laugh that could fill a room. He liked her. A lot. They shared a passion for old movies, bad puns, and late-night talks fueled by cheap wine.

But there was no soul-deep connection, no magnetic pull, no burgeoning sense of peace. And, crucially, no agonizing need emanating from Alexandra.

They had been upfront with each other from the beginning. A pragmatic agreement born from a realistic understanding of their world.

“If one of us finds their soulmate,” Alexandra had said, swirling the wine in her glass, “we break up. No hard feelings. Friends, maybe? If that’s not too weird?”

Charles had agreed, the thought of losing her already a small pang in his chest. The potential for a real connection, even if not the connection, felt too valuable to pass up.

He was at Alexandra's apartment now, ostensibly to help her hang a new series of paintings. The walls were already a riot of color, abstract swirls and bold strokes that somehow managed to create a sense of harmony.

She was humming softly as she fiddled with a level, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Looking at her, bathed in the afternoon light streaming through the window, Charles felt a surge of affection. He appreciated her easy smile, her quirky sense of humor, the way she always seemed to see the best in him.

But still, the ache persisted. Proof, if he needed it, that she wasn’t the one.

He handed her a hammer. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "how are you feeling? Any, you know… existential dread?"

Alexandra snorted, a smudge of paint adorning her cheek. "Existential dread is kind of my default setting, Charles. So, no. Nothing specific." She hammered a nail into the wall with practiced ease.

He felt a pang of guilt. He was testing her, probing for signs, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe… But he knew it was futile.

Over the next few weeks, Charles found himself increasingly preoccupied with the idea of soulmates. He started paying closer attention to the people around him, subtly observing couples, searching for that telltale glow of contentment on the men's faces, the relieved serenity settling on the women's.

He noticed that happy couples were everywhere.

Everyone had found their soulmate somehow, except him. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles clenched his jaw, the familiar sting of frustration pricking at his temples. "Carlos, you better stop asking that question," he warned, his voice tight. He hated this. Hated the constant reminder of his perceived failure.

Charles grimaced, shoving a forkful of carbonara around his plate. "Carlos, you know the answer to that. Lay off, will you?"

Carlos just grinned, a smug, infuriatingly happy expression plastered across his face. "Just checking in, mate. You've been at this for years. How many 'almosts' are we up to now? Thirty? Forty?"

He gestured across the Ferrari cafeteria with his fork towards Rebecca, his soulmate, who was engrossed in a conversation with a mechanic.

They looked sickeningly content.

Charles felt a familiar pang of envy. In this world, finding your soulmate was supposed to be easy. A biological compass, really. For men, the joy, the sheer rightness of being near your soulmate was unmistakable, a balm to the soul.

The further away they were, the heavier the weight of longing became.

It was a system that supposedly guaranteed happiness. Supposedly.

He hadn't felt that blissful uplift even once. He'd chased fleeting moments of "almost" – a slight lift in mood, a subtle easing of his constant, low-level yearning – only to be disappointed.

A waitress at a local trattoria, a tourist sketching the Duomo, a woman he’d helped carry groceries – all dead ends.

"It's not exactly something you can force, Carlos," Charles sighed, pushing his plate away, the carbonara suddenly tasting like ashes. "It'll happen when it happens."

Before Carlos could launch into another unsolicited pep talk, the cafeteria doors swung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a whirlwind of nervous energy.

A woman stood there, slightly breathless, your cheeks flushed with a nervous energy that radiated across the room. You were… striking.

Charles immediately felt… lighter. The persistent, low-level hum of anxiety that usually buzzed beneath his skin seemed to quieten.

He felt a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in years.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," you said, your voice laced with a genuine apology. "Traffic was a nightmare. I'm… I'm the new social media manager."

You swiped a hand across your forehead, a gesture that only amplified Charles's initial assessment: you were flustered, stressed, but undeniably composed.

For Charles, the world seemed to narrow to just you. The slight tremor in your voice, the way you clutched your bag, the subtle shift in your posture as you addressed the room – it was all acutely, intensely noticeable.

He felt a strange, almost protective urge to reassure you.

But he didn't say anything. Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was just a coincidence, a fleeting surge of positive energy unconnected to anything real.

He looked around the room, searching for any sign that anyone else was experiencing a similar shift. Carlos was grinning like an idiot, but that was just Carlos being Carlos.

No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Well, welcome!” Carlos boomed, his voice cutting through Charles's internal debate. “I’m Carlos, and this brooding gentleman over here is Charles.”

You turned your attention to Charles, and your eyes met his. He felt a jolt, a small electric shock that ran right through him. Your eyes were captivating, filled with a weariness that tugged at something inside him.

He forced himself to maintain eye contact, searching, hoping for any sign, any flicker of recognition on your face that mirrored the growing certainty within him.

But all he saw was polite curiosity.

"Nice to meet you both," you said, offering a tentative smile. "I'm… Y/N."

"Welcome to the team, Y/N," Carlos said, his smile widening. "We're happy to have you."

You took a seat at the desk opposite Charles, and as you settled in, arranging your papers and fiddling with your laptop, he continued to observe you. The feeling of well-being hadn't dissipated.

If anything, it had intensified. It was like a low, comforting buzz that resonated throughout his entire being.

He stole glances at you throughout the morning, carefully monitoring his own reactions. He felt energized, focused, almost… happy.

This was it. This had to be it.

He'd heard stories, of course, of the almost instantaneous connection, the overwhelming sense of rightness. But he'd dismissed them as romantic exaggerations.

He was a Formula 1 driver, not a fairytale prince.

Yet, here you were.

"So," you began, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickling sensation building behind your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, one that always intensified around... well, around the right person. "Let's talk strategy. We need to ramp up engagement, create compelling content, and showcase the human side of the team."

Carlos, ever the professional, jumped right in. "I was thinking we could do more behind-the-scenes videos. Show the fans what a day in the life of a driver is really like."

"Excellent idea, Carlos," you said, scribbling down notes. "We can also highlight your training regimes, your collaborations with engineers, and your interactions with the team."

You turned to Charles, expecting him to contribute. But he just sat there, staring at you, a strange, almost dazed, expression on his face. The comfortable buzz he felt was almost intoxicating, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"Charles?" you prompted, the prickling behind your eyes intensifying. You felt a slight pressure building in your temples, a familiar ache that threatened to blossom into a full-blown headache.

"Uh... yes," he stammered, snapping back to reality. "Sorry. I was just... thinking."

You forced a smile, the muscles in your face strained. You needed to get through this meeting. “Thinking about what it's like to be Charles Leclerc?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light and conversational, masking the desperation clawing at your throat.

"Yeah! I think it would be a good idea for the fans, you know? A day in the life, that kind of thing," he commented, radiating an enthusiasm that only amplified your suffering. "You think it would work?"

"Definitely," you managed, the word feeling like a shard of glass caught in your throat. "It's all about connecting with the fans, showing them the human side of the drivers. We could film you training, doing media obligations, even grabbing a coffee." You rattled off the ideas, desperate to keep the conversation flowing.

You continued outlining the PR activities planned for the season, the endless interviews, sponsor events, and social media appearances.

Your voice was steady, your demeanor professional, but inside, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. The other members of the Ferrari PR team, seasoned professionals, seemed oblivious to your internal struggle.

"So," you said, finally reaching the end of your presentation, the word "finally" wanting to burst out of you. "That's the general overview. We can discuss specific schedules and logistics later."

Charles and Carlos shook their heads.

"Okay, great," you said, gathering your notes. "Then, Charles, which time are you free?" you asked, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably.

You were feeling faint, the edges of your vision blurring. "For the 'Day in the Life' video, I mean."

Charles was distracted, fiddling with the Ferrari cap in his hands. "Um, I'm free next Tuesday, I think?" he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Good," you said, pushing through the fog in your brain. "I'll come over with a cameraman to record the day in your life, is that okay?"

"Sure," he grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.

You managed a weak smile in return before gathering your things and making a hasty retreat from the hospitality room. The air outside felt marginally better, but the pounding in your head refused to subside.

You had a brief meeting with the other social media managers and editors, running through the ideas you'd presented to the drivers and outlining the content calendar for the next few weeks.

You felt like an imposter, trying to project an image of competence and enthusiasm while battling a pain that threatened to overwhelm you.

It was a dull, persistent ache, a hollow pit in your stomach that resonated with an inexplicable longing. It was the Soulmate Sickness, as your grandmother used to call it, with a dramatic sigh and a knowing look. Every woman in the world knew what that meant: your soulmate was nearby.

The closer they were, the more intensely you felt the ache. It was a cruel irony of fate: men felt blissful contentment when near their soulmate, a sense of completeness and belonging; for women, it was an agonizing reminder of the connection, a pull toward someone they wouldn't truly be at peace with until that kiss.

You knew the stories. Women driven mad by the constant ache, unable to function, their lives consumed by the desperate need to find, and then kiss, their soulmate.

And now, here you were, feeling the first tendrils of that very despair wrap around your heart on your first day at your dream job.

Lunch was a torturous affair. The Ferrari hospitality room was a vibrant, bustling place, teeming with engineers, mechanics, team managers, even the drivers themselves. Every single person felt like a potential source of your pain.

You picked at your pasta, forcing down each bite as the ache amplified, a constant, throbbing reminder of the unknown man who was probably enjoying the greatest day of his life.

You told yourself it was just nerves from the new job. The pressure of living up to expectations. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn’t just butterflies. This was something far more profound, far more insistent.

You were close to him. Very close. Whoever he is.

You leaned back in the seat, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, trying to regain control. The ache lessened, but it was still there, a dull background hum that buzzed beneath your skin.

You must have found your soulmate, you thought, the idea settling in your stomach like a lead weight.

here was no other explanation for it. And that terrified you.

It could literally be anyone in the Ferrari hospitality room. An engineer with grease under his nails, a stern-faced strategist, a camera-shy photographer, or even… Don’t even go there.

You didn’t need this right now. You were just starting your first day at your dream job. A job you’d worked years for, poured your heart and soul into. You couldn't let some primal, biological imperative derail your career before it even began.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, starting the engine. “Okay. You can do this. You’re strong. You’re capable. You’re going to ignore this feeling. You’re going to focus on your work. You’re not going to let some random guy you haven’t even met ruin everything.”

Easier said than done, of course. . . . .

Charles felt it the moment you walked out the glass doors of the Ferrari factory. A dull ache, a low thrum of dissatisfaction that had been a background noise in his life, suddenly amplified, blossomed into a full-blown longing.

It was a feeling he instantly recognized, a feeling every man in their world was intimately familiar with.

The closer you were to your soulmate, the better you felt. The farther, the worse.

And this… this was the worst he’d ever felt.

He’d only met you a few hours ago.

He'd found you intelligent, quick-witted, and surprisingly unfazed by his fame. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t needed to. He'd always assumed his soulmate would be… obvious.

A grand, sweeping feeling, not a dull ache that exploded into unbearable yearning the second you left his sight.

Now, driving home through the winding streets of Italy, all he could think about was you. Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the intelligent questions you'd peppered him with.

The longing intensified with every mile he put between them. The confirmation was undeniable.

He practically threw open the door to his apartment, the silence amplifying the hollow feeling in his chest. He needed to figure this out. He needed to figure out you.

He spent the bulk of the next few hours running through other possibilities, but it all kept centering on you. He felt an energy and inspiration around her that he didn't feel with anyone else. As his thoughts grew chaotic, he realized he needed to talk to someone.

Someone who knew him, who understood him, and who wouldn’t dismiss this as some fleeting infatuation. He needed to talk to his mother.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found her name. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

“Hi, maman,” he said, when she answered, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Charles! Mon chéri, how are you? It’s been too long.” Her voice was warm and full of genuine affection.

“I’m good, maman, busy, as always. But I wanted to ask you something. It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated? Is this about a girl other than Alexandra, Charles?” There was a knowing amusement in her voice.

He hesitated. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Look, you know about soulmates, right? About the feeling men get when they’re close to theirs?”

“Of course, I know. Why? Have you… found the one?” Her voice was laced with anticipation.

“I think so. But it’s… intense. I barely know her, but the feeling is overwhelming. It's all I'm constantly thinking about. Have I ever mentioned her? Her name is Y/N, she's new to the social media team.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

There was a pause. “Someone from your work, Charles? How long has she been working there?”

“I think today was here first time. And no, I've never mentioned her to you. I didn't think anything of it before."

"And you're sure? You truly feel the ache and longing? It is not just a passing infatuation?"

"Maman, I'm sure. I can barely function."

His mother sighed softly. "I see. Well, mon chéri, I don't know her either so I won't know much. This is uncharted territory for me. But you know the rules. You know what women experience with their soulmates."

Charles groaned. "Don't remind me. The poor girls--having to deal with the pain until they get rid of it with a kiss? And if she is my soulmate and I'm just making assumptions, I'll look like a complete idiot."

"That is a risk you will have to take, mon chéri. But if it is truly meant to be, it will all work out. Perhaps you should take a chance? Is she single? And do you even know if she's interested?"

Those were good questions that Charles didn't know the answer to. "I haven't got a clue."

"Then you must find out, Charles. Do not let fear hold you back. This could be the most important thing you ever do."

He knew she was right. He couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. He had to find out if you felt it too. He had to know if he was right.

"Okay, maman," he said, a newfound determination entering his voice. "I'll do it. I'll talk to her. I'll find out."

"That's my boy," she said, her voice full of pride. "I have faith in you, Charles. Now tell me more about this (Y/N)..."

They talked for another hour, his mother peppering him with questions about you, your personality, your work ethic, your smile.

He described you as best he could, trying to convey the spark he felt whenever you were near.

The sterile white of the break room seemed to press in on you, mirroring the suffocating feeling in your chest. You clutched your phone, the cool plastic a small comfort against your trembling hand.

"Dad, I think I found my soulmate," you whispered into the receiver, the words heavy with a sadness that threatened to consume you.

"Really, baby? Why do you sound sad then? Do you not like them?" His voice, warm and familiar, crackled through the speaker, a stark contrast to the icy fear gripping your heart.

"I don't even know who they are," you muttered, staring blankly at the faded motivational poster on the wall. “I was just working, it was my first day, and I just… felt it. This horrible, gnawing ache. It’s constant, Dad. Like a phantom limb screaming for connection. I’m terrified."

A pause stretched between you, thick with unspoken memories. "Is it because of what happened to Mum?" he finally asked, his voice laced with a cautious tenderness.

"Yeah," you managed, the single syllable choked with emotion. The ache in your chest intensified, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been your constant companion since your mother-

"Look, sweetheart," your dad continued, pulling you back from the abyss of memory, "I know this is hard. But you can't let what happened to Mum. This is your soulmate. Maybe… maybe things will be different. You owe it to yourself to find out."

You knew he was right, logically. But the knot of fear in your stomach refused to loosen. "I don't know, Dad. What if… what if it's like what happened to Mum? What if it makes me miserable?"

"Then you walk away. You're strong, Y/N. You're smart. You can handle anything life throws at you. Just… don't let fear paralyze you."

His words, as always, offered a sliver of hope. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "Okay," you said, the word barely audible. "Okay, I'll… I'll try."

"That's my girl. Now, tell me about this job. How was your first day?" He deftly steered the conversation away from the soulmate dilemma, a tactic you were grateful for.

You spent the next few minutes recounting the whirlwind of activity that defined your first day as a social media manager for Scuderia Ferrari.

You’d always been passionate about racing, and landing this job was a dream come true. The adrenaline-fueled atmosphere of the paddock, the roar of the engines, the sheer dedication of the team – it was intoxicating.

Your responsibilities included managing their social media presence, creating engaging content, and interacting with fans. It was a demanding role, but one you were eager to excel at.

As you spoke, you deliberately pushed the unsettling ache to the back of your mind. You focused on the thrill of the job, on the excitement of being a part of something so iconic.

“It was insane, Dad. Honestly, I felt like I was dropped into a beehive. But everyone was so welcoming. And the cars… they're even more beautiful in person."

By the time you hung up, the edge of panic had dulled. The ache was still there, a constant reminder, but you felt a renewed sense of resolve. You would face this, whatever it was.

You wouldn't let fear control you. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The heat of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit presses against you, even in the relative cool of the Ferrari garage. You lift your camera, framing Carlos as he adjusts his racing gloves.

“Looking good, Carlos! Give us a little intensity for the fans.” He throws you a practiced, smoldering glare. Perfect.

Your job is straightforward: capture the behind-the-scenes energy, the pre-race jitters, the quiet moments of focus before the storm.

You’re Ferrari’s social media manager, tasked with humanizing the drivers, making them relatable, building that connection with the tifosi. You love it, most days.

You pan the camera towards Charles' side of the garage. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his neck, a tiny, nervous habit you've noticed over watching him on the TV. “Charles, a word for the fans? Pre-race thoughts?”

He stops, turns, and that devastatingly charming smile flashes across his face. “Just focused, ready to give it my all for the team. Forza Ferrari!” He winks at the camera, and your stomach does a little flip. Annoying.

You’ve felt it more and more often lately, especially around Charles. That…ache. A dull, persistent anxiety that settles in your chest, a yearning that tugs at the edges of your awareness.

And it's happening with Charles Leclerc.

You lower the camera, forcing a professional smile. “Thanks, Charles. Good luck out there.”

“See you after the race,” he says, the words laced with a casual warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

He gives you a fleeting glance, something almost…knowing in his eyes, before turning and heading towards his car, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the pit lane.

You flush, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. This can’t be happening. You know Charles has a girlfriend. You’ve seen the pictures splashed across the internet, the Instagram stories.

It's a glamorous, very public relationship. And the rules are clear, etched into the very fabric of your society: your soulmate is someone available, someone unencumbered.

You can't steal someone else's. It's just not done.

The starting grid is announced over the loudspeakers, and the garage erupts in a flurry of activity. You busy yourself with filming the mechanics' final checks, the engineers hunched over telemetry screens, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest.

You’ve always taken the soulmate phenomenon for granted. It’s just a fact of life. Everyone experiences it, this biological imperative designed to ensure connection, stability, the continuation of society.

You’ve felt the faintest twinges before, in passing, around men you’ve met briefly. Dismissible, almost forgettable. But this…this is different. This is a constant, throbbing ache that threatens to consume you, particularly around Charles.

You meticulously avoid thinking about it, focusing instead on your work. You rule out the possibility entirely.

Charles is taken. End of story.

You even make a mental list of all the other eligible men in the paddock, mechanics, engineers, even other drivers – anyone but Charles.

The race begins, a blur of roaring engines and screeching tires. The giant screens in the garage display every angle, every overtake, every heart-stopping moment. You film the reactions of the team, the collective held breath as Charles and Carlos battle for position.

The final laps are agonizing. Charles is leading, but Max is closing in. The tension in the garage is palpable. You find yourself gripping your camera so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Then, it happens. Charles crosses the finish line. Victory.

The garage explodes in cheers, shouts, and high-fives. You film it all, the raw, unadulterated joy of the team, the shared sense of accomplishment. The crowd is ecstatic.

Charles, still helmeted and dripping with sweat, is guided into parc fermé. You film him climbing out of the car, pumping his fist in the air, soaking in the adulation. He looks…triumphant. Magnificent.

You jostled for position, aiming your camera, capturing his big smile as he hugged his race engineer and the rest of the team. He moved with an exhilarating energy, a palpable buzz of adrenaline that rippled outwards.

He was a magnet, and you found yourself drawn closer, your professional detachment wavering.

And then, he saw you.

His smile widened, somehow becoming even brighter. Before you could think, could prepare, he was striding towards you, his arms outstretched. The awareness hit you like a physical blow.

The gnawing anxiety, the sharp, almost unbearable yearning that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface for weeks, now flared into an inferno.

The closer you were to your match, the more intense the yearning became. And right now, the intensity was almost unbearable.

He pulled you into a tight hug. Your phone, trapped between the two of you, emitted a muffled squeak as it was squished against his chest.

His smell, a heady mix of sweat, gasoline, and something uniquely Charles, filled your senses. It was intoxicating, addicting.

He was feeling it too. The way he squeezed you, the pure, unadulterated joy radiating off him in waves. He was basking, thriving, feeling the best he'd ever felt.

It was confirmation. Undeniable, irrefutable confirmation.

He was your soulmate. But how was that possible? He already had a girlfriend.

Your head swam. The crowd roared, but it sounded distant, muffled. The ache intensified, threatening to overwhelm you. You felt like you were going to faint.

He let go, and your legs momentarily forgot their job. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.

Charles reacted instantly. He reached out, his hand gripping your arm, effectively blocking you from the view of the nearest camera. His grip was firm, supportive. He pulled you closer, shielding you from the prying eyes.

"Sorry," you mumbled, finding your footing. Your voice was shaky. You needed to get out of here, to process this, to… to breathe. The feeling was too much.

He searched your face, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright? You went a bit pale there."

You plastered on your most professional smile, even though your insides were screaming. "Just a bit overwhelmed. It's… it's a big win."

He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. "You were filming everything?"

You nodded, holding up your phone. "Got some great shots. The team's going to love it." You forced yourself to meet his gaze, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Congratulations, Charles. You deserved this."

His smile returned, genuine and warm. It sent another jolt through you, tightening the knot in your stomach. "Thank you. And thank you for everything. You do an amazing job."

"It's my job," you said, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

"Exactly," he said, his eyes twinkling. "And you're very good at it."

He turned back to the crowd, basking in the cheers, signing autographs, and accepting congratulations. You took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed, swallowed by the throng of red-clad fans.

You needed to escape.

You found refuge in the relative quiet of the Ferrari hospitality suite. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversation were a welcome change from the sensory overload of the garage.

You found a quiet corner and sank into a plush armchair, your phone still clutched in your hand.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. This was a disaster. A beautiful, glorious, terrifying disaster.

Your mind raced. What did this mean? What were you supposed to do? Did you tell him? Did you pretend you didn't know? How could you possibly continue to work alongside him, to maintain even a semblance of professionalism, with this knowledge hanging between you?

Your phone buzzed. It was a text from your boss.

"Amazing content! The fans are going wild! Get some shots of the podium ceremony and then meet me in the strategy room. We need to plan the social media blitz for the next 24 hours."

Right. Back to reality. Back to work.

You took another deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. You could deal with this. You had to.

You grabbed your phone and headed back into the fray.

The podium ceremony was a whirlwind of confetti, champagne, and roaring cheers. You filmed it all, capturing Charles's triumphant grin as he hoisted the trophy high above his head.

You interviewed team members, capturing their jubilant reactions. You worked on autopilot, pushing down the anxiety, ignoring the ache.

Later, in the strategy room, you sat around a large table with your boss and several other team members, brainstorming ideas for social media posts, videos, and live streams. You contributed your suggestions, focusing on data, engagement, and trend analysis.

You were a machine, efficient and effective.

You glanced at your phone. A notification from Instagram. Charles had posted a photo of himself on the podium, holding the trophy. The caption read: "Forza Ferrari! Grazie Mille!"

You quickly liked the post. You had to. It was your job.

As you worked late into the night, crafting social media posts and scheduling content, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had irrevocably changed.

You were no longer just a social media manager. You were… something more.

“Dad, I think I’m broken,” you mutter into your phone, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why is that, baby?” your father replies, his tone tinged with concern and curiosity, a familiar warmth that reassures you even now.

You sit up, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. “I think Charles Leclerc is my soulmate,” you explain, your heart thudding heavily in your chest, “but he already has a girlfriend.”

“So?” he asks, as if trying to sift through the fog of your anguish.

“What do you mean, 'so?' He already loves someone else,” your voice rises slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You’ve dated other people who weren’t your soulmate, didn’t you?”

“Well…” You fall silent, realizing he has a point, but it’s not just about dating. You’ve been aware of the perfect connection that exists out there—an electrifying touch that ignites the air around you as you near your true soulmate, a sensation that you’ve yet to experience despite countless suitors.

“But this feels different, Dad,” you finally manage to articulate, your voice cracking. “I’ve felt it—this allure, this pull whenever I'm near him. It’s like I’m supposed to be drawn in, but I can’t get close enough. And now he’s with someone else.”

Your father exhales softly, and for a moment, you think he's contemplating your plight. “Sweetheart, sometimes soulmates have their own timing. Life isn’t always a clear path. It can twist and turn in ways that feel frustrating.”

You groan, flopping back down onto your bed, the familiar nagging feeling in your chest intensifying. “But it’s not fair. I don’t want to wait. What if he’s never free?”

You hear him sigh. “You’ll find your way, darling. None of this is broken. You’re simply allowed to feel.”

But feeling is exhausting. With a grumble, you hang up the phone and toss it to the side.

You pull the covers up around your shoulders, your mind spiraling into thoughts that latch onto one another like tangled threads. . . .

In a world where finding your soulmate was practically a given, it felt ludicrous to deny the truth that lingered like an uninvited guest in the back of your mind. You had tried everything to resist.

The tingling sensation of well-being that blossomed in Charles’s presence was undeniable. Every crease in his smile felt like warmth on a cold winter day, and yet every time you were near him, you felt a gnawing anxiety that scratched away at your insides, waiting for that inevitable kiss that would confirm what you both already knew.

But you avoided Charles at work—until that dreaded Tuesday arrived.

As the clock ticked toward your call time, dread clawed at your stomach. You were tasked with interviewing Charles for a video segment about his recent successes in racing, a seemingly innocent job that had broader implications—one of which was unveiling the truth of your connection.

The whole ordeal left you on edge, not just because of the content of the interview but because of the man you were supposed to be interviewing.

You arrived at his house in Monaco early, fidgeting nervously with the equipment, tapping your foot against the polished floor.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" your cameraman, Mark, asked, sensing your anxiety as he set up the camera. "It's just a video. You could probably wing it."

"You don’t understand," you said, crossing your arms tightly. “It’s not just about the interview.”

As if the universe had conspired to gift you a moment of reprieve, you heard a distraction—a small bark followed by the sound of paws padding against the floor.

You took a deep breath, prepping yourself for whatever awaited you beyond the door.

“Alright, let’s do this,” you whispered to yourself, trying to muster confidence.

You knocked, and after a heartbeat, the door swung open. There stood Charles, his tousled hair glowing softly in the morning light. Cradled in his arms was Leo, who seemed just as excited to see you.

“Hey there, superstar!” Charles greeted, his eyes sparkling with warmth as he shifted Leo to his side. The dog wagged his tail furiously, seeming to sense the tension in the air. “You made it early!”

“Yeah, um…” you fumbled your words, trying to navigate the delightful familiarity of his presence. “I figured it would be good to start on time.”

“Of course!” Charles stepped aside, allowing you into his immaculate home. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the air, and as you entered, you could feel that familiar sense of well-being swelling inside you.

It was infuriating how easily it came.

Leo plopped himself at your feet, looking up at you with expectant eyes. “He likes you,” Charles commented, chuckling as Leo nudged your shoe with his nose.

“Who wouldn’t? He’s a sweetheart,” you replied, squatting down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, trying to mask the flutter of emotions that rose within you. “You’re the lucky one, huh, Leo?”

Charles laughed, a rich sound that sent butterflies tumbling through your stomach. “He’s definitely the lucky one in this household. Come on, let’s get the cameras rolling before I lose my nerve in front of you.”

He led the way into a cozy living room adorned with art and memorabilia from his racing career.

As you settled in, you realized that despite your intentions, you could feel that gnawing anxiety creeping in. It was as if every question you planned to ask was swiftly brushed aside by the rush of feelings that accompanied Charles’s presence.

With Mark now behind the camera, you cleared your throat. “Uh, so, how does it feel to be one of the top drivers in the world?”

Charles shifted in his seat, looking relaxed but attentive. “Honestly? It feels unreal every time I put on that helmet. The roar of the engine, the thrill of the race—it’s like this exhilarating dance with danger. But, you know, having my family and a strong support system means the world.”

The sincerity in his voice stroked against your heartstrings. “That’s incredible. Speaking of support, who do you think has had the biggest impact on your career?”

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aside from Leo?” he teased. “Honestly, it’s you. Your support during last week was amazing.”

Your heart stuttered, and you choked on the words that caught in your throat. “Me?”

“Of course! Whenever you’re around, things just feel easier. I can’t quite explain it,” he said softly, leaning forward as if he was letting you in on a profound secret.

The air crackled between you, and suddenly, the interview felt less like a professional exchange and more like an uncharted territory. You knew you had to breach the elephant in the room, but unease held you back.

“Charles, I—”

Just then, Leo sprang up and knocked over the camera, causing a flurry of laughter to erupt as Mark jumped up to steady it. “Leo! Not now!”

You glanced back at Charles, heat flaring up your cheeks. “Why must you distract us like that?”

Charles grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “I think he senses the chemistry.”

You shot him a skeptical look, but there was no denying the truth in his words. As the camera slowly righted itself, Charles turned serious for a moment.

“Maybe he’s trying to help,” Charles replied, gesturing toward Leo, who had taken residence in your lap, wagging his tail like a flag of friendship.

“Right, because if there’s one thing a dog knows, it’s romance,” you quipped, eliciting a chuckle from Charles that warmed you from the inside out.

“Well, he definitely knows love,” Charles said, a softness returning to his tone as he reached out to scratch Leo behind the ears.

The gesture was so tender, so effortlessly intimate, that you felt a familiar gnawing in your chest, the yearning that intensified with each stolen glance at him.

After a moment, you resumed the interview, Leo settling in your lap like a warm blanket. “What inspired your latest project, Charles? Is it something personal?”

Charles leaned back, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. “Honestly? It’s more than just art for me. It’s about connection. I want people to feel understood. When I see someone looking at my work and they smile, or their eyes light up, it makes everything worth it.”

You nodded, engrossed in his words, but all the while, the underlying tension was like a thread unspooled, weaving a fabric of dubious comfort.

“That’s admirable,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But do you think art can replace human connection?”

His gaze sharpened, the levity of a moment ago dissipating into something contemplative. “I think art can enhance it,” he replied. “But at the end of the day, it’s about the people in our lives. The ones we cherish. The connections we nurture.”

A hint of unease slithered through you at his answer. The thought of deep connections—those that sparked a sense of well-being—made your heart race, but the yearning you felt, a subtle gnawing anxiety, was just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.

You shifted your gaze, avoiding the intensity of his eyes.

“So what else does Charles Leclerc do in a day?” you asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

Charles's expression lightened as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I hope you brought your running shoes because I have to take Leo for a walk,” he said, glancing at his dog, who perked up at the mention of his favorite word.

Leo barked, his tail wagging furiously against your lap.

You looked at Mark, the cameraman, who was observing the interaction with a knowing smile. “You up for some running?” you asked him, half-joking, half-earnest.

“Sure,” he replied, his enthusiasm infectious.

Charles rose from his chair, and Leo leapt to the floor, ready for action. “Let’s hit the trail then! I know a great path nearby that winds through the park.”

The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden hue over the park where Charles and you had decided to take Leo for his much-needed walk.

The vibrant greens of the grass contrasted with the vibrant colors of the flowers that had begun to bloom, a perfect backdrop for the evening. Leo bounded ahead, his tail a blur as he explored the scents of the world around him.

Charles chuckled as he watched Leo dart after a butterfly. “He’s like a kid, isn’t he? Full of energy and wonder.”

You smiled, glancing at the exuberant dog. “He definitely knows how to enjoy life. It’s contagious, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Charles agreed, turning his attention back to you. His eyes sparkled with a warmth that sent that familiar sense of well-being blooming in your chest, an unmistakable sign of his connection to you.

Mark, the cameraman, adjusted his camera, capturing the scene. “This is great! The light is perfect here. Just keep talking; I’ll get some candid shots.”

“Sure thing,” you said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the persistent sensation of gnawing anxiety that accompanied you whenever you got closer to someone like Charles.

“So,” you began, trying to shake off the nervous energy, “do you take Leo on walks like this often?”

“Whenever I can,” Charles said, his smile widening. “He’s my little buddy. It’s good for both of us. You know how it is—work can get hectic, but he reminds me to take a break and enjoy the simple things.”

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his sentiment wash over you. “I get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in deadlines and projects that I forget to take a moment to breathe.”

“Hey, we should do this more often then. Get out, walk, enjoy nature,” he suggested, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

“Sounds like a plan! I could use some fresh air,” you said, a little lighter now.

As Leo darted back to your feet, his wet nose nudging against your leg, you bent down to give him a scratch behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy! How’s my favorite dog?”

Leo responded with a happy bark, and you looked up to see Charles watching you, his gaze soft and appreciative.

“You’re great with him,” he said. “It’s nice to see.”

“Thanks! I just love animals. They have a way of making everything feel less complicated, don’t you think?”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Totally. They don’t judge or overthink things. They just love.”

You felt a twinge of vulnerability, the familiar yearning in your chest growing more intense as you met his gaze. “And what about people? Do you think we overthink love too much?”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging lightly. “But it’s hard not to, especially when you know what it feels like to find your soulmate.”

“Right,” you said, your voice softer. The weight of his words settled over you, a mixture of warmth and anxiety. “But what if it’s not as simple as it seems? What if we’re all just…lost?”

Charles moved closer, his expression earnest. “You’re not lost. You just need to follow your instincts. Pay attention to what makes you feel good. That’s the key.”

“Easier said than done,” you replied with a teasing smirk, but inside, the knot of anxiety twisted tighter.

Mark was busy adjusting his lens, trying to catch the candid moments. “You two are great! Just keep being yourselves. The chemistry is palpable!”

You felt a rush of warmth at the compliment but also an echo of that gnawing feeling, the sense that something was waiting, just out of reach.

“Hey, how about a little race?” Charles suggested, glancing down at Leo, who was now eyeing a distant squirrel.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you can keep up?”

“Bring it on!” he grinned, playfully nudging you. “I’ll give you a head start.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. Let me know when you’re ready.”

As he counted down, you took off, your heart pounding not just from the run, but from the thrill of the moment. You could hear Leo’s paws thumping behind you, the sound of Charles’s laughter ringing in your ears.

You didn’t want to think about the anxiety, the longing, or what it might mean. You just wanted to feel free, even if just for a moment.

You reached the far end of the open field, glancing back over your shoulder to see Charles and Leo closing the gap.

Charles had an effortless grace to his stride, and even as you stood there catching your breath, you felt that familiar warmth radiating from him.

Charles caught up to you, his chest heaving with laughter. “You’re faster than I expected!”

You grinned, your chest rising and falling. “You underestimated me!”

His eyes sparkled, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. “I did! You’re like a gazelle out here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “A gazelle? Really?”

“Okay, maybe more like a clumsy gazelle,” he corrected, grinning as he bent over to pet Leo, who had finally returned, panting with excitement.

“Hey, no need to insult me!” you laughed, and the familiar warmth of his presence wrapped around you, banishing the anxious thoughts—if only for a moment.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark, the cameraman, calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

You glance back at Charles, who has a boyish grin plastered on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. His exuberance is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to forget the gnawing anxiety that usually accompanies your moments with him.

“You ready?” Charles asks, his breath coming in light pants as he straightens up, brushing stray leaves from his shirt.

You nod, the sunlight dancing in your chestnut hair as you brush your fingers through it. “Let’s go finish this.”

But as you start to walk, the gnawing anxiety returns, creeping in slowly like a shadow. The closer you get to him, the more palpable it becomes, a reminder of the connection you cannot seal. It’s a force you can’t escape.

For him, it’s a sense of peace, a warmth that envelops him, but for you, it’s an unbearable longing that only seems to worsen. 

You carry Leo in your arms, feeling the comforting weight of his playful exuberance. He wriggles, trying to escape your hold to chase after a butterfly.

“Alright, alright, little buddy,” you say, gently setting him down. He takes off, bounding with enthusiasm.

“Seems like Leo has no problem being carefree,” Charles muses, watching the puppy chase the flitting insect.

“Yeah, if only we could take a page from his book,” you say lightly, but your heart feels heavy. 

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment.

You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment. You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

As you walk back toward the bench, Leo frolics in the grass, tumbling and rolling as if to illustrate pure joy. Charles kneels beside him, scratching his ears, and you feel an unshakeable pang in your heart.

“Alright, you two, let’s wrap this up!” Mark calls, gesturing for you to take your places.

As you settle down beside Charles, you can’t help but feel the weight of your feelings bearing down. You catch his eye, and there’s something electric between you. 

“So, coming to the end of this interview, do you think you’ll win the championship this year?” you ask, your voice a mixture of professionalism and underlying affection.

“I’m confident that me and Ferrari can achieve big things this year,” Charles replies, his expression earnest, his eyes sparkling with hope.

“That’s what we like to hear,” you respond, letting the moment linger just a second longer than necessary. Your heart races, and not just from the anticipation of the race season ahead.

There’s an unspoken rhythm between you, pulsing in the air like a melody only you two can hear.

You ask more questions, the interview flowing smoothly. Charles speaks with passion about his dreams and aspirations, his love for the sport evident in every word. But all the while, you feel the gnawing anxiety that accompanies your every interaction.

You want to close that distance, to extinguish that yearning, and the idea of a kiss hangs in the air like a tantalizing promise.

“Okay, that’s a wrap! This has been ‘A Day in Charles Leclerc’s Life.’ I hope you guys enjoyed the video and enjoyed me beating him in a race,” you say, your voice light and teasing.

“No way! I gave you a head start,” Charles shoots back, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“There’s no proof,” you shrug, a playful smile spreading across your face.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, shaking his head with a smirk. “But one day, I’ll challenge you to a real race. And I won’t let you get away with a head start.”

“Is that a promise?” you counter, your heart racing for reasons beyond the thrill of competition.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around you. “It’s a promise. But let’s not forget—every time we race, you have to hold my hand as we get started. You know, for luck.”

You both laugh, the sound filling the spacious area, weaving through the barking of Leo, enjoying his carefree afternoon. Mark flashes a thumbs-up, signaling the end of the scene.

 You grinned, a surge of pride warming you.

“Leo, it's time to go home!” you called, your voice laced with playful exasperation.

The miniature dachshund, a furry, low-slung missile, ignored you completely. He zipped across the grass, your ID lanyard dangling precariously from his mouth like a hard-won trophy.

Charles was doubled over, his laughter echoing through the spacious park, a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

“He really likes your lanyard, I think,” Charles chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

“He likes anything he can chew on,” you retorted, but your voice was light, your frustration dissolving in the warmth of his amusement. You resumed your pursuit. “Leo! Come back here, you little menace!”

The chase continued, a comical dance of wills. Leo, fueled by mischief, weaved between trees and benches, the lanyard flapping like a tiny, rebellious flag.

You were gaining on him when he veered sharply, heading straight… for Charles’ legs.

Charles yelped, a surprised sound that only made you laugh harder. Leo, triumphant, dropped the lanyard at his feet and sat, panting, tail wagging furiously.

“Traitor!” you declared, feigning offense. You scooped up the lanyard and clipped it back onto your shirt. “He’s clearly playing favorites.”

Charles knelt, scratching Leo behind the ears. “He has good taste, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes met yours, a mischievous glint in their depths.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. “I… suppose so.” You busied yourself with putting the lanyard away, avoiding his gaze. “We should probably get going. Mark’s almost packed up.”

Mark was indeed packing up, efficiently dismantling the equipment, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging within you. The relief of leaving this park, this proximity, was almost palpable.

The walk back to the car was a pleasant one, objectively speaking. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.

Charles walked beside you, Leo trotting happily at his heels. It should have been idyllic. Instead, it felt like walking a tightrope strung precariously high above a chasm of suppressed emotions.

“I really enjoyed today,” Charles said, his voice soft, breaking the comfortable silence. “It was… relaxing.”

You forced a smile. "I'm happy I was able to make you comfortable," you said, the words feeling hollow even to your own ears. Comfortable for him, maybe.

He stopped walking, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn't quite decipher. "You know," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Most interviewers just ask questions. You actually listened."

You swallowed, the anxiety tightening its grip. "That’s… kind of the point of an interview," you managed, trying to laugh it off. "Besides, it's your life. It’s fascinating."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, and the internal hum escalated into a full-blown alarm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drummer urging you to flee. "Or are you just being polite?"

You averted your gaze, focusing on a distant tree. "I wouldn't waste my time if I wasn't genuinely interested," you mumbled.

Charles chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting his. The amusement was gone, replaced by an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Before he can respond, Mark’s voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N! Am I still giving you a ride home?”

“Uh, oh yeah…” You falter mid-sentence as a wave of panic washes over you. The realization hits you like a cold shower, drawing your attention away from Charles and back to the alarming truth.

Your bag—your essential items, including your keys—are still at Charles’ house. “Shit,” you mutter.

“Um, you can go without me,” you say, mortified now, as a flush of embarrassment floods your system. You can’t even look at Charles. “I left my bag in Charles’ house.”

A flicker of something crosses Charles’ face that you can’t quite decipher—concern? Amusement?

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” Mark calls as he turns on the ignition in his car and pulls away, leaving you alone with Charles.

Now that the silence has settled around you like a thick blanket, you feel the gnawing uncertainty of your emotions wrapping tighter.

Your conflicting instincts tempt you to stay, to dive deeper into the maddening connection of your fate and his, while another part of you urges you to run—run far, far away from this simmering tension and the anxiety that burns you from within.

“You’re okay with walking there, right?” Charles asks, his brow slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours for affirmation.

“Yep,” you manage to reply, though the word barely escapes your lips.

As you walk, Leo, Charles's loyal dog, bounds between you, a bright streak of fur and happiness that somehow lightens the weight pressing on your heart.

You steal a glance at him, noting his handsome features, the way the light catches his dark hair, and the tension in the air thickens—a familiar feeling that both excites and scares you.

The awkward silence envelops you both, filled with unspoken words and parallel thoughts. You’re lost in your own mind, analyzing what Charles meant earlier, wondering if he sensed the connection your heart insists is there.

You catch a glimpse of frustration flickering in Charles's eyes; he’s wrestling with an internal battle of asking if you feel the same, if you both belong to this invisible thread of destiny.

Before long, you arrive at his house—a cozy, unassuming space that feels utterly alive with its charm. Charles opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first while he carries Leo in his arms.

The familiar scent of cedarwood and freshly brewed coffee envelops you as you step inside.

“Just grab your bag and let’s get out of here,” you say to yourself, trying to mask the heaviness that clings to your heart.

But as you move towards the living room, Charles’s voice halts you, a note of sadness threaded through his tone. “Could you please stay for a while? Leo really likes you.” Leo barks in enthusiastic agreement, his tail wagging furiously.

Your resolve begins to soften at the sight of Charles's hopeful expression, the way his eyes shine with an almost childlike earnestness.

You look down at Leo, wagging his tail expectantly, and your heart sinks a little further. “Okay,” you finally say, a reluctant smile breaking through the anxiety.

You both settle onto the plush sofa, Leo scrambling onto your lap, his warm presence comforting against the storm of emotions inside you.

As you play with Leo, tossing a soft toy for him to chase, Charles watches you with an intensity you can hardly bear. His admiration for you lingers in the air, and you can’t ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Leo thinks you’re the best,” he says, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. “I think he has good taste.”

You chuckle, trying to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. “If Leo approves, then there must be something good about me.”

“I do think you're wonderful,” he comments, and for a moment, the world around you fades. His sincerity wraps around you, igniting that undeniable pull between you both.

“Thank you, Charles,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing, betraying the wall you had built around your heart. If Leo had any say in the matter, he certainly seemed to be steering you in Charles’s direction.

Leo decided he was ready for some action again, leaping from your lap to chase after the soft toy you had tossed across the room. The joy on his face was immeasurable, a reminder of life’s simplest pleasures.

You wondered if it was too late to change the subject before you allowed yourself to drown in the depths of connection that was blooming—an uncharted territory you feared to venture into.

“May I take a picture of you and Leo for my ‘Cute Leo’ folder?” Charles asked, his eyes sparkling like the stars. Before you could respond, he pulled out his phone, and you found yourself nodding, an odd mixture of excitement and dread flipping your stomach.

The click of the camera sounded as you smiled down at Leo in your arms, your affection for the dog pouring out in earnest.

“Perfect,” he m, glancing at the screen before a look of longing crossed his features. You caught a glimpse of the image—your face beaming with love and happiness, a stark contrast to the inner turmoil festering inside you.

“What do you think about soulmates?” Charles asked suddenly, breaking the momentary silence, the question landing heavily between you like an anchor.

You froze, your heart pounding as you looked up into those earnest eyes. “What do you mean?” you asked, trying to read his expression, warm curiosity mingling with something deeper.

“Like, just your opinion on them,” he rambled, the casualness of his tone masking the weight of the subject. “Do you think you have one? I’m curious.”

You hesitated, the words wrapping around memories you had tried to suppress. “Well, I think everyone has a soulmate, but for me, I don’t think I want to meet mine,” you said slowly, drifting your gaze to Leo, who was now engrossed in an imaginary chase.

“Why?” Charles’s question was soft yet insistent, a kind invite for you to unfold the truth. You could feel the warmth emanating from him; it was a stark contrast to the chill that had purposefully wrapped itself around your heart.

You took a deep breath. “An accident happened in my family. It changed my thoughts about soulmates. I believe they come with too much trouble and pain,” you explained, the words flowing out before you could even think them through. In that moment, you realized you were baring a part of yourself that you rarely shared, but perhaps the weight of your thoughts would be understood—especially if he might be your soulmate.

Charles’s expression fell, and you felt your heart splinter as he absorbed your words. Did he not understand the implication behind them? Did he not know that you believed the tether between you was fraught with risk?

“I see,” he said quietly, but the shift in his demeanor was palpable—the distance grew between you, as if an ocean had poured in to separate your worlds.

“Your thoughts are different, of course,” you attempted to lighten the mood, forcing a strained grin. “You’ve already found your soulmate, right?”

He nodded, but the agreement held a quiet hesitance that did not escape you.

“… with Alex.”

His heart sank as he grappled with the realization. “You think Alex is his soulmate?”

He froze, his eyes wide with realization, as if the universe had just collapsed around him.

Did you—could you—really believe that Alex was truly his soulmate?

Before he could muster a response, your phone rang, jolting you both from the oppressive silence. You glanced down at the screen to see your dad’s name flashing.

“Oh! I forgot I was getting dinner with my dad! I have to go, sorry,” you said hurriedly, shoving your phone back in your pocket, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.

“Do you need me to drive you there?” Charles asked, glancing at you with sincerity.

“It’s not necessary; it’s just Cantinetta Antinori,” you replied, adopting a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite mask the tightness in your chest.

“Right. No problem,” he murmured, but you caught the muted disappointment in his voice, a low tremor that tugged at your insides. It felt like a tether unraveling, and you hated it.

You stood up from the couch, leaving Leo behind as you tossed your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for letting me play with Leo a little. See you tomorrow, Charles.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, his tone infused with an aching bittersweetness as he followed you to the door and opened it.

You hesitated for a moment, caught by the sight of him standing there, hands tucked into his pockets.

You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and you walked away, fighting the urge to turn back and reassure him, to do anything to stop that look of muted disappointment from settling in his features.

“Right, Leo, let’s go visit Maman,” he sighed, trying to infuse a sense of normalcy into the moment, the dog wagging its tail in response.

Charles shrugged off his coat, the familiar scent of lavender and simmering herbs enveloping him. “Maman! I’m home,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the cozy, book-lined hallway.

A moment later, a woman with kind eyes and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the kitchen. “Charles! You’re back early. Did the interview go well?” Pascale pulled him into a warm embrace.

“It was… great,” Charles said, carefully avoiding her gaze.

“Great, eh? That’s good. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don’t you relax?” Pascale patted his cheek. "I'm making your favorite."

He managed a smile. “Sounds wonderful, Maman.”

Pascale then looked at Leo, his dog, a golden retriever, on the floor. "How have you been?"

Leo barked happily, running around her feet. Pascale laughed, stooping to pet Leo before returning to the kitchen. Charles followed, leaning against the counter, his mind replaying the events of the afternoon.

"So, what are you thinking about? Y/N?" Pascale suddenly asked, startling him.

He jumped. “Um, yeah, I told you she interviewed me, right Maman?”

“Yeah, you should be happy then,” she said with a knowing look in her eye.

“I was, and I still am. She’s amazing, beautiful, and funny but…” he paused, a shadow falling over his face.

“But?” Pascale asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I asked her about soulmates, and she said something about having an accident in her family which made her not want to find her soulmate. She also thinks that Alex is my soulmate, but I couldn't say anything because she had to meet her dad at some restaurant,” he ranted, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

Pascale looked at her son with sympathy. "Okay, fils, breathe. Now, I'm curious, do you have a picture of her?"

“Um… yes, I do,” he said, fumbling for his phone. He pulled it out and showed his mother the picture he’d taken of Y/N holding Leo in her arms earlier that day. She had an easy smile and her eyes sparkled.

Pascale smiled as she looked at it. "She is very pretty. She looks familiar, but from where?" She handed the phone back. "What restaurant was she going to?"

“She said Cantinetta Antinori,” he replied.

Pascale’s brow furrowed. "I've been there a few times." She paused, a distant look in her eyes. 

Charles, seizing on this new thread of conversation, asked, “How do you get a soulmate again?” He needed a refresher, a grounding in the established reality that you seemed determined to ignore.

Maybe if he understood the mechanics better, he could understand her resistance. He knew the theory, of course, but hearing it again, reaffirmed, might help.

Pascale considered his question carefully. "You meet them around the age of 12-13," she said slowly, her gaze drifting off as she mentally scanned her memories, searching for any significant event or interaction from that period. 

"You have an instant connection with the person, at least that's how it was with me and your father," Pascale smiled, thinking about her late husband.

Charles thought about any girls he had met at that time. Was it anyone in school or any girls who were in karting? He had always been passionate about racing, and it was through this hobby that he had met many of his closest friends. But as he went through the list of girls he had known, none of them seemed to fit the bill.

"What if you don't meet them at that age?" Charles asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What if you don't feel that instant connection?"

Pascale shook her head. "It's not always instant, Charles. Sometimes it takes time for the connection to develop. And sometimes people meet their soulmates later in life. It's not a hard and fast rule."

Charles nodded, taking in this new information. He had always thought that finding his soulmate would be a simple, straightforward process. But now he was beginning to understand that it was more complicated than he had initially thought.

"How do you know when you've found them?" Charles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Pascale smiled, her eyes softening with affection. "You just know," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "It's like a feeling of completeness, of wholeness. It's like you've found a piece of yourself that you didn't even know was missing."

He smiled too, thinking about her. "Well, it definitely feels like that," he admitted, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Oh maman! The food!" he exclaimed, jolted back to reality by the pungent smell of burning garlic.

He leaped up, rescuing the pan just as Pascale shrieked in mock horror. "Charles! You scared me! And look at what you almost made me do to dinner." She chuckled, waving a wooden spoon at him playfully.

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Maman. Lost in thought."

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles, still buzzing from his go-karting victory, walked along the familiar street towards home. The plastic trophy, a symbol of his triumph, felt warm against his palm.

His family had promised a celebratory barbeque, and the aroma of grilling burgers already tickled his senses.

He was twelve years old, practically a teenager, and life felt good.

As he passed Cantinetta Antinori, the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes usually a comforting aroma, was overridden by something else: the unmistakable sound of crying.

It was a soft, muffled sound, but persistent enough to slice through the celebratory bubble he'd been inhabiting. Charles, usually one to avoid emotional entanglements, found himself drawn towards the source.

Behind the restaurant, tucked between the brick wall and a overflowing dumpster, sat a girl. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with long, dark hair that obscured her face. Her shoulders shook with each sob.

Even from a distance, Charles could tell she was pretty, the kind of pretty that made him feel a strange flutter in his chest he couldn't quite decipher.

Ignoring the nagging voice in his head that urged him to keep walking, to focus on the promised party, Charles approached cautiously.

The stories his older brother, Lorenzo, told about girls – complicated, dramatic stories – flashed through his mind. But he couldn't just leave her there.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little higher than usual, "are you okay?"

The girl froze, her sobs abruptly cut short. Her head snapped up, and she blinked at him, her eyes red and swollen. She frantically wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the remnants of her tears.

"Um, I'm okay," she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

The lie hung in the air between them. Charles wasn't stupid. "You don't sound okay," he countered gently, edging closer. "Is something wrong?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering between Charles and the ground. He noticed she was wearing a simple blue dress. He also felt a… something. A strange pull, like a gentle current tugging him closer.

It was faint, barely noticeable, but definitely there. It was a warm, comforting feeling, like wrapping himself in his favorite blanket on a cold day. 

"It's nothing," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word. More tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, emboldened by the strange comfort that emanated from her, sat down beside her on the cracked pavement. He kept a respectful distance, unsure of how close was too close.

"Everyone cries sometimes," he said, trying to sound wise beyond his years. "It doesn't mean it's nothing."

She finally met his gaze, her dark eyes filled with a vulnerability that tugged at his heart. "It's my mom," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She passed away."

Charles's own breath hitched. He didn't know what to say. He'd never experienced anything like that. He just sat there, silent, feeling utterly helpless.

"It was really sudden," she continued, the tears flowing freely now. "She was fine one day, and then…she just didn't wake up."

Charles reached out and awkwardly patted her arm. "I'm really sorry," he said, the words sounding inadequate even to his own ears.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Everything feels…wrong."

"I can't imagine," Charles said, wishing he could offer her more than just empty words. 

Then, an idea sparked in his mind. He held up his tarnished trophy, a shy, hopeful smile gracing his face. "My family are celebrating my win. Do you want to come and celebrate with me?"

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering within their depths. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Charles smiled, a genuine, bright smile that chased away some of the shadows in his own heart. "It's okay, it's my party! Come on," he said, standing up.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, then wiped her tears and took his hand. He pulled her up gently.

"Well, we have to be quick, my brothers might finish all the food," he said, grabbing her hand and starting to run, a playful grin on his face.

She stumbled a little at first, but soon matched his pace, a faint smile finally gracing her lips.

The aroma of barbeque hit them long before they reached the house. The air thrummed with laughter and music. A string of brightly colored lights crisscrossed the backyard, illuminating a scene of chaotic celebration.

Charles' family was large and boisterous, a whirlwind of hugs, loud conversation, and the constant clinking of glasses. 

"Hi, Maman!" Charles called out, not letting go of her hand.

Pascale, his mother, a woman built like a sturdy oak tree with a smile as warm as summer sunshine, turned towards them. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in her, still clinging to Charles' hand.

A knowing smile spread across her face.

"Charles! Congratulations, mon chéri!" She engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug, then turned her attention to her.

"And who is this lovely young lady? A friend from school?" Pascale's eyes were knowing.

Charles' eyes widened in embarrassment. He hadn't even properly learned her name! He'd been so caught up in the simple, radiating joy that had bloomed within him ever since she'd agreed to come to his party – a joy so potent it felt like sunshine warming his bones.

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N," she whispered back, her voice barely audible above the party noise.

"This is Y/N, Maman. She's celebrating with us!" Charles beamed, squeezing her hand reassuringly. The feeling of rightness was almost intoxicating for him.

Y/N offered a small, hesitant smile. "Hello, Madame." The gnawing anxiety felt almost unbearable, a constant flutter in her chest like a trapped bird.

And yet, underneath, something felt… safe when she was with Charles. It was a faint, unfamiliar sensation, easily drowned out by the anxiety, but it was there.

“Please, call me Pascale,” his mother’s smile never faltered. “Come, come, you must be starving! Let me get you something to eat.” She steered them towards the barbeque, where Charles's father, Hervé, was presiding over a veritable mountain of grilled meats.

The rest of the evening was a dizzying swirl of faces and food for Y/N. Charles, radiating an effortless confidence he'd never possessed before, introduced her to his boisterous brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo.

“So, Charles, finally found a girl who can tolerate your driving?” Arthur teased, ruffling his younger brother's hair.

“Yeah, she must have a strong stomach!” Lorenzo chimed in, winking at Y/N.

Charles flushed with embarrassment. He was too busy beaming at Y/N to notice the heat creeping up his neck. "Leave her alone," he mumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He was just too happy.

Y/N managed a weak smile. She felt like she was walking through a dream. The anxiety never truly left her – it was a persistent hum beneath the surface – but it was tempered by the genuine warmth and acceptance she felt from Charles's family. They didn’t treat her like an outsider, but welcomed her into their midst with open arms.

Charles, for his part, never left her side. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out funny anecdotes about his family, explaining the rules of karting, and generally just making sure she felt comfortable. The warm, happy feeling never left him, growing stronger with each passing moment.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the fairy lights began to flicker, Y/N felt a sharp pang of sadness. The thought of going back to her quiet, often lonely, existence was almost unbearable.

She’d never experienced anything like this before – a feeling of belonging, of being seen, of being… important.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Charles as they stood by the gate, the last of the guests drifting away. “For inviting me. For everything.”

Charles blushed, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. He was suddenly shy, the carefree confidence of earlier replaced by a nervous energy. "It was nothing. I had fun."

He looked up at her, his eyes earnest and a little vulnerable. "We should do it again sometime."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The anxiety spiked again, almost overwhelming her, making her breath catch in her throat.

But beneath it, that faint sense of safety flickered, growing a little stronger. She managed a small, hesitant smile. "Maybe."

Charles, feeling braver than he had ever felt before, reached out and gently touched her hand.

His entire body thrummed with contentment, a feeling so pure and untainted that it made his head spin. "I hope so."

Y/N, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swirling inside her, acted on instinct. She leaned forward and quickly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the briefest, lightest touch.

Then, before he could react, she turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

Charles stood there, stunned, his cheek burning where her lips had touched. The simple joy was now charged with something else, something electric and confusing and intensely exciting.

He touched his cheek, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Though he never saw her again after that day. . . .

[symbiotic-slime]

I need to write a fic where Eddie is absolutely going through it post Venom 3. I need that man broken and pathetic and fucked up

[luv-lock]

⸻ ʟ ᴏ ᴠ ᴇ ᴍ ᴇ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Aegon I Targaryen x Fem Reader

Summary: Aegon spends his life desperately trying to win the love of his sister. And yet he's never enough.

Warning: Non-Con (rape), targcest, physical violence, murder, obsessive and delusional behavior, child loss/grief.

Notes: English is not my first language. Art belong to Denis Maznev. Hope you enjoy!

She was always there.

From his earliest memories, her face is etched in his mind like a cold, pale moon. She never smiled, never laughed. Never cried. Just looked. Always watching, always silent. Even as children, while Rhaenys played with him, she was a shadow in the background. A constant presence that gnawed at him, her cold eyes watching him with that empty gaze. It was as if nothing could move her, nothing could please her. But he tried. Gods, how he tried.

He was barely seven, still small but proud of the sword his father had given him. He had trained for hours, his arms aching, his legs sore, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to show her. He wanted her to see him—really see him—for once.

He had run to her, his little chest puffed out with pride, holding his wooden practice sword like it was Blackfyre itself. "Look! Look what I can do!" he had said, his voice bright with excitement. He swung the sword in wide arcs, spinning and thrusting as best as his small body could manage. "Did you see that? I’m going to be a great warrior! You’ll see!"

But she just stood there. Watching. Her face expressionless, her eyes cold, as if she hadn’t seen anything at all. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t even blink. It was like he wasn’t there, like his efforts were meaningless.

He had felt something tighten in his chest then, a feeling he didn’t understand. A hollow ache that made his hands shake as he gripped the sword tighter. He tried again, swinging harder, faster. "Are you watching?!" he had shouted, frustration leaking into his voice.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything.

She never did.

And that’s how it always was. Every time he tried, every time he showed her something—his victories in the yard, his skills in battle—she just watched. Her cold eyes always on him but never giving him what he craved. Never giving him anything.

But then, that day came. The day that broke something inside him.

He remembers the sound first. The sound of her laughing. It was so foreign, so unexpected that he almost didn’t believe it at first. He had stopped in his tracks, heart racing, the sound of her laughter echoing in his ears like the sweetest music he’d ever heard. For a moment, just a moment, he thought it was meant for him. Finally, he thought, she was laughing. She was happy. Maybe, just maybe, he had done something to make her feel.

But then he saw it.

She wasn’t laughing with him. She wasn’t laughing for him.

She was laughing with a man. Some nobody. A fool. A good-for-nothing who could never even begin to understand her, let alone deserve her. And yet, there she was, her eyes shining, her lips curved into a smile—something Aegon had never seen in all his life. She was radiant, her laughter like music, but it wasn’t for him.

The rage came fast, burning through his veins like fire. How dare this man, this insignificant speck, be the one to bring her joy? How dare she smile for him, laugh for him, when she had never once given Aegon anything but that cold, dead stare? He could hardly see through the fury as he drew his sword, his heart pounding in his ears, and with one swift strike, he cut the man’s head clean off.

The blood sprayed across the floor as the man's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, useless. And Aegon, triumphant, stood there holding the severed head, his heart racing with the thought that maybe now—now—she would see how much he loved her.

He brought the head to her, a smile tugging at his lips, presenting it like a gift, like an offering to a goddess.

But then, for the first time, he saw her cry.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent, like everything else about her. She didn’t wail or scream, just wept, her cold, distant eyes filled with sorrow. But not for him. Never for him. The realization hit him like a dagger to the chest. She wasn’t crying for him. She was mourning the other man, that worthless fool.

Could she not see? Could she not understand what he had done? He had killed for her. For her. To prove his love. Why couldn’t she see that?

It was worse now. So much worse.

He stands in the room, their child’s room, staring at the small bed where their son had once slept. His heart is heavy, his chest tight with grief that he can’t seem to swallow. Tears burn in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. Their child is dead. Gone. And he can barely breathe from the weight of it.

But when he looks at her, she’s standing by the window, her back to him, staring out into the night as if nothing had happened. As if their son wasn’t lying cold and still in the crypts below.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t even move.

His son, their child, lay lifeless, and yet...she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. The realization gnawed at him, twisting in his chest like a knife. If it had been another man’s child, would she be mourning now? Would she cry for that child, like she had cried for that worthless fool?

"Do you...do you not care?" His voice cracks, the words barely a whisper. He feels like he’s choking on the silence. "He was our child. Our son." His hands tremble, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Why… why?"

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t.

She never answers.

The hollow ache that had plagued him since childhood is back, sharper than ever. He stares at her, at her still, cold form, and something inside him snaps. He can feel it, like a tether breaking, a dam bursting inside his mind.

"Why?" he growls, his voice low, trembling with fury. "Why can’t you love me? Is it really so hard?!" He steps toward her, fists clenched, his heart hammering in his chest. "I’ve done everything for you. Everything!"

His hands shake as he grabs her by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him. She looks at him with that same blank, emotionless expression, her eyes cold and distant, as if she’s not even here. As if she’s not even alive.

"I killed for you!" His voice is rising, desperate, wild. "I’ve fought for you, bled for you! I’ve done everything you could ever want, but you—" He pauses, his breath coming in harsh gasps as a dark, twisted thought coils in his mind. "Is this because of him? Because I killed that servant? Did you really think he could love you more than I do? That he deserved you? Him?"

His grip tightens, fingers digging into her flesh. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the rage coursing through his veins. "I am the one who loves you. I’m the one who’s always loved you!"

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Just stares at him with those empty, cold eyes.

The silence is unbearable. It breaks him.

With a roar, he grabs her dress, tearing at the fabric, ripping it apart in his hands. He’s rough, vicious, his fingers leaving bruises on her pale skin as he forces himself onto her.

She doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t scream. She just lies there, blank, her body cold and still beneath his. The more she doesn’t react, the harder he thrusts, the rougher he becomes, as if he can force her to feel something—anything. He can feel the blood, can see the bruises forming on her skin, but she just keeps staring at him, those empty eyes boring into him, cold and unfeeling.

But it didn’t matter.

She will love me. She will.

"You will love me," he growls, his voice low and savage, each thrust more brutal than the last. "You will love me. You’ll see. I’ll make you."

But she doesn’t change. She never changes.

Even as her body bleeds, even as he takes her in the most violent, twisted way, she just looks at him with that same cold, distant stare. As if he’s nothing. As if nothing will ever be enough.

Her eyes stayed cold.

Her eyes stayed empty.

And still, he kept going.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[pucksandpower]

The Perfect Mate

Day 28 → A/B/O 💋 Oscar Piastri

Warnings: 18+ content, dubious consent, and breeding

Kinktober Masterlist

The news comes like a sudden storm, the kind that rolls in on a summer day when the skies were blue just moments before. You’re in the kitchen, setting the table for dinner. Your mother is at the stove, stirring something that smells faintly of rosemary and garlic, a comforting scent that usually makes you feel at home. But tonight, it’s different.

You can feel it in the air, the way your father is pacing by the window, his hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep something inside. Your mother’s voice is too steady when she finally speaks.

“We got a call today,” she says, without turning around. The spoon in her hand trembles slightly. “From the school.”

The school. The words drop into the room like stones, rippling through the quiet. You know what she’s going to say next, even before she says it. You’ve been dreading this conversation for weeks, ever since your first heat hit you like a freight train, your body burning with a fever you couldn’t understand.

“They’ve made a decision,” she continues, and now she turns, her eyes finding yours across the room. “They think it’s best if you … attend a different school. A special one.”

“A special school,” you echo, the words hollow in your mouth. You know what she means, even if she doesn’t say it outright. A school for omegas. The kind of place where they send girls like you, girls who’ve just discovered they aren’t like everyone else.

You stand there, frozen, while your father finally stops pacing. He comes to stand beside your mother, his face tight with the strain of holding back his thoughts. You’ve seen that look before, on the faces of other parents in town when they talk about “those schools,” the ones far away where no one can see what really happens inside. But now, it’s your parents standing there, and it’s you they’re talking about sending away.

“I don’t want to go,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I want to stay here.”

Your mother sighs, a soft, defeated sound, as she wipes her hands on a dish towel. “It’s not safe for you here anymore, sweetheart. Not now that you’ve … presented.”

Presented. It’s such a clinical word for something that feels anything but. You feel exposed, like your skin has been peeled back to reveal something raw and vulnerable underneath. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to protect yourself from the inevitability of it all.

“But what about my friends? What about school here?” Your voice cracks, and you hate how small you sound, how desperate.

“It’s only for a little while,” your father says, stepping forward. He’s trying to sound reassuring, but there’s an edge of worry in his voice that betrays him. “Just until you’ve had the training you need. Then you can come back.”

You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes. “I don’t need training. I’m fine the way I am.”

“You don’t understand, Y/N,” your mother says gently, moving closer. She reaches out to touch your arm, but you pull away. “This is for your own good. There are things you need to learn … things we can’t teach you.”

“Like what?” You snap, anger flaring up to replace the fear. “How to be an obedient little omega? How to bow down to an alpha and let them control my life?”

“Y/N,” your father warns, but there’s no real force behind it. He’s just as lost as you are in this moment, and you can see it in the way his shoulders sag, the way his gaze shifts to the floor.

You look between the two of them, your parents who have always been your rock, and feel a chasm opening up between you. This is the moment when everything changes, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

“When do I have to go?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your mother hesitates, glancing at your father before she answers. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The word echoes in your mind, a death knell for everything you’ve known. There’s no time to say goodbye to your friends, no time to prepare yourself for what’s coming. It’s happening too fast, like a tidal wave sweeping you off your feet.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. You barely taste the food on your plate, pushing it around with your fork until your mother finally sighs and takes it away. You retreat to your room after that, curling up on your bed with your thoughts spinning like a storm.

The reality of it all doesn’t hit you until much later, when the house is dark and silent. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of what’s to come pressing down on your chest.

You’re leaving. You’re being sent away because you’re different, because you’re an omega. The word still feels foreign on your tongue, something that doesn’t belong to you. You’ve heard stories, of course, whispered in the halls at school, but they were always about other people, distant and unconnected to your life.

But now it’s you. You’re the one being whispered about, the one whose life is being uprooted. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

When morning comes, it’s like watching someone else’s life unfold in slow motion. Your mother helps you pack, her hands gentle as she folds your clothes and tucks them into the suitcase. Your father lingers in the doorway, trying to find the right words to say, but nothing comes out.

You don’t say much either. There’s nothing left to say. You’re numb, moving through the motions without really feeling anything. It’s easier that way, easier than letting the fear and anger take over.

The drive to the school is long and silent. Your parents don’t turn on the radio, and the only sound is the hum of the car’s engine and the occasional rustle of paper as your father checks the directions. You stare out the window, watching the world blur by in a wash of green and gray.

When you finally arrive, the school is nothing like you imagined. It’s a sprawling estate, with tall iron gates and manicured lawns that stretch out as far as the eye can see. It looks more like a prison than a school, and the sight of it makes your stomach churn.

Your mother parks the car, and you sit there for a moment, staring up at the imposing building. It feels like a bad dream, one you can’t wake up from.

“Are you ready?” Your father asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, even though you’re not. But what choice do you have?

They walk you to the gates, your suitcase rolling behind you on its tiny wheels. A woman in a crisp uniform meets you there, her smile too bright, too practiced. She introduces herself, but you barely catch her name. It doesn’t matter.

“This way, Y/N,” she says, leading you through the gates. Your parents follow behind, their footsteps heavy on the gravel path.

Inside, the school is just as cold and unwelcoming as the outside. The corridors are wide and echoing, with polished floors that reflect the fluorescent lights above. The woman leads you to an office, where you’re asked to sit while she speaks with your parents in hushed tones.

You sit there, staring at the walls, trying to hold yourself together. You can hear snippets of their conversation, words like “curriculum,” “discipline,” and “safety,” but they all blur together in a meaningless jumble.

Finally, your parents return. Your mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, and your father’s face is pale. They both hug you tightly, whispering words of reassurance that feel empty and hollow.

“We’ll come visit,” your mother says, her voice trembling. “As soon as we can.”

You nod, but you don’t really believe it. You can see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty of what lies ahead. They don’t know any more than you do.

When they finally leave, it feels like the ground has been pulled out from under you. You’re alone, in a strange place that feels more like a cage than a school. You want to run, to escape, but there’s nowhere to go.

The woman who met you at the gate returns, her smile still fixed in place. She leads you to your dorm room, a small, sterile space with a single bed and a desk. Your suitcase is placed at the foot of the bed, a reminder of the life you’ve left behind.

“Get some rest,” she says, her tone brisk and efficient. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. She leaves you there, closing the door softly behind her, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You sit on the bed, staring at the blank walls, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on you. You’re an omega. You’re in a school for omegas. And there’s no going back.

The tears come then, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks as you curl up on the bed. You don’t know how long you lie there, crying until there are no tears left. You feel empty, hollowed out by the weight of it all.

Eventually, exhaustion pulls you under, and you drift into a restless sleep, your dreams filled with shadows and echoes of the life you’ve lost.

***

The days at the school have a way of blending together, each one indistinguishable from the next. Morning rolls into afternoon, which slides into evening, and soon enough, another day is gone. You’ve learned not to think too hard about time, how long you’ve been here, or how many more days you’ll have to endure. It’s easier that way.

There was a time when you counted the days, marking each one on a small calendar tucked away in your drawer. You kept track of your parents’ visits, circled in red ink, little reminders that they hadn’t forgotten you. But as the months turned into years, the red circles became fewer and farther between until they disappeared altogether.

You can barely remember the last time you saw their faces, the way your mother used to smooth your hair back with gentle fingers, or the way your father’s hugs felt strong and safe. They promised it would only be for a little while, just until you had learned what you needed to know, but that promise dissolved like sugar in water, leaving a bitter taste behind.

Now, all you know is this place, the routine that keeps you tethered to some semblance of sanity. Wake up at dawn. Breakfast in the dining hall. Classes in the morning — Etiquette, Obedience, Mating Practices — each lesson designed to mold you into the perfect omega. Lunch, more classes, then an hour of exercise before dinner. Evenings are quiet, filled with studying or silent contemplation in your room. Lights out at nine, and then it all begins again.

You’ve learned how to be a good omega. It’s second nature now, a reflex as automatic as breathing. You know how to keep your head down, how to smile politely, how to answer questions with soft, submissive tones. You know how to hide your emotions, how to tuck away the anger and fear that once simmered just beneath the surface. Those feelings have dulled over time, like a blade worn down from overuse.

The other girls are much the same. You’ve made a few friends — if you can call them that — but it’s hard to be close to anyone here. Everyone is too focused on survival, on making it through another day without drawing unwanted attention. You share polite conversations, exchange small smiles in passing, but there’s an unspoken understanding that it’s every omega for herself.

It’s a Tuesday evening when everything changes. You’re gathered in the dining hall, the long tables lined with girls dressed in identical uniforms, their heads bowed over plates of bland, tasteless food. The room is filled with the clatter of utensils and the murmur of quiet conversation, the same as it always is.

But tonight, there’s a different energy in the air, a tension that makes your skin prickle with unease. You notice it in the way the other girls are sitting a little straighter, their eyes darting toward the head of the room where the headmistress stands, her sharp gaze sweeping over the crowd.

You don’t look directly at her — no one ever does — but you can feel her presence like a weight pressing down on your shoulders. The headmistress is a tall, severe woman with iron-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. She commands the room with an authority that brooks no defiance, and when she speaks, everyone listens.

“Good evening, girls,” she begins, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation like a knife. The room falls silent immediately, all eyes fixed on their plates as she continues. “I have an important announcement to make.”

You steal a glance at the girl sitting next to you, a slight, mousy-haired omega named Emily. Her hands are clenched in her lap, her knuckles white, and you can see the same fear mirrored in her wide eyes.

The headmistress pauses, letting the silence stretch out until it’s almost unbearable. Finally, she speaks again, her tone measured and calm. “As you all know, we are approaching a very special time of year. In just a few weeks, we will be hosting our annual adoption day.”

A collective shiver runs through the room, a ripple of unease that you can feel in your bones. Adoption day. The words hang heavy in the air, charged with a meaning that everyone understands but no one dares to speak aloud.

“This is a significant event,” the headmistress continues, her gaze sweeping the room. “It is a time when alphas from all over the continent come to our school to choose which one of you will become their mate.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your stomach twisting into knots. You’ve heard about adoption day, of course. It’s the day every omega dreads and hopes for in equal measure. The day when your future is decided, when you are chosen — or not — by an alpha who will take you away from this place. It’s supposed to be an honor, a privilege, but you know the truth. It’s a sentence, a life chosen for you, one you have no say in.

“Over the next few weeks,” the headmistress says, “you will be preparing for this event. You must be on your best behavior at all times. The alphas who come here expect nothing less than perfection, and it is our duty to ensure that you meet their expectations.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the room. “You will be evaluated on your obedience, your manners, your appearance, and your ability to perform the duties expected of an omega. Failure to meet these standards will result in … consequences.”

The word lingers in the air, heavy with unspoken threats. You know what she means. You’ve seen what happens to the girls who fail, who don’t measure up. They’re sent away, to places even worse than this, places where omegas are little more than property, where they’re broken down until there’s nothing left of them.

You swallow hard, trying to push down the rising tide of panic. You’ve been good, you remind yourself. You’ve done everything you were supposed to do, followed every rule, learned every lesson. But the fear gnaws at you, a constant, insidious whisper in the back of your mind.

The headmistress gives a tight, satisfied nod. “I trust that you will all rise to the occasion. This is your chance to prove your worth, to show the alphas that you are deserving of their attention. Do not disappoint me.”

With that, she turns and strides out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. No one moves, no one speaks, the weight of her words pressing down on all of you.

Emily is the first to break the silence, her voice trembling. “Adoption day … I thought it wasn’t for another few months.”

“They moved it up,” says another girl across the table, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s sooner this year.”

You can feel the tension in the room ratchet up another notch, the fear palpable. Everyone is thinking the same thing: sooner means less time to prepare, less time to make yourself worthy of being chosen.

“What are we going to do?” Emily asks, her voice small and shaky. “What if … what if no one picks us?”

The question hangs in the air, the unspoken fear that everyone is too afraid to voice. What if no one chooses you? What happens then?

“We just have to be perfect,” says another girl, her voice tinged with desperation. “We can’t make any mistakes. We have to be exactly what they want.”

“What if that’s not enough?” Someone else murmurs, and the question sends a chill down your spine.

You stare at your plate, your appetite long gone. The food sits untouched, congealing in the dim light of the dining hall. You know you should say something, offer some kind of reassurance, but the words stick in your throat. What can you say? How can you comfort anyone when you’re just as terrified as they are?

Instead, you focus on breathing, on keeping yourself calm. You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You’ve survived this place for years, learned how to navigate its dangers, how to keep your head down and stay out of trouble. You can survive this too.

But deep down, you know that this is different. This isn’t just another test or lesson. This is your future, your entire life hanging in the balance, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

The rest of the meal passes in a tense, uncomfortable silence. No one speaks, no one even looks at each other. The only sound is the clatter of dishes as the kitchen staff clears away the plates, their movements brisk and efficient.

When the meal is finally over, you file out of the dining hall with the other girls, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. The usual chatter and laughter are absent, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Everyone is lost in their own thoughts, their own fears.

Back in your room, you close the door and sink down onto the bed, your mind racing. Adoption day. The words echo in your head, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety. You try to push the thoughts away, to focus on something else, but it’s no use. The fear is too strong, too consuming.

You lie there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the storm inside you. But no matter how hard you try, the fear lingers, a dark shadow that refuses to be banished.

You’re not ready for this. None of you are. But it doesn’t matter. Adoption day is coming, whether you’re ready or not.

***

Oscar Piastri doesn’t let his emotions show, not when he crosses the finish line, not even when the roar of the crowd hits him like a physical wave. It’s a monumental moment, the kind of victory that defines a career. His first win in Formula 1, and he’s only just begun. He keeps his face impassive as he steps out of the car, giving a quick nod to the team that rushes toward him. His hands are still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving behind a strange emptiness that gnaws at him as he makes his way through the post-race chaos. Congratulations are thrown his way, hands clapping his back, but it all feels distant, like he’s watching it from somewhere else. This is supposed to be the pinnacle, the culmination of years of hard work, but instead, it feels … muted. He’s already thinking about the next race, the next victory, how he can improve.

In the quiet of the team’s private room, Zak Brown walks in, a broad smile on his face. He’s the kind of man who fills up the space just by being in it, his presence magnetic, commanding. Oscar looks up from where he’s sitting, unlacing his gloves methodically, and meets Zak’s eyes.

“Congratulations, Oscar. First of many, I’m sure.�� Zak’s voice is warm, but there’s an edge to it, something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Thank you,” Oscar replies, his tone measured, controlled. He’s careful with his words, always. Never lets anything slip.

Zak takes a seat across from him, leaning back casually. There’s a glint in his eyes, something calculating. “You’ve made quite an impression today. The team is proud of you.”

Oscar nods, but he can tell there’s more coming. Zak doesn’t waste time with pleasantries unless there’s something else he wants to discuss. He waits, patient, knowing that Zak will get to the point when he’s ready.

Finally, Zak leans forward, his expression serious. “You’ve proven yourself, Oscar. And with that comes certain … privileges. Opportunities that are only available to those who reach the top.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He’s heard whispers of the kind of rewards that come with success, but he’s never paid them much attention. He’s focused on one thing — winning. Everything else is secondary.

Zak watches him closely, gauging his reaction. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Oscar stays silent, waiting for Zak to continue. He’s not about to show his hand, not yet.

“There’s a tradition in this sport,” Zak says slowly, choosing his words carefully. “When an alpha driver wins their first race, they’re given the chance to choose an omega. It’s a recognition of your status, your dominance. It’s something that’s been done quietly, behind closed doors, for decades.”

Oscar keeps his expression neutral, though his interest is piqued. He’s aware of the dynamics in the world, the power and control that come with being an alpha. But this — this is new. He’s never been one to indulge in the usual trappings of success. He’s always been too focused, too driven to let anything distract him. But this … this is different.

Zak smiles, seeing the curiosity flicker in Oscar’s eyes. “You’ve earned this, Oscar. You’re one of the best, and you deserve the best. That’s why I’m telling you about the upcoming adoption day.”

Oscar’s gaze sharpens. “Adoption day?”

“It’s an event held at the most prestigious omega training school in Europe,” Zak explains. “Only the top omegas are put up for adoption, the ones who have been trained to perfection. They’re chosen by alphas who have proven themselves — like you. It’s not something that’s widely advertised, but those in the know understand its significance.”

There’s a pause as Oscar processes the information. The idea of choosing an omega, someone trained specifically for him, tailored to his needs, is both intriguing and unsettling. He’s always been in control, always made his own decisions, but this is different. This is a life he’s being asked to shape, to take responsibility for.

“What makes this school so special?” He asks, his voice calm, steady.

Zak leans back, crossing his arms. “The omegas there are trained from a young age. They’re taught everything — how to please their alpha, how to be obedient, how to fulfill their roles perfectly. They’re the best of the best, Oscar. There’s no risk, no uncertainty. Any omega you choose from that school will be exactly what you need.”

Oscar considers this. The idea of having an omega, someone who’s been trained to understand him, to know what he needs without him having to say it … there’s a certain appeal in that. He’s always been surrounded by people who expect something from him, who look to him for leadership, guidance. But this would be different. This would be someone who exists solely for him, who understands her place.

“There’s no obligation,” Zak adds, watching Oscar carefully. “If you’re not interested, you can walk away. But if you are … it’s a rare opportunity.”

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. He’s weighing the options, the consequences. He’s always been careful, methodical in his decisions. But he can’t deny the temptation, the curiosity that’s starting to take root.

“When is it?” He finally asks, his voice giving nothing away.

Zak’s smile widens, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “In a few weeks. We can arrange everything for you — discretion guaranteed. You won’t have to worry about the media or anyone else finding out. This is strictly between you and the school.”

Oscar nods slowly, his mind already working through the possibilities. It’s a lot to take in, but he’s not one to shy away from something just because it’s unfamiliar. If anything, the challenge of it, the control it represents, is what draws him in.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, his tone decisive, leaving no room for further discussion.

Zak rises, clearly satisfied with Oscar’s response. “Take your time. There’s no rush. But remember, opportunities like this don’t come around often.”

Oscar stands as well, shaking Zak’s hand. “I understand. Thank you.”

As Zak leaves the room, Oscar is left alone with his thoughts. The noise of the celebrations outside is a distant hum, and he finds himself pacing, the adrenaline from the race still thrumming through his veins.

He’s never been one for the typical alpha-omega dynamics. He’s always valued independence, his ability to navigate the world on his terms. But this … this is something else. The idea of having an omega, someone trained to understand him, to be exactly what he needs, it’s both thrilling and terrifying.

He knows what’s expected of him. As an alpha, as a champion, there’s a certain image to uphold, certain roles to fulfill. But he’s never been one to simply do what’s expected. He’s always pushed the boundaries, challenged the norms.

Oscar stops pacing, his mind made up. He’ll go to this adoption day. He’ll see for himself what this school has to offer. But he won’t make any decisions until he’s certain. This is too important, too personal to rush into.

But deep down, he knows that the decision is already half-made. The idea has taken root, and it’s only a matter of time before it blooms into something more.

With a final glance around the empty room, Oscar leaves, heading back to the celebrations. There’s still a victory to enjoy, a race to celebrate. But in the back of his mind, the thought of adoption day lingers, a tantalizing possibility that he can’t quite shake.

As the night wears on, surrounded by his team, the media, the fans, Oscar can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have an omega by his side. Not just any omega, but one who’s been trained specifically for him, someone who understands him in a way no one else does.

The idea is intoxicating, and for the first time in a long while, Oscar feels something stir inside him — a hunger, a desire for more than just victory on the track. He wants control, he wants power, and maybe, just maybe, he wants someone to share it with.

But not just anyone. It has to be the right omega. The perfect one.

As the night winds down, and the celebrations give way to the quiet of his hotel room, Oscar lies awake, his mind racing. He’s never been one to second-guess his decisions, and he knows this won’t be any different.

He’s going to that adoption day. And he’s going to find the omega that’s meant for him.

***

The morning is cold, colder than it has any right to be for early September. You’re standing in line with the other omegas, every one of you wearing the same pristine white dresses that flutter slightly in the breeze. The sun hasn’t fully risen, and the world is cloaked in that quiet, expectant blue that only exists before dawn. You can feel the nervous energy crackling in the air, though no one dares to show it.

You’ve been preparing for this day for as long as you can remember. Every lesson, every order, every correction has led to this moment, and yet you feel more like an imposter than ever. Your hands tremble slightly as you clasp them in front of you, willing the nerves to subside. You can’t afford to look weak now, not when everything is at stake.

The headmistress is pacing in front of the line, her sharp eyes taking in each omega with a practiced gaze. She’s dressed impeccably, as always, her posture a perfect representation of control. “Remember, girls,” she says, her voice slicing through the silence, “today is your chance to prove your worth. You’ve been trained for this moment. Do not embarrass yourselves, or this school.”

You swallow hard, keeping your gaze straight ahead, though every instinct is screaming at you to run. You can’t, though. There’s no place to go, and you know it. This is your life now, and you have to make the best of it.

The first of the alphas start to arrive, their footsteps echoing ominously as they enter the grand hall. You can hear their low voices, the murmur of conversation as they evaluate the line of omegas, as if you’re nothing more than merchandise on display. You keep your eyes down, as you’ve been taught, but your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear it.

One by one, they move past you, some taking a moment to appraise you before moving on, others barely sparing you a glance. The tension builds with each alpha that passes, your nerves fraying more and more. You want to shrink away, to make yourself invisible, but you know that’s the last thing you should do. Instead, you focus on keeping your breathing steady, on maintaining the composed exterior you’ve been drilled to perfect.

Then you hear the headmistress speak, her voice softer, almost deferential. “Mr. Piastri,” she says, and you feel your breath catch.

You’ve heard whispers about him, the young alpha who’s taken the racing world by storm, his name a force to be reckoned with even outside the omega circles. You’ve imagined what he might be like, but nothing could prepare you for the reality.

You feel his presence before you see him, the weight of his gaze as he approaches. There’s something different about the way he moves, the way the other alphas seem to step aside for him, as if acknowledging his dominance without a word. He stops in front of you, and for the first time, you dare to lift your eyes.

Oscar Piastri is taller than you expected, his presence somehow larger than life. His face is expressionless, unreadable, but his eyes … his eyes are sharp, assessing, as if he’s looking right through you, stripping away every defense you’ve carefully built.

He says nothing at first, just studies you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable in a way you’ve never experienced before. The world around you seems to fade, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of silence.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, barely even blink. Your whole body is tense, waiting for his judgment, his decision. You don’t know what to expect, and the uncertainty is unbearable.

Then, slowly, he reaches out, his fingers brushing your chin. The touch is light, almost delicate, but it sends a shiver down your spine. He tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze fully. There’s a pause, a moment where everything hangs in the balance, and you feel like you might break under the pressure.

But you don’t. You can’t. You’ve been trained for this, prepared for this moment, and you will not fail.

Oscar’s eyes search yours, and you wonder what he’s looking for. Strength? Weakness? He’s so close now that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, and it’s dizzying, overwhelming in a way you can’t quite describe.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he turns to the headmistress. “I want this one,” he says, his voice calm, decisive.

The headmistress smiles, a tight, satisfied expression, as if she expected nothing less. “Of course, Mr. Piastri,” she replies smoothly. “She’s one of our finest.”

There’s a rush of relief that crashes over you, mixed with a new kind of fear. He’s chosen you. Out of all the omegas here, he’s chosen you. It should be a victory, but all you feel is a creeping sense of dread. What does this mean for you? What will your life be like now?

Oscar’s hand drops from your chin, and you lower your gaze again, as you’ve been taught. You can still feel the imprint of his touch, like a brand on your skin. The other omegas around you are silent, but you can sense their curiosity, their jealousy, their relief that they weren’t chosen.

“Prepare her things,” Oscar says to the headmistress, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be leaving with her shortly.”

“Of course,” the headmistress repeats, her voice smooth, almost too smooth. She turns to you, her expression hardening. “You heard him. Go with Miss Parker to gather your belongings.”

You nod, obediently turning to follow Miss Parker, who gives you a curt nod before leading the way out of the hall. Your mind is spinning, your emotions a tangled mess of fear, confusion, and something else — something that feels dangerously like excitement.

As you walk down the corridor, away from the other omegas and the alphas who are still making their selections, you steal a glance back at Oscar. He’s already moving on, his focus shifting to some conversation with the headmistress, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still aware of you, even if he’s not looking your way.

Miss Parker doesn’t speak as she guides you to your room. There’s no need for words. You know what’s expected of you. You’ve always known.

When you reach your room, the small space that’s been your whole world for so long, Miss Parker hands you a simple, nondescript suitcase. “Pack quickly,” she says, her voice brusque but not unkind. “Mr. Piastri won’t want to wait.”

You nod again, mechanically moving to gather your things. There’s not much to take — just a few pieces of clothing, some personal items that you’ve been allowed to keep, all of it carefully selected to fit the image of the perfect omega. As you pack, you try to steady your breathing, to push back the rising tide of panic.

This is it. This is what you’ve been trained for, what your whole life has been leading to. And yet, standing here, on the edge of the unknown, you feel more lost than ever.

Miss Parker watches you, her expression unreadable. You wonder if she feels anything at all, if she remembers what it’s like to be in your position, or if she’s long since forgotten what it means to be afraid.

When you’re done, you stand, holding the suitcase tightly in your hands. Miss Parker gives a small nod of approval. “Good. Now, remember what you’ve been taught. Mr. Piastri is your alpha now. You will obey him in all things, without question.”

“I understand,” you reply, your voice steady, though you’re not sure how.

“Then let’s go,” Miss Parker says, turning on her heel and leading the way back down the corridor.

The walk back to the grand hall feels shorter, as if time is compressing around you. Before you know it, you’re standing in front of Oscar again, the suitcase a heavy weight in your hands.

He glances at it, then at you, his expression still inscrutable. “Ready?” He asks, though it’s clear he expects no answer but one.

“Yes,” you say quietly, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Good,” Oscar says, his tone final. He turns to the headmistress, giving her a brief nod. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Of course, Mr. Piastri,” the headmistress says, her voice tinged with satisfaction. “We wish you and your new omega all the best.”

Oscar says nothing in return, just takes your suitcase from you with one hand, his grip firm, and gestures for you to follow him. You do, of course, because what else can you do? This is your life now, whatever that means.

As you leave the school, stepping out into the crisp morning air, you feel a strange mix of emotions — fear, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something that feels almost like hope. Maybe this will be better. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you fear.

You steal a glance at Oscar as he walks beside you, his expression still impassive, but there’s a calmness about him, a quiet strength that’s undeniable. He’s your alpha now, and while the thought terrifies you, there’s also a small, tentative part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, this is how it’s supposed to be.

***

Oscar stands in the grand entrance of the school, his eyes sweeping across the opulent hall as he takes in the scene. Everything about this place exudes prestige, from the intricate detailing on the marble floors to the quiet efficiency with which the staff move about. This is where the finest omegas in Europe are trained, where alphas come to find their perfect matches. He’s never been one to doubt his choices, but today, there’s an edge of curiosity that’s unfamiliar, even unsettling.

“Mr. Piastri,” the headmistress greets him, her voice smooth and practiced, an air of deference in her tone. “We’re honored to have you here.”

He nods, acknowledging her words without much thought. His mind is elsewhere, focused on the task ahead. He’s done his research, learned about this place, about the selection process. He knows what he’s looking for, or at least he thinks he does. It’s supposed to be straightforward — a practical decision, not one driven by sentiment or instinct. But even as he tells himself that, there’s a part of him that knows better.

“Shall we begin?” The headmistress asks, her eyes watching him carefully, as if she’s trying to gauge his mood.

“Yes,” Oscar says simply, his voice even, controlled. There’s no need for pretense; he knows his presence here speaks for itself.

She leads him into the hall where the omegas are gathered, all dressed in identical white dresses, their heads bowed slightly in a show of submission. It’s a carefully curated display, one meant to impress, to showcase their training. But as Oscar enters the room, a different sense takes over.

It’s the scent that hits him first, a mixture of soft florals and something else, something sweeter, more intoxicating. It’s subtle, almost elusive, yet it cuts through the air like a sharp blade, setting his senses on high alert. For a moment, he’s thrown off balance, the unexpectedness of it catching him off guard.

He’s been around omegas before, of course. He knows how their pheromones work, how they can influence alphas, but this … this is different. This scent isn’t just pleasant, it’s magnetic, pulling at something deep within him that he hadn’t even realized was there. He finds himself scanning the line of omegas, searching for the source, his heartbeat quickening despite his attempts to stay composed.

“Mr. Piastri?” The headmistress’ voice cuts through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. She’s watching him, a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

“Go ahead,” Oscar says, waving her off as if everything is under control. He’s used to this, the scrutiny, the expectations. But right now, there’s something else at play, something he’s not sure how to navigate.

He moves down the line, his eyes sliding over the faces of the omegas, trying to identify the one whose scent has captivated him so thoroughly. There are many who glance up at him, hopeful, eager for his attention, but none of them seem to be the one he’s looking for.

Then, he sees you.

You’re standing near the end of the line, your posture perfect, your head slightly bowed like the others. But there’s something about the way you hold yourself, something different. And then there’s the scent — the one that’s been driving him to distraction since he walked in. It’s stronger here, more potent, wrapping around him and holding him in place.

Oscar’s steps slow as he approaches you, his gaze narrowing as he studies you more closely. You’re trembling slightly, he notices, though you’re doing your best to hide it. There’s a fragility to you, an air of vulnerability that he wasn’t expecting. But beneath that, there’s something else — an inner strength, a quiet resilience that draws him in even further.

Without thinking, he reaches out, tipping your chin up so he can see your face. The moment your eyes meet his, something clicks into place, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re beautiful, yes, but that’s not what’s holding his attention. It’s the way you look at him, a mix of fear and determination, as if you’re ready for whatever comes next, even if it terrifies you.

Oscar takes his time, letting the moment stretch out, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. Your scent is everywhere now, filling his lungs, clouding his thoughts. He knows he should be more objective, more calculating, but for the first time in a long time, he can’t bring himself to care.

“She’s one of our finest,” the headmistress says, her voice cutting into the moment like a knife. Oscar barely registers her words, his focus entirely on you.

“I want this one,” he says, his voice steady, final. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. He knows what he wants, and he’s not going to waste any time pretending otherwise.

The headmistress nods, clearly pleased. “Of course, Mr. Piastri.”

Oscar lets go of your chin, watching as you lower your gaze once more, obediently stepping back. The connection between you isn’t severed, though; if anything, it’s stronger now, more tangible. He feels it in the way his chest tightens, the way his instincts are screaming at him to keep you close, to never let you out of his sight.

He steps back, allowing the headmistress to take over, but his eyes never leave you. Even as she instructs you to gather your things, even as you turn to follow her orders, his focus remains on you. He’s never been one to act on impulse, to let his emotions dictate his actions, but right now, all he can think about is how he needs to get you out of here, to take you away from this place and claim you as his.

It’s irrational, and he knows it. But it’s also undeniable.

The minutes that pass feel like hours, each second dragging as he waits for you to return. He finds himself pacing, a rare show of impatience, his mind racing with possibilities. What will you be like, once you’re away from here? Will you still be this quiet, this controlled? Or will you reveal a different side of yourself, something more untamed?

When you finally reappear, suitcase in hand, Oscar feels a surge of something close to relief. You’re here, and you’re his, and that knowledge settles something deep within him. He reaches out, taking the suitcase from you, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment. The contact sends a jolt through him, and he wonders if you feel it too, if you’re as affected by this as he is.

“Ready?” He asks, his voice softer now, though still firm.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, but it’s enough. It’s all he needs to hear.

He turns to the headmistress, giving her a curt nod. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“It’s been our pleasure, Mr. Piastri,” she says, her tone just as polished as before, though there’s an undercurrent of satisfaction now. She’s done her job, and she knows it.

Oscar doesn’t waste any more time. He takes your hand, guiding you out of the hall and into the cool morning air. His grip is firm, possessive, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

As you walk beside him, he feels that same pull, that same magnetic force that’s been with him since the moment he caught your scent. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and he knows he’s in dangerous territory, but there’s no going back now. He’s made his choice, and he’s going to see it through.

The car is waiting at the curb, sleek and black, and Oscar opens the door for you, gesturing for you to get in. You do so without hesitation, and he follows, settling into the seat beside you.

The driver doesn’t say a word, just starts the engine and pulls away from the school. Oscar glances over at you, taking in the way you’re sitting so still, your hands folded neatly in your lap. There’s a tension in your posture, a lingering uncertainty, and he can’t help but wonder what’s going through your mind.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You nod, though it’s clear you’re still on edge. “Yes, Mr. Piastri.”

“Oscar,” he corrects, his tone gentler now. “You can call me Oscar.”

You hesitate, as if you’re not sure if it’s a test. “Oscar,” you repeat softly, and the sound of your voice saying his name sends a shiver down his spine.

There’s so much he wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask, but he holds back, giving you time to adjust. He knows this is overwhelming for you, that you’re probably terrified, but he also knows that you’re strong, that you’ve already proven yourself in ways that matter to him.

As the car speeds down the empty roads, Oscar leans back in his seat, his eyes never leaving you. He can’t predict what the future holds, can’t say for certain how this will all play out, but one thing is clear: you’re his now, and he’s not going to let anything come between you.

The scent that first drew him to you still lingers in the air, a constant reminder of the bond that’s forming between you. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and he’s not sure how to navigate it, but he knows one thing for sure — he’s not going to let you go. Not now, not ever.

***

The cabin of the private jet hums with a quiet, luxurious calm, a stark contrast to the swirling storm of emotions inside you. You’re seated in a plush leather chair, staring out at the expanse of sky through the window. Clouds drift lazily by, but your thoughts are anything but tranquil.

Oscar sits across from you, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He’s been on his phone, dealing with some business matter, but even so, his presence dominates the space. You’ve barely spoken since boarding the jet, and every minute that passes feels like an eternity.

You steal a glance at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but it’s as composed as ever. You wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s having second thoughts. Your stomach twists with anxiety, not just from the uncertainty of what’s to come, but from something deeper, something that’s been building inside you ever since this morning.

Oscar finishes his call, slipping the phone into his pocket as he turns his attention fully to you. The weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, and you quickly lower your eyes, focusing on the smooth leather of the seat beneath your fingers.

“Monaco,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is rich, deep, and it pulls your attention back to him. “I have an apartment there. That’s where we’ll be staying.”

Monaco. The name conjures images of sun-soaked coastlines, of wealth and glamour that you’ve only ever heard about. But all of that feels distant, almost unreal, compared to the reality of what you’re feeling right now.

You nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you,” you manage to say, though your voice trembles slightly.

Oscar watches you closely, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Something’s on your mind,” he states rather than asks. There’s no judgment in his tone, but the authority in his voice leaves no room for avoidance.

You hesitate, unsure of how to even begin. The words stick in your throat, the truth too uncomfortable to voice, but you know you can’t keep it hidden. Not from him. Not when it’s so important.

“They …” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. “They gave us something … this morning.”

Oscar’s brows draw together, his expression shifting to one of concern mixed with something darker, more dangerous. “What do you mean?”

“They gave us heat inducers,” you confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. You don’t dare look at him, instead focusing on your hands as they clench and unclench nervously in your lap. “They wanted to make sure that if any of us were taken by an alpha today, our heats would start soon. So that … so that we could be … mated as quickly as possible.”

The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, but you don’t dare look up, afraid of what you might see in his eyes.

Then, there’s a low, rumbling growl that reverberates through the cabin. It’s a sound that sends a shiver down your spine, both thrilling and terrifying. You risk a glance at Oscar, and what you see in his expression nearly takes your breath away.

His eyes have darkened, his jaw clenched tightly as he processes what you’ve just told him. There’s a fierce protectiveness in his gaze, but also something more primal, something that calls to the omega in you.

“How long?” He asks, his voice rougher now, as if he’s barely restraining himself.

“I … I don’t know,” you admit, your heart pounding in your chest. “It’s already starting. I can feel it.”

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stands, moving with a predatory grace that sends your pulse racing. He crosses the small distance between you in just a few steps, and before you know it, he’s kneeling in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees.

The touch is electric, sending heat rushing through your veins. You gasp softly, instinctively trying to pull back, but Oscar’s grip tightens, holding you in place.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

You obey, lifting your eyes to meet his. The intensity in his gaze is overwhelming, and you feel yourself trembling under the weight of it.

“You’re mine now,” Oscar says, his tone possessive, yet there’s a tenderness there too, something that reassures you even as it stokes the flames of your heat. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. But it’s the truth. You’ve known it from the moment he chose you, from the moment his hand touched your chin and your world tilted on its axis.

Oscar’s eyes soften slightly at your answer, but the fire in them remains. He reaches up, his fingers brushing against your neck, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear where your mating gland is. The contact sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing gently over your gland, his touch both soothing and maddeningly arousing. “When the time comes, I’ll make sure you feel good. I’ll make sure you know exactly who you belong to.”

The promise in his words sends a wave of heat crashing through you, and you shudder, unable to contain the small whimper that slips out.

Oscar’s grip on you tightens for just a moment, and he leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I want you to tell me everything you’re feeling,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “No hiding, no holding back. Understand?”

“Yes,” you manage to say, though it’s more of a breathless gasp than a proper response. Your mind is spinning, the heat building steadily inside you, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation.

He studies you for a moment longer, as if assessing your readiness, then slowly rises to his feet, pulling you up with him. The sudden change in position makes your head spin, and you find yourself leaning into him for support, your body seeking out his warmth instinctively.

Oscar wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close as he guides you to the couch on the other side of the cabin. He sits down first, then pulls you onto his lap, positioning you so that you’re straddling his thighs, your bodies pressed together intimately.

The new position brings your core into direct contact with the hard length of him, and the sensation is enough to make you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance. You can feel the heat pooling low in your belly, your body responding to his in ways you’ve never experienced before.

“Tell me what you need,” Oscar demands, his hands settling on your hips, holding you firmly in place. The look in his eyes is dark, intense, and it makes your heart race faster.

You hesitate, your mind foggy with desire, unsure of how to put your needs into words. But the pressure of his hands, the way he’s looking at you, tells you that he’s not going to let you avoid the question.

“I … I need you,” you finally admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Please … it’s so hot, and I can’t … I can’t think straight.”

Oscar’s eyes flash with something predatory, and he shifts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening. “That’s because your body knows exactly what it needs,” he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “It’s instinct, omega. And it’s only going to get stronger.”

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, sending shivers down your spine. “I want you to let go,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t fight it. I’ll take care of everything.”

You moan softly, the sound involuntary as his words sink into your mind, the command laced with something deeper, something that resonates with the omega inside you.

Oscar’s hands begin to move, one sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck, the other slipping down to cup your ass, holding you firmly against him. The heat between you is palpable, and you can feel yourself growing wetter, your body readying itself for what’s to come.

“Good girl,” Oscar murmurs, his voice filled with approval. The praise makes you whimper, your body arching into his touch, desperate for more.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and satisfaction. “You’re already so responsive,” he notes, his hand sliding up your thigh to the hem of your dress, fingers teasing the sensitive skin there. “It won’t be long now.”

You can feel the truth in his words, the heat inside you building to a fever pitch, your body trembling with need. It’s almost unbearable, the ache, the hunger, and you press yourself against him, seeking out any form of relief.

Oscar’s fingers trail higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up your thighs, exposing more of your skin to the cool air of the cabin. The contrast only heightens your arousal, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips start to move instinctively, grinding against him.

“Shh,” Oscar soothes, his hand sliding up your back to cradle your head, guiding you to rest your forehead against his shoulder. “I know, sweetheart. I know it’s hard. But I’m right here. I’m going to take care of you.”

Oscar’s touch is electric, his fingers gliding with a deliberate slowness up the inside of your thigh. The sensation sends shivers through you, your body reacting to every subtle movement. You cling to him, your breath ragged, heart pounding in your chest as the heat deepens, spreading like wildfire.

He’s still cradling you on his lap, his other hand steady at the nape of your neck, holding you close to him. The intimacy of the moment is almost too much to bear, and yet, you crave more. The pressure building inside you is overwhelming, a desperate need that only he can satisfy.

Oscar’s hand inches higher, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties. The touch of his fingers against your slick folds draws a gasp from your lips, your hips instinctively bucking against his hand. He hums in approval, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “Your body’s more than ready, isn’t it?”

You can only manage a breathless nod in response, your mind too clouded with desire to form coherent words. His fingers explore with a deliberate slowness, tracing the contours of your body, heightening your arousal with every teasing stroke. When he finally brushes against your swollen clit, your body jerks, a soft cry escaping your lips.

Oscar’s grip tightens slightly, holding you in place as his fingers begin to move in slow, torturous circles. The pleasure is almost too much, and yet it’s not enough — nowhere near enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger inside you. The need for more, for him, drives you to the brink of madness, and you find yourself whining, pleading with him for release.

“Please, Oscar … more … I need more …” Your voice is a desperate whimper, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing anchoring you to reality.

But Oscar doesn’t relent, doesn’t give you what you’re begging for. Instead, he keeps his movements slow, controlled, as if testing your limits. His touch is maddeningly precise, each brush of his fingers sending waves of pleasure coursing through you, yet never quite enough to push you over the edge.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice soothing but firm. “You’re not ready. Not here.”

His words are both a comfort and a torment. You understand what he’s doing, why he’s holding back, but it doesn’t make the ache inside you any less excruciating. The heat is becoming unbearable, and you grind yourself against his hand, seeking more friction, more anything, to ease the burning need.

Oscar’s fingers dip lower, sliding inside you with agonizing slowness, and you cry out, the sensation almost too much to bear. He stills for a moment, allowing you to adjust, his other hand gently stroking your back as you pant against his neck.

“So tight,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice laced with a mix of pride and possessiveness. “You’re going to feel so good around me when the time comes.”

You whimper at his words, the thought of what’s to come sending another rush of heat through you. But just as you start to lose yourself in the pleasure, in the feeling of his fingers moving inside you, the jet gives a sudden lurch, signaling the start of your descent.

Oscar’s touch freezes, and you blink in confusion, your dazed mind struggling to comprehend what’s happening. His hand slips from between your thighs, and you make a small sound of protest, your body trembling with the sudden loss of contact.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says softly, his voice tinged with regret. “But we’re landing. We have to wait.”

“No …” The word slips out before you can stop it, a pitiful, desperate plea. The idea of stopping now, of having to endure this unbearable heat without relief, is almost too much to bear. “Please … don’t stop …”

Oscar sighs, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, gently tilting your head back so that you’re forced to meet his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes now, a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the heat between you.

“Not here,” he says firmly, though there’s a note of apology in his voice. “When we get to the apartment, I promise I’ll take care of you. But not here.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration and need welling up in your eyes. The logical part of you understands — knows that he’s right — but the omega in you, the part that’s driven by instinct and need, doesn’t care. You need him, now, and the idea of waiting feels impossible.

Oscar’s thumb strokes your cheek, wiping away a stray tear, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know it’s hard,” he murmurs against your skin. “But I want our first time to be special. Not rushed, not in some cramped cabin. You deserve more than that.”

His words, his touch, they soothe you, if only slightly. You nod, though the movement is reluctant, and he smiles softly, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice filled with warmth. The words send a small thrill through you, even as your body continues to throb with unmet need.

The jet gives another lurch, and Oscar shifts, carefully lifting you off his lap and setting you down beside him. The sudden distance between you makes you whimper, but he’s quick to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side.

“Just a little longer,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair. “Then I’ll make sure you get everything you need.”

You nod again, leaning into his warmth as the jet begins its final descent. The anticipation is almost unbearable, the knowledge that relief is so close yet still out of reach making every passing second feel like an eternity.

When the jet finally lands, Oscar is the first to rise, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. Your legs are shaky, and he wraps an arm around your waist to steady you as you make your way to the door.

The heat is building, every step sending a fresh wave of desire coursing through you. By the time you reach the door, you’re trembling, your body barely able to contain the need that’s threatening to consume you.

Oscar notices, of course. He’s been watching you closely, his sharp eyes missing nothing. As the door opens and the cool night air rushes in, he pauses, turning to you with a look of concern.

“Are you alright to walk?” He asks, his voice gentle, but there’s an underlying tension there, as if he’s barely holding himself back.

You shake your head, your legs too shaky to trust, the heat making it hard to think straight. “I … I don’t think I can …”

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, he scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he steps out of the jet. The sudden movement makes you gasp, but you quickly wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you down the steps.

The car is waiting at the bottom, the driver standing at attention, but Oscar doesn’t spare him a glance. He moves with purpose, his grip on you secure as he carries you to the car and slides into the backseat with you still in his arms.

Once inside, he positions you so that you’re straddling his lap again, your bodies pressed together. The door closes behind you, and the car starts moving, but all you can focus on is the feel of him beneath you, the heat of his body seeping into yours.

“Oscar … please …” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice filled with desperation.

He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lower lip as he studies you, his expression a mix of concern and desire. “I know, sweetheart,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I know how hard this is for you.”

You whimper, your hips instinctively rocking against his lap in search of relief, but Oscar’s hands grip your waist, stilling your movements.

“But not here,” he repeats, his tone firm despite the longing in his eyes. “I won’t take you for the first time in the back of a car. You deserve better than that.”

His words are both a comfort and a torment. You understand what he’s saying, know that he’s trying to do right by you, but the need inside you is growing stronger with every passing second, making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than the burning desire to be claimed.

Oscar’s hand slides up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’ll make it worth the wait,” he promises, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “I’ll make sure you feel every second of it.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, and you moan softly, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as you try to steady your breathing. The heat is almost unbearable now, your body trembling with the effort to hold back.

Oscar’s hands continue to roam, one slipping beneath your dress to caress your thigh, the other trailing up your spine in a soothing gesture. He’s trying to comfort you, to ease your suffering, but it’s a losing battle. The need is too strong, too overwhelming.

“Just hold on a little longer,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “We’re almost there.”

By the time the car pulls up to the sleek, modern apartment building, you’re trembling uncontrollably, your body nearly vibrating with the intensity of the heat that’s been steadily building since you left the jet. Oscar, ever aware of your condition, doesn’t waste a second. He’s out of the car and around to your side before the driver can even think to open the door for you.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he reaches for you, his tone soothing despite the underlying urgency in his movements. His strong arms wrap around you, effortlessly lifting you from the backseat. As he stands, you feel the dampness between your legs spread, leaving a wet spot on his pant leg.

A flicker of something dark and possessive crosses his face as he notices, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he tightens his grip, holding you closer against his chest as if shielding you from the world. His pace quickens as he heads toward the entrance of the building, your soft whimpers filling the space between you.

“Oscar … please …” Your voice is barely more than a breathy moan, the plea escaping before you can stop it. The need inside you is too overwhelming to contain, and you’re desperate for him to finally take you, to claim you as his.

His jaw clenches, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, but he doesn’t stop. “I know, baby,” he replies, his voice rough with restraint. “Just a little longer. We’re almost there.”

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. You’re wrapped around him, clutching his shoulders, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you try to suppress the sobs of need that threaten to escape. Oscar’s hand rubs soothing circles on your back, his other arm securing you tightly against him. Every touch is a lifeline, but it’s also torture, reminding you of everything you’re not yet getting.

When the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, Oscar strides out without hesitation, his eyes fixed on the door to his apartment. You whimper, your hands fisting in his shirt as the desperation in your voice grows. “Oscar … please … I can’t …”

“You can,” he insists, his voice low and commanding as he finally reaches his door. “Just a few more seconds, and then I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

He fumbles with the keys, the tension in his body palpable. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the barely controlled restraint that’s holding him back from giving in to your pleas right there in the hallway. Finally, the door swings open, and he carries you over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him.

He drops the luggage carelessly by the entrance, his focus entirely on you. The moment the door clicks shut, something shifts in him. The restraint he’s been clinging to snaps, and he moves with purpose, his steps quick and sure as he heads straight for the bedroom.

You’re practically panting by the time he sets you down on the edge of the bed, your legs weak and trembling beneath you. Oscar’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire as he looks at you, his gaze intense, predatory.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. “You’re so desperate for it, aren’t you? I can smell it on you, how badly you need me.”

You nod frantically, your hands reaching for him, trying to pull him closer. “Please, Oscar … I need you … now …”

He smirks, the sight of your desperation clearly affecting him, but he doesn’t give in right away. Instead, he takes a moment to savor the sight of you, his eyes raking over your trembling form as he steps between your legs.

“I’m going to make sure you never forget this,” he promises, his voice a low growl as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress up over your hips. “You’re mine now, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”

A shudder runs through you at his words, the possessiveness in his tone only fueling the fire inside you. You lean back on your elbows, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you watch him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Oscar, please … I can’t wait any longer …”

His eyes darken further, and he lets out a low, rumbling growl as he finally gives in, his hands moving to strip away the last of your clothing. The cool air hits your heated skin, and you whimper, your body arching toward him, craving his touch.

Oscar wastes no time, his hands everywhere at once, touching, caressing, teasing. His mouth follows, lips and tongue tracing a scorching path along your neck, down to your chest, and lower still. Every touch, every kiss, only heightens your arousal, pushing you closer to the edge.

When his hand finally slips between your legs again, you let out a broken moan, your hips lifting off the bed in search of more contact. He chuckles darkly, his fingers parting your folds and slipping inside with ease, the slickness of your arousal making the movement effortless.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice laced with satisfaction. “So ready to be claimed.”

You can only moan in response, your body writhing beneath him as his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate, dragging out your pleasure until you’re on the verge of tears.

“Oscar … please … I need you inside me …”

He growls at your plea, his control slipping further as he pulls his fingers out, making you whimper at the loss. But then he’s undressing, and your eyes widen as you watch him, the anticipation building with every second.

When he finally joins you on the bed, his body hovering over yours, you reach for him, your hands shaking with need. He captures your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head as he settles between your legs, his gaze locking with yours.

“This is going to be intense,” he warns, his voice low and rough with desire. “But I need you to trust me, okay?”

You nod frantically, your body aching for him, needing him more than you’ve ever needed anything in your life. “I trust you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please, Oscar … make me yours …”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. With a low growl, he positions himself at your entrance, and with one swift, powerful thrust, he’s inside you, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, and you cry out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure and pain mix together in a heady, intoxicating blend.

Oscar stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath coming in harsh pants as he struggles to hold back. His grip on your wrists tightens, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you in place.

“You’re so tight,” he groans, his voice strained. “Fuck, you feel so good around me …”

You whimper, your body trembling with the effort to hold still, the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled making it hard to think, hard to breathe. But the pain is already fading, quickly replaced by a deep, aching pleasure that leaves you desperate for more.

“Move,” you plead, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, Oscar … I need you to move …”

He lets out a shuddering breath, his control hanging by a thread as he slowly pulls out, only to thrust back in with a force that makes you see stars. The pleasure is immediate, a sharp, intense burst that has you crying out, your body arching into his.

Oscar’s pace is relentless, each thrust deep and powerful, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You’re lost in the sensation, your world narrowed down to the feel of him inside you, the heat of his body against yours, the sound of his growls and your moans filling the room.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough and possessive as he pounds into you. “All mine … I’m going to make sure everyone knows it …”

You’re too far gone to respond, your body trembling as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. It’s too much, too intense, and yet you can’t get enough. You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release.

Oscar’s hand moves to your neck, his thumb brushing over your mating gland, and you cry out at the sudden jolt of pleasure. “Do it,” you plead, your voice breaking. “Please, Oscar … bite me … claim me …”

He lets out a guttural growl, his control finally snapping as he lowers his head to your neck. His teeth graze over your gland, and you shudder, your body tensing in anticipation.

“Mine,” he snarls, and then he bites down, his teeth sinking into your flesh with a sharp, searing pain that quickly turns into the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt.

The orgasm hits you like a freight train, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. You scream his name, your voice raw and broken as you unravel completely beneath him.

Oscar growls against your neck, his hips slamming into you with a renewed intensity as he rides out your orgasm, his own release following close behind. He thrusts deep inside you, filling you with his seed as he marks you as his, the bond between you solidifying with each pulse of pleasure.

When it’s over, you collapse against the bed, your body trembling with aftershocks, your mind dazed and blissfully blank. Oscar’s breath is hot against your neck, his body still pressing you into the mattress as the intensity of your shared cliDylan begins to ebb. You’re both trembling, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through your veins as your minds struggle to grasp what just happened. He’s still buried deep inside you, his knot holding you together, and the thought of being this intimately connected with him sends another shiver of pleasure down your spine.

He nuzzles into your neck, his lips brushing over the fresh bite mark he’s left on your mating gland, the sensation making you whimper softly. “You did so well, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “So good for me.”

You’re too spent to respond, your body heavy and exhausted from the intense pleasure he’s wrung out of you. Instead, you nuzzle closer to him, your eyes fluttering shut as the heat in your body temporarily dies down, leaving you in a blissful haze.

Oscar shifts slightly, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so that you’re lying on his chest, still intimately connected. His hands stroke soothingly down your back, and you let out a contented sigh, feeling safe and secure in his arms.

“You should get some sleep while you can,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble beneath you. “There’s going to be another wave soon, and you’ll need your strength.”

You know he’s right, but the thought of sleeping while you’re still so tightly bound to him feels almost impossible. You’re too aware of his presence, of the way his knot is still lodged deep inside you, of the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear. But exhaustion is quickly catching up with you, and before long, your eyes are drifting shut, your body relaxing fully against his.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, your voice drowsy as sleep begins to pull you under.

“Always,” he replies, his voice filled with a quiet promise.

The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the warmth of his body surrounding you, and the comfort of knowing that, for the first time in your life, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

When you wake, the room is dark, and the only sound is the steady rise and fall of Oscar’s breathing. Your body is warm and heavy, still draped over his chest, still connected to him in the most intimate way. But as your mind begins to shake off the lingering remnants of sleep, you become acutely aware of the insistent throbbing between your legs, the undeniable need that’s starting to build once again.

You shift slightly, your movement eliciting a low groan from Oscar as the motion tugs at his knot, still firmly in place inside you. The sensation sends a wave of heat through you, and you let out a soft whine, your body instinctively pressing closer to him.

Oscar stirs beneath you, his hands sliding up to rest on your hips, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“Mmhmm,” you reply, your voice breathy as you nuzzle into his chest. “I need you …”

He lets out a low chuckle, his hands beginning to trace soothing patterns on your skin. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

But it’s not enough. The need inside you is growing stronger, more insistent, and you can feel the heat beginning to rise again, demanding more. “I need more than that,” you whisper, your voice laced with desperation. “Please, Oscar …”

His hands still on your hips, his body tensing beneath you. “It’s too soon,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “This is only your first heat with me. We have time, plenty of time for that later.”

You shake your head, a whimper escaping your lips as you press closer, your body aching with need. “No, I need it now. I need you to knot me again … I need you to give me pups …”

Oscar’s breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he tries to maintain control. “Sweetheart, listen to me,” he begins, his voice strained. “I want that too, but this is your first time going through heat with me. We should wait-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice firm despite the desperation lacing it. “I can’t wait. I need you now, Oscar. Please … I need to feel you knot me again, to know that I’m yours completely …”

He lets out a low growl, his control slipping further as your words push him closer to the edge. “You are mine,” he snarls, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re already mine. I’ve marked you, claimed you-”

“Then show me,” you plead, your voice breaking as you grind down against him, desperate for the friction. “Show me that I’m yours … knot me and fill me, Oscar. Give me pups …”

His restraint snaps completely at your words, and with a feral growl, he flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him as he pulls out of you, only to thrust back in with a force that leaves you breathless. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pain and pleasure as his knot stretches you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“You want my knot?” He growls, his voice rough and possessive as he pounds into you with an intensity that has you seeing stars. “You want me to fill you with my pups?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your body arching off the bed as you cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes, please, Oscar … I need it …”

He’s relentless, his thrusts deep and powerful as he chases his own release, the sound of your cries and pleas only spurring him on. The heat between your legs is almost unbearable, the pleasure building to a fever pitch as his knot swells inside you, locking you together once again.

“I’m going to give you everything,” he growls, his voice low and rough as he drives into you with a single-minded focus. “You’re going to take all of me, every last drop …”

You can’t form coherent words anymore, your mind too lost in the overwhelming pleasure, but you manage a breathless moan, the sound desperate and needy as you beg him for more.

Oscar doesn’t disappoint. With a final, powerful thrust, he knots you, his body going rigid as he spills inside you, filling you with his seed. The sensation is enough to send you over the edge, and you scream his name as you’re thrown into another intense orgasm, your body shaking and trembling beneath him.

He rides out your release, his movements slow and deliberate as he pushes you through the waves of pleasure, his knot pulsing inside you with every throb of his cock. You’re barely aware of anything else, your mind completely consumed by the sensation of being filled so completely, so perfectly by him.

When it’s over, you collapse against the bed, your body trembling with aftershocks, your mind dazed and blissfully blank. Oscar’s weight presses down on you, his breath hot against your neck as he nuzzles into your skin, his knot still lodged firmly inside you.

“Mine,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as he kisses your neck, the possessiveness in his tone clear. “You’re mine, and now everyone will know it …”

You let out a soft, contented sigh, the sound barely more than a whisper as you relax completely in his arms. “Always,” you reply, your voice drowsy as sleep begins to pull you under once again.

Oscar hums in response, his hands stroking soothingly down your back as he holds you close. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice soft and tender. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t need to be told twice. The exhaustion from the intensity of your heat is catching up with you, and your eyes are already drifting shut, your body relaxing completely against his.

The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the warmth of his body surrounding you, and the comfort of knowing that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be — safe, loved, and claimed by the alpha who now holds your heart in his hands.

***

The days blend together in a rhythm that becomes both comforting and suffocating. You wake up alone in the large bed, the sheets still warm from where Oscar had been lying beside you, his scent lingering in the air. The apartment is quiet, too quiet, with only the distant hum of the city outside to keep you company. The space around you is luxurious and expansive, but it feels empty without him.

Oscar has people for everything — cooking, cleaning, managing his life outside the realm of racing. You’d been trained to handle those tasks, taught to be the perfect omega who could anticipate and fulfill every need an alpha might have. But here, in Oscar’s world, those skills are unnecessary. The staff handles the meals, tidying up, and even the minutiae of his schedule. It leaves you with little to do, your days stretching out in a seemingly endless wait for him to return from training, meetings, or other obligations.

It’s the nights you live for, the moments when he finally comes home and the two of you can lose yourselves in each other. The way he takes you, the way he makes you feel, it’s overwhelming, all-consuming. In those moments, nothing else matters. The world narrows down to just the two of you, your bodies moving together in perfect synchrony, your cries of pleasure mingling with his growls of satisfaction. You crave those nights, where the boundaries between you blur, and all you can feel is the heat and the raw, primal connection that bonds you together.

But when the night ends, and the morning comes, the cycle starts again. He kisses you softly before slipping out of bed, leaving you to wake alone, his absence a gaping void that you can’t quite fill. You’ve tried to distract yourself, tried to find ways to pass the time, but nothing seems to help. You miss him when he’s gone, the ache of longing settling deep in your chest, gnawing at you throughout the day.

You spend your days wandering through the apartment, aimless and restless, your mind filled with thoughts of Oscar. Sometimes you’ll curl up on the couch, pulling one of his shirts over your knees just to feel closer to him. Other times, you’ll find yourself standing at the window, staring out at the city below, wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when he’ll come back to you.

The staff is polite and attentive, but they’re not him. They’re not the warm, reassuring presence that you crave, the one who makes you feel safe and wanted. They do their jobs efficiently, always a step ahead, always ensuring that everything is perfect for when Oscar returns. But their presence only serves to remind you of the emptiness that fills your days.

When Oscar finally comes home, it’s like a breath of fresh air, a reprieve from the stifling monotony that your days have become. You run to him, your body instinctively seeking out his warmth, his touch. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his scent filling your senses and grounding you in a way nothing else can.

“Missed you,” you murmur against his chest, your voice soft and full of longing.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice a low rumble as he kisses the top of your head. “But I’m here now.”

The nights are everything you could ever want, a heady mix of pleasure and passion that leaves you breathless and sated. Oscar knows exactly how to touch you, how to draw out every moan and whimper, how to make you forget everything except the way he feels inside you. It’s a relief to lose yourself in him, to drown in the intensity of your connection, to feel completely and utterly his.

It’s after one such night that you find yourself lying in his arms, your body still humming with the afterglow of pleasure. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the city outside the window. Oscar’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath your cheek, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your back as he holds you close.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, his voice soft and full of concern.

You nod, but the words you’ve been holding back for days now bubble to the surface. “I … I miss you when you’re away.”

There’s a pause, and you feel Oscar’s body tense slightly beneath you. He shifts, moving so that he can look down at you, his brow furrowed in concern. “Sweetheart, I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

You bite your lip, feeling a little embarrassed by your admission. “It’s just … when you’re gone, I don’t know what to do with myself. The days are so long, and I feel so … lost without you.”

Oscar sighs, his hand cupping your cheek as he strokes his thumb over your skin. “I’m sorry, I never meant for you to feel like that. I thought you might need some time to adjust, to get used to this new life. But if it’s too much, I’ll figure something out. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“It’s not that I’m unhappy,” you say quickly, not wanting him to think you’re ungrateful. “I just miss you. I miss having you close, knowing you’re here with me. It’s hard when you’re gone, and I’m just … waiting.”

Oscar’s expression softens, and he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I didn’t realize how much you were struggling. I’ve been trying to give you space, but if it’s making you feel like this, then it’s not working.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “I don’t need space, Oscar. I need you. I want to be with you, wherever that is. I don’t care if it’s at home or at a race or anywhere else. I just want to be by your side.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes thoughtful as he considers your words. Then, he nods, as if coming to a decision. “Alright, then. If that’s what you want, I won’t leave you behind anymore.”

You blink up at him, surprised by how easily he agrees. “You mean it?”

“I do,” he says, his voice firm. “I’ve been waiting for you to settle in, to see if you’d be comfortable here on your own. But I can see now that this isn’t working. I don’t want you to feel lonely, and I don’t want to be away from you either.”

Your heart swells with emotion, and you lean up to kiss him, pouring all of your gratitude and love into the gesture. “Thank you,” you whisper against his lips. “I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”

Oscar kisses you back, his hands threading through your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing yours in a way that has your toes curling. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are filled with a warmth that makes you feel like the luckiest person in the world.

“From now on, you’ll come with me,” he says, his voice full of promise. “Wherever I go, you’ll be there too. I won’t leave you behind again.”

The relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming, and you can’t help but smile up at him, feeling lighter than you have in days. The thought of traveling with him, of being by his side no matter where he goes, fills you with a sense of purpose and belonging that you’ve been craving.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice filled with gratitude. “I can’t wait to be with you, wherever that is.”

Oscar smiles, his eyes soft as he looks down at you. “Neither can I, sweetheart. Neither can I.”

As you settle back into his arms, your heart feels full, the ache of loneliness that has plagued you for so long finally beginning to fade. You know that being with Oscar, traveling by his side, won’t always be easy. There will be challenges, new environments to adapt to, and the pressures of his career. But none of that matters as long as you’re together.

You press a soft kiss to his chest, letting your eyes drift shut as you snuggle closer to him. The future feels bright, full of possibilities that you hadn’t dared to hope for. And most importantly, it’s a future where you won’t have to be apart from the one person who means everything to you.

Oscar’s hand continues to stroke your back in soothing circles, his warmth and scent surrounding you, grounding you in the here and now. “Get some sleep, love,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble. “We’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

You smile against his skin, feeling completely at peace for the first time in days. “Goodnight, Oscar,” you whisper, your voice filled with contentment.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he replies, his lips brushing over your temple as he holds you close.

As you drift off to sleep, you know that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together, side by side. And that’s all you could ever want.

***

The roar of engines is deafening, the air thick with the scent of burning rubber and fuel as you stand on the sidelines, watching the blur of cars as they speed around the track. This is your first time at a race, the sheer energy and intensity of the event almost overwhelming. The crowd is a sea of color, cheering and waving flags, the excitement palpable in the air. You feel a thrill of anticipation as you watch Oscar’s car navigate the circuit with practiced ease, your heart swelling with pride.

It’s surreal being here, surrounded by so many people, so much noise, so much movement. You’ve heard stories about the races from Oscar, but nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The speed, the adrenaline, the stakes — it’s all so much more than you’d imagined. You can barely keep your eyes off the screen that tracks the positions, each lap feeling like a small victory as Oscar maintains his place near the front.

But then, something shifts.

A sudden hush falls over the crowd, a sharp intake of breath as something unexpected happens on the track. You watch in horror as Oscar’s car and Lando’s car make contact, the two vehicles colliding with a screech of metal and rubber. The impact sends Oscar’s car spinning off the track, his position slipping away in an instant.

Your heart drops into your stomach, panic rising as you watch the car come to a stop, half-buried in gravel. For a moment, the world seems to stand still, the only sound the blood rushing in your ears. Then, as if in slow motion, you see Oscar emerge from the car, the safety personnel rushing to his side. Relief floods through you, but it’s short-lived as you see the way he carries himself, the tension in his shoulders, the dark look in his eyes.

Something’s wrong.

You can feel it, a shift in the air, a dark, possessive energy radiating from him even from this distance. The cameras zoom in on his face, and you see it — the barely restrained fury, the cold, calculating look that makes your blood run cold. Oscar is not just angry; he’s on the verge of something far more primal, far more dangerous.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until you find yourself near the garage, your feet carrying you closer to where you know he’ll be headed. The tension in the pit is palpable, everyone on edge as they wait for Oscar to arrive. You can see the way the crew exchanges nervous glances, whispering among themselves, unsure of how to handle the situation.

And then he appears.

Oscar storms into the garage, his presence like a thunderstorm rolling in, dark and ominous. The crew parts for him without a word, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and respect. He doesn’t even acknowledge them, his gaze focused solely on you, as if nothing else exists in the world. The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, a raw, feral need that takes your breath away.

Before you can say anything, before you can even think, Oscar is in front of you, his hands gripping your arms as he pulls you close. The scent of him is overwhelming, a heady mix of sweat, adrenaline, and something darker, something possessive. You can feel the tension radiating off him, his body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

“Oscar,” you breathe, trying to calm him, but your voice is lost in the chaos around you.

He doesn’t say a word, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. There’s something primal in his gaze, something that tells you he’s on the edge, barely holding on to control. Without warning, he dips his head, his nose brushing against your neck as he inhales deeply, taking in your scent as if it’s the only thing grounding him.

You shiver, your body responding instinctively to his touch, to the dominance that radiates from him in waves. He growls low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you, sending a thrill of both fear and excitement down your spine. It’s a warning, a claim, and you know without a doubt that everyone around you understands what it means.

He’s staking his claim on you, right here in front of everyone.

Oscar’s hands move to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he nuzzles your neck, his breath hot against your skin. The world around you fades, the only thing you can focus on is him, the way his body presses against yours, the way his lips brush over your mating gland, sending sparks of electricity through your veins.

And then, he bites.

It’s not a gentle bite, not like the ones he’s given you in bed. This is possessive, demanding, a show of dominance that leaves no room for doubt. You gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body goes limp in his arms, overwhelmed by the surge of pleasure and pain that courses through you. He growls again, his teeth sinking deeper into your skin as he marks you, his claim on you undeniable.

You can feel the eyes of everyone in the garage on you, can hear the whispers, the shocked gasps, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except for the way Oscar is holding you, the way he’s making sure everyone knows you belong to him and him alone.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. There’s a dark, possessive satisfaction in his gaze as he looks down at you, his thumb brushing over the fresh bite mark with a kind of reverence. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to — his actions speak louder than words ever could.

You’re his, and he’s not about to let anyone forget it.

The crew doesn’t dare to interfere, their eyes averted as Oscar pulls you even closer, his arm wrapping around your waist as if to shield you from the world. He’s not done yet, not by a long shot, and you can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained urge to take you right here, right now.

But somehow, he manages to hold back, his grip on control tenuous at best. He growls again, a low, dangerous sound that sends a shiver of anticipation through you. Without a word, he starts moving, dragging you along with him as he heads towards his driver’s room, his steps quick and determined.

You can barely keep up, your heart pounding in your chest as he pulls you through the garage, his focus entirely on getting you alone. The door to his driver’s room slams shut behind you, and the moment you’re alone, the last shred of Oscar’s control snaps.

He’s on you in an instant, his mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising, possessive kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, pulling you closer, his need for you palpable in every touch, every kiss, every growl that rumbles in his chest.

“Oscar,” you gasp when he pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. “Please …”

“I can’t … I need …” His voice is rough, desperate, his hands trembling as he rips your shirt open, the buttons flying in every direction.

You barely have time to react before his mouth is on your neck, kissing, licking, biting, his hands sliding down to your waist to tug at the waistband of your pants. There’s a wildness to him, a desperation that you’ve never seen before, and it sends a thrill of both excitement and fear through you.

His rut is taking over, his need to claim you, to possess you, overriding everything else. You’re helpless against the onslaught of sensation, your body responding to him instinctively, your mind hazy with desire.

“Oscar,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he pulls your pants down, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you up, pressing you against the wall.

“Mine,” he growls, his eyes dark with need as he looks down at you, his hands spreading your legs as he presses his hips against yours.

You can feel him, hard and ready, the evidence of his need pressing against your core, and it drives you wild with desire. Your hands fumble with his belt, your fingers trembling as you try to unbuckle it, desperate to feel him inside you.

“Oscar, please,” you beg, your voice barely more than a whisper as you look up at him, your eyes wide with need.

His control is slipping, his eyes darkening as he watches you struggle to free him from his pants. With a growl, he grabs your hands, pinning them above your head as he uses his other hand to tear his zipper down, his race suit sliding down to his hips.

He’s rough, desperate, his hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. There’s no more time for words, no more time for hesitation. He’s too far gone, too deep into his rut to hold back any longer.

With a single, powerful thrust, he’s inside you, and the world explodes into a whirlwind of sensation. The pleasure is overwhelming, your body arching against his as he moves, each thrust harder, faster, more desperate than the last.

You can barely think, barely breathe, your mind consumed by the raw, primal need that courses through you. All you can do is hold on, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he takes you, his possessiveness, his dominance, his need to claim you driving him to the edge.

“Oscar … I can’t …” You try to form a coherent thought, but it’s impossible, the pleasure too much, too intense, too all-consuming.

“Mine,” he growls again, his teeth grazing your mating gland, the sharp points teasing at the skin, sending shivers down your spine. He’s buried deep inside you, his pace unrelenting, driving into you with a force that has you gasping, your body pinned between him and the wall. The world outside is nothing more than a distant memory now, lost to the haze of heat and need that pulses between you.

He’s so deep in his rut that he can barely speak, his words slurring together as his instincts take over. “Good omega … my perfect omega …” he mutters, his voice rough and hoarse, every syllable dripping with raw, animalistic possession. “You’ll be … you’ll be the perfect mother … for our pups.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body, the thought of bearing his pups, of being filled by him in every possible way, setting your nerves on fire. He can feel it too, the way your body responds to his words, the way you tighten around him, and it only spurs him on. His hand moves from your waist, sliding down to press against your lower abdomen, right where his knot is beginning to swell, becoming visible through the skin.

“You feel that?” Oscar growls, his hand pressing down on the slight bulge, making you cry out, your body arching against him. “That’s my knot … locking you in place … filling you with my seed … making you mine in every way …”

You can only moan in response, your mind too clouded with pleasure to form any coherent words. His hand stays on your stomach, pressing down just enough to intensify the sensation, to make you acutely aware of how deep he is inside you, how thoroughly he’s claimed you. The pressure is almost too much, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that has you trembling in his arms, your legs barely able to support you.

“You’re so perfect … so good for me …” Oscar continues, his voice rough with need. His thrusts slow, becoming more deliberate, more focused as his knot swells, locking him inside you. The pressure builds, the sensation of being so completely filled by him overwhelming every other thought, every other feeling.

His hand on your stomach presses down harder, as if he’s trying to push his knot even deeper, and the sensation is almost too much to bear. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, and it’s driving you to the brink of madness. “Gonna give you everything,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. “Everything you need … everything I have …”

You whimper, the sound muffled by the intensity of the moment, your body shuddering against him as he continues to speak, his voice a rough, desperate whisper in your ear. “You’ll be such a good mother … carrying our pups … taking care of them … just like you take care of me …”

He’s rambling now, his words tumbling out in a rush, driven by the primal need to claim you, to mark you as his in every possible way. His hand on your stomach moves, sliding down to press against your clit, his fingers rubbing in tight, controlled circles that have you crying out, your body tightening around him in response.

“You’re so beautiful like this …” he groans, his hips grinding against you as he pushes deeper, his knot swelling even more, locking him in place. “So perfect … so ready for me … ready to take everything I give you …”

His words are a mix of praise and possession, each one sending a new wave of heat through your body, making you shudder in his arms. He’s relentless, his thrusts slower but no less intense, each one driving his knot deeper, making you feel every inch of him, every pulse of his cock inside you.

“You belong to me,” Oscar growls, his voice low and rough, his teeth grazing your skin again, this time biting down just enough to leave a mark, a fresh claim on top of the one he’s already made. “Only me … forever …”

The possessiveness in his voice is overwhelming, the need in him so raw, so powerful that it feels like it’s consuming you, pulling you under. You can feel his knot pressing against your walls, the sensation so intense that it’s almost painful, but in the best possible way. Your body is trembling, on the edge of something that feels like it might break you, and Oscar is right there with you, pushing you closer and closer to that precipice.

He shifts his weight, pressing down on your stomach again, making you cry out as the pressure on his knot intensifies. “Gonna fill you up … make sure everyone knows you’re mine …” he murmurs, his voice a rough, possessive growl. “No one else … only me …”

His fingers on your clit work faster, harder, driving you towards the edge, and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the way you’re biting your lower lip, trying to hold on to some semblance of control. But it’s slipping away, fast, and you can feel yourself spiraling, your body tightening around him, your muscles tensing as you approach the brink.

“Oscar … please …” you manage to gasp, your voice barely more than a whisper, but he hears you, and it only spurs him on.

“That’s it … let go for me …” he growls, his voice rough with need. “Be a good omega … let me take care of you …”

The words are your undoing. With a cry, you shatter, your body convulsing around him as the orgasm tears through you, waves of pleasure crashing over you in a relentless tide. You can feel the way your walls clamp down on his knot, the pressure driving you higher, making you cry out his name again and again.

Oscar isn’t far behind you, his body tensing as he feels you fall apart around him. His hips jerk, his knot swelling to its full size as he buries himself as deep as possible, his cock pulsing as he comes, his seed filling you in thick, hot waves. He groans, his head dropping to your shoulder as he grinds against you, his hands gripping your waist so tightly that it’s almost painful, but you don’t care. The sensation of being filled by him, claimed by him, is too much, too overwhelming, and it sends you spiraling again, your body shaking with the aftershocks.

Oscar’s breathing is ragged, his body trembling as he holds you close, his knot keeping him locked inside you, making sure you take every last drop of his seed. He’s still murmuring in your ear, his voice soft and rough, a mix of praise and possessiveness that makes your heart race.

“You’re mine … my perfect omega …” he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck, kissing the fresh mark he’s left there. “No one else … no one else will ever have you …”

You shiver, your body still trembling with the aftereffects of the orgasm, and you can only nod, your voice lost to the haze of pleasure that still lingers in the air. Oscar’s hands move to your hips, pulling you closer, holding you tight as he rides out the last waves of his release, his body tense and trembling.

It takes a long time for the intensity to fade, for the world to slowly come back into focus. Oscar’s breathing eventually evens out, his hold on you loosening slightly as the last vestiges of his rut start to dissipate. He’s still inside you, his knot keeping him locked in place, but the urgency, the desperation, has faded, replaced by a quiet, almost tender possessiveness.

“Are you okay?” He asks after a long moment, his voice soft, a little hesitant, as if he’s worried that he might have been too rough, too possessive.

You nod, your head resting against his shoulder as you try to catch your breath, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks. “I’m okay,” you manage to say, your voice a little hoarse from all the crying out you’ve done.

Oscar’s hand moves to your hair, stroking it gently, a stark contrast to the roughness of his earlier actions. “You were perfect,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a quiet, reverent awe. “So perfect for me.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips, and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch, the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, lulling you into a state of contentment. There’s something about being in his arms, being claimed by him so completely, that makes you feel safe, loved, cherished.

After a few more minutes, Oscar shifts slightly, testing the tightness of his knot, but it’s still too swollen to pull out, so he just holds you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “We’ll stay like this for a while,” he says softly, his voice warm and comforting. “I don’t want to hurt you by pulling out too soon.”

You hum in agreement, your body relaxing against him as you let the warmth and security of his embrace wash over you. There’s no rush, no need to move or do anything but bask in the afterglow, in the warmth of each other’s presence.

As the minutes tick by, Oscar continues to murmur soft words of praise and love, his hands gentle as they caress your back, your hair, your skin. “You’re going to be the best mother,” he whispers, his voice filled with a quiet certainty that makes your heart swell. “Our pups are going to be so lucky to have you.”

***

It’s a quiet morning, the sun just beginning to filter through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. You’re curled up in Oscar’s arms, the warmth of his body enveloping you, his scent surrounding you like a protective blanket. His breath is slow and steady against your skin, his nose pressed against the sensitive spot on your neck where his mating mark sits, a constant reminder of his claim on you. The world outside doesn’t matter here, in this little bubble of comfort and safety you’ve created together.

Oscar shifts slightly, his hand running up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. You feel his lips brush against your skin, soft and lingering, before he presses his nose more firmly against your mating gland, inhaling deeply. He’s been doing that a lot lately, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent like it’s the most precious thing in the world. There’s something almost reverent about the way he does it, like he’s trying to memorize every single part of you.

“Your scent’s different,” Oscar murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, sleepy rumble that vibrates through you. He nuzzles closer, his nose brushing along the line of your neck, taking another deep inhale. “It’s sweeter … richer.”

You blink, the words slow to sink in through the haze of sleep still clouding your mind. “Different?” You ask softly, your voice still thick with sleep.

Oscar nods, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile against your skin. “Yeah … different,” he repeats, his hand moving to rest on your stomach, his fingers splayed out across your skin. “I think … I think you’re pregnant.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and it takes a moment for them to fully register. Pregnant. The thought sends a warm flush through your body, your heart skipping a beat. You shift slightly in his arms, turning to look at him, your eyes wide and searching.

“Pregnant?” You echo, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it out loud might break the spell.

Oscar’s smile widens, and he nods again, his hand on your stomach pressing down gently, almost possessively. “Yeah,” he says softly, his voice filled with awe and a deep, overwhelming joy. “You’re carrying our pup.”

The reality of it hits you all at once, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions — happiness, love, a touch of fear, but most of all, an overwhelming sense of rightness. This is what you’ve always wanted, what you’ve dreamed of since the moment Oscar first claimed you, and now it’s real. You’re going to be a mother. You’re going to have a family with him.

Oscar’s hand moves from your stomach to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that slips free. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. “Why are you crying, love?”

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you lean into his touch. “I’m just … so happy,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Oscar assures you, his thumb continuing to stroke your cheek, his eyes filled with a deep, unwavering love. “You’re going to be the most amazing mother, I know it.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, the warmth of his touch grounding you, anchoring you to this moment. When you open them again, Oscar is still watching you, his gaze intense, filled with a possessive pride that makes your heart race.

His hand slides back down to your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin, and you can see the way his pupils dilate, his breathing growing a little heavier. “You’re carrying our pup,” he says again, his voice rougher now, laced with an edge of desire. “My pup.”

The way he says it, the raw possessiveness in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine, and you can feel the heat building between you again, the need that’s never far from the surface when you’re with him. Oscar’s hand moves lower, his fingers slipping between your legs, and you gasp at the sudden, overwhelming sensation, your body instinctively arching towards him.

“Oscar …” you breathe, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and need.

He doesn’t answer with words, instead, his lips capture yours in a deep, hungry kiss, his hand moving to position you just right, and then he’s slipping inside you, the sensation of him filling you again like coming home. You moan into his mouth, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he moves slowly, deliberately, savoring every moment, every sensation.

Oscar pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze burning with an intensity that takes your breath away. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, his hands moving to hold your hips, guiding you as he moves. “So proud … and so lucky.”

You can’t find the words to respond, too lost in the feeling of him inside you, the way he’s filling you so completely, so perfectly. He moves with a slow, steady rhythm, his hands holding you close, keeping you grounded in this moment, in the connection between you. Every thrust, every movement is filled with a deep, reverent love, a celebration of the life you’re creating together.

“You’re going to be such a good mother,” Oscar whispers, his voice a low growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re perfect … so perfect for me … for our pup.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body, your muscles tightening around him, drawing him deeper. Oscar groans, his grip on your hips tightening, his pace quickening just slightly, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate as the need to claim you again, to mark you as his, takes over.

“Mine,” he growls, his voice rough with possessiveness, his lips brushing against your neck, right over your mating mark. “All mine.”

You can only moan in response, your body moving in sync with his, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you, building towards something that feels like it might consume you whole. Oscar’s hands move to your stomach again, pressing down gently, reminding you of the life growing inside you, and the sensation is enough to push you over the edge.

With a cry, you shatter around him, your body convulsing with the force of the orgasm, your muscles tightening around him, pulling him deeper. Oscar follows moments later, his body tensing as he comes inside you, filling you with his seed, his hands holding you close, keeping you grounded as you both ride out the waves of pleasure together.

The world slowly comes back into focus, the intensity of the moment fading into a warm, comforting afterglow. Oscar’s breathing is heavy, his arms wrapped around you as he holds you close, his body still pressed against yours. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the warmth of his skin against yours, and it’s enough to make you feel safe, loved, cherished.

After a long moment, Oscar shifts slightly, his arms tightening around you as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion. “So much.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice still a little shaky from the intensity of it all.

Oscar’s hand moves to rest on your stomach again, his fingers tracing gentle circles over the skin. “Our pup is going to be so lucky,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet awe. “They’re going to have the best mother.”

You smile at that, a soft, contented smile as you snuggle closer to him, letting the warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his breathing, lull you into a state of peace. For a while, you just lay there together, wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten in the warmth and safety of this moment.

But as the minutes tick by, a thought begins to creep into your mind, a worry that you can’t quite shake. The thought of bringing a child into the world, of raising them, brings with it a flood of emotions — joy, excitement, but also fear. And there’s one fear that lingers more than any other, one that you can’t push aside.

After a long moment, you finally find the courage to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “Oscar …”

He hums in response, his hand still resting on your stomach, his fingers tracing gentle patterns over your skin.

“If we have an omega pup …” you start, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of the words. “Promise me … promise me they’ll never be taken away to an omega training school. Not like I was.”

Oscar’s hand stills on your stomach, his body tensing slightly beneath you. There’s a long pause, and you can feel his heart start to race beneath your ear, his breath catching in his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough with emotion. “I promise,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet, fierce determination. “I’ll never let that happen. I would die before I let anyone take our pup away from us.”

You close your eyes, a wave of relief washing over you at his words. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude and love.

Oscar’s arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’m thankful that the school meant I could find you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. “But I’d die before letting any of our pups go through what you did. They’ll never know that kind of life. They’ll have us — always.”

The words settle deep in your chest, soothing an ache you hadn’t even realized was still there. The fear that had been gnawing at you dissipates in the warmth of his embrace, replaced by the quiet certainty that Oscar means every word. He would fight for you, for your future, for your family. He already has.

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity of the love you see there steals your breath away. He’s watching you with an unwavering focus, his eyes soft but determined, like you’re the most important thing in the world to him. And you are.

You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, a silent thank you for the promise he’s just made, for the future you know you’ll build together. Oscar responds with a hum of contentment, his hand slipping up to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispers, and it’s not just a promise — it’s a vow. “You, me, and our pup. We’re going to be more than okay. We’re going to be happy.”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips as you let the last of your worries melt away, replaced by the overwhelming sense of rightness that comes with being here, in this moment, with him. You believe him. You believe in the life you’re building together, in the love that will carry you through whatever comes next.

As you settle back down against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a peaceful drowsiness, you feel more content than you’ve ever felt in your life. Oscar’s hand continues its gentle caress over your stomach, his touch soothing and protective, and you know without a doubt that he will always be there for you, for your family.

***

10 Years Later

The sun is shining brightly as you walk hand-in-hand with Oscar, your large family trailing behind you like a small parade. The paddock is bustling with activity, but the familiar sights and sounds of race day are a comforting background as you make your way through the crowd. Your hand rests on your rounded belly, a gentle reminder of the life growing inside you. The warmth of Oscar’s grip on your other hand grounds you, a constant source of strength and love.

Your eldest, an alpha, walks beside you, his protective nature evident in the way he keeps an eye on his younger siblings. The twins, an omega boy and girl, chatter excitedly as they try to keep up with their older brother, their energy infectious. The rest of your pups, a mix of alphas, betas, and omegas, follow close behind, their laughter and playful teasing filling the air.

As you near the entrance to the paddock, a reporter spots Oscar and approaches with a microphone, a camera crew in tow. The reporter’s eyes widen slightly as they take in the sight of your large family, but they quickly compose themselves, flashing a polite smile.

“Oscar, a quick word before you head inside?” The reporter asks, holding out the microphone.

Oscar glances at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, before nodding to the reporter. “Sure, why not?”

The reporter’s gaze shifts between you, Oscar, and your brood of children, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase their question delicately. “It’s not every day we see a Formula 1 driver with such a large family,” they begin, their tone carefully neutral. “If you don’t mind me asking, what made you decide to have so many pups?”

Oscar’s smirk deepens, and he pulls you closer to his side, his arm sliding around your waist possessively. The gesture is as much for your comfort as it is a display of his pride in you and your family. He takes a moment, clearly enjoying the reporter’s slight discomfort, before he leans in just a little, his voice low and confident.

“Well,” Oscar starts, his eyes flicking down to you with a look that’s nothing short of adoring. “If you had a perfect omega like mine, you wouldn’t be able to resist either.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them — his voice dripping with pride, love, and just a hint of that possessive edge — makes the reporter blink, momentarily taken aback. The camera catches the way Oscar’s hand rests protectively on your stomach, the way he holds you close as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s clear to everyone watching that Oscar means every word.

You can’t help but smile at his response, a warmth spreading through your chest at the unabashed way he shows his love for you and your family. The reporter regains their composure quickly, nodding with a polite smile, though there’s a hint of envy in their eyes.

“That’s certainly a lovely sentiment,” the reporter says, recovering quickly. “It’s wonderful to see a family so full of love and happiness.”

Oscar’s smirk softens into a genuine smile, and he nods. “We’re very lucky,” he agrees, his voice full of affection. “Family is everything to us.”

The reporter glances back at your children, who are now gathered around, their attention divided between the camera and each other. The twins are whispering excitedly to one another, their matching wide eyes reflecting the curiosity only children can have. One of the younger alphas is tugging on the sleeve of your oldest, asking if they can watch the race from the best spot on the pit wall.

“How do you manage with so many little ones, especially with such a demanding career?” The reporter asks, genuinely curious now.

Oscar chuckles softly, glancing at you with a knowing smile. “It’s not always easy, but we make it work. We’ve got a good system in place, and it helps that they love being around the track as much as I do. They’ve grown up with it, so it’s like a second home to them.”

You nod in agreement, your free hand absently rubbing your belly as you listen. “And they look out for each other,” you add, smiling at your children. “The older ones help with the younger ones, and we make sure to spend as much time together as we can. It’s a team effort.”

The reporter smiles, clearly charmed by the image of your close-knit family. “It sounds like a wonderful way to raise a family,” they say. “Thank you for sharing that with us.”

Oscar gives a polite nod, then glances down at you, his eyes softening. “We should get inside,” he murmurs, his tone indicating that the interview is over.

You nod, and together, you turn to lead your family toward the entrance to the paddock. The reporter calls out a final thank you as the camera crew packs up, but you’re already focused on the day ahead, your mind shifting to the race and the time you’ll spend together as a family.

As you walk through the paddock, you can feel the curious glances of team members and other drivers as they take in the sight of your large family. But you’re used to it by now — the whispers, the stares. It doesn’t bother you. If anything, it only strengthens your resolve to live your life on your own terms, to build the family you’ve always dreamed of.

Your children, oblivious to the attention, continue their playful banter, their excitement for the race palpable. They’ve grown up in this world, surrounded by the roar of engines and the thrill of competition, and it’s as much a part of them as it is of Oscar. They’ve inherited his passion for racing, but they’ve also inherited something far more important — his love, his strength, and his tireless devotion to family.

As you approach the McLaren garage, you catch sight of Lando, who’s already suited up and chatting with a few engineers. He looks up and grins when he sees your family, waving you over.

“Hey, Piastri clan!” Lando calls out, a playful twinkle in his eye. “You lot taking over the paddock today?”

The kids immediately perk up at the sight of their favorite “Uncle Lando,” and before you know it, they’re rushing over to him, peppering him with questions about the race and begging for stories about his latest adventures on the track.

Oscar chuckles, giving Lando a mock glare. “Don’t spoil them too much. I still need them to behave for the race.”

Lando laughs, ruffling the hair of one of the younger alphas. “No promises, mate. You know I can’t resist these little troublemakers.”

You smile at the easy camaraderie between the two drivers, a bond that’s only grown stronger over the years. It’s clear that Lando cares deeply for your family, and you’re grateful for the role he plays in your children’s lives.

As the kids gather around Lando, hanging on his every word, Oscar pulls you aside, his hand resting on your lower back as he guides you to a quieter corner of the garage. Once you’re out of earshot, he turns to you, his eyes searching your face with a tenderness that never fails to make your heart skip a beat.

“You okay?” He asks softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You nod, leaning into his touch. “I’m fine,” you assure him. “Just … taking it all in.”

Oscar smiles, his gaze drifting down to your belly before meeting your eyes again. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” He murmurs. “All of this — our family, the race, everything.”

“It is,” you agree, your voice soft. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

***

The penthouse suite is filled with the familiar sounds of a family settling in for the evening — a mix of laughter, playful bickering, and the rustle of blankets being shared and tugged over laps. It’s movie night, a ritual that’s become sacred in your household, especially after a long weekend at the track. The air is thick with the scent of popcorn, and the oversized sofa is crowded with a tangle of limbs, all jockeying for the best spot to cuddle up for the night.

You’re nestled comfortably against Oscar’s side, his arm draped around your shoulders, fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. Your oldest, Liam, an alpha who has inherited Oscar’s fierce determination, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring intently at the screen, trying to get the movie started. His younger brother, Dylan, a beta, leans over his shoulder, offering unasked-for advice.

“Just press play already,” Adeline, one of the omega twins, groans dramatically from her spot on the couch, her head pillowed on her twin brother Theo’s lap. “We’ve been sitting here for ages.”

“It’s not that easy,” Liam mutters, his brow furrowing in concentration as he navigates through the menus. “These remotes are weird.”

“They’re exactly the same as the ones at home,” Oscar says with a chuckle, but there’s no judgment in his tone, just the easy patience that comes from a decade of fatherhood.

Across the room, Zara and Oliver, another alpha-beta pair, are busy constructing a fortress of pillows and blankets at the end of the sofa, clearly uninterested in the movie and more focused on their own game. They’re whispering conspiratorially, planning some elaborate attack on their siblings that will no doubt result in a mock battle before bedtime.

You smile at the sight of them all — your eight pups, each so different and yet so bonded by the shared experiences of growing up in the whirlwind that is life with an F1 driver and his omega. The love you see in their eyes, the easy way they interact with each other, it’s everything you ever wanted, everything you never dared to dream about when you were younger.

Oscar’s hand slides up to your neck, his thumb brushing over your mating mark. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively lean into his touch. He chuckles softly, dipping his head to press a kiss to the spot, his lips lingering as if savoring the taste of your skin.

“Dad,” Theo groans, lifting his head to glare at Oscar. “Do you have to do that right now?”

“What?” Oscar lifts his head just enough to give Theo an innocent look, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. “I’m just reminding your mother how much I love her.”

“Gross,” Adeline mutters, her nose wrinkling in exaggerated disgust. “Can’t you wait until after the movie?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Zara pipes up from the fort, peeking out from behind a wall of pillows. “No one wants to see that.”

Oscar just laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that you can feel vibrating through your whole body. He pulls you closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “They’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” You whisper back, though you already know the answer.

“That I have the most perfect omega in the world,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. “And I’m not afraid to show it.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, the warmth that blooms in your chest at his words. Even after all these years, after all the changes and challenges, the love between you hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s grown stronger, more resilient, like a fire that refuses to go out no matter how hard the winds of life try to snuff it out.

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” Liam says, finally getting the movie to start. “Can we just watch this before bedtime?”

Oscar pulls back, giving the kids a mock-salute. “As you wish.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence as the opening credits roll, and you settle back into Oscar’s embrace, your head resting on his chest. His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing, and you squeeze gently, letting him know without words how much you appreciate him — how much you love him.

As the movie plays, the pups gradually grow quieter, their energy from the day’s excitement starting to ebb away. One by one, they begin to drift off, their heads lolling onto each other’s shoulders, or in some cases, onto their parents.

Adeline is the first to go, her breathing evening out as she curls up against Theo, who’s already half-asleep himself. Liam manages to stay awake a little longer, but soon his eyelids grow heavy, and he slumps over, using Dylan as a pillow. Even Zara and Oliver, who had been so animated just moments before, have stopped whispering, their fort abandoned as they snuggle into the cushions.

You glance up at Oscar, who’s watching the scene with a look of pure contentment. He meets your gaze, his eyes softening with a tenderness that makes your heart swell.

“Look at them,” you whisper, your voice filled with awe. “How did we get so lucky?”

Oscar smiles, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I ask myself that every day.”

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and he tightens his arm around you in response, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting reminder of his presence.

As the credits begin to roll, Oscar shifts slightly, careful not to wake the pups who are using him as a makeshift bed. “Should we carry them to their rooms?”

You shake your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Let them stay. They’re all together, and I don’t want to disturb that.”

Oscar chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re too soft on them.”

“Maybe,” you concede, but there’s no real reproach in your tone. “But they’re only little for so long. I want to hold onto this for as long as I can.”

Oscar’s expression softens even further, and he tilts your chin up, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. “You’re a good mother,” he murmurs against your lips. “The best.”

The kiss deepens, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, in the love that has seen you through so much. When you finally pull away, your heart is racing, and you’re left feeling light-headed, like you’re floating on a cloud of pure happiness.

As you both settle back down, Oscar’s hand rests protectively on your growing belly, his thumb tracing slow circles over the spot where your newest pup is nestled. You place your hand over his, feeling the connection between you, Oscar, and the life growing inside you.

The room is quiet now, filled only with the soft sounds of breathing and the occasional rustle of a blanket as one of the pups shifts in their sleep. The city twinkle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the room, but inside, it feels like a world of its own — a world where nothing can touch you, where you and your family are safe and happy.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of Oscar’s embrace and the contentment of the moment wash over you. As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the people you love most in the world, you can’t help but think that this is what happiness truly is — these simple, quiet moments that make life so incredibly beautiful.

[batboysanonymous]

Shadows Between Us

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Y/N’s world shatters when the mating bond snaps into place with Azriel, her brother Cassian’s best friend, and the one person who doesn’t want her.

Pt. II

Pt. III

Word Count: 1.1k

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Y/N’s fingers hovered over the last strap of her Illyrian training leathers, the leather stiff and worn from years of use. Her reflection in the ornate mirror stared back at her, a hollow version of the confident warrior she once believed herself to be. Her chest tightened as she smoothed the dark fabric. This armor protected her from the elements—but not from him.

Azriel.

The name echoed in her mind, a haunting melody she couldn’t escape. The bond between them was a cruel twist of fate, tying her to someone who didn’t want her. Not like that. Not like a mate.

Her brother, Cassian, was oblivious to the turmoil. She could hear his booming laughter from down the hall, sparring with Nesta in their private suite. Her brother’s bond with Nesta was vibrant and undeniable, like the sun blazing in the sky. Theirs was a bond that had been welcomed, nurtured. Nothing like hers.

“Are you ready?” Nesta’s voice broke through her thoughts. She leaned against the doorway, her sharp features softened by genuine concern.

“I’m fine,” Y/N lied, tightening her armor. “Just another day of training.”

Nesta crossed her arms, skeptical as always. “You don’t have to put yourself through this. If Azriel is going to act like a blind, ungrateful idiot, that’s on him.”

Y/N flinched but didn’t let her expression falter. Nesta had seen too much already, had heard the muffled sobs Y/N tried to hide. It was Nesta, after all, who had been scouring ancient libraries for a way to break the mating bond.

“What if there’s no way to break it?” Y/N had asked one desperate night.

“There’s always a way,” Nesta had replied firmly, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Even if I have to tear it from the Cauldron’s hands myself.”

Nesta’s fierce determination was both a balm and a knife. Y/N wanted to believe her, but the bond’s presence was constant, unyielding, like a second heartbeat she couldn’t escape.

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Azriel’s indifference wasn’t new, but it hadn’t always been this unbearable. For years, he had been polite, distant, a quiet presence in her life. That changed the night the bond snapped into place. She had felt it instantly, the overwhelming connection that pulled her toward him like gravity. She thought it would be the start of something beautiful.

It wasn’t.

The memory of that night was etched into her mind:

“I didn’t ask for this,” Azriel had said, his voice a low growl. Shadows curled around him protectively as he paced the room. “This bond—it’s a mistake.”

Cassian had been livid. “How dare you?” he had roared, fists clenched. “She’s your mate. You’re supposed to protect her, cherish her—”

“I didn’t ask for her,” Azriel had interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “And I don’t want her.”

Y/N had been listening from the shadows, her heart shattering with every word. She had fled before either of them noticed her.

That night had marked the beginning of her descent into a quiet, agonizing heartbreak. Azriel didn’t want her. And now, he barely looked at her unless duty required it.

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The training grounds were alive with the sounds of sparring and laughter when Y/N arrived. Cassian greeted her with a grin, his wings flaring dramatically as he held up his practice sword. Nesta sat on the sidelines, her sharp gaze keeping an eye on everything, especially Y/N.

And then there was Azriel.

He leaned against a stone pillar, his hazel eyes scanning the room. His shadows curled lazily around him, an ever-present reminder of his power. When his gaze landed on Y/N, his expression didn’t change, but she felt the weight of his stare.

“Late again,” Cassian teased, tossing her a wooden sword. “Better be ready. Nesta’s been waiting to knock you on your ass.”

“Like that’s new,” Y/N shot back, forcing a smile.

Azriel said nothing, his shadows whispering secrets she wasn’t privy to. He didn’t look at her again, not as she stepped into the sparring ring with Nesta or as she exchanged blow after blow with her sister-in-law. But she felt him watching all the same, a phantom touch that set her on edge.

“Keep your guard up,” Nesta barked, her blade coming down in a swift arc.

Y/N blocked it, her muscles straining. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder,” Nesta said, her voice sharp but not unkind. She feinted left and landed a glancing blow to Y/N’s ribs. “You’re distracted.”

“Am not,” Y/N muttered, even as her mind screamed at her to stop lying.

“You’re predictable,” Nesta continued, stepping back. “And predictable gets you killed.”

Cassian clapped from the sidelines. “That’s my mate. Brutally honest and brutally effective.”

Nesta rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, her gaze flickering to Y/N. “You need to focus, or—”

“I’ve got it,” Y/N snapped, irritation bubbling to the surface. “Let’s go again.”

But even as they resumed, her movements were sluggish, her thoughts fractured. Azriel’s presence was suffocating, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken. When the session ended, Y/N barely waited for Cassian’s critique before heading toward the showers.

“Y/N.”

His voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned to find Azriel standing a few feet away, his shadows coiling around his boots.

“What?” she said, her tone sharper than intended.

He hesitated, his expression unreadable. “We need to talk.”

Her heart twisted painfully, but she forced herself to stand tall. “About?”

“The bond,” he said, his voice low. “I—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her throat tightening. “I already know how you feel.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “You don’t.”

“Don’t I?” she snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t want me. You don’t want this bond. What else is there to say?”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, frustration creeping into his tone.

“It is,” she said, her voice trembling. “You’ve made it perfectly clear.”

His shadows stilled, wrapping tightly around him as if to shield him from her words. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she lied, her voice breaking. “Except maybe honesty. But I guess that’s too much to ask.”

She turned and walked away, ignoring the pain that threatened to consume her.

That night, Y/N lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her room. The bond pulsed faintly, a reminder that no matter how far she ran, she could never escape him. But the tears didn’t come. She was empty, her heart a hollow shell.

In the darkness, she made a decision: If Azriel didn’t want the bond, she wouldn’t force him to accept it.

Even if it killed her.

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[redwinelew]

SAVE YOUR TEARS

type written fic (no part 2 request pls)

pairing lewis hamilton x driver!reader

summary you need a distraction and your teammate is the perfect person for that

word count 3.7k

warnings 18+. smut. nsfw. porn with oh so little plot and even little feelings. unprotected sex. rough sex. emotional sex. prone bone then missionary (idk i tried), praise kink. hints of depression, self doubts etc etc idk lmk what i missed. english is not my first language.

author's note self-indulgent if u couldn't tell from the warnings. that's it. sorry.

masterlist

lewis didn't expect you to turn up in front of his hotel room tonight night, face wet with tears staining your cheeks, lips trembling as you held back a sob.

nor was he expecting you to ever utter these words to him.

"i need you to fuck me."

lewis' lips parted, unable to get any words out, too shocked by your sudden request. he has a million different questions appearing in his brain all at once. what the hell is happening? why are you crying? who did this to you? and why on god's green earth did you just ask him to— he couldn't even repeat it to himself. it didn't feel real, didn't even sound like you were asking. pleading, more like it, in pure desperation.

he calls your name softly, like he's trying to wake you up from a dream. his thick eyebrows tie together in confusion. "what are you—"

"please...." you cut him off, the last syllable getting more inaudible as it trails away. tears beginning to fill up your eyes again before they drop, reaching your jaw and fall to the floor.

lewis has never seen you like this, and he's pretty sure nobody else on the grid or the public did either. his teammate whom in his eyes, the one who always got her shit together. he's almost jealous at how composed you always presented yourself to be, on and off track, never letting any unwanted criticisms by fans or media from getting to you, always quick to shut them down cleverly. the last person anybody could ever take down, mentally.

then he realized, that he held you to such a high standard to the point where he had forgotten that you were still just a human. it's only a matter of time before you break and if lewis personally had his moments where he was at his lowest, he couldn't imagine being in your shoes right now.

everything immediately clicked for lewis right there and then. he had never invited a girl inside so fast, never undressed her so quickly.

"what's your safe word?" he asks, needing to know before he proceeds.

"pancake."

lewis nods. he was about to crash his lips against yours when you put your hand on his clothed chest to stop him firmly, almost clenching your hand on his shirt, head turn away slightly.

"no," you refused.

kissing means this would get personal. complicated. and you do not want complications in the future. this is not going to be a love-making session. this is going to be lewis fucking you hard until your eyes roll back and your vision turns white. until the thickness of his cock makes your hollow soul lights up again. until you feel alive from his hand around your throat.

nothing else.

and that's exactly what he's doing right now. no kissing. he immediately understood it from the minute you refused his lips, getting what this is going to be.

lewis' tattooed hand fists on your shirt hard as he avoids your lips and kisses your neck instead, finding those spots that make your knees buckle and focuses particularly on there. you remove his hair tie, and tangle your fingers with his braids. he groans, his hair a particular sensitive part on his body. his thick lips travel lower to lay kisses along your collarbone. no marks either, he doesn't need to be told that.

though for some reason he does not understand, it is suddenly quite hard to resist himself from leaving purple bites on your skin. not when he had someone like you in his arms whom he had found beautiful since the first time his eyes laid in you.

no, lewis tells himself silently. this is not about you. this is about her. she's struggling. there's a demon that she needs to defeat and she needs your help. so help her.

you find yourself walking in reverse as he advances towards you, before your back hits the soft mattress of his hotel bed.

"yes." you say, already breathless, letting him know this is exactly how you want it. no tip-toeing, no hesitation or being overly careful, because you trust him enough to know that he knows what he should and shouldn't do, or you wouldn't have knocked in his door. you might be mentally fragile, but not your body. you need him to get to work quickly, to get you out of the mess that is currently your mind right now. he doesn't need to be gentle, because all you desire is the exact opposite.

lewis does not respond. instead he takes off your shirt and bra, throwing them somewhere on his floor without caring where they land. you do the same with his. lewis climbs over you, leaving neither of you time to admire one another's half naked bodies. nothing to gawk over. this is not what you came here for and lewis was quick to understand that.

his lips were fast to attack your bare chest next. his tongue swirls over your nipple, coating it with his spit before sucking hard, creating sounds as lewd as your moans right now. he also groans silently, the vibration sending more waves of pleasure inside you. he lets you gather his braids to press his face harder on your breast while one of his hands went to grope on the other, flicking your already sensitive nipple before giving it the same attention with his tongue. your back arches, and you find yourself pressing both your thighs together, desperate for relief on your lower half.

he senses it and leaves your chest. he pulls down your pants next, then your panties. you catch the way he visibly swallows at the sight of your dripping pussy, his own cock starting to throb in need.

"tell me what you need," he asks breathlessly, his voice huskier than usual, making your walls clench around nothing.

"your fingers." you answer without hesitation. the rational part of your brain manages to slip through, making you wonder for a split second just what made you so bold tonight, demanding all sort of things you never even had the courage to ask anybody.

maybe it's demons in your head, the one you are desperate to get rid off so you are forcing yourself to do the absolute craziest, just to feel like your old self again.

lewis nods. part of him is still in disbelief over what is currently happening but he tries to leave it at the back of his head. you let him spread your legs with ease and he doesn't waste any time to slide his digit smoothly over your fold to gather your arousal, earning a sharp gasp from you. he spits on your cunt, his saliva mixes with your wetness before he pushes.

still he was careful, only using one finger for now. he's well aware of the thickness of his digits and not sure how much you can take if he immediately adds more.

"m-more." you're whimpering already and the sound goes straight to lewis' dick, forcing him to take a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to calm his twitching cock.

but it's difficult. this is lewis hamilton, seven times formula 1 world champion. the greatest of all time. admire by billions. and yet when he has a pretty girl like you underneath him, at his mercy, your beautiful cunt clenching hard around his fingers, suddenly lewis is just a normal man. one who is not sure how much longer he can hold himself from claiming you all for himself.

lewis takes a deep breath. this is not about you, he tells himself again. you need to listen to her. give her what she needs. you can get any girl to come to your hotel room for fucking, and yet she only has you, the only man she clearly feels safe enough to ask of this.

"faster." you ask and lewis starts to deliver, pushing your legs apart even further before his hand picking up its pace, until the only sounds in the room are your ragged moans and the slickness of your cunt.

you are gorgeous. absolutely breathtaking, lewis thinks to himself. the way your face is flushed, sweat staining all over your face and neck. how your figure, hypnotizing as if it was blessed by aphrodite herself writhe underneath him, chasing that high. sinful moans and whimpers from your lips, enchanting his ears, making him curl his fingers until they find that one spot inside that makes you only whine louder, addicted into finding even more ways to earn those sounds from you. your legs part even wider as if not getting enough, silently begging for more than just his fingers.

"fuck...." lewis cannot help but groan. he sees the way your breath is getting shorter, more ragged. following his own impulses, lewis stops, withdrawing his hand from you.

you whine shamelessly at the sudden emptiness. you look up, watching lewis licking your arousal clean from his lips. the sight should be dirty, should make your pussy pulses in lust but instead your brain is protesting, head thrown back on the mattress in frustration. no, no, no, no, the brain says. you were far from reaching your peak since lewis had just started fingering you but you were at bliss at how preoccupied your mind was, having no room to think about anyting but his fingers inside you.

the insecurities starting to come back. the demon has gone back to work, playing in your ears and whispering doubts into you again.

maybe lewis is regretting this. he thinks you're sick in the head and he wants you to leave. he's going to tell the team—

"you're gonna come on my cock only."

oh—

oh.

you don't have time to be dumbfounded when lewis gets off the bed to remove his pants, eyes stay on yours. a hiss leaves his lips as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his rock hard cock that already leaks with pre-cum while keeping his lustful gaze on you the entire time before he gets back to the bed to you.

your mouth almost waters at the visual. yes, you came to his hotel room, crying, begging him to fuck you. and yet it's unbelievable to see lewis like this. the champion, feared by the rest of the grid, respected by the whole wide world, is currently hard and throbbing in front of you. for you.

your cunt is wet again, pulsing around air thinking about just how he'd fit himself inside you but before you could do anything, he flips you flat onto your stomach. you yelp, caught off-guard by his sudden action. the mattress dips as his knees sink into it on either side of your body. he grabs his pillow before shoving it under your belly.

condom is on and when you feel his tip pressing against your entrance, you gasp silently, already gripping the sheets.

"we can stop if you want." he says, lowering his voice down to a softer tone, giving you a way out. he's willing to ignore the way his dick twitches, begging to be taken care of, if you desire to stop. but instead....

"n-no." you shake your head fast, voice shaky but with a hint of firmness behind it. "no, i don't want to stop. please."

"what do you need then? tell me exactly."

"i don't want to think. please, just— use me. i don't care. don't be gentle. i want it hard. i need it rough."

part of lewis regrets that he asked because holy fucking shit. sweet baby jesus. he doesn't recognize the sound that he makes, deep from his chest, filled with lust after hearing your dirty, desperate request.

on one hand, he's more than happy to fulfill your desire, knowing this is just going to be sex and nothing more. it's easier for the both of you in the future, knowing that this is a one time thing and absolutely no feelings would be involved.

but on the other hand, though lewis presents himself to the public and media as the calm and collected person you'd see on TV, but like every other man, he has his own wants and needs as well. and you have absolutely fucking idea what the hell you had just woken up inside him.

"fuck. fuck, you can't just fucking say that. you're fucking killing me, baby girl."

you moan at the nickname, then the volume becomes louder when you feel him pushing himself inside you slowly, one palm on a side of your head while the other is gripping your hip so fucking hard no doubt it'll bruised tomorrow.

you want it to bruise. and you know what you just asked of him. it's nothing like you had ever asked of a man before. to take you like a ragdoll for him to be used, to be toyed with whenever his please. to use you like you exist only and solely for his pleasure. because the thoughts that you are having about yourself are way worse. you want it to bruise, to hurt. you want to still be able to feel him for days. to have difficulties to walk so you will always be reminded of tonight. because at least your mind will be distracted from wandering to places you have been working so hard to avoid again.

lewis slides in easily but the stretch burns. you whine, fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly as you try to breathe properly in order to relax yourself so you can accommodate to his size, which is bigger than anyone you had ever taken. what he lacks in height, he certainly makes up for it in his length.

when he's fully inside, lewis gathers your hair before yanking it hard, making your neck arches back and you cry out. the pain in your scalp is weirdly delicious, combines with how he's making you feel so full having his dick deep inside, unmoving.

"say thank you." lewis demands, his tone no longer kind amd gentle like before, goosebumps prickle all over your skin. you never heard him using that kind of tone during work, never even imagine that he'd be the type to sound like that in bed. "thank me for fucking you."

"t-thank you."

"louder." he bottoms out before slamming into you hard, pulling a loud gasp from you.

"thank you!" you choke out.

lewis starts out slow at first, looking for the right pace. he remembers how you want it but he's not going to give it right away, out of care and of course pettiness.

but as he continues, he couldn't help but craving to hear more of those sweet bits of noises that you keep making. to hear the way your breath hitches at how he's filling you up to the brim, at how good he's fucking you.

lewis lowers his body, caging your body from behind but still careful not to crush you completely with his weight as his pace increases, ramming his cock inside you, his restraint getting thinner.

"take it. you want me to fuck you so bad? fucking take it. you asked for this." he grunts, and you whimper with no shame left in you. it's difficult to care, not when you could feel yourself getting dumber on his dick, which is exactly what you were asking for. and all this couldn't be more perfect.

lewis' movements grow harder, rougher by the minute. your moans mixed with his and the sound of his hips snapping against your ass echoes to the entire room. you wish you could be quiet, knowing that this whole hotel is rented by your entire team. but the way lewis is fucking you is making you do the exact opposite. you know he wouldn't want you to be quiet either, the mechanics be damned.

it's starting to be too much. nails digging into the bedsheet, you find your body inching forward. you are not sure if you are trying to run away or get closer to him but when lewis notices this, he grabs both your wrists, pinning them above your head. his teeth nibbles against a specific spot under your earlobe, pulling another whine out of you.

"you can take it. fuck— good girls take what they asked for. you can do it."

your cunt somehow gets even wetter with his filthy words, at how his accent thickens, voice gets deeper and more hoarse. your pussy shouldn't be squeezing around his dick at his praises, but it did. and the grunts he lets out making it all worth it.

when he hits that sweet spot inside you that no other man has ever quite managed to find, your eyes roll back in ecstasy. you gasp, tears starting to fall again at the sweet pleasure you're experiencing.

the sex is perfect, you know lewis wouldn't disappoint. but your demon is back, suddenly haunting you and making you feel terrible about yourself again.

"what the hell do you think you're doing? oh, that's right. you wasn't. you aren't. you're just a dumb bitch making herself even dumber on this pathetic cock. if only you could see yourself. absolutely shameless. what a whore. begging for this man to fuck you like you never seen a dick before. nothing will ever be the same ever again. he will never look you in the eyes, he'll think of you differently. why didn't you just—"

lewis suddenly stops.

the voices do too, and you are left in confusion. his grip on your wrist is gone now and you didn't even notice. you turn your head, only to see him pulling out.

no. oh, no. no, no, no. the voices were right. he's pulling away. he's regretting this. he's gonna ask you to leave, isn't he?

"can i turn you on your back?" he asks instead.

silence from you for a few seconds before you let out a quiet "what?" before lying on your back on your own. you remove the pillow from under your belly and set it aside.

"you were crying." he points out, brows furrowing as a shadow of concern illuminating his handsome face.

you swallow. you were hoping he wouldn't notice and even if he did, he'd thought that it was because you were enjoying yourself this. the fact that he knows it was the opposite tells you that he knows there are million different things running in your mind right now and you hate it.

"y-yeah but it wasn't— not because of you."

pause. "you want me to slow down?"

again, you shake your head fast.

"i'm okay. please." you hate how quickly you beg for him again.

it's lewis' turn to swallow, his eyes darken slightly at your pleading. he nods before crawling back to you, determined to pick up where he left off, trusting that you will know what to say if you truly desire for him to stop completely.

he grabs one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist before bringing the other to his shoulder. you bite your lip at the way his gaze never wavers from you, making you wonder if he fucks every other girls like this.

no. fuck. stop it. why do you even care?

lewis takes his dick before burying himself inside you once more slightly easier this time. you can't help but moan and thanking him again.

he is slow again at first but it isn't long before his cock slams back at the perfect pace, the sound of skin against skin once again filling up this suite. your whimper mixed with his hisses when you claw on his tattooed back, pulling him closer.

lewis leaves kisses all over your leg, wherever he could reach before his hand sneaks up to fiddle and squeeze your bouncing tits.

you didn't expect him to wipe your tears next.

your eyes locked with his. he continues fucking you but it feels as if time has stopped. he has that look behind the lust that screams sympathy. pity. you hate it but at the same you don't push his hand away, letting him cup your face momentarily. but even lewis doesn't let this gesture happens for too long, always remembering the point of having you underneath him.

it doesn't take long until you feel an invisible knot in your lower belly. you're panting now, almost reaching your peak. lewis realizes this and he fucks you harder, his hand travels down to rub your clit.

"i'm—"

"i know, sweetie," he says, breathless as well. he lowers his body, hiding his face in the crook of your neck and kissing it all over as he feels his own orgasm nearing. "come for me."

a few more thrusts, and you see white. your mouth is agape as you moan silently. his grunt and groans is music to your ears as he spills himself inside the condom.

silence.

lewis never realized how much he needed this as well. not just the sex, but the connection, which he knows is insane to find with someone like you in circumstances like this but what just happened felt different. to be so close with someone he actually knows and not just another girl he calls to his room, not even bother to learn her name.

before he could gather his breath, he feels your body underneath him slipping out. his eyes feels heavy but he tries to hold on, watching you collecting your clothes and dressing back up.

"what are you—"

"that was really great. thank you." was all you said before you left, in a hurry like you refuse to spend another minute in the same room with lewis.

while the man is still on the bed, naked. he hasn't even removed his condom yet. a sigh escapes his lips, lying flat on the bed before staring at the white ceiling.

he did what you asked for, and he could only hope that you would feel better tomorrow morning.

and yet why does his heart suddenly aches, not having you in his arms anymore?

[hisfavegirl]

Loneliness - Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader.

summary : your mother's decision to leave you alone in the red keep and start a new life with daemon made you become cold to your own family. but you found something more valuable in the red keep.

The world had shifted, and so had you. The corridors of the Red Keep, once familiar, now felt colder and more suffocating. The weight of whispers followed you everywhere — quiet murmurs of “bastard” and “orphan” carried on the air like an ever-present shadow. But you had learned not to flinch. Not anymore.

Aemond’s injury at Driftmark had been a turning point, not just for him but for you as well. The rage, the blood, and the searing accusations that followed lingered in your mind like a bad dream that refused to fade. His loss of an eye became a symbol of the growing rift between your family and theirs. You had watched it all, your heart pounding in your chest, knowing that no matter what you said or did, it wouldn’t be enough to stop the storm.

Then came the departure of your father. Sudden. Unexplained. No goodbyes. One day he was there, and the next, he was gone. The ache it left in you was raw and hollow.

But the final blow came with the news of your mother’s marriage to Daemon. The whispers grew louder after that. The court’s disapproval was palpable, their eyes darting to you with barely concealed scorn. “Daughter of the princess and the rogue prince.” The words dripped with venom. It didn’t help that, after her marriage, your mother chose to return to Dragonstone — without you.

“It’s safer for you in the Red Keep,” she had told you, her voice firm but her eyes sad.

You had grown colder after that. Quieter. The smile you once wore so freely became a distant memory. You no longer sought out the company of others. You stayed in your chambers longer, speaking only when necessary, your heart guarded behind walls no one could breach.

The Greens noticed. Of course, they did. Queen Alicent’s watchful eyes never missed a thing. You felt her gaze on you at meals, in the training yard, and whenever you walked the halls alone. Sometimes she would speak to you, offering honeyed words about “duty” and “family unity.” Other times, she would simply watch, her face unreadable, as if trying to solve a puzzle only she could see.

But you had learned to keep your face still, your eyes sharp, and your words measured. They could call you “bastard” as much as they pleased, but they would never see you break. Not like before.

On one particularly cold evening, you sat by the window, gazing out at the courtyard below. You looked Aemond who were training with Ser Cirston, but you had little interest in watching. Your thoughts drifted like clouds in a stormy sky. You could see the sea in the distance, and it made you think of your father. Does he think of me too?

A knock came at the door, but you didn’t answer. It opened anyway, and you knew before you turned who it would be.

Queen Alicent.

She stepped inside with the same quiet grace she always carried. Her green gown trailed behind her like ivy creeping along stone. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, her eyes calm but focused.

“You’ve been keeping to yourself more than usual,” she said softly, her voice like silk over steel. “It’s not good for a child to be so alone.”

You didn’t respond right away, your eyes still fixed on the sea.

“I’m not alone,” you finally said, echoing the same words you’d told her once before. “I have my thoughts. They keep me company.”

Alicent tilted her head, her gaze sharp as ever. “Thoughts can be dangerous if left unchecked,” she replied, stepping closer. “Sometimes, they lead us to dark places.”

Her words lingered, heavy with meaning. You glanced at her then, your gaze steady and cold. “I am not afraid of the dark, Your Grace.”

She raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised by your boldness. But she didn’t scold you. If anything, her lips curved into a faint smile — though it was not one of warmth.

“No, I don’t suppose you are,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You are your mother’s daughter, after all.”

Silence hung between you, thick as smoke. She watched you for a moment longer, as if searching for something she wasn’t sure she would find.

“Be careful with that pride,” she warned before turning toward the door. “Pride has a way of making orphans of us all.”

Her words echoed long after she had gone, her footsteps fading down the hall. Alone once more, you sat by the window, eyes on the sea, your heart a fortress with walls higher than any castle. If pride would make an orphan of you, then so be it. You would rather stand alone in the storm than kneel before those who called you “bastard.”

You leaned against the headboard of your bed, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your chest. The dim glow of the fading sun seeped through the window, casting soft orange hues across the room. The stillness around you was suffocating, the silence broken only by the distant calls of seagulls and the gentle hum of the Red Keep’s endless murmurs.

Your gaze was distant, eyes locked on the ceiling as thoughts swirled in your mind like a storm at sea. What did I do wrong? The question had haunted you since the day your mother left for Dragonstone. It echoed with every quiet moment, every glance from Alicent, and every sharp whisper from passing lords and ladies.

Was I not enough? you wondered. Did I fail her somehow?

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. You were too old to cry over such things. But it was hard not to feel abandoned. Your mother was supposed to teach you, guide you, and be your shield. But instead, she had gone — with Jace, with Luke, with her new husband — and left you here. Alone.

A quiet knock pulled you from your thoughts. The door creaked open, and one of your maids stepped inside, her eyes lowered in respect. She held a small piece of parchment in her hands, the edges of it sealed with the unmistakable red wax of House Targaryen. Your heart leapt at the sight of it, the faintest flicker of hope blooming in your chest.

“A letter from Dragonstone, princess ,” the maid announced softly, walking toward you with careful steps.

You sat up quickly, heart pounding in your chest. She placed the letter in your hands, then stepped back, her gaze flickering with quiet curiosity before she lowered her eyes once more.

You stared at the seal for a moment, fingers tracing the mark of the three-headed dragon. Mother. For a moment, you hesitated. Part of you feared what it might say. Would it be filled with more promises to “see you soon” that never came true? Or would it finally be an explanation?

With a deep breath, you broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, eyes scanning the familiar, flowing script.

Your hands tightened around the parchment, the familiar ache in your chest returning tenfold. Her words were kind, warm, even loving — but they were just words. You couldn’t feel her arms around you through ink and parchment. You couldn’t hear her voice telling you everything would be all right.

The maid watched you carefully, perhaps waiting for some instruction or response, but you stayed silent. Your eyes lingered on the words “I love you with every breath I take.” For a moment, you believed it. But it didn’t fill the hollow space her absence had carved into you.

Slowly, you folded the letter and placed it under your pillow, as if keeping it close would make her feel closer too. You leaned back against the headboard, eyes once again drifting to the ceiling.

If you love me, why did you leave me? you thought bitterly. But you didn’t say it aloud. No one would hear you. No one ever did.

The next morning, you made the decision to visit your grandfather, King Viserys. You hadn’t seen him in some time, not since his illness had worsened and confined him to his chambers. There were whispers in the halls about his condition — how the disease was slowly consuming him, how he had become a shadow of the man he once was.

The walk to his chambers felt heavier than usual. Every step echoed against the cold stone walls, and the silence of the Red Keep pressed down on you. When you reached his door, the guards glanced at you briefly before stepping aside, allowing you entry.

The room smelled faintly of herbs and medicine, the air thick with the warmth of a fire that burned low in the hearth. Curtains were drawn, allowing only slivers of light to seep through. The soft, steady wheeze of your grandfather’s breathing filled the room, the sound uneven and strained.

He lay on the grand bed, his once-strong frame now frail and sunken. His face was pale, his skin stretched thin over his cheekbones, and his eyes, though closed, twitched beneath his eyelids as if he were trapped in a restless dream. His crown, once a symbol of his might, lay on a table beside him, cold and untouched.

Quietly, you approached his bedside, your heart aching at the sight of him. This is not the king I remember, you thought. The man who had once carried you on his shoulders during feasts, who had smiled so warmly when you brought him wildflowers from the gardens, was now barely a shadow of himself.

You pulled a chair close and sat by his side. For a moment, you only watched him, taking in every rise and fall of his chest, every line on his weathered face. Slowly, you reached out and took his hand in yours. His skin was cool to the touch, rough in places where age and illness had left their mark.

Gently, you ran your thumb across his knuckles, your movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid he might break beneath your touch. His fingers twitched slightly at the contact, and you wondered if he knew you were there.

“Grandfather,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s me.”

His breathing hitched for a moment, and you thought you saw his eyelids flutter. Slowly, his eyes opened — not fully, just enough to see you. His gaze was foggy, distant, but after a moment, recognition flickered within them. His lips parted, and his voice, cracked and hoarse, barely made it out.

“…child,” he rasped, his eyes squinting to focus on you.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to cry. You smiled at him, leaning in a little closer. “Yes, it’s me,” you said, your voice more steady now. “I came to see you.”

He tried to smile, but it came as little more than a twitch of his lips. His gaze lingered on you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place — pride, perhaps, or sorrow. Maybe both.

“You look… so much like her,” he murmured, his voice strained with effort. “So strong… just like her.”

You knew he was speaking of your mother. People often said you resembled her, though you weren’t sure if it was meant as a compliment or a curse. Still, hearing it from him felt different.

“I miss her,” you admitted quietly, still stroking his hand. “She left for Dragonstone with Jace and Luke. I stayed.”

His brows knitted together in confusion or concern. His gaze sharpened just a little, like a dying flame flaring briefly before fading. “Alone?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

You nodded, feeling a familiar ache settle in your chest. “I stayed so she wouldn’t seem weak. So they wouldn’t say we were running away.” Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to keep speaking. “But sometimes… I wonder if she forgot me.”

Viserys’s eyes softened, his grip on your hand weak but deliberate as he squeezed it gently. “No,” he said with surprising clarity. “She could never forget you.”

The words broke something in you. Your head dipped forward, and you clutched his hand tightly, holding on as if he were the last tether keeping you from drifting away. His breathing grew more labored, but he didn’t let go of you. Not yet.

“You are her heart,” he whispered, his words faint but certain. “Her blood. No distance… no crown… can change that.”

You pressed his hand to your forehead, eyes shut tight as tears spilled down your cheeks. You didn’t make a sound, didn’t want him to hear you cry, but you stayed there, letting his words settle into you like warmth after a bitter cold.

You sat beside your grandfather, the warmth of the fire flickering against the walls of his chamber. The familiar weight of the old, worn book rested in your hands as you read aloud, your voice soft but steady. It was his favorite story — one he had read to you when you were younger, back when his voice was strong and his mind sharp. Now, it was your turn to read to him.

His breathing was slow and uneven, each inhale a struggle, but his eyes were closed in peace. Every so often, his fingers would twitch in your grasp as if to remind you that he was still listening, still here. Moments like these were rare, and you cherished them.

Your voice filled the quiet space, weaving the tale of knights and honor, of dragons and kings. It had always been his favorite — a story of legacy and duty. How fitting for him, you thought with a faint smile.

But then, the sound of the chamber door creaking open shattered the peace. You paused mid-sentence, glancing toward the entrance. Two figures stepped inside — one familiar, one foreign.

Your heart stopped.

It was her. Your mother.

Her silver hair flowed freely down her back, her presence commanding the room as if she had never left. By her side was him. Daemon Targaryen, his sharp features as unyielding as ever, his gaze sweeping the room with quiet calculation. His hand rested lightly on your mother’s back as if he had every right to be there.

They had returned.

You sat frozen for a moment, still clutching the book as if it were an anchor. Your eyes met your mother’s, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Her gaze softened, lips parting slightly as if to say something, but the words didn’t come.

Too late, you thought bitterly.

Daemon’s eyes flicked to you, cold and unreadable, but he said nothing. He never had to. His presence alone was a statement, a reminder that everything had changed.

The silence stretched on, thick and heavy like fog. Slowly, you closed the book, the soft thud echoing louder than it should have. You stood, brushing off your skirts as if preparing for battle, your gaze sharp and steady. No tears. Not here. Not now.

“May I be excused?” you asked, your voice calm, measured, and far too grown for someone your age.

Viserys stirred, his eyes flickering open just barely. “Stay,” he rasped, his weak voice pleading. “She’s… here now.”

But you didn’t look at him. Your eyes were locked on your mother, waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her to give you a reason to stay.

Say something, you thought. Tell me you missed me. Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me anything.

But she didn’t. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and though her eyes brimmed with something — regret, guilt, love — it wasn’t enough.

You lowered your gaze, your heart feeling heavier than before. “I’ll be in my chambers,” you said softly, stepping away from the bed.

You didn’t wait for permission. You didn’t wait for her to call after you. You simply turned and walked toward the door, each step carrying you further away from them.

Behind you, you could hear Viserys coughing weakly, the quiet murmuring of your mother’s voice as she rushed to his side. But she hadn’t come to you. She had come for him.

And so, you left. Alone, as always.

You ran as fast as your legs would carry you, your heart pounding in your chest harder than your footsteps echoed against the cold stone floors of the Red Keep. The corridors blurred around you, familiar paths that you had walked a thousand times before. But now, they felt endless, like a maze you couldn’t escape.

The moment you reached the garden, you didn’t stop. You pushed past the hedges and flowers, past the sweet fragrance of blooming roses that felt so out of place against the storm in your heart. Only when you reached the large weirwood tree at the center of the garden did you finally stop.

Breathing heavily, you leaned against the rough bark, letting it press into your back like a grounding weight. Your head tilted up to the sky, eyes stinging with unshed tears. But it wasn’t long before they escaped, hot trails down your cheeks.

She didn’t even say my name.

That thought replayed over and over, sharp and cruel like a dagger twisting in your chest. She had looked at you. She saw you. But she said nothing. No “stay,” no “come here,” not even your name. It was as if you were no one at all.

You pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes, trying to stop the tears. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Not for her. Not for them. But the ache in your chest was too much, and the more you tried to hold it in, the harder it became to breathe.

“Crying doesn’t suit you,” came a cool, familiar voice from behind you.

You stiffened, slowly lowering your hands. The voice was sharp but steady, a quiet command that didn’t need to be loud to be heard. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Aemond,” you muttered, wiping at your face quickly, trying to hide any trace of weakness. “What do you want?”

Footsteps crunched lightly against the gravel path until he was closer. You could feel his presence, sharp and deliberate, like the edge of a blade hovering just out of reach.

“Nothing,” he replied simply. His tone was calm, but there was something beneath it — curiosity, maybe, or something colder. “I was only passing by. But it’s hard to miss someone running through the Keep like they’re being chased by a shadow.”

You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest as you turned your head slightly to glance at him. He stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight and proud as always. His silver hair glowed faintly in the afternoon light, the eyepatch over his left eye making his sharp features seem even more severe.

“Then keep walking,” you said quietly, leaning your head back against the tree. You didn’t have the energy to argue with him today. “I’m not in the mood for your games, Aemond.”

But he didn’t move. He stayed where he was, his lone eye watching you carefully, studying you like one of his history books. His silence was heavy, expectant, like he was waiting for you to say something more.

When you didn’t, he stepped closer. “Did she say something to you?”

You froze at that, your fingers digging into your arms. You knew exactly who he meant. He always knew.

“Why do you care?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended. You turned to face him fully, eyes still red but blazing with defiance. “Come to gloat, have you? Come to remind me I’m the forgotten child, the one they left behind?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if considering your words. He didn’t smile, didn’t sneer — he wasn’t like Aegon. No, Aemond was too controlled for that.

“I don’t need to remind you of something you already know,” he said calmly, his voice cutting through the air like ice. “But you should know this — being forgotten isn’t the same as being weak.”

His words hung there for a moment, sharp and cold but strangely… honest. He stepped forward, and for once, you didn’t move away. He stopped just an arm’s length from you, his gaze unwavering.

“Do you think I don’t know what it’s like?” he continued, his tone quieter now, more deliberate. “They may look at me, but they don’t see me. Not as I am.” He glanced away briefly, jaw tightening, as if the admission had cost him something.

Your breath caught in your throat. For all the times you had argued with Aemond, for all the cold remarks and sharp looks exchanged, this was different. You recognized the weight in his words because it was the same weight you carried.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The garden was quiet except for the distant chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Finally, you sighed, looking down at your feet. “It hurts,” you admitted, barely more than a whisper. “No matter how much I tell myself it doesn’t, it still hurts.”

There was another pause, then the sound of footsteps. You expected him to walk away, to leave you to your thoughts. But instead, he stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. When you glanced up, he was right there in front of you, his face unreadable but his gaze steady.

“Then let it hurt,” he said quietly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Let it hurt, and then make sure they regret it.”

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the quiet ferocity in his tone. He wasn’t offering comfort, not in the way others might. But he wasn’t mocking you either. This was something else — a challenge, perhaps. Or a promise.

For once, you didn’t argue with him. You didn’t have the strength.

You glanced away, wiping at the last of your tears with the sleeve of your dress. “You sound like Daemon,” you muttered, half-expecting it to annoy him.

But Aemond only huffed a quiet laugh. “Daemon thinks with his heart,” he said, his lips twitching into a brief, fleeting smile. “I think with my mind.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Which one do you think is better?”

His smile faded, and for a moment, he seemed to genuinely consider it. “Both are useful,” he said finally. “But only one will win a war.”

You didn’t know if that was meant to be advice or a warning. Maybe both.

The two of you stood there in the quiet of the garden, side by side but not quite together. The ache in your heart had dulled to something more bearable. Not gone — it would never be gone — but bearable.

“Come,” Aemond said after a moment, tilting his head toward the path. “If you stay here too long, they’ll think you’ve run away.”

His words could have been a jest, but his tone was too matter-of-fact. You stared at him for a moment longer, then pushed away from the tree, your legs steadier now than before.

He didn’t offer his hand, and you didn’t ask for it. But he walked beside you, his stride matching yours as you made your way back toward the Keep.

And for once, you didn’t feel so alone.

As you and Aemond made your way down the hallway, the silence between you both felt less oppressive, though still distant. There was an odd sense of companionship in the quiet that lingered as you walked side by side, but it was short-lived.

As you reached the stairs, you spotted Alicent. She stood at the top, watching both of you with an unreadable expression. Her gaze flicked between you and Aemond, and for a brief moment, the tension between the three of you seemed to stretch thin, like a thread pulled too tight.

She descended slowly, her steps deliberate, until she reached the landing where you both stood.

“You,” she began, her voice steady, though there was an underlying sharpness. She looked directly at Aemond. “Take her to her chambers. I need to speak with you after.”

Aemond met her gaze, his expression unchanged. “Yes, Mother,” he replied, his tone respectful, though the slightest edge lingered in his voice.

You felt the air around you grow colder, her eyes now turning to you. They were calm, almost calculating, but there was a trace of something else beneath — concern, perhaps, or something more complicated that you couldn’t quite read.

“I’ll speak to you shortly,” Alicent said, her voice gentler now as she directed her attention to you. There was no warmth, but there was something like understanding, or at least the semblance of it.

You nodded silently, not trusting your voice to stay steady. For a moment, you thought of resisting, of telling her you didn’t want to meet her in her solar. But the words didn’t come, and the thought seemed almost futile. So, you allowed Aemond to guide you silently toward your room, knowing that an inevitable conversation with your mother loomed ahead.

Aemond didn’t say anything as he walked beside you, his presence more of a shadow than anything else. You couldn’t help but wonder what had transpired between them, what conversation lay ahead, and if you would ever get the answers you sought — or if it would only ever remain a silence, a chasm growing between you and those you had once trusted most.

You stepped into your room, the door creaking softly as you entered, your mind still heavy with the encounter on the stairs. You turned to Aemond, giving him a small, brief thank you. He only nodded in return, his expression unreadable, before turning on his heel and leaving without a word. His presence was gone just as quickly as it had arrived, and the silence that followed felt almost suffocating.

The moment he was gone, you closed the door behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for a moment before you turned away. Your gaze swept across the room, and something caught your eye — a soft green fabric sprawled across the bed.

A gown. A rich, flowing green gown. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, elegant and carefully placed, as though it had been waiting for you.

You walked over, your steps hesitant as you approached the bed, your fingers brushing against the soft material. Confusion washed over you. What was this? Why was it here? The last thing you expected was to find a gown, especially one so formal — so… green.

It was then that a thought crossed your mind — the color. Green. The color of the greens. Was it a sign? A reminder of what was expected of you? You didn’t know, but the weight of it made your chest tighten. Why was it left here, and by whom? Your mother’s choice, or something else entirely?

You stared at it for a moment longer, your thoughts tangled in confusion and frustration. You didn’t want to wear it. Not today. Not when everything felt so wrong. But there was no time for indecision.

Just as you were about to turn away, you heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching outside the door.

Your breath caught, and before you could stop yourself, you straightened up, knowing exactly who was coming.

You turned at the soft sound of footsteps, your heart tightening as you saw Queen Alicent standing in the doorway. Her presence filled the room with an air of authority, yet her eyes seemed softer than usual, though the resolve in them was unmistakable.

She stepped inside, her gaze briefly scanning the room before it landed on you. “There will be a proclaiming,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “To determine who will be the next Lord of the Tides. It is important that you stand beside me during this.” Her eyes flicked toward the green gown on the bed, her lips curling into a slight, knowing smile. “Please, wear this. It is fitting for the occasion.”

You stared at her for a long moment, feeling the weight of her words. The tension in the room seemed to grow heavier, as if the walls were closing in around you. A proclaiming. The announcement of a new Lord of the Tides. This was not just a simple event, but a reminder of the shifting allegiances and the subtle games at play. You had no choice but to be a part of it.

You glanced at the gown again, the rich green fabric glistening in the dim light. It felt like a symbol — of power, of expectations, of your place in the game. But you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse her. Not now.

“I understand,” you said softly, your voice betraying none of the turmoil inside you. “I’ll wear it.”

Alicent’s gaze softened for a brief moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her eyes. She nodded and walked closer, her presence commanding yet strangely comforting. “I know this isn’t easy for you,” she said quietly, her voice gentler now. “But this is part of our duty, of our role in the realm. And we must play our part.”

You stood there, caught between the pull of duty and the ache of what you had lost. The world around you seemed like a distant echo, and you struggled to hold yourself steady.

“Once you’re ready,” she continued, breaking the silence, “I’ll send ser Criston to take you to the throne room. ”

With that, she turned and left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the gown that lay before you. The decision was clear. There was no turning back.

You reached for the gown, your fingers brushing against the fabric as you prepared yourself for what was to come.

As you sat in front of the mirror, the soft hum of your servant’s movements filled the room. She carefully arranged your hair, pulling it into an elegant style, but your thoughts were far from the delicate strands of your hair. The reflection before you felt distant, almost unfamiliar, as if the person staring back was a stranger.

You wore the green gown that Queen Alicent had provided for you, its rich fabric flowing elegantly down your form. The color, so associated with the Greens, seemed to weigh heavily on your shoulders. You couldn’t help but wonder what your family would think when they saw you in this.

What would your mother think? Would she see the daughter she had left behind in King’s Landing, dutiful and obedient, yet broken by the distance between them? You remembered the warmth of her embrace when you were younger, the way she would comfort you, guide you. Now, with her absence, you felt the heavy responsibility of the crown pressing on you from every angle.

And Jace and Luke — your brothers. What would they make of all this? They had been so close to you, always protective, always there when you needed them. Now, they were far away, living their own lives in Dragonstone. Would they understand your choices? Or would they see this as a betrayal, as a surrender to the life they had feared for you?

Your reflection in the mirror seemed to mock you with its silence. You had once imagined yourself in a life full of love, happiness, and freedom. But now, all of that felt distant, slipping away like sand through your fingers. the alliances, the politics — they all had a price. And you couldn’t help but feel like you were paying it all alone.

You tried to push those thoughts aside, but they lingered, a constant ache in your chest. You had no choice but to play the part. To be the dutiful daughter, the obedient noblewoman, and stand by your mother, even as the weight of it all crushed you from the inside.

“Are you ready, princess?” the servant asked, her voice pulling you from your thoughts.

You gave her a small nod, but the truth was, you weren’t ready. Not for any of it. But the moment had arrived, and there was no turning back.

You turned your head toward the door, your heart racing as you saw Ser Criston standing at the threshold, ready to escort you to the throne room. His presence was as stoic and reassuring as always, though you couldn’t ignore the slight tension in the air.

You straightened yourself, taking a deep breath, and walked toward him, your head held high, despite the turmoil swirling inside you. As you passed through the halls of the Red Keep, the whispers started — soft at first, but quickly growing louder. You could hear them all around you: gasps of surprise, murmurs of disbelief. The green gown, the color of the Greens, a stark contrast to the black and red of House Targaryen, was the reason for their shock.

It was a deliberate choice, one that left no room for doubt. This was a statement. And you knew exactly what it meant. The gown was a symbol, not just of your family’s current position in the court, but of the power games at play. It felt like a chain, heavy and binding, even as you walked with the grace you had been taught since childhood.

The stares followed you every step of the way. Eyes widened in disbelief, some full of judgment, others perhaps curiosity. Some were too polite to stare openly, but you could feel their gaze burning into you as you moved past them.

And yet, you didn’t falter. You walked proudly, your back straight, your expression carefully neutral, though inside, you were anything but calm. The whispers stung, but you pushed them aside. This was your duty. You had no choice but to fulfill it.

Ser Criston walked beside you, his gaze ahead, ever watchful, ever loyal. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you. But his presence gave you a small sense of comfort, as if someone, at least, understood that there was more at stake here than just the gown you wore.

Finally, you reached the grand doors of the throne room. You paused for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on you, before you stepped forward, the heavy wooden doors opening with a creak, revealing the sea of faces awaiting you inside.

This was it. The proclamation was about to begin. And you, standing in Queen chosen gown, would have no choice but to face the consequences of every decision made in this ever-shifting game of power.

As you entered the throne room, your eyes immediately found Queen Alicent’s. She stood tall and regal, her gaze meeting yours as you approached. Her lips curled into a soft, approving smile. “You look very beautiful in green,” she said, her voice warm, though there was something else beneath it — a knowing smile, perhaps, or a hint of satisfaction in seeing you fully embrace the role she had set out for you.

You merely nodded in acknowledgment, not trusting yourself to speak. Her words felt like both a compliment and a reminder of the expectations placed on you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to truly believe in them.

Your attention shifted quickly back to the large, imposing doors at the far end of the room, your heart quickening in anticipation. Your mother, Rhaenyra, and your brothers, Jace and Luke, were yet to arrive. The throne room was silent but for the murmurs of the court, the weight of the moment hanging in the air.

The eyes of the gathered lords and ladies were on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet their gazes for long. You focused instead on the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps that would signal your family’s arrival. The uncertainty gnawed at you, and as you stood there, a part of you wished for the moment to be over, to have clarity — to know where you stood in this world of shifting alliances and loyalties.

But the time stretched on, the door still closed, the air thick with the tension of what was to come.

The heavy doors of the throne room creaked open, and there, standing in the doorway, was your mother — Rhaenyra, her posture regal and graceful, but something about her presence seemed different today. Her figure was rounder than before, the unmistakable sign of pregnancy clear to anyone who looked closely. At her side was Daemon, ever watchful, and your brothers, Jace and Luke, followed closely behind.

You could feel your heart skip a beat as they stepped forward, but your gaze locked onto Jace almost instantly. His eyes widened, a flicker of shock flashing across his face before it was quickly replaced with a deep, almost painful, disappointment. The sight of you standing with the greens, wearing their color, was something he hadn’t expected — a stark contrast to the loyalty you had once shown to your family, to House Targaryen’s black banner.

The disappointment in his eyes cut deeper than you anticipated, and for a moment, you felt the weight of every unspoken word between you both. He looked at you as though he didn’t understand, as though you had betrayed something sacred between you.

You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. The silence between you two stretched on as his gaze bore into you, so full of emotions that you couldn’t quite decipher. Was it betrayal? Pain? Confusion?

Rhaenyra and Daemon took their place further away from you, near the center of the room. Yet, your mind couldn’t pull itself from Jace’s stare. You tried to steady your breathing, but the realization of the rift growing between you and your family felt like a weight in your chest.

The room was charged with an uneasy tension, everyone watching the scene unfold — the daughter of Rhaenyra, standing with the Greens, while her family stood apart. The quiet disappointment from Jace was almost louder than anything else in that moment.

You felt the walls close in, unsure of how to navigate this new reality. All you could do was stand there, caught between the old loyalties and the new allegiances that were now expected of you.

Aemond stood beside you, his presence unwavering as he occasionally glanced at you with an almost unreadable expression. His words were calm but sharp, as though he was trying to reinforce something that you had already come to terms with, but the sting of it still lingered. “Green is your color, not red or black,” he said softly, his tone as cold as ever. It was a statement of fact, something that left no room for argument, and yet, it only made you feel more distant from everything you had once known.

You remained silent, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t respond — there was nothing to say. You had already accepted your place in this new world, even if it came with a bitter taste.

The room fell into a tense silence as the proclamation began. Vaemond Velaryon, with all his pride and ambition, stepped forward. His voice carried through the hall, commanding attention as he declared, “I am the rightful heir and the only true choice to be the Lord of Driftmark.”

His words reverberated in the space, each syllable a challenge, a bold assertion of power and legitimacy. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the reactions of those present. You could feel the weight of Vaemond’s claim, the undeniable tension that followed. This was more than just a family dispute — it was a battle for control, for legitimacy, and for the very future of House Velaryon.

Your mind raced, thoughts colliding in confusion and discomfort. The stakes had never been higher. Would your mother support Vaemond’s claim? Or would the blood of House Targaryen — your blood — be enough to sway the tide? You glanced at your mother and Daemon, standing nearby, their expressions unreadable.

The tension was palpable as the room awaited the response, each passing second heavier than the last.

The atmosphere in the throne room grew even more tense as your mother, Rhaenyra, stepped forward with a calm yet resolute expression. Her voice, steady and authoritative, filled the hall. “Corlys’ decision remains the same,” she declared. “He has chosen Luke as the next Lord of the Tides.”

A murmur ran through the room, some faces showing surprise, others nodding in agreement. The declaration was bold, but it was backed by the powerful figure of Rhaenyra, who stood unwavering in her stance. Her words were not just about the title; they were a symbol of defiance, a challenge to those who sought to undermine the legitimacy of her children.

Rhaenys, standing beside her, nodded in firm agreement, her voice calm but carrying the weight of years of experience and authority. “My husband’s decision has not changed,” she added. “Luke is and will always be the rightful heir.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, all eyes turning to Vaemond, who had no choice but to stand down for now, his claim weakening in the face of Rhaenyra’s unyielding support.

Then, your grandmother dropped another bombshell — one that took the room by surprise. “And as part of the future of House Velaryon, I am pleased to announce that Luke and Jace are betrothed to my twin grandchildren Baela and Rhaena.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. The idea of this new betrothal, the joining of two powerful houses, added yet another layer to the intricate web of politics, alliances, and promises that had been carefully woven over the years. You could feel the weight of those words as they settled in the room, many eyes darting between you and your brothers, whispers beginning to rise once again.

You could feel the eyes of the court on you, and your heart pounded in your chest. What would Jace think about this announcement? What about Luke? The news of their betrothals, coupled with the tension surrounding Driftmark, was only going to fuel the already high stakes.

Your thoughts raced, but you kept your gaze steady, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. The room buzzed with murmurs, but you remained focused, wondering what the next move would be in this dangerous political game your family had been forced to play.

As the tension in the room thickened, the doors to the throne room creaked open once more. All eyes turned toward the entrance, and the atmosphere seemed to hold its breath. There, standing with the aid of a cane, was King Viserys. His frail form was supported by a servant on either side, and his once-vibrant presence now seemed diminished by the ravages of time and illness. Yet despite his weakened state, there was an undeniable authority that still emanated from him.

The murmurs of the court fell silent as King Viserys slowly made his way to the front, his steps deliberate and measured. With a deep, rasping breath, he finally spoke, his voice strained but still commanding. “Otto,” he began, his eyes locking onto his Hand. “I will be the one to lead this proclamation.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Otto Hightower, standing near the throne, appeared taken aback by his father’s decision, but he quickly masked his surprise with a bow of his head, acknowledging the king’s authority.

The weight of his words reverberated throughout the room. King Viserys had reclaimed his place at the center of this crucial moment, despite his frailty. His determination to lead, to assert his authority even in his weakened state, was evident to all present.

You could see the shock and uncertainty in the eyes of the court members, and perhaps even in Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s expressions. The course of events was shifting yet again, and with it, the balance of power in the room seemed to tip ever so slightly in the king’s favor.

Viserys, with a look of exhaustion but unwavering resolve, turned his attention to the gathered lords and ladies. “The time for further disputes ends now,” he said, his voice gaining strength with each word. “I will make my decision on this matter.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as King Viserys’ declaration rang out through the hall. “Luke shall remain the rightful heir to Driftmark,” he said firmly, his voice filled with the weight of his authority despite his frailty.

For a moment, the court seemed to hold its collective breath, but it was not long before Vaemond Velaryon’s voice cut through the tension, harsh and unrelenting. He stepped forward, his anger palpable, and his eyes were ablaze with fury. “This is wrong!” he shouted. “These children are bastards! They have no rightful claim to Driftmark, no matter how you spin it!”

His words were venomous, and as he turned his attention to your brothers, Jace and Luke, the venom in his tone grew sharper. “You two are no better than the filth you came from,” he spat, his words aimed directly at them. “You’re nothing more than the children of a whore, born from lies and treachery!”

The insult stung in ways that words could not fully capture. You could see the hurt and anger flash across Jace’s face as he stepped forward, as if ready to respond, but it was Luke’s stiffened posture that caught your attention. The weight of Vaemond’s accusations hung heavily in the air.

Vaemond’s fury, however, did not stop there. His gaze swung over to your mother, Rhaenyra, his expression twisting with contempt. “And you,” he sneered, his voice rising with scorn, “You are nothing but a cunning, deceitful whore, the one who corrupted the bloodline of House Velaryon.”

The insult was deliberate and cruel, a direct attack not only on your mother’s honor but on the legitimacy of your entire family. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of Vaemond’s words hanging like a storm cloud. You could feel the tension spike, the atmosphere thick with the undercurrent of anger and betrayal.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and for a moment, you thought you might break — but instead, your gaze hardened. You stood there, watching the scene unfold, unsure if you were more shocked by Vaemond’s audacity or by the way the room seemed to shift in the wake of his challenge.

The king, still gripping his cane, seemed poised to speak again, but the silence lingered, heavy and oppressive. It was as if the very air around you had been thickened with the weight of the words exchanged — the accusation of bastardy, the callous insult to your mother’s reputation.

You knew that this would not end quietly. The delicate balance of power had already been shaken, and the game was far from over.

The events unfolded in a blur, so sudden and brutal that it barely felt real. One moment, Vaemond's voice echoed through the throne room, his hateful words hanging in the air like the toll of a bell. The next, there was a flash of steel - sharp, quick, and final.

The sickening sound of flesh and bone being cleaved echoed louder than any shout. Gasps and cries filled the hall as Vaemond's head was split clean in two. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, with the top half of his skull tumbling to the cold stone floor. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and glistening, seeping into the cracks of the throne room's tiles.

You froze in place, eyes wide with shock, your breath caught in your chest. It felt like time had stopped. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the horrified murmurs of the lords and ladies around you. Before you even realized what you were doing, your hands shot up to cover your eyes, blocking out the sight of Vaemond's mutilated body. But the image was already burned into your mind.

Helena's small, sharp gasp echoed beside you, her voice strained and filled with as much fear as your own. She pressed her hands to her face, her breathing shaky, and you knew she had seen everything too. You both stood there like statues, caught in a moment too terrible to process.

Daemon stood at the center of it all, calm as ever, his sword still raised, blood dripping from the blade in slow, deliberate drops. His eyes were sharp, unbothered by the stares or the gasps of the court. His gaze shifted only briefly to you, as if to ensure you were still standing, before he turned his attention back to the king.

"Say it again," Daemon's voice was low and deadly, his words laced with cold fury. But there was no one left to answer.

The silence that followed was suffocating. No one dared to speak, not even Otto Hightower, who watched with tightly pressed lips and narrowed eyes. Alicent's face was pale, her hands clasped in front of her as if in silent prayer. Even your mother, Rhaenyra, stood frozen for a moment, her eyes flicking between Daemon and the lifeless body of Vaemond.

King Viserys' breathing was heavy and labored, but he did not reprimand Daemon.

Instead, he raised a trembling hand, his voice brittle but clear. "I will have no more of this," he declared, his eyes hard and tired. "This matter is settled. Luke is the rightful heir to Driftmark. Let no one speak of it again."

The room remained still, filled with the metallic tang of blood and the quiet rustle of fabric as lords and ladies shifted uncomfortably in place. Your breathing was shallow, your fingers slowly lowering from your eyes. You glanced toward Aemond, whose gaze was locked on Daemon with an intensity that made your chest tighten. He wasn't horrified like the others. No, his face bore the faintest hint of something else - respect, or perhaps something darker.

Your eyes flickered back to Helena, her hands still over her face, her shoulders trembling.

Without thinking, you reached for her, gently placing a hand on her arm. She flinched but didn't pull away. The two of you stood like that for a while, the world around you too loud and too quiet all at once.

You felt Queen Alicent’s hand gently grip your arm, firm but not harsh. Her touch grounded you in the midst of the chaos, her presence a steady force as she guided you and Helaena toward the exit of the throne room. Your legs moved on their own, your mind still clouded by the horrific scene you had just witnessed.

Behind you, you heard it — Jace’s voice, sharp and desperate. “Sister! wait!” he called out, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. For a moment, your heart ached, and you nearly stopped. Nearly.

But Alicent’s hand gave a gentle tug, and you kept walking. You didn’t turn back. You didn’t look at Jace. The weight of everything pressed on you too heavily to face him right now. Helaena walked quietly on your other side, her hands still clasped tightly together, her eyes darting around like she was trying to wake herself from a nightmare.

The echoes of the throne room faded as the heavy doors closed behind you. The hallway outside was quieter, colder, the distant hum of the Red Keep filling the silence. Your breathing was shallow, your mind replaying the moment Daemon swung his sword, the flash of steel, the wet sound of impact. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the image away, but it clung to you like a shadow.

Alicent slowed her pace, her gaze flickering between you and Helaena. Her brow was furrowed, a mixture of concern and calculation playing on her face. She said nothing for a while, her eyes searching your face like she was trying to read every thought you were too afraid to voice.

“Come,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of certainty that left no room for argument. “You don’t need to see any more of this.”

Her words were kind, but there was something beneath them, something deeper. Protection, yes — but also possession. You were under her care now, just as Helaena was. She was making that clear to you with every step you took away from the throne room.

Your chest felt tight, a swirl of emotions you couldn’t name twisting inside you. Shame, fear, anger — they all swirled together like a storm you had no control over. Jace’s voice echoed in your mind, that one, desperate call of your name. But you kept walking. You didn’t look back.

You glanced up at Alicent, your voice steady but quiet. “May I return to my chambers, Your Grace?” you asked, your hands clasped neatly in front of you, just as you had been taught.

Alicent turned toward you, her eyes soft but searching, as if she were trying to gauge your state of mind. Her gaze lingered for a moment before she gave a small nod. “Of course,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her sleeve. “But be ready for tonight. The king has requested a family supper to welcome everyone back.”

Her words carried a weight you couldn’t ignore. A “family supper” sounded simple, but you knew it would be far from it. Everyone would be there — your mother, your brothers, Daemon, and the greens. You could already imagine the tension that would fill the air like a storm waiting to break.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you replied, lowering your head slightly in respect. Without another word, you turned and began walking toward your chambers.

Your footsteps echoed softly in the corridor, each step pulling you farther from the garden’s stillness. You could feel Alicent’s eyes on your back as you left, watchful and calculating as always.

When you were far enough away, you let out a slow, steady breath. The weight of everything — the throne room, the blood, Jace’s eyes filled with hurt — pressed down on you all at once. You kept walking, your face carefully blank, just as you had learned to do. But inside, your thoughts churned like a restless sea.

A family supper. It sounded so simple, but you knew better. There would be glances that lingered too long, words that cut sharper than swords, and silence that spoke louder than any proclamation. You would have to endure it all — just like you had endured today.

When you reached your chambers, you closed the door behind you and leaned against it, your eyes shut tight. The world outside felt so far away, but it was never truly gone. You could still hear echoes of it in your mind — the clash of duty and blood, of love and expectation.

For now, though, you had a moment of peace. You crossed the room and sat by the window, gazing out at the distant sea. It shimmered under the afternoon sun, vast and endless. For a moment, you allowed yourself to dream of it — the idea of flying away, of escaping it all. But dreams, you knew, were dangerous things.

With a quiet sigh, you turned away from the window and sat at the edge of your bed. You would be ready for supper. You had to be.

You stood in front of the mirror, your hands smoothing over the deep red fabric of your gown. It fit you perfectly, every stitch a reflection of your house’s pride and legacy. Red, the color of House Targaryen. The color of fire.

A sudden knock echoed from the door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your brow furrowed as you turned to face it. Without waiting for your response, the door creaked open, revealing one of Queen Alicent’s handmaidens. She stepped inside with careful grace, her gaze lowered in quiet submission, but her presence alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through you.

In her hands, she carried a gown. It shimmered in the soft glow of the chamber’s lanterns — a rich green fabric adorned with delicate golden embroidery, the sigil of House Hightower subtly woven into the design. It was beautiful. Too beautiful to be ignored.

“The queen requests that you wear this for supper tonight, princess,” the handmaiden said softly, her eyes flicking up to meet yours for only a moment before lowering again. Her words were spoken with the same practiced courtesy all of Alicent’s attendants used, but you could feel the weight of them pressing against you. Requests — no, it was not a request. It never was.

Your gaze lingered on the gown, your chest tightening as a quiet storm brewed within you. You glanced back at the mirror, your reflection staring back at you. Red. The color of Targaryens. Your house. Your blood. Your mother.

But now, green had come to claim you. The queen’s color. The color of peace, they claimed. But you knew better. It was the color of strategy, of quiet conquest. The queen’s influence wrapped around you as tightly as this gown soon would.

You turned slowly to face the handmaiden, your eyes sharp but your expression unreadable. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched thin like a thread about to snap.

“…Leave it on the bed,” you said at last, your voice calm but firm. The handmaiden hesitated, perhaps expecting you to argue, but she nodded and placed the gown carefully on your bed. She gave you a small curtsy before slipping out of the room as quietly as she had come.

You stood there, frozen in place, your eyes locked on the gown. It gleamed with an almost unnatural brightness, as if it demanded to be seen. Demanded to be worn.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You took a step toward it, your heart pounding in your chest. Every step felt heavier, like you were walking toward a choice you could never take back.

You reached out, fingers hovering just above the soft fabric of the green gown. Your breathing was shallow, each inhale sharp and uneven. This gown would change how they saw you. How she saw you. How they saw you.

Your hand trembled as it hovered between the two choices. Red, the gown you had chosen. Green, the gown she had chosen for you.

As you stood before the mirror, the soft fabric of the green gown slipped over your skin, the color striking against your complexion in a way that felt almost too deliberate. It was beautiful—there was no denying that. But it was more than just fabric. It was a symbol. A symbol of a decision you never wanted to make but felt you had no choice but to accept.

Your fingers trembled as you adjusted the gown, the weight of the choice pressing down on you like a stone. A betrayal. That’s what it felt like. You were wearing the colors of the queen—the very woman who had pulled your mother away from you, who had taken her from the Red Keep, from you. You had always held onto the hope that your mother would return, that she would come back and find you the way you had left her, but now… it felt like you were abandoning her too.

You had never wanted to choose this path, you thought, your eyes staring back at you in the mirror. But a quiet part of you—the part that had been wounded by her departure—found a strange sense of justification in it. This was your answer. Your response to the cold distance she had placed between you and her.

You couldn’t hear your mother’s voice anymore, not in your thoughts, not in your heart. Instead, you heard the sharp command of Queen Alicent, whose presence seemed to linger in every corner of the Keep. A woman who had woven her influence around you so deftly, it was almost invisible, like the subtle green of the gown now hugging your frame.

The handmaidens moved around you with quiet care, pinning your hair into place, but you felt disconnected from their hands. It wasn’t their fault, you knew, but each touch felt like a reminder of everything you had lost. The warmth of your mother’s guidance. The presence of your brothers. The certainty that had once been the foundation of your life. Gone.

Instead, you chose to free your hair. The weight of the green gown already made you feel bound, and the act of letting your hair fall in loose waves around your shoulders felt like a small rebellion. The strands framed your face, a visual testament to the woman you had once been before everything began to crumble.

You glanced at yourself once more in the mirror, the reflection of the woman staring back at you felt unfamiliar. A part of you wanted to scream at the image, to demand that this not be your future, but there was no escaping the reality.

When you were ready, you took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror. Tonight, you would attend the feast. Tonight, you would play your part. But inside, a quiet resolve had settled within you. Whatever came next, you would face it head-on. Just like the Targaryens always had.

Even if you had to sacrifice everything to get there.

The hallway felt longer than usual, each step echoing in the quiet corridor. The weight of the green gown pressed down on you with every movement, the gold accents catching the dim glow of the torches. Your fingers brushed against the fabric at your sides, grounding yourself as you neared the private solar of King Viserys.

Your heart beat steadily, but with each step closer, it grew louder. You knew what awaited you on the other side of that door. Your family. Your brothers. Your mother.

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at the large wooden doors. Beyond them lay gazes that would judge, eyes that would accuse. Your grip on your skirt tightened, but before you could waver, the doors were pulled open by the guards.

The room was warm with the glow of the hearth, and the soft hum of conversation died instantly as the sound of the doors opening echoed through the space. Every head turned. Every gaze fixed on you.

Your breath hitched in your chest, but you didn’t falter. Your head rose higher, your steps deliberate, slow, and steady. If they would look at you, then you would let them look. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing doubt on your face.

The first face you noticed was Jace. His brown eyes widened in shock, his lips parting as if he was about to say something—but he didn’t. His gaze swept over you from head to toe, taking in the unmistakable green of your gown. Disbelief twisted his features into something sharp and pained. Betrayal. That’s what you saw in his eyes.

Luke wasn’t much different. His confusion was more childlike, his brows drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line. He looked up at Jace, as if seeking an explanation for what he was seeing. But Jace’s eyes never left you.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn’t look surprised, only entertained, like he had predicted this moment long before it happened. His sharp gaze followed you like a hunter stalking prey, eyes half-lidded with amusement, his fingers drumming lazily on the armrest of his chair.

Then, there was her. Your mother. Her face was unreadable at first, her eyes sharp and searching, like she didn’t recognize you. But slowly, her expression shifted, her lips pressing into a thin, almost pained line. Her eyes softened with something akin to sorrow—or perhaps disappointment.

The silence in the room was suffocating. You could hear the quiet crackle of the fire and the distant call of gulls outside the window. No one spoke. Not yet.

You didn’t dare look at Alicent, though you knew she was watching. You could feel her gaze, steady and unwavering, like a silent claim on you. She had won this battle, and she knew it.

You moved toward the only empty seat, your chin held high as you passed them all. Their stares felt like knives in your back, but you didn’t flinch. You wouldn’t flinch.

When you sat down, your eyes flickered briefly toward Jace. His gaze was still on you, hurt and confusion written plainly on his face. His jaw was tight, and you could see him clenching his fists on his lap, his knuckles white. He leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the air.

“Why are you wearing that?”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye but didn’t answer. What could you say? That you had no choice? That you had been abandoned and left to fend for yourself? No. Jace wouldn’t understand. Not now. Not like this.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Daemon’s soft chuckle broke it. “Looks like the little dragon has found a new den,” he muttered, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Rhaenyra shot him a warning glare, but he didn’t stop. He tilted his head at you, watching you the way a cat watches a bird.

“Careful, child,” Daemon said, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “Green may suit you now, but remember — dragons breathe fire, not peace.”

Your hands curled in your lap, nails pressing into your palms. You refused to look at him. You refused to give him the reaction he wanted.

“Enough,” Alicent’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. Her presence was like a wave crashing onto the shore, and all eyes turned to her. She stepped forward with the calm authority of a woman who knew she had already won. Her gaze swept over Rhaenyra, over Jace and Luke, over Daemon, and finally settled on you.

“Tonight is meant to be a night of peace,” Alicent said with an air of finality. “We are family, no matter the colors we wear.” Her gaze softened slightly as she looked at you. “And family deserves to be welcomed, not judged.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your gaze falling to your lap. Family, she said. But which family did you belong to now?

Jace was still staring at you, his eyes hard but filled with quiet hurt. You had never seen him look at you like that. Like you were a stranger.

Family, you thought bitterly. Whose family do I belong to now?

The weight of the silence hung heavily in the room, broken only by the soft clinking of goblets and the faint crackle of the hearth. You glanced around, feeling the pressure of their stares. Your heart thudded in your chest, but you lifted your chin, unwilling to be seen as weak.

“I did what I had to,” you said firmly, your voice steady but laced with quiet defiance. “No one else stayed for me.”

The words lingered in the air like the smoke from a dying fire. Jace’s eyes narrowed, his brows furrowing deeply. Luke glanced between you and him, uncertainty in his young gaze. Daemon raised a brow, his lips twitching into that infuriating smirk. He tilted his head back and let out a low, amused chuckle, the sound rumbling like distant thunder.

“Spoken like a true player of the game,” Daemon said, raising his goblet in a mock toast before taking a slow sip of wine. “Careful, that kind of thinking will have you wearing a crown before you know it.”

His words dripped with mockery, but there was a glint of something else—approval, perhaps? It was hard to tell with Daemon. His eyes gleamed with mischief, as if he enjoyed the chaos brewing in the room.

The tension was palpable, every breath measured and every glance sharp as blades. Rhaenyra’s eyes were locked on you now, her lips pressed into a thin line. She looked at you not with anger but with something deeper—disappointment. It stung more than you cared to admit.

Before anyone could say another word, the grand doors at the end of the room creaked open. The sound echoed loudly, commanding the attention of every soul in the room.

The slow, uneven footsteps echoed like a drumbeat of fate.

All eyes turned toward the entrance, and there he was. King Viserys. The weight of his crown was visible on his frail body, his once-proud frame now hunched and weakened by disease. His breaths were shallow, his face pale and worn. His robes hung loosely on his frame, and his eyes—though clouded with pain—were still sharp with purpose.

He was not alone. Two Kingsguard knights supported him on either side, their grips firm on his arms as they helped him walk forward. Every step was a struggle, but he pressed on with the resolve of a king who had no time left for weakness.

The room fell utterly silent, all eyes now on him. Even Daemon’s smirk faded as he sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing at his brother’s arrival. Alicent moved forward instinctively, her eyes full of concern, but she did not approach him.

You felt your chest tighten at the sight of him. This was not the man you remembered from your childhood—strong, warm, and full of life. Now, he was a shadow of that man, worn down by years of pain, loss, and duty.

“I am glad…” Viserys’s voice was hoarse but resolute as he was guided to the head of the table. The Kingsguard helped him into his chair, and he leaned back, his chest rising and falling with every labored breath. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes moving over each face in the room. “I am glad… to see my family… together again.”

His words hung in the air like a prayer. No one dared to speak.

His eyes found you, and for a moment, his gaze softened. The tired, weathered king saw you—not as a child, not as a player in the game, but as his granddaughter. His lips twitched into a faint smile, one that you hadn’t seen in so long.

Your throat tightened, and you looked away before anyone could see the shine in your eyes.

Alicent moved to his side, adjusting his blanket as he sat at the head of the table. She whispered something softly in his ear, and he nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving his family. His whole family.

“Tonight,” Viserys said slowly, his voice strained but clear, “we put aside… our grievances. Tonight, we are… one family.” His gaze shifted from Rhaenyra to Alicent, lingering there, as if willing them to understand the weight of his words. “Let us dine as such.”

Silence filled the room once more, but this time, it was different. No sharp gazes. No cutting words. Just the weight of a king’s final wish.

The servants began to move, placing dishes of roasted meats, bread, and fruits onto the long table. The warmth of the food mingled with the warmth of the hearth, and for a moment, the Red Keep felt less like a battleground.

You glanced at Jace. He was still looking at you, his jaw tight, his hands clenching and unclenching. Luke was whispering something to him, trying to pull him back from whatever thoughts had taken hold of him.

You turned your eyes to your plate, suddenly feeling the weight of every gaze upon you. But when you dared to glance up again, you saw him.

King Viserys was still watching you. His eyes, heavy with pain and wisdom, met yours, and for a moment, it felt as if he saw you completely. Not the girl in green. Not the daughter of Rhaenyra. Not the pawn in someone else’s game. Just you.

His lips moved slowly into a smile, small but true. You pressed your lips together, holding back the emotions swirling in your chest.

If only it were that simple, you thought to yourself as you lowered your gaze once more.

The soft melody of the music filled the hall, weaving through the gentle hum of conversation. Plates clattered lightly as servants moved around, pouring wine and placing fresh dishes on the long table. Laughter echoed from different parts of the room, a sound so rare in the Red Keep that it felt almost out of place.

You sat beside Helaena, her gentle smile and quiet musings a welcome comfort in the tense atmosphere. She spoke of her children, her dreams, and the little things she found joy in—like the pattern of a moth’s wings or the way the light danced on water. Her words were simple, yet they felt like a balm to your heart.

A soft laugh escaped you as she made an offhand comment about how “even the crickets have more sense than most lords.” She giggled too, her soft, airy laugh lightening your spirit in a way you hadn’t expected.

But then, your eyes wandered. You didn’t mean for them to, but they did. They found her—your mother.

She was seated at the other end of the table, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the firelight. Her silver-gold hair framed her face like a crown, her smile soft as she leaned toward Daemon. He whispered something to her, his lips close to her ear, and whatever he said made her smile widen, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy.

Genuine joy.

Your heart clenched, a deep ache blooming in your chest. The warmth you felt from Helaena’s laughter was gone, replaced by a dull, hollow pain.

There she was—the mother who had left you behind. The mother who had taken Jace and Luke with her to Dragonstone, but left you alone in the Red Keep. The mother who smiled now, so freely, so openly, as if she had not abandoned you. As if she hadn’t left you to stand among people who questioned your very right to exist.

Her gaze never once drifted to you. Not once.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the goblet in your hand. Your nails dug into the cool metal as you fought to steady your breathing.

“Does it hurt?” Helaena’s voice was soft, almost distant, as if she were speaking to herself.

Your eyes darted to her. She wasn’t looking at you, her eyes instead focused on the table, tracing patterns on the wood with her finger.

“What?” you asked, your voice quiet but sharp.

“Being unseen,” she said softly, her voice lilting with the strange tone she sometimes took when speaking of things only she understood. Her eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. For a moment, it felt as if she knew. As if she could see everything you’d been trying to hide behind your carefully raised chin and unwavering gaze.

Your throat felt tight. You didn’t know how to answer, so you said nothing. But Helaena only smiled that sad, knowing smile.

“It does,” she said for you. “It hurts.”

Her words settled into the quiet spaces of your heart, filling them with a truth you didn’t want to admit. Your eyes flickered back to your mother, watching as she laughed softly, her hand resting on Daemon’s.

She looks happy, you thought bitterly. She looks happy without me.

Your gaze fell to your lap, your vision blurring slightly. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

But even as you tried to push it down, the weight of it was suffocating. The betrayal. The loneliness. The unspoken truth that, no matter how many times you wore green or smiled for Alicent, it would never be enough. It would never fill the space your mother had left behind.

And yet, here you were. Alone, in a room full of people.

You leaned back in your chair, feigning interest as Aegon rambled on about his day with his usual blend of arrogance and mischief. His words drifted in and out of your mind, more noise than substance, until a presence settled beside you — steady, calm, and unmistakable.

You glanced to your side and met Aemond’s eye. His gaze was sharp, as it always was, but there was something more tonight. Without a word, he extended his hand toward you. His fingers were long and calloused, his palm facing up — an offering.

“Shall we dance?” His voice was low, a quiet murmur meant only for you.

For a moment, you hesitated. You knew every eye would be on you if you accepted. You knew Jace and Luke were watching, just as you knew your mother would see it too. But as you glanced around the room, you saw her still seated with Daemon, her gaze not even flickering in your direction.

She doesn’t care.

So, you placed your hand in Aemond’s, your fingers curling lightly around his. His grip was firm but not unkind. Together, you rose from your chair, the weight of a hundred stares pressing on your back as you walked to the center of the room.

The soft hum of voices dimmed, replaced by the quiet, expectant melody of the music. Every step echoed louder than it should have, but you kept your head high, your gaze unwavering.

Behind you, you could hear them.

“She’s changed,” Luke muttered, his voice sharp with disbelief.

“She’s with them now,” Jace replied, bitterness lacing his tone. “Look at her.”

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t give them the satisfaction.

Aemond’s hand found its place on your waist, his other hand still holding yours. His gaze remained fixed on you, as intense as the flames that lined the hall. You placed your hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, the world fell away.

The music guided you both, your movements precise, controlled. Each step, each turn, was deliberate. There was no softness in Aemond’s hold, but there was control — sharp, steady, and sure. It was nothing like the dances you had shared with Jace in your childhood. Those had been filled with laughter, stumbling steps, and teasing grins. This was something else entirely.

“You wear green well,” Aemond said, his eye flickering down to take in your gown. “It suits you better than red ever did.”

You didn’t answer at first, letting the silence linger between you as you spun together. His words were a test, you knew that. But you were not a child anymore.

“Green is a color of peace,” you replied evenly, your eyes meeting his. “Strange how it always seems to follow war.”

His lips twitched at that, just a slight upward pull at the corner, too small to be called a smile. “Peace is often born of fire and blood,” he said, his voice as sharp as the edge of a blade.

You twirled under his arm, the fabric of your gown sweeping the floor like a wave. As he caught you back into his hold, you felt his grip tighten ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he was there — that he would always be watching.

“You hear them, don’t you?” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly toward Jace and Luke. Their voices were quieter now, but you could still hear the murmurs of your brothers behind you, still feel their gazes burning into your back.

“I do,” you admitted softly, eyes distant for a moment before you refocused on him. “But it doesn’t matter.”

Aemond tilted his head, studying you with a look that felt too knowing for comfort. “Doesn’t it?” he murmured, his voice so low it was nearly lost to the music.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because deep down, it did matter. It mattered that Jace and Luke saw you. It mattered that your mother didn’t. And it mattered that you were here, in a green gown, dancing with the man they hated most in the world.

But you wouldn’t let it show. Not tonight.

So you held Aemond’s gaze with all the strength you had left and let him lead you across the floor. For once, you didn’t falter. Not even when Jace’s voice cut through the air one last time.

“Traitor.”

The word was quiet, but it struck like a sword.

You felt Aemond stiffen ever so slightly, his hand pressing more firmly against your back. His gaze flicked briefly past you, his lips curling into something far too dangerous to be called a smile.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the way your heart ached. “He still thinks love will save him.”

Aemond’s gaze returned to you, his expression unreadable. “And what do you think will save you?”

You looked at him for a moment, really looked at him, and for once, you let yourself be honest.

“Nothing.”

As the final notes of the dance faded, you began to step back from Aemond, only for another hand to seize yours with a sudden, playful grip. You turned, startled, to see Aegon standing there with his ever-present smirk.

“Mind if I steal her, brother?” he drawled, his voice laced with mockery as he gave Aemond a pointed look. Without waiting for a reply, he pulled you toward him with a dramatic spin, earning a few quiet chuckles from onlookers.

“Aegon,” you muttered, a hint of exasperation in your tone. His antics were as familiar as the Red Keep’s stone walls.

“What?” he said with a grin, placing one hand on your waist and holding your hand with the other. “I figured you’d had enough of the one-eyed shadow for one night.”

You glanced briefly at Aemond, who stood at the edge of the dance floor. His face was a mask of indifference, but his gaze followed your every move.

“Careful, Aegon,” you warned, your eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound brave. Bravery doesn’t suit you.”

He barked a short laugh, spinning you with a surprising amount of grace. “Bravery suits me just fine, dear niece,” he teased, his grin sharper now. “But wine suits me better.”

You rolled your eyes but allowed him to lead the dance. He wasn’t as precise as Aemond, nor as steady. His steps were a bit too loose, his movements too relaxed, but somehow, it still felt easy. There was no tension, no pretense. Just him being the same Aegon you had always known.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a moment, his grin dimming into something softer. His voice had lost its usual edge. “Not like you.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the shift in his tone. He wasn’t mocking you, not this time. He was looking at you with something that almost resembled concern.

“I suppose I’ve had a lot to think about,” you replied, glancing down for a moment.

“Ah,” he hummed knowingly. “Let me guess — it’s them, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer, but your silence was enough. He gave you a slow nod, his face unusually serious.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Aegon muttered, his eyes flickering toward where Jace and Luke sat. “They’ll always hate you for standing where they can’t reach.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you replied quietly. “They never loved you to begin with.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharper than before. For a moment, you thought you’d gone too far, but then he snorted a bitter laugh. “True enough,” he muttered, his gaze distant for a heartbeat before he looked at you again. “But that’s exactly why I can tell you this — it’s better to be hated than forgotten.”

His words hit harder than you expected. You knew what it felt like to be forgotten. You’d been living with that feeling since the day your mother left you in the Red Keep.

“You think I should be proud of it, then?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Aegon tilted his head, his grin returning, but it was smaller this time — almost sad. “No,” he said. “But you should wear it like armor. People are less likely to stab you if they know the blade won’t break you.”

You both moved in silence for a while, the music filling the space between words. His grip was looser than Aemond’s, but there was something comforting about it. No pretense, no expectation. Just Aegon being Aegon.

When the dance finally ended, he leaned in close, his breath smelling faintly of wine. “You look good in green,” he whispered, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

He pulled away with a wink, leaving you standing in the middle of the floor as he sauntered off toward the wine table. You stood there for a moment, letting his words settle.

Your gaze drifted back to your brothers. Jace was staring at you, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and disbelief. Luke sat beside him, quieter but no less disappointed. Their faces said everything they wouldn’t.

But you remembered Aegon’s words — it’s better to be hated than forgotten.

So, with steady hands, you lifted your chin, turned away from them, and walked back toward the table where Alicent and Helaena were waiting.

Alicent’s gaze lingered on you as you returned to your seat. Her smile was warm, almost maternal, as if she were proud of you for wearing the green. She reached out to adjust a stray strand of your hair, tucking it gently behind your ear.

“You did well,” she whispered, her voice as soft as silk. “They see you now.”

You nodded, offering her a small, strained smile. But the weight of it all sat heavy on your chest.

King Viserys, seated at the head of the table, raised his cup, his voice raspy but firm as he addressed the gathered family. “It brings me great joy,” he began, pausing to catch his breath, “to see my family together again.” His gaze flickered between you, Jace, Luke, and your mother. “My grandchildren… soon to be wed. Jace to Baela, Luke to Rhaena. A union that will strengthen our house for generations to come.”

The room erupted in polite applause, but you barely heard it. Your eyes flicked toward Jace, who was watching you closely, his face unreadable but his gaze sharp.

Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, Viserys coughed and leaned forward, his eyes searching the faces at the table. “But there is another of my grandchildren whose future we must also secure.” His gaze stopped on you. “She has grown strong, wise… and beautiful.”

You felt every eye in the room shift toward you. Your heart began to pound in your chest.

“Yes,” Viserys continued, his smile soft but determined. “It is only right that we speak of her future as well. A match that will honor her lineage and ensure her protection in these troubled times.”

Silence fell over the room, thick with unspoken tension. Your hands gripped the edge of your chair as you glanced at your mother. She sat stiffly, her face a mask of calm, but her eyes were fixed on you with a mixture of concern and calculation.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair as if amused by the sudden shift in conversation. His eyes darted toward Alicent, catching the faintest twitch of her smile.

“An excellent suggestion, my love,” Alicent said, her tone smooth and agreeable. She glanced at you, her eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Pride? Possession? “She is of age, after all. And there are many fine suitors who would be honored to claim her hand.”

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. They weren’t talking to you — they were talking about you, as if you were a prize to be bargained over.

“Her future should be decided with care,” Rhaenyra interjected, her tone sharp, her eyes cutting toward Alicent. “She is still young, and such decisions must be made with her consent.”

Alicent tilted her head, a gentle smile still on her face. “Of course, Princess,” she said sweetly. “But surely, as her mother, you must understand the urgency of ensuring her safety. A strong match would protect her from the dangers that surround us all.”

“Her safety was never in doubt until you made it so,” Rhaenyra shot back, her voice laced with venom.

Viserys raised his hand, his face twisted with exhaustion. “Enough,” he rasped, his voice strained but firm. “This is a family matter, not a battlefield.” He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes soft with affection. “My dear girl, you will have a say in this. No match will be made without your will. You have my word.”

For a moment, you felt relief wash over you. But then Daemon’s quiet laugh echoed from the other end of the table.

“Words are wind,” he muttered into his cup of wine, glancing sidelong at Viserys. “Promises mean little when thrones are at stake.”

His words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. Alicent’s fingers drummed softly against the table, her gaze flicking toward Aemond, who sat with his arms crossed, his face as unreadable as ever.

Aegon let out a low chuckle, leaning toward you with that same mischievous grin. “Careful, little niece,” he whispered, his breath warm with the scent of wine. “They’ll have you betrothed before dessert.”

Your eyes darted to him, but you said nothing. Your mind was already racing. You could feel it — the weight of it all pressing down on you. It wasn’t a choice. It never had been.

Aemond’s voice broke through the tension like a blade through silk. “If she must marry, it should be someone worthy.”

His single eye landed on you, sharp as a dragon’s gaze. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. His words carried no jest, only a cold, calculated certainty.

“Someone strong,” he added, his eye slowly moving toward Jace. “Someone who knows the meaning of loyalty.”

Jace leaned forward, his eyes locked on Aemond, his jaw clenched tight. “Careful, uncle,” he muttered. “Loyalty is a word you use when you have none of it yourself.”

The table grew still. The air was so tense it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

But you could feel it. This wasn’t about you anymore. This was about them. All of them. Your fate was just another piece on the board.

Silence fell over the room like a shroud. Every movement stopped — goblets paused mid-air, glances darted from one face to another. You froze, your breath caught in your chest.

King Viserys leaned forward in his chair, his milky eyes filled with quiet determination. “Aemond is a fine match,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “A bond of blood. A union that will heal the wounds that have festered far too long.”

Your eyes darted to your mother. Rhaenyra’s face was pale but firm, her lips pressed into a thin, unmoving line. Her eyes found yours, silently pleading with you to stay calm.

Daemon let out a low, mocking laugh, swirling the wine in his cup. “A fine match, indeed,” he drawled, his sharp eyes flicking between Viserys and Alicent. “How convenient for some.”

Alicent kept her composure, folding her hands neatly in front of her. Her gaze shifted to you, her eyes filled with gentle resolve. “It is a wise decision, husbanb” she said softly, her tone carrying the weight of finality. “It strengthens the family, unites the bloodlines, and ensures her protection. It is what’s best for her.”

You glanced at Aemond. He sat still, his face carved from stone, his single violet eye locked on the table in front of him. No flicker of surprise, no sign of agreement or resistance. Just silence.

“Has anyone asked her?” Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, sharp as a blade. Her gaze burned with defiance. “Has anyone thought to ask my daughter what she wants?”

Viserys turned his gaze to you, his expression softening. “What say you, child?” he asked gently, his voice kind but expectant. “Would you accept this match for the good of the realm? For the good of your family?”

Every gaze in the room turned toward you. Jace stared at you in disbelief, his mouth opening as if to speak but no words came out. Luke’s wide, innocent eyes were full of confusion and hurt.

You felt your heart pounding in your chest. This was it. They were offering you the illusion of choice, but you knew the truth. This was not your decision to make.

Your eyes moved back to Aemond. His gaze was on you now, piercing and unwavering. He said nothing, but something about the intensity of his stare unsettled you. There was no kindness in it, no affection — only cold, hard calculation.

Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her voice trembling with barely restrained rage. “She is a child, Father. My child. She is not a pawn to be traded for your fleeting sense of peace.”

“She is not a child anymore, Rhaenyra,” Alicent replied, her voice deceptively soft but firm. Her eyes stayed on you, unyielding. “She is a young woman, and a young woman of her station must understand the duties that come with it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her chest heaving with quiet fury. “You mean your duties, don’t you, Alicent? Duties that serve only your ambitions.”

“Enough!” Viserys’s voice boomed, louder than you had ever heard it before. His eyes burned with a fleeting glimpse of the king he once was. “We are family, and family must stand together!” His gaze softened once more as it returned to you. “Child, speak your heart. I will hear you.”

The weight of every gaze in the room pressed down on you like a mountain. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. Speak your heart, he said, as if it would truly matter.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his eye still locked on you, studying you as if he already knew what you would say. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe — he simply watched.

Jace leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “Say no.”

But Daemon snorted, raising his cup in mock salute. “Say no, and they’ll find another way to force you,” he muttered, taking a slow sip of wine.

The silence stretched, endless and suffocating. Your gaze met your mother’s once more. She gave you the barest shake of her head, her eyes pleading with you to refuse. But in those same eyes, you saw something else — helplessness. If you said no, it would change nothing.

You took a slow, steadying breath, feeling your fingers tremble at your sides. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to have a choice.

“Grandfather,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. “If this is what is best for the realm… then I will not refuse it.”

Rhaenyra’s face crumpled like parchment. “No,” she whispered, taking a step toward you. “No, don’t do this. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” you said, cutting her off, your eyes flicking to hers with quiet resolve. “I do.”

The room erupted in murmurs. Luke’s small voice echoed faintly in the background, “Sister…?” Jace slammed his hand on the table, his chair scraping back as he stood. His face was flushed with anger and betrayal.

“You’re letting them use you,” Jace hissed, his voice trembling. “You’re letting them win.”

You turned away from him, your gaze fixed firmly on the stone floor. If you looked at him, at Luke, at your mother — you knew your resolve would crumble.

“Then it is decided,” Viserys declared, his tone final, his breath heavy with exertion. “The betrothal is sealed. She will wed to Aemond.”

Aemond finally moved. He stood slowly, his eyes never leaving you. He walked toward you, his footsteps steady and deliberate. When he stopped in front of you, he reached out his hand, palm up.

You stared at it for a moment, heart pounding, before placing your hand in his. His grip was firm, almost too firm, his fingers cold like steel. His face remained impassive, but his eye burned with something you couldn’t quite name.

Possession.

“Wise choice,” he said quietly, his lips barely moving. “You’ll find I am not as cruel as others would have you believe.”

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they sent a chill down your spine.

Rhaenyra was staring at you, her face hollow with betrayal and heartbreak. Jace’s eyes burned with disbelief and fury. Luke, sweet Luke, simply looked confused and hurt, like a child who didn’t understand why the world had suddenly changed.

Alicent placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her touch light but firm. “You will be well cared for, my dear,” she said softly, as if she had won a great victory. “This is the beginning of a new future for you.”

But you knew the truth.

You hadn’t won anything.

You’d been claimed.

The room fell into a suffocating silence. All eyes turned to you as the words you had never dared to say finally spilled from your lips.

“You have no right over me, Mother. Not after you left me."

Your voice was steady, but the weight of it was undeniable. Rhaenyra flinched as if you had struck her. Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her chest.

“I left to protect you,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “I left to protect all of you."

“No, you didn’t,” you replied, your voice rising with the anger that had simmered for far too long. Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “You left with Jace. You left with Luke. You left with Daemon. But you left me here — alone.” Your chest heaved with each breath, and every word dripped with the pain you’d been forced to swallow for so long.

Jace took a step forward, his face contorted with guilt and disbelief. “It wasn’t like that—”

“It was exactly like that!” you snapped, cutting him off. Your gaze turned to him, your brother who had always been your partner in everything — until he wasn’t. “You followed her, didn’t you? You followed her to Dragonstone, and you didn’t look back. Not once.”

Luke’s wide eyes filled with tears, his small voice barely a whisper. “We didn’t want to leave you…”

You shook your head, your lips pressed together tightly. You didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when the wounds were already wide open.

“Don’t pretend it wasn’t a choice,” you said coldly, eyes locked on Rhaenyra. “You chose them. You chose Daemon. You chose your crown. But you did not choose me.”

Rhaenyra stepped toward you, her eyes desperate. “I never stopped loving you,” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of her own guilt. “I thought you’d be safe here, with your grandsire —”

“Safe?” you echoed bitterly, your eyes narrowing. “Do you even know what it’s like to live here without you? To have everyone whispering about me, calling me a bastard to my face? ” Your voice broke, but you didn’t care. “You weren’t here, Mother. You don’t get to decide for me now.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Rhaenyra’s voice was trembling with a mix of disbelief and hurt. Her face twisted in pain, as though you had struck her. “You are my daughter—”

“You left me,” you interrupted, your voice cold and steady despite the pain that twisted in your chest. “You left me alone here, and now you’re telling me what I should do with my life? You have no claim over me anymore.”

The words stung, even as you said them, but there was a part of you that felt a small sense of relief. Finally, the weight of everything you had held in for so long had been released.

Rhaenyra’s eyes searched yours, her lips trembling as though she were trying to find the right words, but they eluded her. “You know that I had no choice… I did what I had to do for my children.”

“Your children? What about me?” you asked, your voice rising despite yourself. “What about me? I was supposed to be your daughter, your priority. But you left. You chose Dragonstone over me, over us.”

Her eyes filled with sorrow, and for the first time, you saw the weight of her guilt. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

The weight of your words settled over the room like a storm cloud. Jace looked at you as if he didn’t recognize you anymore. Luke looked heartbroken, tears spilling down his cheeks. Even Daemon, so often unbothered by the chaos around him, regarded you with quiet curiosity, his eyes sharp with recognition.

But it was Rhaenyra who wore the most pained expression. Her lips quivered as if she wanted to say something, anything, to refute your words. But she couldn’t.

Alicent stepped forward then, her presence steady and deliberate. She placed a gentle hand on your back, a silent show of support. Her green dress shimmered in the light of the flames, and for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt safe.

“She has spoken her mind, Princess,” Alicent said softly, though her gaze was firm. “Her choice is clear.”

“Her choice was forced,” Rhaenyra shot back, her eyes blazing with fury as she turned on Alicent. “Do not pretend you had no hand in this, Alicent.”

“I did nothing but offer her a place where she was valued,” Alicent replied, her voice smooth as silk. Her hand remained on your back, grounding you. “Can you say the same, Rhaenyra?”

The words hit like a dagger. Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, her eyes darting to yours as if searching for something — forgiveness, understanding, hope. But you gave her none of it.

“Leave it, Mother,” you said, your voice hollow. Your eyes dropped to the floor, no longer able to look at her. “It’s already done.”

Your gaze lifted to Aemond, his sharp features calm but watchful. He said nothing, merely offering a small nod, as if he knew this moment had been inevitable.

Rhaenyra took a step forward, but you stepped back, shaking your head slowly. “Don’t.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she clenched her fists at her sides. “I’m still your mother.”

“Then act like it,” you whispered, your voice cutting through the air like a blade. “But you don’t get to act like it now.”

Aemond, standing at your side, watched the exchange silently. He didn’t speak either, his face unreadable. But there was something in the air between you — a quiet understanding, perhaps. He didn’t need to say anything because the truth had already been laid bare.

Finally, it was Viserys who broke the silence, his voice shaking with the effort. “Enough,” he rasped, his frail form leaning heavily on his cane. “This is not the time for more conflict. Let us move forward with peace.”

But Rhaenyra’s eyes never left you. “I won’t let this happen,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You will not be forced into a marriage you don’t want, not by him.” Her voice was a low growl, filled with desperation and a hint of defiance.

“I’ve already made my decision, Mother,” you said, the words heavy on your tongue. “And I’m not asking for your approval anymore.”

The room seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Rhaenyra’s face crumbled, the weight of your words settling deep within her. But you couldn’t bring yourself to regret them.

Daemon’s laugh echoed through the hall, cruel and mocking. “There it is, Rhaenyra,” he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your precious daughter, no longer your little princess.”

Aemond took a step closer to you, his presence solid and unyielding. The tension was palpable, but he said nothing, only standing by your side as your mother and Daemon exchanged heated glances.

For a moment, you felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders, and yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sense of freedom.

The silence stretched on, and though the room was heavy with unspoken words and emotions, you knew one thing for certain: you would no longer let your mother dictate your life. You would not be a pawn in this game anymore.

The decision had been made. And nothing would change it.

The sudden pull of Jace’s hand, harsh and forceful, sent a jolt of pain through you. You winced, feeling the weight of his grip, but your heart ached more from the words you knew were about to follow.

“Stop, Jace!” you gasped, struggling to break free from his hold. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t listen. His face was twisted with anger and desperation, and his eyes were filled with hurt as he tried to pull you away from the chaos, as though he could fix everything. “You can’t do this! You can’t marry him, you—”

Before he could finish, Aemond stepped forward, his hand swiftly clasping Jace’s wrist, pulling it away from you with surprising strength. The tension between the two brothers crackled in the air, and the room fell silent for a brief moment, everyone holding their breath.

“Let her go,” Aemond said, his voice low but commanding, his eyes never leaving Jace’s.

But Jace wasn’t done. In a fit of rage, he swung his free hand at Aemond, landing a sharp blow to his face. The room erupted with shocked gasps as Aemond stumbled back, more surprised than hurt, but his glare burned with intensity.

“You will not touch her,” Jace spat, his chest heaving with anger. “Not like this. Not ever.”

“Enough!” you shouted, your voice shaking but firm. The words felt like they came from somewhere deep inside, pushing past the confusion and hurt you felt. “Enough, Jace!”

You tore your hand from Aemond’s grasp and turned to face your brother. Your eyes, filled with a mixture of anger and sorrow, locked onto Jace’s. “You are not my brother anymore,” you said, the words leaving your lips like poison. “Not after everything you’ve done to me. Not after you abandoned me here, alone.”

Jace froze, the words sinking into him like daggers. His eyes softened, as if he didn’t understand what you were saying, but the hurt in your voice was undeniable.

“You think you can control my life just because we’re family?” you continued, your voice shaking with emotion. “You don’t get to decide what happens to me, not anymore. Not when you’ve done nothing but leave me to fight for myself.”

Aemond, now standing tall beside you, didn’t move, but his presence was a stark contrast to the chaos around you. He watched you with an unreadable expression, his hand still clenched at his side.

Jace stood there, his anger faltering as he processed your words, but his face twisted with disbelief. “I never left you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve always been here for you.”

“No,” you responded coldly, shaking your head. “You haven’t. Not when it mattered.”

The silence in the room was deafening, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a thick fog. The tension was so thick you could almost feel it pressing against your skin.

Jace took a step back, his face crumpling with a mix of guilt and confusion, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when everything you once believed in had been shattered so completely.

Without another word, you turned away from Jace, your heart heavy with the painful truth that you no longer recognized the people who were once closest to you. You didn’t look back as you walked toward the exit, your steps steady but filled with a new sense of resolve.

This was no longer a family. This was a war, and you had chosen your side.

Alicent’s arms enveloped you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Her warmth, unexpected and gentle, washed over you, grounding you in the midst of the chaos. For the first time in so long, you allowed yourself to break. Tears, which you had kept bottled up for so long, finally spilled down your face as you buried your head in her chest.

You had been strong for so long, but in this moment, the weight of everything—your family’s betrayal, your pain, and the overwhelming sense of loneliness—became too much. You cried in silence, unable to stop the flow of emotions.

Alicent didn’t say anything, but her hold on you tightened, a silent comfort that you hadn’t known you needed. She didn’t judge you, didn’t try to fix things; she just let you cry, offering a shoulder when the rest of the world seemed too cold to care.

Through your tears, you caught sight of your mother standing at the other end of the room, her eyes filled with sorrow. There was no anger, no harsh words—just a deep sadness. She looked at you as if she understood, as if she saw the broken pieces of the child she had left behind.

But that only made the pain worse. Her gaze pierced you, a reminder of the distance that had grown between you both. She didn’t come to you, didn’t offer comfort, and that only deepened the wound in your heart.

Alicent seemed to sense the shift in your emotions. She gently pulled away, cupping your face in her hands, her green eyes meeting yours with an understanding that felt both foreign and familiar. “You don’t have to face this alone,” she whispered softly.

You nodded, wiping your tears away, though they kept falling. But you knew, deep down, you had already made your choice. You had already chosen who would be there for you, who would stand by you when your family turned their back. And as much as it hurt, you knew the road ahead would be one you would walk alone, despite the faint hope that things could have been different.

Your mother’s eyes lingered on you from afar, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at her. Not now. Not yet.

The silence between you and Aemond as you walked toward your chamber was deafening. Every step seemed to stretch on forever, the weight of what had just been decided pressing down on you like an unbearable burden. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak, the words trapped in your throat, your emotions tangled up in confusion, anger, and sorrow.

Aemond, for his part, said nothing either. His usually sharp, intense gaze was focused ahead, but there was an odd stillness to him. You could feel his presence beside you, the tension in the air thick enough to be felt, but there was no comfort in it. He didn’t offer any words of solace, nor did he attempt to break the silence. It was as though both of you were stuck in a strange limbo—neither fully facing what had just happened nor able to walk away from it.

As you reached the door to your room, Aemond stopped, his hand briefly resting on the handle before he turned to look at you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes seemed to search yours for something—maybe understanding, maybe regret, or perhaps something else entirely.

“You should rest,” he said finally, his voice low, almost indifferent. “There will be much to prepare for in the coming days.”

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, not without breaking down, not without giving voice to the emotions swirling inside of you. The last thing you wanted was to show any more weakness in front of him, or anyone, for that matter.

Aemond hesitated for a moment longer, then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts then.” He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading as he left you standing at the threshold of your room.

As the door closed softly behind you, you let out a shaky breath, the floodgates inside of you threatening to open. But you held yourself together. You couldn’t afford to break—not now, not in front of anyone.

Your mind raced as you stared at the empty space in front of you. The reality of the situation seemed impossible to accept. The wedding, the marriage, everything that had just been decided felt like it belonged to someone else, not you.

But there was no escaping it. This was your fate now. And no matter how much you wanted to rebel, to run, you knew you were tied to this family, to these bloodlines. The only thing left to do was endure.

With a heavy heart, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears finally came.

As you walked through the quiet garden, the path ahead was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The air was cool, a slight breeze carrying the scent of blooming flowers, but it did little to calm the storm raging inside you. Your heart felt heavy with every step, each one taking you further from the bright, unbearable reality of your wedding preparations.

You couldn’t escape the thoughts that constantly echoed in your mind—the betrayal, the abandonment, the silence that had grown between you and your family. It was impossible to reconcile what was happening with the love and loyalty you once felt for them.

In the distance, you spotted Jace and Luke, their figures emerging from the trees, walking toward you. They had likely come to try and make amends, to explain themselves, but you knew their words wouldn’t change anything now.

You stopped in your tracks, holding up your hand to stop them before they could reach you. Your chest tightened, and a coldness crept over you. You had once been close to them, but now… now they were strangers to you. Their betrayal, their silence in the face of your suffering, stung deeper than anything else.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice cold and firm, though the pain behind it was undeniable. “I don’t want to hear it. I hate you both.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. Jace’s face faltered, his expression one of shock, but Luke—Luke’s eyes were full of something that hurt even more: regret. Yet, none of it mattered. It couldn’t matter.

They didn’t deserve your forgiveness, not after everything that had happened. Not after they had stood by as your life was stolen from you, as you were cast aside in favor of their own selfish desires.

Jace opened his mouth, as if to speak, but you shook your head, silencing him. You didn’t want to hear any more excuses or apologies. You had heard it all before, but it was never enough.

“Go back to your own lives,” you added, your voice trembling slightly despite the anger. “Stay out of mine.”

Without another word, you turned away from them, walking quickly in the opposite direction. You could feel their eyes on your back, but you didn’t care. There was no turning back now. You had made your decision, and it was too late for apologies.

As you left them behind in the garden, a part of you felt a strange emptiness—an ache where the love you once had for them used to reside. But you knew it was for the best. There could be no more pretending. You couldn’t keep clinging to people who had abandoned you when you needed them most.

You entered your room, the weight of the day’s preparations still heavy on your shoulders, only to be met by the presence of Alicent and Helaena. They were waiting for you, their faces soft with anticipation. Helaena smiled warmly at you, her eyes filled with quiet admiration, while Alicent’s gaze was approving, though there was something more restrained in her expression.

“Come, my dear,” Alicent said gently, guiding you toward the mirror. “It’s time to try on the gown.”

The dress, a stunning white creation, shimmered under the light as you stepped into it. The fabric clung to your form in all the right places, its delicate lace and intricate embroidery making you feel like you were stepping into a dream, albeit one you never wished for. The gown was undoubtedly beautiful, but it was also a constant reminder of the role you had to play in this political arrangement.

As you stood in front of the mirror, Alicent and Helaena’s gazes lingered on you, their approval evident.

“You will be the most beautiful bride the realm has ever seen,” Helaena said softly, her voice filled with wonder. “The gown suits you perfectly.”

Alicent nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “Indeed. Aemond is lucky to have you. This marriage will solidify not only your family’s power but also your beauty, my dear.”

You felt their words, meant to be comforting, yet they seemed hollow. In that moment, the gown felt like a shackle more than a symbol of celebration. The compliments were warm, but they couldn’t erase the feelings of betrayal, the weight of your family’s expectations, and the uncertainty of what your future with Aemond would hold.

Still, you forced a smile, nodding as they admired the way the gown fit you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, though your heart wasn’t in it. “It’s beautiful.”

Alicent’s expression softened, as if sensing the quiet storm raging within you. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. “This is a new beginning for you. You must embrace it, no matter how difficult.”

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t a new beginning at all—it was the closing of another chapter, one that left you questioning everything you thought you knew about your family, your future, and yourself.

As you sat alone in your room, your gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the fireplace, the warmth doing little to chase away the chill in your heart. The weight of the approaching wedding, the tension in the castle, and the heavy silence that seemed to engulf you were overwhelming. For a moment, you closed your eyes, hoping to escape the reality of your situation, but then a sound broke through your thoughts—the scraping of stone against stone, followed by a faint, almost imperceptible sound of footsteps.

You turned, startled, as a figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the room. Aemond. His presence, once so commanding, now seemed almost surreal as he stepped from the darkness of the secret passage. The cold air of the corridor seemed to follow him, making the room feel even colder than before.

“I needed to see you,” Aemond’s voice broke the silence, low and steady, as he closed the distance between you. His pale eyes locked onto yours, unreadable, as always.

You remained silent, unsure of what to say. He was always like this—so distant, yet somehow insistent on maintaining his place in your life, even when it felt as if there was nothing between you but obligation.

Aemond’s eyes flicked to the fire, then back to you. “I know this marriage isn’t what you want,” he said quietly, his tone almost softer than you’d expected. “But it’s necessary. For both of us.”

You could feel a mix of emotions swirling inside you. His words, though practical, didn’t erase the hurt, the resentment, the confusion. He stood there, seemingly unaffected by the circumstances, and yet… his presence in your room, at this moment, felt like a faint attempt at connection. An attempt that was too little, too late.

“Necessary,” you repeated, your voice carrying a bitter edge. “Yes, I know.” You turned back toward the fire, trying to keep the emotions from spilling over. “For both of us. But what about what I want? Or what you want, Aemond? Is this really what either of us wanted, or is it just what’s been forced upon us?”

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving you. When he spoke again, it was measured, almost as if he were considering every word carefully.

“I don’t know if I want it,” he admitted, his voice surprisingly honest. “But I have a duty. And so do you.” His words hung in the air between you like a heavy cloud. “This marriage… It’s just another duty to be fulfilled, nothing more. But we’ll get through it, together.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest like a stone. You turned to face him fully, trying to find any trace of sincerity in his eyes, any indication that he might understand what you were feeling, what you were going through. But there was nothing. Only cold determination.

“Together,” you echoed, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. “Yes, I suppose we will.”

Aemond’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, but it was gone before you could fully process it. He looked away, his jaw tightening as if he were trying to steady himself against the emotions you both knew were lurking beneath the surface.

“You should rest,” he said quietly, his voice no longer as firm. “Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

You nodded, though you felt no comfort in his words. There was no rest for you, not with the weight of the coming days pressing down on your shoulders.

You looked at Aemond, a mixture of emotions swirling within you. His presence, despite the weight of your situation, somehow brought a sense of comfort—something you hadn’t realized you craved. You didn’t understand why, but for a fleeting moment, it felt like you weren’t entirely alone.

“Aemond…” you began, your voice soft but tinged with something that resembled vulnerability. “Stay. Just for a little while.”

His gaze met yours, his sharp, cold eyes seemingly surprised by your request, but he didn’t speak, just took a hesitant step closer, as if he, too, felt the strange pull between you. But before either of you could say anything more, a sharp knock on the door broke the silence.

You froze for a moment, instinctively bracing yourself. It was your mother. You could hear her voice—gentle but strained—calling from the other side.

“May I come in?”

Aemond’s presence suddenly felt too heavy, too dangerous in this moment. You didn’t want your mother to see him, not now, not like this. You quickly motioned for Aemond to hide, a silent plea in your eyes. His jaw clenched, but after a long pause, he nodded and slipped into the shadows of the room, his figure vanishing from sight like a shadow in the dim light.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come, and then called out.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, and there she stood—your mother, her face etched with a mixture of regret and sadness. She stepped in cautiously, her eyes searching you as if she were looking for some sign of forgiveness. But you felt none. Not yet. Maybe never.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I should never have left you alone here. I… I failed you, and I know that.”

You felt a coldness settle in your chest as you looked at her, the years of pain and abandonment rising to the surface like a tide you couldn’t stop. Your heart, once full of love for her, now felt numb.

“I’m not sure that apology matters anymore,” you replied, your tone flat, devoid of the warmth you used to give her. “You left. And I was left behind. I’ve learned to live without you.”

Her face fell, a tear slipping down her cheek. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It wasn’t about the apology anymore. It was about what she had done—and what she hadn’t done when you needed her most.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t shut me out.”

You shook your head, the words coming out harsh, like the bitter truth you’d buried deep inside you for so long. “You don’t get to come back now, Mother. You don’t get to walk in and pretend like you can fix everything. You chose them. You chose to leave me.”

She seemed to flinch at the weight of your words, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. Not anymore.

“Leave,” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “Please, just go.”

Your mother stood there for a moment, silent, tears streaming down her face. She seemed to hesitate, torn between reaching for you and walking away. But in the end, she turned and left, the door closing softly behind her.

As the sound of her footsteps faded, you sank back onto the chair by the fireplace, your heart heavy but somehow… relieved. Aemond reappeared from the shadows, his eyes meeting yours in the silence that followed.

He didn’t speak, but his presence was comforting—an odd, unspoken understanding between the two of you. For a moment, it felt like you were not entirely alone in the world, and that strange comfort lingered in the air, even as you struggled to process the emotions swirling within you.

But for now, you didn’t have to face them alone.

You froze, startled by Aemond’s sudden movement, but before you could react, he gently pulled you into his embrace. His grip was firm, yet strangely comforting, as if he was offering a shelter from the storm that raged inside you. His hand moved up and down your back in a soothing rhythm, the tension in your chest slowly starting to ease with each touch.

“Everything will be alright,” he whispered softly, his voice low and steady. The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, reassuring—brought an odd sense of peace you hadn’t expected.

For a moment, you felt the weight of your emotions shift. You had expected the emptiness, the bitterness, the pain. But in his arms, there was none of that. Just a strange, unfamiliar sense of security.

You didn’t know why, but in that moment, you allowed yourself to believe his words, if only for a second. It was as if his presence was a small promise that, no matter how twisted your world had become, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his embrace, the familiar ache in your heart slowly beginning to quiet. “Thank you,” you whispered, unsure of what else to say, but grateful for the moment of solace he had given you.

The day of your wedding had finally arrived. You sat still, surrounded by your servants who were fussing over your hair and dress, their hands moving quickly to ensure every detail was perfect. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, your heart heavy with a mix of emotions—nervousness, uncertainty, and an aching emptiness. The woman staring back at you seemed so different, yet familiar. The elaborate wedding gown, the delicate veil, the way everything had come together… it all felt like a dream.

As you sat there, lost in your thoughts, the door creaked open and Alicent stepped into the room. She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping over you with a mixture of awe and pride. Her eyes softened as she took in the sight of you, the woman you had become.

“My dear,” she said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “You look… absolutely breathtaking.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, not quite sure what to say in response. Your eyes met hers, and in that moment, something shifted. Her presence was warm and comforting, and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

Alicent stepped closer, her gaze tender as she placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman,” she continued, her voice softening. “And I… I think it’s time for you to start calling me ‘Mother.’”

The words hit you like a gentle wave. “Mother.” You had never called her that before, not in the way she probably wanted. But now, in this moment, you realized that maybe it was time to accept the bond she was offering. There was no turning back now, and despite the complicated feelings you harbored, you felt a sense of comfort in her words.

With a deep breath, you nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mother,” you said, testing the word on your lips. It felt strange, but somehow, it also felt right.

Alicent’s expression softened, her eyes glistening with emotion. She gave a small, proud smile, her hand gently cupping your cheek. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

The room fell into a comfortable silence as you both took a moment to soak in the weight of the occasion, the sense of change, and the new life that was about to unfold.

The journey to the sept was a quiet one, the rhythmic movement of the carriage the only sound accompanying the silence between you and Alicent. Your fingers nervously traced the edge of your veil, your thoughts swirling with uncertainty and apprehension. The weight of the day felt heavier with each passing moment, and despite Alicent’s comforting words, you couldn’t shake the anxiousness knotting in your stomach.

“Everything will go smoothly,” Alicent said gently, her voice calm and reassuring, as though she sensed the turmoil brewing inside you. “You’re ready for this.”

You gave a soft nod, though the tightness in your chest betrayed your uncertainty. The silence stretched, the muffled sound of hooves on cobblestones echoing outside the carriage. You closed your eyes for a moment, steadying yourself as the weight of the moment settled over you.

Eventually, the carriage came to a halt with a soft jolt, and the door was opened by one of the attendants. Alicent helped you out, her hand steady on your arm. As you stepped onto the ground, you were greeted by a wave of sound—a chorus of cheers and applause from the gathered crowd. The people of the Red Keep and beyond had come to witness the union, their excitement palpable in the air.

The sight of the crowd was overwhelming. The colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, the sun casting a warm glow over the scene. People called out your name, their voices filled with enthusiasm, but all you could focus on was the way the crowd seemed to part for you as you moved forward, your heart pounding in your chest.

Alicent, walking beside you, smiled proudly, her presence a shield against the storm of emotions swirling within you. “This is your moment,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours with a look of reassurance.

As you walked towards the sept, your gaze lifted and you saw the familiar, yet distant, faces of your family standing at the altar. The weight of their gazes, mixed with the nervous excitement that filled the air, made everything feel surreal. The sound of the crowd, the warmth of the sun, the flutter of your veil, and the presence of Alicent beside you—it all blurred together in a haze of emotions.

The time had come, and despite the storm of feelings inside you, you knew there was no turning back.

As the High Septon’s voice rang through the hall, the final words of the ceremony echoed in your ears. “By the light of the Seven, I declare them husband and wife.” You stood there, the air thick with anticipation, the eyes of your family and the crowd on you. Aemond, beside you, remained composed, his gaze steady and intense, never leaving yours.

The moment felt surreal, the weight of the vows just spoken sinking in. You could feel the tension building, as the next words hung in the air.

The High Septon then turned to Aemond, his voice clear and firm. “Aemond, you may kiss your wife."

For a brief moment, there was a quiet stillness, and you felt the world around you blur. Aemond’s eyes locked with yours as he slowly stepped forward, his hand gently cupping your face. The soft brush of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and in that moment, you understood the gravity of the life you were about to share with him.

Then, with a movement as deliberate as it was tender, Aemond leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that felt like the beginning of a new chapter. The kiss was brief but full of unspoken promises, sealing the union in front of all who gathered.

As you pulled back, your heart raced, unsure of what the future held, but in that moment, you were bound to him, for better or worse. The cheers and applause of the crowd filled the room, but you were lost in the silence that followed, in the realization that your life had just changed forever.

As you and Aemond descended the steps from the altar, your hand firmly in his, the cheers and applause of the gathered crowd filled the air, echoing through the sept. The weight of the moment settled heavily upon you, but there was a strange, quiet calmness in the chaos of celebration.

Amidst the joyful noise, your gaze found Alicent. Tears shimmered in her eyes, reflecting the light of the candles around you. Without thinking, you reached out and embraced her, the warmth of her embrace offering a fragile sense of comfort in the whirlwind of emotions.

“You’re beautiful,” Alicent whispered softly, her voice full of pride and love. Her arms tightened around you for a moment longer before she pulled back, wiping her eyes gently.

As you stood there, holding her, you couldn’t help but notice the figure of your mother standing at the far end of the hall. Her eyes met yours, and in them, you saw a sadness so deep it nearly took your breath away. Her face was an expression of regret, of longing for something that had been lost.

But it was too late, wasn’t it?

You couldn’t stop the lump that formed in your throat as you held Alicent, her comforting presence a stark contrast to the emptiness you felt when you looked at your mother. You knew you had to turn away from her. Your life had changed, and the bonds of the past could not be rekindled so easily.

Yet, even as you walked away with Aemond, his presence beside you strong and resolute, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of your mother’s gaze on your back, knowing that this new chapter of your life had already set you on a path that would never allow you to go back.

As the carriage rocked gently, you sat beside Aemond, your hand resting on your lap, and your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. The celebration was still fresh in your mind, and the weight of the vows you had just taken hung heavily in the air around you. Despite the grandiosity of the wedding, the tension between you and your new life was palpable.

Aemond sat with his usual composed demeanor, his eyes gazing ahead through the window, his face unreadable. The silence between you both was thick, a stark contrast to the celebrations you had just left behind. He glanced at you briefly, his sharp gaze briefly meeting yours, before turning back to the window.

You could feel the unease in your chest, the uncertainty of what the future held now that everything had changed so dramatically. The faces of your family, especially your mother’s sad, distant eyes, lingered in your mind. You wanted to ask Aemond something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

After a few moments of silence, Aemond finally spoke, his voice low and steady. “This is just the beginning,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Tonight will be a celebration, but our real journey starts now.”

You nodded silently, unsure of how to respond. His words, while true, only served to deepen the unease in your heart. The path ahead felt uncertain, filled with obligations and expectations that you hadn’t been prepared for.

The carriage jolted slightly as it continued down the road toward the Red Keep, and you couldn’t help but wonder what awaited you there. Would it be a new chapter of your life, one you could come to accept? Or would it be a never-ending struggle, one you were ill-prepared for?

For now, you stayed silent, lost in your thoughts, while Aemond remained ever watchful, his presence a constant reminder of the new reality you both now had to face.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was filled with an air of formality as the feast began. The tables were laden with food, and the chatter of the nobility filled the air, but the weight of the moment hung heavily over you. You sat beside Aemond, your hand resting lightly on the table, surrounded by the most important figures of the realm.

Alicent sat beside you, her presence a reminder of the expectations that now rested on your shoulders. Across from you, your mother sat next to Aemond, her face carefully neutral, though you could feel the distance between you. Aegon and Helaena flanked the table, their expressions unreadable, their usual carefree demeanor absent.

The king, Viserys, raised his goblet, his voice booming through the hall as he stood to give a speech. “Tonight, we celebrate the union of two great houses,” he began, his eyes briefly meeting yours with a solemn smile. “Aemond, my son, and my dear granddaughter, we welcome you into this new chapter of our family’s legacy. May your marriage strengthen the ties that bind us all.”

The guests raised their glasses, their eyes upon you, as the king continued with a few more words of congratulation, but his voice felt distant. You could feel the tension in the room, the expectations, the silent judgment of those who were watching you both closely. It was as though your marriage was not just a union of two people, but a political alliance with the power to shape the future of the realm.

Aemond remained calm, his gaze steady and unwavering, as always. His posture was perfect, the image of a prince, and yet you couldn’t help but feel the distance between you both. Your fingers tightened on the edge of your goblet, your mind swirling with the reality of the path ahead.

The king’s speech concluded, and he returned to his seat, raising his glass one more time in honor of your union. Everyone followed suit, including your mother, who briefly met your eyes, her expression a mix of sorrow and pride.

But you were left with your own thoughts, the words of your new husband echoing in your mind. “This is just the beginning.” What did that truly mean for you, for your family, for your future?

The night continued on, the banquet proceeding with laughter and conversation, but the weight of it all remained on your shoulders.

As Aemond stood and extended his hand to you, the noise of the banquet seemed to fade into the background. The warm glow of the torches in the hall illuminated his intense gaze as he led you to the center of the room. You hesitated for only a moment, before accepting his hand. There was a silent understanding between the two of you as he guided you to the dance floor.

The music played softly, its slow, melodic rhythm matching the beating of your heart. Aemond’s grip was firm, his touch grounding you as you moved together in perfect harmony. For the briefest of moments, the weight of the world seemed to lift. The chaos, the whispers, the tension—they were all forgotten as the two of you danced.

“You don’t have to think about any of it,” Aemond’s voice broke through the silence between you, calm and assuring. “The whispers, the looks, the expectations—they don’t matter now. You have me.”

His words, simple yet resolute, settled into your chest. The unspoken bond between you both deepened in that moment, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to feel something other than the heavy pressure of duty and destiny.

You met his gaze, a small, quiet smile playing on your lips. His presence, steady and unwavering, was a comfort amid the storm of your emotions. You didn’t have to say anything. His words alone, as rare as they were, were enough.

The dance continued, your bodies moving effortlessly together, and for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. Perhaps there was more to this than just an arranged marriage—perhaps there was a chance to build something real, something of your own.

For now, it was just you and him, lost in the rhythm of the music, the eyes of the world no longer mattering in that moment.

As the music reached its crescendo, Aemond spun you gracefully, your gown swirling around you like waves of silk. The world seemed to slow, the flickering glow of the torches casting golden light on the two of you. When you turned back to face him, his hands found your waist, steadying you with a firm but gentle hold.

His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering and intense. There was something different in his eyes—not the usual cold calculation, but a warmth reserved only for you. Without a word, he leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

When his lips finally met yours, the room erupted in cheers and applause. The lords and ladies clapped, their voices rising in celebration, but it all faded into a dull hum in your ears. The kiss was soft but sure, filled with a quiet kind of promise. His touch was not a claim of possession but one of reassurance, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his tunic. The warmth of him, the weight of his presence, was steady and constant. You could feel the world watching, but for once, you didn’t care. Here, in this moment, it was just the two of you.

When he pulled back, his gaze lingered on you, his hand lifting to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. His eyes traced your features as if memorizing them, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. The cheers grew louder, but Aemond didn’t turn to face them. His eyes remained on you, as if to say, Let them watch. Let them see who you belong to—but more than that, see who belongs to you.

The moment lingered like a held breath before he finally turned with you in his arms, facing the crowd with that familiar cool, commanding presence. But his hand never left yours, his thumb tracing soft circles on your palm—a silent reminder that, no matter who watched, he was yours now, and you were his.

The hall fell silent at the lord’s boisterous shout, the echo of “Bedding ceremony!” reverberating off the stone walls. Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd, lords and ladies exchanging glances with growing excitement. The atmosphere shifted, filled with a mixture of amusement, expectation, and mischief.

Your mother, Rhaenyra, rose from her seat, her face tense with barely restrained anger. “That will not be necessary,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the noise with regal authority. Her eyes darted toward you, a silent plea for you to follow her lead.

But before she could say more, you stood. Your eyes swept across the crowd, meeting the stares of lords and ladies alike. Their gazes carried a mixture of curiosity and judgment, but you did not falter. Aemond’s hand tightened around yours, a steadying presence at your side.

“Tradition is tradition,” you said, your voice clear and calm. The murmur of the crowd quieted as your words settled in the air. “If this is what is expected of us, then we shall fulfill it.” You raised your chin, every inch the daughter of a queen. “Let them see that I am not afraid.”

Aemond glanced at you, his gaze unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved into a small, sharp smile. Pride flickered in his eye, and he turned to face the hall, his voice sharp and commanding. “You have asked for tradition,” he said, his tone like steel wrapped in silk. “Then tradition you shall have.”

The lords erupted into cheers and laughter, their earlier whispers turning into roars of approval. A few of the younger knights began to rise from their seats, ready to follow the old custom of carrying the bride and groom to the marriage bed.

Alicent’s eyes widened in shock, her lips parting as if to protest, but she quickly pressed them into a thin line. She glanced at you, her face filled with something that looked like pride… and perhaps a flicker of guilt.

Rhaenyra, however, looked furious. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on you, pleading silently. But you didn’t look away. This was your choice now. Her power over you had waned the moment she left you in the Red Keep. She knew it too.

As the knights approached, you glanced at Aemond, and he inclined his head ever so slightly—a silent promise. You knew, in that moment, that you would not be alone in this. You were no longer just a daughter of Rhaenyra. You were now a wife, a queen in your own right, and with Aemond by your side, you would not be moved by whispers or judgment.

The hands of the knights reached for you and Aemond, lifting you both into the air as the crowd’s cheers grew louder. Your heart pounded in your chest, but not from fear. You met Aemond’s gaze as you were carried together toward the chamber doors. His eye was sharp with focus, his lips barely moving as he whispered words only for you to hear:

“Let them watch. Let them know we are unbreakable.”

And as the doors to your chamber swung open, the noise of the crowd behind you felt distant, their jeers and cheers like echoes from another world. The heavy oak doors shut behind you with a resounding thud, cutting off the outside world entirely.

In the quiet of the chamber, with only the soft crackle of the hearth to fill the silence, Aemond’s gaze shifted. Gone was the sharpness, the command. His eye lingered on you with something softer—something only for you.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, voice low but steady.

You met his gaze, steady as your heart finally calmed. “No,” you replied softly. “Not anymore.”

He reached for you slowly, his hands gentle as they touched your face, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone. “Good,” he said, his voice a whisper of steel and warmth. “Because neither am I.”

you looked at aemond, his hand gently caressed your cheek. his touch was so soft, you closed your eyes when you felt his lips touch yours. he slowly untied your dress until it fell around your feet, then he led you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

you lay down while staring at his face, his silver hair framed his face softly. he slowly opened the tunic that was attached to his body, you could hear whispers from behind the curtains in your room. they were watching. but you weren't afraid, no.

Aemond kissed you again and then he moved to kiss your shoulder, you sighed softly when he started kissing your neck. "are you ready?," he whispered softly in your ear, making sure only you could hear his voice. you nodded.

without thinking aemond kissed you again, you put your hands around his neck. giving him orders to do more to you, his hands began to untie his pants and now he and you were both naked.

"I need your permission" he breathed into your skin.

his fingers dancing around your entrance. you can feel the eagerness radiating off of his body, daring him to push forward into you. He needed to hear you say it.

"Oh god..." you breathed, "yes- Aemond please."

Without warning, he pushed two fingers deep inside of you, hitting your sweet spot. Your mouth dropped open, silent gasps escaping between those swollen lips. You pushed your hips up against his hand, searching for more. You was searching for release but he didn't want to give it to you yet.

His thumb flicked against your clit, sending your eyes into the back of your skull. "Fuck, she looked so fucking good like that." he thought as he feel his erection growing and pushing against your inner thigh. It was enough to drive him mad - utterly insane.

"I want you..." he hissed into your mouth, your breath mixing together in perfect harmony.

"Then take me….." you fired back, That's all the permission he needed you to say. His lips crashed into your with passion and hunger. Your hands moved up into his hair, yanking and pulling at it.

He snaked his head back down to your neck, sucking the sweet, sensitive spot that he knew would cause you to moan.

Sweet, earth shattering moans escaped your lips and your eyes rolled back in your head. Instantly, you pushed and pulled against him, trying to get the friction to release the pressure that you was feeling between your thighs. You wrapped her legs around him tightly and he pulled you in closer, feeling his cock push against your cunt. In one smooth motion, you both feel backwards into the bed. Your kisses become erratic and sloppy as you gripped onto each other for dear life. It was like you couldn't get enough of each other in that moment; you both needed more.

Herubbed his hand over his throbbing length. Slowly, he rubbed his tip over your opening, feeling your arousal coating the tip.

"this one might hurt" he breathed through clenched teeth.

He grabbed your hips and slowly pushed into you, letting you adjust to his size. He watched as your back arched in sheer pleasure and pain.

"You are squeezing my cock" he growled, "relax." as he kissed your face, he pushed into you deeper, gripping your hips tightly. He slowly move in and out of you.

"You are so tight" he breathed.

He felt your walls squeeze his length tightly. He watched as you squirmed under him, wanting more from him.

"Please, Aemond fuck me " she demanded.

You reached up for him, pulling his body against your own. The feeling of your bare flesh against each other was so erotic. he could feel your all around him in that moment. You snaked your hand around his neck, pulling his head to your's as your foreheads collided.

"Fuck..." you both moaned in unison.

His hips thrusted into you over and over again, causing you to cry out in pleasure each thrust. He watched you under him arch your back in sheer pleasure. His hands pushed into your hips, keeping you steady while he fucked you as deep as he could.

"I'm going to...." your eyelids fluttered shut.

"That's it-" he breathed into you, "come undone for me, love."

He hovered over you, throwing your legs over his shoulder, thrusting deeper inside of you. You felt so good, he was losing his mind. Your walls clenched around his, as your mouth fell open. He felt a rush of liquid move over his cock as you covered him with your wetness. He wasn't finished with you just yet. He grabbed your hips and in one swift movement flipped you around, bending you over the bed.

He wrapped one hand around your hair, yanking your head back. His other hand reached around your body. Moans escaped your lips, echoing throughout the stonewall of your chambers. He watched as his cock slid in and out of your wetness.

"Fuck" he breathed.

You looked over your shoulder at him, your wet hair plastered to her face and your dark eyes bright.

"Come for me, Aemond" you breathed. "fill me with your seed"

those words made him come inside you, you moaned as you felt his warm seed fill you up. you felt him kiss your shoulder and then he hugged you and laid you down on the bed

He pulled the blanket over you with gentle hands, his touch careful and deliberate. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead — warm, steady, and reassuring. It wasn’t the fiery passion you expected from a husband, but something deeper. Something that made you feel safe.

“Rest now,” Aemond murmured, his voice low but firm, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.

And for once, you didn’t argue. Your eyes grew heavy as exhaustion from the long day finally claimed you. The last thing you felt was the warmth of his presence next to you, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you to sleep.

When you woke the next morning, the sun was peeking through the curtains, casting soft golden rays across the room. You blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. Slowly, you sat up, stretching out the stiffness in your limbs.

But something was missing.

You glanced to your side, your hand brushing against the cold, empty space on the bed where Aemond had lain. Frowning, you scanned the room. The chair near the hearth was empty. The sound of footsteps, the rustle of clothes — none of it was there. He was gone.

Your fingers lightly grazed the pillow he had used, still faintly warm but already cooling. A sigh escaped your lips. You knew where he was. It was Aemond, after all. Of course, he was already up.

“He must be training,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing your eyes. It was just like him to be up at dawn, perfecting his swordplay while the world still slept.

You lay back down for a moment, staring at the ceiling with quiet thoughts swirling in your mind. It wasn’t like you expected him to stay, but… a part of you had hoped he would.

You stood before the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of your gown. The rich green silk hugged your form perfectly, adorned with delicate golden embroidery that shimmered in the morning light. This color — once foreign to you — had become a part of you now. It no longer felt strange. It felt inevitable.

With a steadying breath, you turned from the mirror, lifting your head high as you made your way toward the door. The clinking of your heeled footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as you stepped out. Your gaze was sharp, forward-facing, and unwavering.

Servants and courtiers paused as you passed, their murmurs and whispers too faint to hear but their eyes loud with judgment. Some glanced at you with shock, others with disapproval, and a few with quiet respect. “The daughter of Rhaenyra, wearing green,” you imagined them saying. But none of it mattered. Not anymore.

You didn’t slow your pace. You didn’t lower your head. Let them stare. Let them talk. Their words were hollow, and their gazes held no power over you. You had learned that power didn’t come from pleasing them — it came from walking forward, unbothered and unyielding.

The warmth of the sun filtered in through the narrow windows, streaking the cold stone with golden light. The air smelled faintly of the sea and ash, a scent so familiar it had become part of you. Your gown flowed behind you like a banner, the symbol of your new place in this game of thrones.

Green. Not red, not black. Green. And as you walked, you realized something. You no longer felt the need to justify it.

You were walking along the corridor of the Red Keep, your steps light as you made your way to the balcony that overlooked the training yard. The sounds of clashing swords and the shouts of soldiers filled the air, the yard alive with activity. You spotted him almost immediately—your husband, Aemond, sparring with Ser Criston. The two were moving with precision, their swords flashing in the sunlight.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you watched him. There was something oddly reassuring about seeing him in his element, focused and commanding, even in the midst of a battle. You felt a warmth spread through you, a strange comfort knowing that this was the man you were now bound to.

But before you could indulge further in the moment, you heard footsteps behind you. A familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Is this how you spend your days now?” Jace’s voice was tinged with frustration as he appeared in your line of sight. His expression was a mix of sadness and anger, but it softened when his eyes met yours.

You turned to face him, your smile fading slightly as you noticed the hurt in his gaze. “Jace,” you greeted softly, feeling the tension in the air. “What brings you here?”

He stepped closer, his eyes flicking toward Aemond in the yard, then back to you. “I had hoped you’d be different,” he said quietly. “I never thought you would join them, that you would choose this… this life.”

You felt a pang in your chest. Jace’s words, though quiet, cut deeper than you’d expected. But you couldn’t let them sway you, not now. You had made your choice.

“I didn’t choose this easily, Jace,” you replied, your voice steady, though there was a hint of sadness lingering. “But it is my choice, now."

Jace looked at you for a long moment, his face softening. He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could speak, you turned your attention back to the training yard. Aemond had finished his sparring and was now walking toward the side of the yard, wiping sweat from his brow. He was still too far to hear, but you could feel his presence in the air.

“Please understand,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Jace. “This… this is the life I have now.”

Jace didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on you. It was clear he wasn’t ready to let go of what once was, but you had to. You had no choice.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension, his presence near you a steadying force. Both you and Jace turned to face him, and you could see the protective glint in his eyes as he stood beside you, his posture poised but fierce. He glanced at Jace for a moment, his gaze sharp, before looking back at you.

“Is he bothering you again?” Aemond’s voice was low, but there was a clear edge to it.

You shook your head quickly, not wanting the situation to escalate. “No, Aemond. Everything is fine,” you said, offering a small smile, though there was a lingering sadness in your heart. You didn’t want Aemond to get involved in this—didn’t want him to see the cracks in your relationships with your family.

Jace, however, didn’t look convinced. His gaze lingered on Aemond for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully before speaking. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Jace said, his tone cooler now. “I just wanted to talk. But it seems things have changed.”

You sighed, stepping away from the edge of the balcony, feeling the weight of both men’s eyes on you. “Things have changed, Jace,” you said softly, unable to avoid the truth. “I have changed.”

Aemond’s hand subtly brushed against your back, a silent gesture of support. His presence was a comfort, even if Jace’s disappointment was hard to ignore.

Jace took a step back, his gaze lingering on you one last time. “I wish you hadn’t chosen this, but… I understand.” There was no anger in his voice now, just a quiet sadness. He turned to leave, but before he did, he looked back once more. “Take care of her,” he said to Aemond, his voice surprisingly soft.

Aemond gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable, but you knew that he would honor the unspoken promise. As Jace walked away, the silence between you and Aemond grew, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“You okay?” Aemond asked, his voice now gentle, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

You looked at him, grateful for his understanding. “I am now,” you whispered.

tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd

[pomefioredove]

I have a silly idea: reader comes with Jade, Leona, or whoever else you want when they get their wisdom teeth taken out, so they can drive them home after, you know, but [Jade, Leona, or whoever] has a strong reaction to the anesthetic and is very loopy (and emotional, and honest) afterwards.

I hope you feel better soon!

arguably leona is the funniest one 😭😭 ty for this anon

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ forget it

type of post: fic characters: leona additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, reader can drive, I feel like that needs tagging, I didn't write this about jade but he snuck his way in anyway

"Careful. Mind your head. Let's get you into the car- there we go,"

Leona mumbles something nonsensical, holding an icepack to his jaw.

You'd think, with the pain and all, he'd be in an even worse mood than he usually is.

But then, you'd be wrong. He's full of surprises.

He runs his free hand over the armrest of his seat. "Where'd you get this thing, anyway? I thought you were supposed to be poor or 'somethin,"

"It was a gift, actually," ...from Leona himself, which he doesn't seem to remember. Hm.

"Whoever bought it must like you a lot..."

You give him a strange look before you start the car. "I suppose so?"

"Lucky bastard,"

You laugh. Then he laughs, which takes you by surprise. It's not like him to be so... unlike him.

He's very talkative, too.

Leona's been mumbling nonsense to himself since he got out of the dentist's door, but this is actual conversation, now... if a little slurred.

"'s a good thing you're 'doin this. If it was Jack or 'somethin I'd never hear the end of it... you're dependable, 'ya know?"

Laughing gas. The nurse had warned you he might be a little loopy for a short time after the procedure. Euphoric, is the word she actually used.

You can definitely see that now.

Leona is looking at you like you're the prettiest thing he ever saw, his eyelids lowered.

"Do you got a boyfriend or 'somethin?"

The numb, slurred state of his words makes it uneasy to understand him, but with the look he's been giving you, it's not exactly hard to guess.

"No, not presently," you say, trying to keep your eyes on the road. "Why? You gonna ask me out?"

"Yeah. Maybe,"

You roll your eyes. The nurse had also warned you he might experience some mild memory loss.

An effect of the laughing gas, again.

He won't remember this conversation in a few hours. A sense of disappointment hollows out your chest. You ignore it.

"Okay, then. Meet me on Friday. Six PM. I want dinner and a show, your pick," you say, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Done,"

"And I want flowers. Imported from Sunset Savanna,"

"Can do that,"

"And I expect a kiss at the end. A proper one, not a teen boy one,"

"Pfft. A teen boy one?"

"You know. Eyes open, dumb look on their face, tongue sticking out. You'll have to kiss me like a gentleman, Kingscholar. I really like you. Like-like you. Make it count,"

"Yeah, yeah..."

He mutters, closing his eyes and kicking back against the car seat.

Not all things are so different about him now- he falls asleep just the same. And he snores. All the way back to school.

You nudge him awake and he only growls, though not very menacingly, and lets you help him back to his dorm, your arm under his. Once he's tucked in bed, medication on the bedside table and a checklist in Ruggie's hands, you're done.

Walking back to your own dorm, you feel that same hollow sense of disappointment. And some relief, too. You confessed to your crush, and he won't even remember it!

"Ah, it's you. I was wondering who might be out so late,"

You jump, and spin on your heels towards the source of the noise. Behind you, the owner of the mysterious voice comes out of the shadows.

"Oh. Jade," who else would you expect at this point?

"Good evening," he bows, a little too formally for the sharp-toothed smirk on his face. "Might I inquire what you're doing, out here so late?"

"I had to drive Leona to a dentist thing," you shrug, walking again. Jade follows alongside you.

"Oh? And that went well?"

You chuckle. "Very. Besides the side effects on the anesthesia they put him on,"

That familiar curiosity gleams in Jade's glassy eyes, giving him a predatorial look. It's... unnerving. As usual.

"Oh? I wish you had told me. I've become quite interested in land creature teeth lately... tell me, what anesthesia was used?"

Creepy. But not unusual for Jade. "Some injection, and laughing gas,"

"...Interesting... you were in the car for a long while?"

"Uh..." where's he going with this? "Yeah, I guess. And we had to fill out some paperwork in the lobby before leaving."

"Interesting... very interesting,"

The gleam in his eyes almost becomes hungry, as if he's feeding off of what you're telling him.

Like... he knows something.

You narrow your eyes. "What?"

Jade grins, showing you rows of sharpened teeth. "Oh, nothing..."

You wait for him to go on. He waits for you to ask. You both walk down the long path to your dorm.

"...It's just that the effects of laughing gas wear off no more than ten minutes after the flow has ended. I'd dare to say that Leona was perfectly lucid by the time you got into the car,"

You slow. Then you stop. There's no way...

That... absolutely bastard of a prince.

Jade's grin sharpens.

"It seems as if whatever secret you have so clearly given Leona while you thought he was drugged isn't so secret now... is it?"

[shy-writer-999]

Baking Christmas cookies with Sanji 🍪❤️

Summary: Sanji has the cutest idea for a Christmas cookie date. But what happens when he gets too carried away? ~900 words. CW: Smutty/spicy/nsfw since I mentioned he gets... excited... a couple times. Heavy makeout sesh & lots of hands. Pet names (e.g., angel), but no overtly gendered language.

Artwork by @hirakyun13~ (thank you so much for collabing with me!)

A pretty blonde chef with a holiday apron and a pan full of cookies stands in front of you and you can’t help but be distracted. He’s just too cute.

You can’t even pay attention to the pan of cookies because you’re lost in those pretty eyes, mesmerized by that pretty smile, pretty hair, swirly eyebrows, soft skin, sweet lips—“My love?” He snaps you out of the stupor you’re lost in. “My love, did you hear me? What color of icing do you think would look best on these?”

The present moment races back to you—you’re been making cookies with Sanji, Christmas cookies, no less. It’s a cute date idea he proposed to you.

You tell him the colors you have in mind for the icing. The baking tray is covered with two kinds of cookies—gingersnaps and sugar cookies in pretty shapes. They smell heavenly, and they’re going to taste even better (Sanji’s own recipe).

“Fantastic choices, beautiful.” Sanji responds and sets the pan on a cooling rack.

After a few more minutes, you’ve rolled out and shaped another tray full. They go in the oven and Sanji sets the kitchen timer—at least, he thinks he does. He’s too distracted by you, though. When his finger goes to press the ‘start’ button, he misses, but doesn’t realize it. So, the timer doesn’t actually start. You don’t notice, though.

“Now that we’ve got fifteen minutes, what should we do?” He smiles and sidles over to you, a whole two feet, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you towards him.

“You’re looking pretty delicious, gorgeous.” He grins and blushes. He’s about to say something extremely corny. “Even more delicious than the cookies we’re making. I could just eat you up.”

His last few words are broken up by kisses that he peppers on every part of your face. His lips press onto your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your eyes, and your jaw. Eventually they land on your lips.

Through his smile, he kisses you delicately. You’d think he’s afraid of breaking you. You’ve told him countless times that you’re not made of glass, but no matter how many times you’ve told him, he doesn’t seem to listen.

He smells clean and barely musky, with an overtone (obviously) of cigarettes, coffee, and sugar (from the cookies). It’s a smell that only Sanji could have, a distinct and yummy one. It almost makes your mouth water.

His hands wander. They love to do that. From your waist, they inch downwards. For a few moments, for a few kisses, his hands stay perched on your hips. But then they pass lower and he bends with them. He scoops you up and you’ve got the position memorized. Sanji reaches under your thighs and you hop ever-so slightly.

You’ve memorized the routine—he picks you up and you wrap your legs around him.

Walking a couple of paces over to open counter space, Sanji places you there and your hands come to rest over his shoulders.

His kisses get sloppier. Greedier. Needier. His hands do the same. They snake down to your ass and he grabs rough handfuls. After kneading for a second, Sanji’s lips start to wander, too.

He leaves butterfly-style kisses across your neck, sucking softly for a moment before moving lower to the hollow of your throat, then the slope of your collar bone. He leaves a bite, and his hands inch to your chest.

You can tell that the gentle cook has forgotten that there are cookies in the oven that demand his attention.

As Sanji starts getting more worked up, you can also tell he’s getting hard. He’s so easily worked up like this that it’s endearing.

His hair shifts as he kisses you and his soft strands softly pass over the skin on your forehead. You can feel him slowly rutting his hips into you, and you squeeze him closer to you with your legs.

As his hands creep under the hem of your shirt and trail upwards, he freezes.

It smells like smoke. Like something is on fire.

Sanji’s head whips around to look at the oven and, sure enough, the cookies are burning, bad.

“Fuck!” he exclaims and practically jumps. After a second, he pulls himself together, trying not to be too jarring around you, but you know that if he was alone right now he’d be being a whole lot more dramatic.

Sanji pulls his hands off of you and goes to open the oven—a puff of smoke wafts out and he gets a face-full.

“It looks like the cookies are burnt, gorgeous. I guess I didn’t actually start the timer.”

He’s frowning in the cutest way possible, but it turns into a sweet smile after a second.

“How about we throw these ones away, and we let the first batch keep cooling while we go do something else?”

You nod in agreement to his proposition and hop down from the counter.

As Sanji does away with the burned up, blackened crisps that once were holiday cookies, you watch him attentively. Even the way he moves his hands is graceful and intentional, measured and deliberate.

He turns and gives you a smile when he realizes you’re observing him. “Like what you see, angel?”

When you turn bright red, he takes off his apron and puts it over your head.

“That’s more like it. Now let’s go be distracted together.”

thank u so much for reading and happy holidays!! another reminder that the lovely lovely @hirakyun13 did the art for this and please go check out here page!

here's my masterlist and the holiday event masterlist 🎄 xoxo

[anantaru]

cw. teasing bladie <3 fem! reader

you teasingly grab onto blade's hips and ground his lower half against the mattress with his hardening cock resting against his stomach, aching, hurting.

you don't touch him yet, instead, you kiss all around his tummy and pelvic area, everywhere, touching up his v-line with your plump lips while focusing on how his erection twitches against his stomach, when it throbs even harder and how filthily it drizzles with precum.

you know you shouldn't keep him waiting any longer, but hearing blade whimper for once was addicting, because in any other case it was him making you cry.

the gorgeous stellaron hunter was entirely erotic in his setting, with a tender perceive of hidden beauty that took ones breath away, not to mention that prominent scarlet red on his facial features that swallowed his hazy gaze, walking hand in hand with a dazed, fucked out demeanor beneath you.

blade was growing harder every time your lips would brush against his stomach and come so close to his cock, although still missing it. ugh, how he desperately wanted you to wrap those warm, wet lips around his cock and swallow him whole, like you used to!

how you licked his length until he twitches in you excitedly, a faint grin warming up your features in the darkened room, something stronger than developing pride on your face.

now, sliding your tongue from his stomach to where his cock was resting, you silently press your tongue to his oozing slit, tasting blade for the first time this night— he tastes good, always better actually, wonderful with every drop of his seed making your skin feel hotter.

blade immediately sets his hands on your shoulders before squeezing hard, shaking himself back into the present as he groans through a strained jaw. he gasps as you begin to suck him properly, his hardness poking at your throat before he shivers in pleasure when you attempt to deep throat him a little, only a bit, while carrying on to let your hands roam freely over his stomach and muscular chest.

blade could feel himself fill your mouth, aside from turning thicker while your tongue slurps the pre cum off his shaft— and the moan he spills is so throaty, gravel-alike you almost wonder if he's actually in pain.

your head was bouncing vividly now, lips plumped and painted artfully as you take him, because you see— blade just had been so fucking aroused tonight, and you teasing him was a little mean, you know? evermore when your boyfriend was so infatuated with your sensual moves and how your cheeks hollowed ever so wonderfully.

he certainly hadn't been thinking straight and had just wanted to touch you too, explore your body and give the pleasure all back, until it's you who wants more of the sweet contact again, entirely forgetting yourself.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[endless-ineffabilities]

sapphire-hearted (part five) 18+

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

The reader decides to give Aemond a proper goodbye - one that befits what became of the bond they share.

themes/warnings: smut (minors dni) - a bitter breakup roll in the hay, jealous and possessive and idiotic Aemond

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Aegon's jeering from the great hall has barely subsided before you harshly pull yourself away from Aemond's hold.

"Seven fucking hells, Aemond," you exclaim, your voice ringing in the empty hallway. "Why did you do that? Why must you humiliate me in such a way?"

"You humiliate me," he spits, matching your venom, "by declaring yourself as betrothed to that snivelling bastard."

"He is no bastard," you seethe, your finger poking at his chest. "He is a gentle Lord, and a far more decent man than you will ever be. And I am certain that he will honour me when he soon becomes my Lord husband."

"No." Aemond lurches forward, cradling your face with both hands. There is pressure to his hold - he is letting his anger take over him. "No, my love," he repeats, softer, his shoulders releasing their tension.

Your resolve falters at his words. They used to be a thing you would spin in your mind, over and over, an endless song to sing. My love. "You cannot me call me that, Aemond," you murmur. "That is no longer true, if indeed it ever was."

"You doubt me so," he lowers his head, as if wounded.

But you do not have it in you to soften your approach. "You have given me every reason to doubt you, Aemond. I can no longer trust you. Not after Alys."

At the mention of her name, he is rendered alert, a wild look in his eye. "Yes. Alys."

"I do not wish to hear of her," you step away from him, but he only moves in your path.

"I have something to tell you, my love." He reaches for your hand, and you are too exhausted, too uncaring to fight back. "She has agreed to put an early end to our arrangement. Yet she will continue to aid our cause, ensuring that we win the war."

It seemed too good to be true. You are unable to believe that the witch would simply relinquish the power she has with Aemond. And you are proven correct when he adds, "But she presents one condition. I must give her a child."

The absurdity of it all makes your head spin, and suddenly your skirts weigh far too much for you to bear. Without realizing it, you lean into Aemond for support, seeking balance. He mistakes the gesture for approval - how foolish of him.

"That is ridiculous, Aemond," you croak harshly, your words coming out garbled.

"My love, what - "

"I am afraid you have lost me completely," you pull back, eyes darting around for reprieve. You cannot bring yourself to look at him, your gaze distant and hollow, fixated on nothing. With icy detachment, you murmur, "Go on, then. Wed her, if that is what you wish. Why stop at just making her the mother of your child?"

"You cannot mean that." He flinches at the suggestion.

Taking a deep breath, in finality, you declare, "We have to end whatever we have, Aemond. For both of our sakes. For the sake of your future children with Alys, and mine with Ramsay. We must part ways... and say goodbye."

His expression switches, desperation showing through the cracks in his mask of self-assuredness.

"No." He steps back, instantly rejecting your words. In his warped mind, the thought of separation is impossible. He could never leave you, and you could never leave him. That’s how it has always been, and how it always will be.

To his credit, he actually appears pained. For a moment, you see your Aemond. The only one you have ever loved. You are certain that his pain is reflected in you now.

You reach a hand out, and he tentatively accepts it.

Without a word, you lead him through the halls of the Red Keep.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"To my chambers," you reply firmly. "We both deserve a proper goodbye."

When you reach your destination, the unbearable weight of everything comes crashing down on you. This will be your true final moment with Aemond. You will never get to hold him, kiss him, feel him buried inside of you after this night.

On the morrow, he will be a stranger. He has to be.

He makes an attempt to speak, presumably to inquire upon your reasoning for taking him here. But you do not allow a word to slip past his lips, effectively silencing him with a searing kiss.

He melts unto you instantly, a soft moan escaping his throat as he welcomes your touch.

Your hands move instinctively to the fastenings of his tunic, deftly undoing them without breaking the kiss. He reaches down to come to your aid, his fingers brushing against yours, until the fabric slips from his shoulders and falls in a careless heap on the floor.

His tongue tangles with yours as his hands fumble with the ties on the back of your gown. A low growl escapes him when they don’t loosen as quickly as he'd like, his impatience growing - eager to have you, desperate to taste the sweetness he craves.

It does not much longer before the both of you are left completely bare, as naked as the day you were born. He kisses you hungrily, afraid that you might disappear if he lets go. That you might do good on your threat to leave him.

You push him backward until his heels hit the edge of your bed, causing him to land on his bottom on the sheets.

His hands grip your hips tightly as you stand between his thighs, and he gazes up at you with pure, unrestrained desire. The same way he always has, as if nothing else in the world exists but you.

In this fleeting moment, you will allow it. Nothing and no one else exists except for Aemond and yourself.

With a sharp nudge to his shoulder, he reclines willingly, lying flat on his back, arms held out, silently inviting you to press your body onto his.

You crawl slowly from the edge of the bed toward him, hovering above with lust smoldering in your eyes. He bites his lip at the sight, his erection pressing hard against your lower stomach. As you shift, the slick tip grazes your skin, leaving a heated trail in its wake.

He groans as you let his cock drag across your skin, pulling you close with a strained, "Māzigon kesīr, issa jorrāelagon."

Come here, my love.

The kiss is sloppy, he sucks at your lips while his hands roam the warmth of your body. Groping at your breasts, your hips, then the curve of your ass. He takes two fingers, travelling down your pelvis, until it feels the wetness of your clit. He fondles it eagerly, leaving you mewling softly, and the sounds turn into unbridled open-mouthed moans when his fingers dip inside your dripping cunt.

"Iksos bona sȳz?" he purrs, as he slides them faster in between your folds. Does that feel good?

"Y-yes, Aemond, fuck yes." You collapse on top of him fully, your breasts pressed against the side of his face, your body angled to grant his deft hand unhindered access as he strokes your pussy.

He turns his head to suck at your breasts, his tongue darting out to flick your nipple. His fingers quicken their pace, the squelching sounds blending with your lustful whimpers.

A silken sheen coats his digits, catching the lamplight as they slip out, only to plunge back inside with a deliberate, relentless rhythm.

"Let go, my love," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "Allow me to savour the sight of your unraveling."

His words are intoxicating, and you can’t help but use his mouth to muffle your cries, your kisses fervent as you come undone. Your teeth graze his bottom lip as you reach your peak, the sensation of his warm breaths mingling with your gasps of heightened pleasure.

After a moment, as you slump against him, he licks his hand clean of your substance, his good eye darkened with wanton pleasure.

You trail a finger tantalizingly over his chest, lingering on his jaw before it gently glides across the apparatus covering his eye. He remains still, the act of baring himself to you as natural as breathing.

"Does she see you for who you truly are?" you whisper softly.

"No," he replies with a quiet intensity, "only you do, my love. For eternity."

Eternity, you bitterly think, if eternity ends on this night.

With a deliberate motion, you remove the eyepatch from his head and toss it aside. The sapphire in his eye socket gleams with a mesmerizing light, giving him an otherworldly glow.

"My Prince Aemond," you sigh, "my dragon. I am going to ride you until you forget her name."

"She does not matter to me - ahhhh, gods - " His words die in his throat as you align your still dripping cunt with his cock and sink down in one swift and merciless motion, taking him to the hilt until your ass is pressed against his flesh.

Without missing a beat, you continue to ride him with frantic intensity, your breasts bouncing as he forcefully bucks his hips to meet yours. He responds with guttural moans and fragmented words of praise - yes my love, fuck me, you fuck me so well, there is no one else, I love you, I love you, I love you.

"Does she fuck you as well as I?" you ask menacingly, the walls of your pussy clenching around him.

"No." He tilts his head back in sheer bliss. "She could never. When she... uses me... I feel hollow."

As you brace yourself on his chest, your hands gripping him for support, you quicken the pace, aiming for that sweet spot within. Each thrust drives you closer to the edge, drawing every ounce of pleasure from his thick cock as you both lose yourselves in the raw, all-consuming passion of the moment.

When he starts to quiver, his length sputtering inside you in those quick, successive jerks, you know this is your cue to release him from your cunt. But this time, you lean forward as you dismount, and pat his cheek in the most patronising manner, saying, "Save your precious seed for Alys. Since she needs it so terribly."

Depraved as it might be, the wickedly cunning expression on your face proves to be Aemond's undoing, that cold glare sensuous to him. With a strangled cry, he erupts, his Targaryen seed spilling across the taut planes of his pelvis in hot, white streams.

His mouth is open in pleasure and surprise as he helps himself through his release, gripping and tugging his cock firmly through the throes of his release. His gaze remains fixed your face, his sole source of pleasure, though the furrow in his brow reveals that he heard your bitter jibe.

"What a waste," you click your tongue in disappointment, eyeing the mess he made.

He still lies there, naked and covered in his own release, as you swiftly pull on your slip dress, followed by the heavy cloak hanging over the chair in the corner.

The emotions that once swirled within you - desire, sadness, yearning - harden into a bitter mix of anger and resentment. This is his doing. It is his fault that tonight will be the last. The love you once shared, the tenderness you once felt, has been shattered by his own hand.

Turning to face him, you bend your knees into a mocking curtsy, an emotionless smile tugging at your lips. "My Prince," you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "If I may be excused. I must fetch my lady-in-waiting to help me into something more fitting. After all, I have a feast to return to... and my betrothed awaits."

Just as your hand touches the door, his desperate voice cuts through the silence, "Wait!" he pleads.

You pause, tears welling in your eyes as you turn ever so slightly. Your voice trembles, barely holding together as you say one last time -

"I love you, Aemond. Goodbye."

taglist (let me know in the comments if you wish to be added): @immyowndefender @aemondswifeisme @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstorms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @ananas26t @iloveallmyboys @carriellie @summerposie @verycollectivecreator @toodlesxcuddles @brie-annwyl @dc-marvel-girl96 @bellstwd @bibli0thecary @happinessinthebeing @magnificentsapphiresoul @rorawinters @targaryen-madness @hanula18 @rhaenattargaryen @an0ther-us3r @sugurubabe @theshatteredideal @let-love-bleeds-red @s-we-e-t-t-ea @mydemimonde @the-intjs-dark-academic @heavenly1927 @anehkael @minttea07 @barnes70stark @cheneyq @cloudroomblog @neptuneiris @zaldritzosrose @oh-theseus

Some notes in the margins...

I should point out that in this story, Alys actually has magic and she has been instrumental in bringing about the victory of the Greens. Much like how she aided Daemon in season two, but dialled up to a hundred.

But no. That does not excuse Aemond's actions. Not at all.

Our bitter lovers needed their final, fucked up release. It is final for her, at least. But for Aemond?

[xxsabitoxx]

Ryomen Sukuna NSFW A-Z

Part of my 20k follower celebration (past due)

Warnings: if it isn’t abundantly clear, this is smut :)

A/N: in honor of hitting 20k followers a while back, I’m going to be posting 10 NSFW alphabets for JJK men — scheduled post 11 :) - I've developed an unhealthy obsession with true form Sukuna... he is all I think about now. Forgive me because this one is for sure a bit OOC since he like... loves you

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

If you managed to break the hollow icy shell that is Sukuna’s heart and make yourself someone important to him… Sukuna is pretty damn good with aftercare. He’ll clean you up, even ordering someone to get numbing salves because he tore you the fuck up and he know’s you’ll be sore and aching within a few hours if you aren’t already. He’ll use two arms to cradle you gently while his other set works on cleaning you up and making sure you’re okay. He’ll wait until you’re sleeping to whisper praises to you, telling you that you did so well for him and that he adores you. He’ll never really say these things to you when you’re awake though. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Sukuna loves your legs and thighs, he loves your hips and your stomach too. He loves having things to hold and your body provides so much softness for him. He loves to kneel before you – that’s right the king of curses kneeling before you – to lick all the way from the top of your foot up to your inner thigh. He’ll cover your legs in bruises and bites, making sure everyone is well aware that you are his property and nobody else can have you. He adores your stomach, often resting his head against it and letting you pet his hair lovingly. Sukuna will only show this level of vulnerability to you, letting down some – not all – of his walls. 

Sukuna loves his entire body, four arms, two mouths, two dicks, and all. He considers it his masterpiece and it deserves to be worshiped. He has no shame in proclaiming this either. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

If he’s not dumping several loads into your cunt/ass then what’s the point? Sukuna treats his cum just as he treats the rest of his body… It's sacred and a privilege to have it. He toys with the idea of painting your face or chest in it but ultimately doesn’t see the point in letting something so valuable go to waste. So creampies are the only way in Sukuna’s eyes. And trust me when I say this man cums a fucking boat-load. I don’t care if it’s realistic or not, he’s making you look bloated by the time he’s done with you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Sukuna would let you do anything you wanted to him… he just hasn’t found the strength to give you that knowledge yet. He hates the idea of someone holding power over him, which is why he’s ever so mildly terrified of you. You may not realize it, but you have Sukuna wrapped around your finger… that man would kill the entire planet for you if it meant seeing you smile. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Sukuna is very experienced, having tens if not hundreds of harlots laying around for his use. But that was before you. You changed his view on that sort of thing and he got rid of every single one of them… you are all he needs to remain satisfied and that is a feeling Sukuna never thought he'd experience in his existence. Sukuna knows what he’s doing and he knows what he’s doing well.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Sukuna’s favorite position is holding you up so your back is pressed to his chest. He has a hand hooked under each of your knees and he’s holding you up that way, spreading you apart further than your legs really allow. Sukuna is either sitting or standing and honestly he prefers when a mirror is present so he can watch your face contort in a mix of pain and pleasure. He has you impaled on his cock, easily able to trust in and out of you as you fall apart. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not even a hint of goofiness in this man when he fucks you. He is all about business… I mean for real it was actually kind of terrifying at first but now you’re used to it. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Sukuna doesn’t really give a shit about his hair down there… and yes it’s pink like the rest of his hair. It may sound fucking bizarre but if you want to trim and clean him up down there? He’ll let you do it. You bathe him often so it’s not necessarily out of your comfort zone to sit there and groom his nether region. He doesn’t really care what you do down there either. You can simply trim him to your liking or shave him bald. Whatever you’re into, he truly doesn’t care. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Sukuna is… romantic in his own way. He’s not detached from the situation at hand and he’s not focused entirely on himself. Sukuna shows his “romantic” side by letting you cum, maybe sparing you a few kisses, rubbing his thumb across the nail marks he left on your legs… he’s not one to say “I love you” or really express how much you mean to him. But it’s the small, subtle little things that hint towards his affection for you. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s got four hands, you’d think he’d use one of them to get himself off but he simply doesn’t see a need for that when he can have a random whore come do it for him. When it comes to you though? You never leave him, like Uraume, you’ve earned your spot by his side. He has you to assist him with those kinds of needs when they arise (heh). Though, he’s amused you once or twice by jerking himself off for your own enjoyment. Making a show of using two hands to jerk off his two cocks but stopping just before he comes because – as i’ve said – he doesn’t like to waste any of it, not a single drop can be spared. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Slave/Master kink for one… he just likes the feeling of being superior even though he doesn't need to “roleplay” to get that feeling. BDSM… or whatever equivalent there is for the Heian period. He likes it rough, messy, even a little bloody. Sukuna has a massive breeding kink but doesn’t want kids, he just likes the idea of filling you over and over again (regardless if you have the ability to get pregnant or not). Dacryphilia for sure, your tears turn him on. Orgasm control (both denying and overstimulation) are just another aspect that plays into his love of power. Sukuna loves restraints in any form, not him, though. He will for sure try and fist you. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere. Sukuna will fuck you where ever the fuck he wants too with no shame. He’ll fuck you on his bed, ruin the luxurious sheets and break the bedframe over and over. It’s gotten to the point where he actually got rid of it all together because he was sick of the wood splintering and nearly hurting you. Sukuna can and will fuck you on a raised platform in front of his petrified subjects. He wants everyone to know who you belong too – even if you don’t need to be fucked stupid in front of hundreds of people for them to know. It’s quite obvious. To be totally honest, Sukuna loves the mess and mayhem of fucking you in the tub. Watching the water slosh everywhere then ordering a maid to come clean up the damage, it makes him laugh. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

There is an innocence to you that really gets Sukuna going. You’ve done the most downright filthy things with him, you’ve stood beside him as he makes a bloody mess of someone… but somehow you still retain this sort of innocence to you that he loves to try and taint. It’s not to say you’re oblivious… you’re very smart in Sukuna’s eyes and he knows you have a mean streak. But when you’re with him… there is something about you that he wants to break so badly and he has such fun trying to do so… you’re resilient which would usually piss him off to no end… but with you it’s endearing and he can’t figure out why he can’t get enough (you’re in love dumb ass) 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Shit. Yeah no that’s the one thing he can not and will not deal with. He’s had his fair share of bodily fluids – to say the least without going into detail. But he draws the line at anything to do with vomit or scat. It disturbs him… which is saying a lot. He’s had women offered to him as sacrifice that have done several things in fear and he can say he truthfully cannot handle it. Also, no threesomes ever. He’s not sharing you. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He’s a healthy combination of both (shocking). Sukuna loves watching you struggle to even take one of his cocks in your mouth nevermind both. But your mouth feels so damn good even though you struggle to get more than the tip past your lips. Sukuna loves to go down on you though, keeping your thighs spread apart so he can eat you as he pleases. Your arousal just tastes so good to him, he can’t get enough and he will not stop until he’s satisfied. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Rough and cruel for the most part. But he can be even meaner when he goes unbearably slow, splitting you open agonizingly with two cocks opposed to one just to see those pretty tears slip down your cheeks as you beg and plead for mercy (mercy he never gives). Sukuna will fuck you stupid with one cock most of the time, that’s his little bit of kindness towards you, but you’ll get fucked twice at least… ya know… gotta get the second cock off too. He’ll give you a choice, get fucked twice with one cock each time or get fucked once with two… mind you it’s never just once even if it’s two cocks at the same time or one each. You’re smart enough to take one cock multiple times unless you want to be bedridden because you can’t walk. Both options have happened to you many times though… so you really can’t tell why he offers you a choice. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Sex can take up a whole day when it comes to Sukuna. So, no, he despises quickies. He doesn’t like to be rushed, he doesn’t care if he gets caught, he’ll make people watch. What is there that would really appeal to him??? It seems more annoying than anything really. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He will experiment but only on his own accord. He won’t say it outright but Sukuna is at least a bit mindful of the experiments he does… he doesn’t want to really hurt you or scare you away. So he picks and chooses what he wants to try on you. If there is something very intriguing to him that he worries will make you uncomfortable? He’ll force two other people to play it out while he watches and decides from there… he’s oddly considerate of you in that sense. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

As you saw above… sex can be an all-day process for Sukuna. He can last as long as he wants to… and I mean that seriously. His stamina is infinite, nothing will stop him but himself. He can go multiple rounds until you’re so fucked out you’ve lost count. He can last anywhere from 15-25 minutes per round, he could last much longer but his goal is inevitably to cum so why bother… praying for you honestly. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys like we know today don’t exist within his era (the Heian period) and honestly?? Sukuna is a fucking jungle gym in his own right so you really don’t need toys… and even if they did exist and were at his disposal? Sukuna isn’t using them. Why the hell would he rely on a stupid little toy to get you off when he’s more than capable?? He’s not intimidated by them, he just would think they’re absolutely useless… modern day though… if you begged him for a vibrator he would probably cave and get you one. He may even find amusement in it. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Sukuna and fair do not belong in the same sentence so it should shock nobody that this man will tease you until you are nearly dry heaving with how hard you’re crying. He will tease you for hours, to the point it feels like genuine torture, before he feels like getting you off. Then, the unfair attitude continues because he will not stop even when you start begging him to. He likes how quickly he can make you regret your words, seeing those pretty fat globs of tears leaking down your cheeks only makes the experience better for him. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Sukuna will curse and groan but that’s about it. He won’t try and hide his noises, either, but he will try and make sure he’s not too loud. It’s rare to get a moan, whine, or whimper out of him. Especially since he has such good control over himself. But he will not hesitate to groan about how good his cock is feeling because of you… he has to give you a little something to get you to stick around, ya know? Not that you have a choice… and not that you’d really want to leave him anyways… giving up your luxurious lifestyle and being on the king of curses’ good side isn’t something just anyone can obtain, you know. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Sukuna hates your family, ever since you were dropped off to him to be a sacrifice. He doesn’t care about his donors and their sacrifices since all of them are mediocre pieces of shit at best. Though he knows a scumbag like him is not one to talk. But you? You arrived to him nearly beaten to death, half naked, with little to no emotion left in you. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Where was the fun in playing with something that was already half dead. Though, as he was about to kill you, something in your expression moved his icy heart. That truly petrified him but he’d never let anyone know it. He kept you instead of killing you, ordering for the immediate execution of your rotten family instead. He likes to joke that he had the perfect specimen nursed back to health, in his eyes you really were perfect. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Sukuna is a tall man… while we don’t know his exact height in true form… he’s been guesstimated to be anywhere from 7.5 feet to 9.8 feet. A tall man is going to have a monstrous cock… or cocks in his case. When he’s soft he’s about 8.5 inches in length, and when he’s hard he’s just over 11 inches. He’s monstrous, girthy and sticks straight out… both of them do. He will hurt… he will make you feel like you’re getting ripped in half and he will often try and fist you to prepare you for him. He cannot fit all the way inside of you, as much as he’d love to, he's not trying to kill you by rupturing your organs. He’s a tan color, one dick is circumcised, the other is not… he was feeling quirky,  and has a deep rosy pink tip… or tips… you know what I mean. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Sukuna has to fuck you at least twice a day, if he doesn’t, he’s extremely irritable. He has at least 5 hours of his day set aside just for you. But really he makes his own schedule so he can do whatever the fuck he wants when he wants to. His sex drive is pretty damn high and he does absolutely nothing to deal with it or hold off. He will get off the moment he wants too. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sukuna prefers falling asleep after you do, which can be pretty instant considering how long he may have been fucking you. So the answer is anywhere between 30 seconds and 10 minutes. 

[pucksandpower]

To Hell With Duty

Lewis Hamilton x soulmate!Reader

Summary: you’ve always known that being Princess of the UK means that a soulmate is a luxury you can’t afford … but then you meet your soulmate and decide that some things are worth turning your back on duty for

Warnings: abusive family dynamics

Note: I promised to write something in honor of Lewis’ win and this was born (now I’m tempted to make a soulmate AU series)

The sun blazes overhead as you step out of the sleek black car, your designer heels clicking against the pavement. The roar of engines and the excited chatter of the crowd at Silverstone envelop you, but you can barely hear them over the pounding of your own heart.

“Your Royal Highness, this way please,” a smartly dressed aide gestures towards the paddock area.

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. As you walk, you absently rub your wrist, feeling the slight raised bumps of your soulmate mark beneath the carefully applied concealer.

“I wish you didn’t have to hide it,” your best friend and lady-in-waiting, Sophie, whispers beside you.

“You know I don’t have a choice,” you murmur back, glancing around to ensure no one overheard.

The memory of your brother’s ordeal flashes through your mind, as vivid and painful as the day it happened ...

“No, please! You can’t do this!” Edward’s anguished cries echoed through the palace halls.

You huddled in your room, hands pressed over your ears, trying to block out the sound. But nothing could drown out your brother’s screams as the royal physician burned away his soulmate tattoo.

Later, when you snuck into his room, you found him curled up on his bed, cradling his bandaged wrist.

“Eddie?” You whispered, your voice small and frightened.

He looked up at you, his eyes red and puffy. “Y/N ... I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

You climbed onto the bed beside him. “Why did they do it? Why can’t you be with your soulmate?”

Edward sighed, pulling you close. “Because we’re royals, little sister. Our marriages are about duty, not love. Soulmates ... they’re a luxury we can’t afford.”

“But that’s not fair!” You protested.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, his voice hollow. “But it’s the price we pay for our position. Promise me something, Y/N. If you ever find your soulmate ... run. Run far away and don’t look back.”

The memory fades as Sophie gently squeezes your arm, bringing you back to the present.

“Are you okay?” She asks, concern etched on her face.

You take a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

As you make your way through the paddock, you can’t help but feel a twinge of envy at the carefree laughter and excitement around you. Everywhere you look, people are proudly displaying their soulmate tattoos, some comparing them with friends, others stealing glances at strangers, wondering if today might be the day they meet their perfect match.

“Your Royal Highness,” a race official greets you with a bow. “We’re honored to have you here today. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the VIP area.”

You nod, allowing yourself to be led through the crowded paddock. The official drones on about the day’s schedule, but your mind wanders.

“What do you think your soulmate is like?” Sophie had asked you once, years ago, when you were both giggling teenagers.

“I don’t know,” you had replied, tracing the words on your wrist. “But I hope they’re kind. And funny. Someone who sees me for who I am, not just my title.”

“You’ll find them one day,” Sophie had said confidently. “And when you do, it’ll be magical.”

Now, surrounded by the bustle and excitement of race day, that conversation feels like a lifetime ago. You’ve long since resigned yourself to the fact that you’ll never meet your soulmate. Even if you did, you could never act on it. The risk is too great.

Lost in thought, you don’t notice the figure rounding the corner until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, stumbling backward. Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you before you can fall.

You look up, an apology on your lips, and find yourself staring into the most captivating brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Time seems to stand still as you gaze at each other, the world fading away around you.

And then he speaks, his voice low and warm.

“Whoa there, careful Princess. I’ve got you.”

***

Your heart stops as Lewis’ words sink in. They’re an exact match to the tattoo hidden beneath layers of concealer on your wrist. For a moment, you’re frozen, lost in his warm brown eyes, your mind reeling with the implications of what just happened.

Then reality comes crashing down. You can’t do this. You can’t put him in danger. You can’t risk the pain your brother went through.

“I ... I have to go,” you stammer, pulling away from his gentle grip.

Lewis’ brow furrows in confusion. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

But you’re already backing away, panic rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, I can’t ... this isn’t ... I have to leave.”

You turn and run, pushing past startled onlookers, your heart pounding in your ears. Behind you, you hear Lewis call out.

“Princess, wait! Your words ... they’re on my wrist!”

You falter for a moment, his words piercing through your panic. But no, it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. You keep running.

“Y/N, please!” Lewis’ voice is closer now. He’s chasing after you. “I know you felt it too. We need to talk about this!”

You duck around a corner, trying to lose him in the maze of the paddock. But Lewis is faster, more familiar with the layout. He catches up to you in a quiet area behind one of the garages.

“Princess,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Please, just hear me out.”

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill. “You don’t understand. We can’t do this. My family ... they’ll never allow it. They’ll hurt you, or worse.”

Lewis takes a cautious step closer. “What do you mean? Why would your family hurt me?”

“Because you’re my soulmate!” The words burst out before you can stop them. “And royals aren’t allowed to be with their soulmates. It’s all about duty and arranged marriages. They ... they burned off my brother’s mark when he found his soulmate.”

Lewis’ eyes widen in horror. “That’s barbaric. They can’t do that to you.”

You laugh bitterly. “They’re the royal family. They can do whatever they want.”

“No,” Lewis says firmly. “They can’t. Because I won’t let them.”

You look at him, confused. “What?”

Lewis takes your hand gently, his touch sending sparks through your body. “Y/N, I’m not just British. I’m also a Brazilian citizen. And in Brazil, there are laws protecting soulmates. If we’re truly matched, which I believe we are, you automatically gain Brazilian citizenship too. Your family can’t touch you there.”

Hope flares in your chest, but you quickly squash it down. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll find a way. They always do.”

“Not this time,” Lewis insists. “Look, I have a race to drive soon, but after that, we can fly to Brazil immediately. I’ll keep you safe until then.”

You shake your head. “It’s too dangerous. If they find out ...”

“They won’t,” Lewis promises. “My driver’s room is private and secure. You can hide there until after the race. No one will think to look for you there.”

You hesitate, torn between hope and fear. “I don’t know ...”

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know we just met, but I’ve been waiting my whole life to find you. Please, give us a chance. Let me protect you.”

You look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there. Slowly, you nod. “Okay. But we have to be careful.”

Relief washes over Lewis’ face. “We will be. Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

He leads you quickly through the paddock, taking care to avoid busy areas. You keep your head down, heart racing every time you pass someone. Finally, you reach a door marked with Lewis’ name.

“Here we are,” he says, ushering you inside. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it for anyone but me. I’ll knock three times, pause, then twice more. Okay?”

You nod, taking in the small but comfortable room. “Okay. But Lewis, what about your race? You can’t miss it because of me.”

He smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll race, and then we’ll leave right after. It’ll be fine.”

“But what if something goes wrong? What if they find me?” The fear creeps back into your voice.

Lewis takes your hands in his, his touch grounding you. “Hey, look at me. Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise. We’re soulmates, remember? That means we’re in this together now.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re also incredibly brave. You’ve lived with this fear your whole life, and you’re still standing. We can do this.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “We’ve known each other for all of ten minutes and you’re already saying ‘we’?”

Lewis grins. “Well, that’s what happens when you meet your soulmate, I guess. Everything changes in an instant.”

You laugh softly, feeling some of the tension leave your body. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Listen,” Lewis says, his tone turning serious. “I know this is all happening very fast, and I don’t expect you to fall in love with me right away or anything. We’ll take things as slow as you want once we’re safe. But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

You look into his eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity and determination. Slowly, you nod. “Yes, I think I can.”

“Good,” Lewis smiles. “Now, I have to go get ready for the race. Remember, three knocks, pause, then two more. Don’t open for anyone else.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “Be careful out there, okay?”

Lewis’ smile widens. “Always am, Princess. I’ll see you soon.”

As he leaves, you lock the door behind him, your heart still racing. You sink onto the small couch, trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour.

You’ve found your soulmate. After years of hiding your tattoo, of living in fear of it being burned away like your brother’s, you’ve actually met the person whose words are etched on your skin.

And not just any person. Lewis Hamilton. World-famous driver, activist, and fashion icon. You’ve seen him on TV, of course, admired his skill on the track and his passion for social justice. But you never imagined ...

You rub your wrist absently, feeling the slight raised bumps of your mark beneath the concealer. For the first time in years, you allow yourself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, you can have the life you’ve always dreamed of.

But doubt creeps in. What if Lewis is wrong? What if Brazilian citizenship isn’t enough to protect you from your family’s influence? What if they find you before you can leave?

You pace the small room, alternating between hope and fear. The sound of engines revving in the distance tells you the race is about to start. You find yourself holding your breath every time you hear footsteps pass by the door, terrified it might be palace security coming to drag you away.

Time crawls by agonizingly slowly. You try to distract yourself by watching the race on the small TV in the corner, but every time the camera focuses on Lewis’ car, your heart leaps into your throat. You silently urge him to be careful, to finish the race quickly so you can escape.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear it. Three knocks, a pause, then two more. You rush to the door, your hand hesitating for just a moment before you unlock it.

Lewis slips inside quickly, closing and locking the door behind him. He’s still in his race suit, his hair damp with sweat.

“Are you okay?” You ask immediately. “How was the race?”

Lewis grins. “I’m fine, and I won. But that’s not important right now. We need to go.”

He grabs a bag from a locker and starts shoving clothes into it. “I’ve arranged for a private jet to take us to São Paulo. We need to leave now, before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

You nod, your heart racing again. “Okay. What do we do?”

“I’ve got some clothing here that might fit you,” Lewis says, pulling out a hoodie and sweatpants. “Put these on over your clothes. We’ll need to be discreet getting to the airport.”

As you change, Lewis continues talking. “Once we’re in Brazil, we’ll be safe. There are strict laws protecting soulmates there. Your family won’t be able to touch you.”

“But what about your career?” You ask, suddenly realizing what he’s giving up. “You can’t just leave everything behind for me.”

Lewis pauses, looking at you intently. “Y/N, you’re my soulmate. That means you’re more important than any career, any amount of fame or money. We’ll figure out the details later, but right now, keeping you safe is all that matters.”

His words make your heart swell. You’ve never had anyone put you first like this before. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lewis smiles. “Just trust me, okay?”

You nod, feeling a sense of calm settle over you despite the chaotic situation. “I do trust you. Let’s go.”

Lewis takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath, thinking of all you’re leaving behind — your family, your duty, the only life you’ve ever known. But as you look at Lewis, you realize you’re also stepping into a new life. One where you’re free to be yourself, to love who you want, to follow your heart.

“Ready,” you say firmly.

And with that, Lewis opens the door, and together, you step out into your new future.

***

The private jet hums softly as it cuts through the night sky, carrying you away from everything you’ve ever known. You’re curled up against Lewis on the plush leather seat, your head resting on his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear is oddly comforting, grounding you in this surreal moment.

Lewis’ arm is wrapped around you, his hand gently stroking your back. With your free hand, you trace the lines of his soulmate tattoo — your first words to him, now etched forever on his skin.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” you murmur, your fingers following the curves of each letter.

Lewis chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through his chest. “I know what you mean. I’ve imagined meeting you so many times, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality.”

You look up at him, a mixture of emotions swirling in your chest. “Weren’t you afraid? When you realized who I was?”

“Afraid?” Lewis considers for a moment. “No, not afraid. Excited, nervous, maybe a little overwhelmed. But not afraid.” He pauses, his expression growing serious. “But you were. You’re still afraid now, aren’t you?”

You nod slowly, dropping your gaze back to his wrist. “I’ve been afraid for so long, I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

Lewis’ hand moves to cup your face gently, encouraging you to look at him again. “Will you tell me about it? Help me understand?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “It’s ... it’s not a pleasant story.”

“I’m here,” Lewis says softly. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

His words, so simple yet so profound, give you the courage to begin. “It started with my brother, Edward. He was always the rebellious one, you know? Always pushing boundaries, questioning traditions. When he found his soulmate, he was over the moon. Her name was Lily, and she was ... she was perfect for him. Kind, funny, passionate about the same causes he was.”

You pause, the memory of your brother’s joy contrasting sharply with what came after. Lewis waits patiently, his presence a comforting anchor.

“For a few months, they managed to keep it a secret. But eventually, someone saw them together. Word got back to our parents and ...” You shudder, remembering that awful day. “They were furious. They gave Edward an ultimatum: give up Lily or give up his place in the line of succession.”

“That’s horrible,” Lewis murmurs, his arm tightening around you.

You nod, continuing, “Edward refused. He said Lily was more important than any throne. So they ... they decided to take matters into their own hands.”

Your voice breaks as you recount what happened next. “They had the royal physician burn off Edward’s soulmate mark. I can still hear his screams echoing through the palace. It was ... it was torture.”

Lewis’ body tenses beneath you, his voice tight with anger when he speaks. “They had no right. How could they do that to their own son?”

“They said it was for the good of the country,” you reply bitterly. “That royals can’t afford the luxury of soulmates. Our marriages are political tools, nothing more.”

“What happened to Edward and Lily?” Lewis asks gently.

You sigh heavily. “Edward was never the same after that. The spark in him just ... died. He does his duty now, makes the appearances he’s supposed to, but it’s like he’s just going through the motions. And Lily ... last I heard, she moved to Australia. I think being anywhere near the UK was too painful for her.”

Lewis is quiet for a moment, processing your words. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Y/N. No wonder you were scared when you realized we were soulmates.”

You nod, feeling the weight of years of fear and secrecy lifting as you share your story. “That’s not even the worst of it,” you admit softly.

Lewis looks at you, concern etched on his face. “There’s more?”

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself for the hardest part of the story. “My father ... he had an older sister. Aunt Margaret. I never met her, but I found out about her a few years ago.”

Lewis listens intently as you continue, “She found her soulmate when she was young, maybe 20 or so. And she refused to give him up, no matter what my grandparents said. They tried everything — threats, bribes, even attempting to arrange another match for her. But Margaret stood firm.”

“She sounds brave,” Lewis comments.

You nod, a sad smile touching your lips. “She was. But bravery wasn’t enough. One night, both Margaret and her soulmate disappeared. The official story was that they’d eloped, run off to start a new life together. But that wasn’t the truth.”

Lewis’ body tenses again, as if bracing for what’s coming. You press on, the words tumbling out now that you’ve started.

“Margaret’s soulmate was ... dealt with. Permanently. And Margaret herself was institutionalized. Locked away in a private facility, hidden from the world.”

“That’s ... that’s monstrous,” Lewis breathes, horror evident in his voice.

You nod, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “When I found out, I couldn’t believe it. I managed to find out where she was being held and I ... I visited her.”

Lewis’ hand resumes its gentle stroking of your back, encouraging you to continue.

“She was ... god, Lewis, she was just a shell. Decades of being locked away, of being separated from her soulmate ... it had broken her. She didn’t even seem to realize I was there.”

A tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. Lewis gently wipes it away with his thumb.

“That’s why I was so scared,” you whisper. “I’ve seen what my family is capable of. What lengths they’ll go to in order to keep up appearances, to maintain their idea of duty.”

Lewis is quiet for a long moment, his arms tightening around you protectively. When he finally speaks, his voice is filled with a mix of anger and determination.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he says firmly. “What happened to your brother, to your aunt ... it was wrong. Cruel and wrong. But I promise you, I will not let that happen to us.”

You look up at him, seeing the fierce protectiveness in his eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we’re not alone in this,” Lewis explains. “We have resources they don’t. My citizenship, for one. The laws protecting soulmates in Brazil. And beyond that, we have the power of public opinion.”

You frown, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

Lewis shifts slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Think about it. Your family’s power comes from public support, right? What do you think would happen if the world found out they were separating soulmates, institutionalizing people?”

“It would be a scandal,” you realize, your eyes widening.

“Exactly,” Lewis nods. “We’re not helpless. If they try anything, we can fight back. We can tell our story, rally support. The world has changed a lot. People believe in the sanctity of soulmates now more than ever.”

His words spark a tiny flame of hope in your chest. “You really think we could do that?”

“I know we could,” Lewis says confidently. “But more than that, I don’t think we’ll have to. Your family isn’t stupid. They’ll realize the risk isn’t worth it. Especially not with someone as high-profile as me.”

You can’t help but chuckle at that. “Modest, aren’t you?”

Lewis grins, the tension of the moment breaking. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. Seven-time world champion, remember?”

You roll your eyes playfully, but then grow serious again. “Lewis ... thank you. For listening, for understanding. For not running away when you realized how complicated this all is.”

“Hey,” Lewis says softly, tilting your chin up so you’re looking directly into his eyes. “You’re my soulmate. That means we’re in this together, complications and all. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words wash over you, soothing fears you’ve carried for so long. For the first time, you allow yourself to truly believe that maybe, just maybe, you can have this. You can have him.

“So,” you say, a small smile playing on your lips. “What happens now?”

Lewis grins, his eyes twinkling with excitement and possibility. “Now? Now we start our adventure. We land in São Paulo, get your citizenship sorted out, and then ... well, then the world’s our oyster. We can go anywhere, do anything.”

“Anything?” You ask, the concept of such freedom almost dizzying.

“Anything,” Lewis confirms. “We could travel the world. Or we could find a quiet place to settle down if that’s what you prefer. We could work on charitable causes together, or you could pursue whatever dreams you’ve had to put aside because of your royal duties.”

The possibilities swirl in your mind, each one more exciting than the last. “I ... I don’t even know where to start,” you admit.

Lewis chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We don’t have to decide everything right now. We’ve got time. For now, let’s just focus on getting to Brazil safely. We can figure out the rest as we go.”

You nod, settling back against his chest. The steady beat of his heart syncs with the hum of the jet engines, lulling you into a sense of peace you haven’t felt in years.

As you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of your soulmate’s arms, you realize something. For the first time in your life, you’re not afraid of the future. Instead, you’re excited to see what it holds.

Whatever comes next, you’ll face it together. You and Lewis, two halves of a whole, finally united. The journey ahead may be uncertain, but with him by your side, you’re ready for anything.

***

As the private jet touches down on Brazilian soil, a mixture of excitement and nervousness flutters in your stomach. Lewis gives your hand a reassuring squeeze as the plane rolls to a stop.

“Ready?” He asks, his warm brown eyes meeting yours.

You take a deep breath and nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

The cabin door opens, and the humid Brazilian air rushes in. Lewis leads you down the steps, his hand never leaving yours. At the bottom, a tall woman in a crisp suit waits, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she greets with a warm smile, extending her hand. “And Your Royal Highness. Welcome to Brazil. I’m Dr. Raquel Santos from the Department of Soulmate Affairs.”

Lewis shakes her hand. “Dr. Santos, thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”

“Of course,” she replies, turning to you. “Your Highness, it’s an honor.”

You shake her hand, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “Please, just call me Y/N. I ... I’m not sure how much of a royal I am anymore.”

Dr. Santos’ smile softens. “Of course, Y/N. Why don’t we move this conversation somewhere more private? I have a car waiting to take us to a secure location where we can discuss everything in detail.”

You and Lewis follow her to a sleek black car. Once inside, Dr. Santos turns to face you both.

“First and foremost,” she begins, “I want to assure you that you are under the full protection of Brazilian law. As soon as you stepped off that plane, Y/N, you became entitled to all the rights and protections we offer to soulmates.”

“Just like that?” You ask, hardly daring to believe it could be so simple.

Dr. Santos nods. “Just like that. Brazil takes soulmate rights very seriously. We believe that the bond between soulmates is sacred and should be protected at all costs.”

Lewis leans forward, his expression serious. “What exactly does that protection entail? Y/N’s situation is ... complicated.”

“I understand,” Dr. Santos says. “Your assistant filled me in on some of the details during our phone call. Let me break down the key points for you.”

As the car glides through the streets of São Paulo, Dr. Santos begins her explanation.

“First, as the soulmate of a Brazilian citizen, Y/N is immediately eligible for Brazilian citizenship. We can begin the paperwork right away. This will provide an added layer of protection against any attempts at extradition.”

You feel a weight lift off your shoulders at her words. “So my family can’t force me to return to the UK?”

“Correct,” Dr. Santos confirms. “Brazil does not recognize any authority over soulmate bonds, not even royal decrees. Your status as a princess is irrelevant in the eyes of our law when it comes to your rights as a soulmate.”

Lewis squeezes your hand, a smile playing on his lips. “See? I told you we’d figure it out.”

Dr. Santos continues, “Furthermore, we have specific laws protecting soulmates from forced separation. Any attempt to interfere with your bond — be it physical separation, coercion, or even attempts to remove or alter your soulmate marks — is considered a serious crime in Brazil.”

You unconsciously rub your wrist where your tattoo is hidden. “What about ... what if they try to claim I’m mentally unfit or something? To try and invalidate my choices?”

Dr. Santos’ expression turns serious. “We’ve seen such tactics used before, unfortunately. That’s why we have safeguards in place. Any claims of mental unfitness would require extensive evaluation by multiple independent Brazilian psychiatrists.”

“And if they try to use their diplomatic influence?” Lewis asks.

“Brazil’s stance on soulmate rights is non-negotiable,” Dr. Santos states firmly. “We’ve stood up to pressure from other nations before, and we won’t hesitate to do so again. Your bond is protected here, regardless of external political pressures.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “This all sounds almost too good to be true.”

Dr. Santos smiles warmly. “I understand your caution, Y/N. But I assure you, these protections are very real and very enforceable. Now, let me explain some of the practical aspects of your situation.”

As the car turns onto a quieter street, Dr. Santos pulls out a tablet. “We’ll need to register your bond officially. This involves a simple verification process — usually just a visual confirmation of a matching font on your soulmate marks. Once registered, you’ll be issued official documentation of your bond status.”

“What does that documentation do?” You ask, leaning forward with interest.

“It serves several purposes,” Dr. Santos explains. “Firstly, it’s legal proof of your bond, which can be used to claim various rights and protections under Brazilian law. It also serves as a form of identification and can be used to expedite your citizenship application.”

Lewis nods thoughtfully. “And what about privacy? Given our high profiles, we’re concerned about information leaks.”

“An excellent question,” Dr. Santos says. “We take privacy very seriously, especially in high-profile cases like yours. All information related to your bond and Y/N’s presence in Brazil will be classified at the highest level. Only a select few government officials will have access to this information.”

You feel a surge of gratitude towards this woman and the country she represents. “Dr. Santos, I can’t thank you enough for all of this.”

She smiles warmly. “It’s my pleasure. Protecting soulmates is not just my job, it’s my passion. Now, let’s discuss some of the support services available to you.”

As the car pulls up to a nondescript building, Dr. Santos continues her explanation. “We offer counseling services specifically tailored for soulmates who have faced separation or threats to their bond. These services are completely confidential and can be invaluable in helping you process your experiences and adjust to your new life.”

You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. “I think ... I think that might be really helpful.”

Lewis wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “We’ll get through this together, love. Whatever you need.”

Dr. Santos leads you into the building and up to a comfortably furnished office. As you all take seats, she pulls out some forms.

“Now, I know this is a lot to take in,” she says gently. “But I’d like to start the official registration process, if you’re ready. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you’ll have legal protection.”

You look at Lewis, who gives you an encouraging nod. “Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

As Dr. Santos begins to explain the forms, a thought occurs to you. “Dr. Santos, what about Lewis? How will all of this affect his career?”

Dr. Santos smiles. “I’m glad you asked. Mr. Hamilton, as a Brazilian citizen, you have the right to have your soulmate with you wherever your career takes you. We can provide diplomatic assistance to ensure Y/N can travel with you freely, without risk of detention or forced return to the UK.”

Lewis grins, looking relieved. “That’s fantastic news. I was worried I might have to give up racing.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Santos assures him. “We believe that soulmates should support each other’s dreams and ambitions. Our laws are designed to facilitate that.”

As you begin filling out the forms, a sense of surreal calm washes over you. For the first time in your life, you feel truly protected, truly free to be with the person you’re meant to be with.

“There’s one more thing,” Dr. Santos says as you finish the paperwork. “As part of our soulmate protection program, we offer a safe house service. It’s a secure location where you can stay while you adjust to your new situation and decide on your next steps. Would you be interested in that?”

You and Lewis exchange a look. “I think that might be a good idea,” Lewis says. “At least for a little while, until we figure things out. My home here isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

You nod in agreement. “Yes, please. That sounds perfect.”

Dr. Santos smiles, clearly pleased. “Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements right away. The location is completely confidential and guarded 24/7. You’ll be safe there.”

As she stands to make some calls, you turn to Lewis, feeling overwhelmed by everything that’s happened.

“Lewis,” you say softly, “I can’t believe you’ve done all this for me. You’ve turned your whole life upside down.”

He takes your hands in his, his eyes shining with emotion. “You’re my soulmate. My whole life was leading up to finding you. Everything else? It’s just details we’ll figure out together.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. For the first time since you can remember, you feel truly, completely safe. Protected not just by laws and governments, but by the love of the person you were always meant to find.

As Dr. Santos returns to finalize the arrangements, you realize that this isn’t just the end of your old life. It’s the beginning of something new, something wonderful. A life where you’re free to love, free to be yourself, free to explore the bond that fate has given you.

Whatever challenges lie ahead, you know now that you won’t face them alone. You have Lewis, you have the protection of Brazilian law, and most importantly, you have hope. The future, once so terrifying, now shines with possibility.

And as you leave the office hand in hand with Lewis, ready to start your new life together, you can’t help but smile. Because for the first time, you’re not running away from something.

You’re running towards it.

***

The roar of engines and the buzz of excitement fill the air as you stand at the entrance to the Autódromo José Carlos Pace. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of nerves and exhilaration coursing through your veins. Lewis’ hand is warm and steady in yours, a constant reminder that you’re not alone.

“Are you ready for this?” Lewis asks, his brown eyes searching yours with concern.

You take a deep breath, squeezing his hand. “As ready as I’ll ever be. It’s time to stop hiding.”

Lewis nods, a proud smile lighting up his face. “That’s my girl. Remember, whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

With one last reassuring squeeze, Lewis leads you into the paddock. The moment you step into view, a hush falls over the nearby crowd. Then, like a wave, whispers and exclamations ripple outward.

“Is that ...”

“It can’t be ...”

“The princess!”

“With Lewis Hamilton?”

Cameras flash in a frenzy, and reporters surge forward, held back only by the security team flanking you and Lewis. You keep your head high, your hand firmly in Lewis’ as you make your way through the paddock.

A brave reporter manages to shout a question over the commotion. “Your Highness! Is it true you’ve been in hiding in Brazil?”

You pause, looking to Lewis. He gives you an encouraging nod. Taking a deep breath, you turn to face the press.

“Yes, it’s true,” you say, your voice steady despite your nerves. “I’ve been in Brazil for the past few months, under the protection of the Brazilian government.”

The questions come rapid-fire after that.

“Why did you leave the UK?”

“Are you and Lewis Hamilton really soulmates?”

“What does the royal family have to say about this?”

Lewis steps forward, his arm protectively around your waist. “We’ll be holding a press conference later to address all your questions. For now, we ask for your patience and understanding as we prepare for the race.”

As you continue through the paddock, you can’t help but think back on the tumultuous months that led to this moment ...

The first few weeks in Brazil had been a whirlwind of paperwork, security briefings, and adjusting to your new reality. You and Lewis had stayed in the safe house provided by the Brazilian government, venturing out only when necessary and always under heavy guard.

One morning, about a month into your stay, Dr. Santos had arrived with a grim expression.

“We’ve intercepted some concerning communications,” she had said, her usual calm demeanor tinged with worry. “It seems the British royal family has intensified their search for you, Y/N. They’re making threats.”

You had felt your heart drop. “What kind of threats?”

Dr. Santos had hesitated before answering. “They’re threatening to use their diplomatic influence to pressure Brazil into returning you. They’re also ... they’re suggesting that you might be mentally unfit, that you’ve been coerced or manipulated.”

Lewis had immediately pulled you close, his jaw clenched in anger. “They can’t do that. We won’t let them.”

“And we won’t,” Dr. Santos had assured you both. “Our stance on soulmate rights is non-negotiable. But I want you to be prepared. This might get ugly.”

And it had. Over the next few months, your family had tried everything. Diplomatic pressure, media manipulation, even attempts to infiltrate Brazilian government systems to locate you. But Brazil had stood firm, and you had remained safe.

A commotion near the Mercedes garage snaps you back to the present. You see a group of men in dark suits pushing their way through the crowd, their expressions grim and determined. Your blood runs cold as you recognize one of them — your father’s head of security.

“Lewis,” you whisper urgently, “they’re here.”

Lewis’ arm tightens around you as he quickly assesses the situation. “Stay calm. Remember the plan.”

As the men approach, the lead one steps forward, his voice loud and authoritative. “Your Royal Highness, by order of His Majesty the King, you are to return to the United Kingdom immediately.”

You feel all eyes on you, the paddock having gone deathly quiet. Taking a deep breath, you step forward, your voice clear and steady. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I am here of my own free will, protected by Brazilian law as the soulmate of a Brazilian citizen.”

The man’s expression hardens. “Your Highness, please don’t make this difficult. Your family is concerned for your well-being. They believe you may have been coerced or manipulated-”

“The only manipulation here,” Lewis interrupts, his voice sharp, “is coming from those who would separate soulmates for political gain.”

Just then, Dr. Santos appears, flanked by Brazilian officials. “Gentlemen,” she says coolly to the British security team, “I’m afraid you’re overstepping. Y/N is under the protection of the Brazilian government. Any attempt to remove her against her will would be considered means for an international incident.”

The head of security sputters, clearly not having expected this level of resistance. “This is a family matter-”

“No,” you interject, your voice stronger now. “This is a matter of human rights. The right to be with one’s soulmate. A right that Brazil recognizes and protects.”

Dr. Santos nods approvingly. “Furthermore, any claims of mental unfitness have been thoroughly disproven by independent psychiatric evaluation. Y/N is here of her own free will, in full possession of her faculties.”

The security team looks at each other uncertainly, clearly realizing they’re outmatched. The lead man makes one last attempt. “Your Highness, please. Your family misses you. They want you to come home.”

For a moment, you feel a pang of sadness for the life you left behind. But then you feel Lewis’ steady presence beside you, and you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“I am home,” you say softly but firmly. “My home is with my soulmate, wherever that may be.”

The man opens his mouth to argue further, but Dr. Santos cuts him off. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for you to leave. Unless you’d like us to involve the authorities?”

Realizing they’re defeated, the security team begins to retreat. As they leave, you hear murmurs of admiration and support from the crowd that has gathered to watch the confrontation.

Lewis pulls you into a tight embrace. “You were amazing,” he whispers in your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

As you pull back, you see reporters clamoring for comments, their cameras flashing incessantly. Dr. Santos steps forward to address them.

“A full press conference will be held later today,” she announces. “For now, I can confirm that Y/N, formally known as Her Royal Highness, is here legally and of her own free will as the soulmate of Lewis Hamilton. She is under the full protection of Brazilian law, and any attempts to interfere with their bond will be met with the full force of our legal system.”

As Dr. Santos continues to field questions, Lewis turns to you. “Are you okay?” He asks softly, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “I’m more than okay. For the first time, I feel ... free.”

Lewis grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because we’ve got a race to win.”

As you make your way to the Mercedes garage, you’re overwhelmed by the support you receive. Team members, other drivers, and even fans call out words of encouragement.

“We’ve got your back, Y/N!”

“Love wins!”

“You show ‘em, Lewis!”

Inside the garage, the team greets you warmly. Toto approaches with a smile.

“Y/N, Lewis,” he says, shaking both your hands. “That was quite an entrance. Are you sure you’re up for all this today?”

You nod firmly. “Absolutely. It’s time to show the world that love doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger.”

Lewis beams at your words. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Now, let’s go win this race, yeah?”

As Lewis begins his pre-race preparations, you find a quiet corner to collect your thoughts. The events of the past few months flash through your mind — the fear, the uncertainty, but also the overwhelming love and support you’ve received.

You think about your family, about the life you left behind. There’s sadness there, but no regret. You’ve found something more precious than any crown — the freedom to love, to be yourself, to follow your heart.

A gentle hand on your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. You look up to see Lewis, now in his race suit, his helmet tucked under his arm.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks softly.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Just thinking about how lucky I am. How grateful I am for you, for Brazil, for everyone who’s supported us.”

Lewis leans into your touch, his eyes shining with emotion. “We’re the lucky ones, Y/N. To have found each other, to have this chance at happiness. And I promise you, I’ll spend every day making sure you never regret your choice.”

You stand, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I could never regret choosing you. You’re my soulmate, my home, my everything.”

As you lean in for a kiss, the garage erupts in cheers and whistles. You break apart, laughing, to see the entire team watching with grins on their faces.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Toto calls out good-naturedly. “Save it for after the race. Lewis, you’ve got a championship to chase.”

Lewis gives you one last quick kiss before pulling on his helmet. “Watch me fly, Princess,” he says with a wink.

As he heads out to the track, you take your place in the garage, surrounded by your new family — the team that has embraced you without question. You feel a sense of belonging, of purpose, that you’ve never experienced before.

The roar of engines fills the air as the race begins. You watch Lewis navigate the track with precision and skill, your heart swelling with pride and love. This is your life now — the excitement of race day, the thrill of competition, but most importantly, the joy of being with your soulmate.

As Lewis crosses the finish line in first place, the garage erupts in celebration. You rush out to meet him in parc fermé, not caring about protocol or propriety. Lewis sweeps you up in his arms, spinning you around as the crowd cheers.

In that moment, with the sun shining down and the sound of celebration all around, you know that you’ve made the right choice. This is where you belong — by Lewis’ side, free to love and be loved, ready to face whatever challenges come your way.

Together.

***

The familiar scent of motor oil and rubber fills the air as you step onto British soil for the first time in over a year. Silverstone buzzes with excitement, but you can’t shake the nervous energy coursing through your veins. Lewis’ hand finds yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You okay?” He asks softly, his eyes searching yours with concern.

You take a deep breath, nodding. “I think so. It’s just ... strange being back.”

Lewis pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Remember, you’re not alone. We’ve got security everywhere, and I’m right here with you.”

As if on cue, the head of your security team, a tall, no-nonsense woman named Maria, approaches. “Everything’s clear, Ms. Y/N. We’ve swept the entire area and have eyes on all entry points.”

You smile gratefully at her. “Thank you, Maria. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Maria’s stern expression softens slightly. “Just doing our job, ma’am. Your safety is our top priority.”

As you make your way through the paddock, you can’t help but notice the stares and whispers that follow you. Some are curious, others admiring, and a few ... less than friendly. But your security team forms a protective barrier around you and Lewis, keeping any potential trouble at bay.

“Y/N! Lewis!” A familiar voice calls out. You turn to see Fred Vasseur approaching, a warm smile on his face. “Welcome back to Silverstone. How are you holding up?”

“It’s ... intense,” you admit. “But I’m glad to be here, supporting Lewis.”

Fred nods understandingly. “Well, you’ve got the whole team behind you. Anyone gives you trouble, they’ll have to answer to all of Ferrari.”

As you continue through the paddock, greeting team members and other drivers, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Not just by the curious onlookers, but by someone ... familiar.

That’s when you see him. Standing near the VIP area, looking as regal and composed as ever, is your brother.

Your heart skips a beat. You haven’t seen Edward since that fateful day you ran away. Lewis, sensing your tension, follows your gaze.

“Is that ...” he asks quietly.

You nod, unable to find words. Lewis turns to Maria. “Can you make sure we have a private moment?”

Maria nods, already signaling to her team. Within moments, they’ve created a small bubble of privacy around you and Edward.

Edward approaches slowly, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you both just stand there, years of unspoken words hanging between you.

Then, to your surprise, Edward’s composure cracks. His eyes fill with tears as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You cling to him, your own tears falling freely. “Eddie ... I’m so sorry I left without saying goodbye. I just ... I couldn’t ...”

Edward pulls back, holding you at arm’s length. His eyes roam your face, as if memorizing every detail. “Don’t apologize. Not ever. What you did ... Y/N, I am so incredibly proud of you.”

His words catch you off guard. “Proud? But I abandoned the family, my duties ...”

Edward shakes his head firmly. “You chose love. You chose happiness. You did what I was too weak to do.”

You glance at Lewis, who’s standing a respectful distance away, giving you this moment with your brother. “Edward, this is Lewis. My soulmate.”

Edward extends his hand to Lewis. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lewis. Thank you for protecting my sister and giving her the happiness she deserves.”

Lewis shakes his hand, his expression sincere. “The honor is mine, Your Highness. Y/N is the bravest, most amazing person I know. I’m just lucky to be part of her life.”

Edward’s smile is tinged with sadness. “Please, call me Edward. And you’re right, she is amazing. Always has been.”

You look at your brother closely, noticing the lines of stress around his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders. “Eddie ... how are you? Really?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s ... not easy. The family is in turmoil after your departure. Father is furious, Mother is heartbroken, and I’m ... well, I’m trying to hold it all together.”

“And Lily?” You ask softly, referring to Edward’s soulmate. “Have you heard from her?”

Edward’s expression clouds over. “No. Not since ... not since that day.”

You take your brother’s hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s not too late, you know. You could still reach out to her.”

Edward laughs bitterly. “And say what? ‘Sorry I let them burn off my soulmate mark and married someone else. Want to grab coffee?’”

Lewis steps forward, his voice gentle but firm. “With all due respect, Your High- Edward, it’s never too late. The bond between soulmates ... it’s not something that can be erased, no matter what’s done to the physical mark.”

Edward looks at Lewis, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You really believe that?”

Lewis nods. “I do. Y/N and I found each other against all odds. Who’s to say you and Lily can’t do the same?”

You squeeze Edward’s hand again. “Eddie, you deserve to be happy. You deserve love. It’s not too late to choose yourself, to choose love.”

Edward looks torn, glancing around at the crowds, the cameras, the weight of expectation that’s always surrounded you both. “But the family ...”

“Will still be there,” you say softly. “But you’ll be facing them as your true self, with your soulmate by your side. It makes all the difference, trust me.”

Your brother is quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with years of ingrained duty and expectation. Finally, he looks up, a new determination in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice growing stronger. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve spent too long living for everyone else. It’s time I lived for myself.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Does this mean ...”

Edward nods, a mix of fear and excitement in his eyes. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to find Lily. I’m going to make things right.”

You throw your arms around your brother, hugging him tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Eddie. And I’ll be here for you, every step of the way.”

As you pull back, you see tears in Edward’s eyes, but also a lightness that you haven’t seen in years. “Thank you. For showing me that it’s possible to choose love. For being brave enough to pave the way.”

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “If you need any help — legal advice, security, anything — just say the word. You’re family now.”

Edward looks at Lewis gratefully. “Thank you. I might just take you up on that.”

Just then, Maria approaches discreetly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to move. The press is getting restless.”

You nod, turning back to Edward. “Will you be okay?”

He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “I will be. For the first time in a long time, I think I really will be.”

As you prepare to part ways, Edward pulls you in for one last hug. “I love you, little sister. Thank you for reminding me what’s truly important.”

“I love you too, Eddie,” you whisper back. “Go find your happiness. You deserve it.”

With one last squeeze, Edward steps back. As he walks away, you see him pull out his phone, a look of determination on his face. You have a feeling you know exactly who he’s about to call.

Lewis wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “You okay, love?”

You nod, wiping away a stray tear. “More than okay. I feel ... hopeful. For Eddie, for us, for everything.”

As you make your way back through the paddock, you’re struck by how different everything feels. The stares don’t bother you as much, the whispers fade into background noise. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, with the person you’re meant to be with.

“You know,” Lewis says as you reach the Ferrari garage, “I think I’m going to win this race.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smile playing on your lips. “Oh? And what makes you so sure?”

Lewis grins, pulling you close. “Because I’ve got my lucky charm by my side. How can I lose?”

You laugh, the sound light and free. “Well, in that case, you’d better not disappoint. I expect nothing less than a victory, Sir Hamilton.”

As Lewis leans in for a kiss, you’re vaguely aware of cameras flashing and people cheering. But none of that matters. What matters is this moment, this love, this life you’ve chosen.

You think back to a year ago, when you were terrified of finding your soulmate, of the consequences it would bring. Now, standing here at Silverstone, with Lewis by your side and the hope of your brother finding his own happiness, you realize that choosing love wasn’t just the brave choice.

It was the only choice.

As Lewis heads off to prepare for the race, you take your place in the garage. The roar of engines fills the air, and you feel a surge of excitement.

This is your life now. Supporting Lewis, championing love, and showing the world that sometimes, the greatest act of duty is being true to yourself.

As the race begins, you watch Lewis tear around the track, your heart swelling with pride and love. You may not wear a tiara anymore, but you’ve gained something far more precious — the freedom to love, to choose, to be yourself.

And as the chequered flag waves and Lewis crosses the finish line in first place, you know that this victory isn’t just his.

It’s yours. It’s Edward’s. It’s everyone who’s ever had the courage to choose love over duty, happiness over expectation.

As you rush to congratulate Lewis, wrapped in his arms as the crowd cheers, you know that this is just the beginning. There will be challenges ahead, obstacles to overcome. But with love by your side and the strength to be true to yourself, you’re ready to face whatever comes.

Because in the end, love always wins. And you? You’re living proof of that.

***

The warm Brazilian sun streams through the windows of the spacious beachfront home, filling the living room with a golden glow. The sound of children’s laughter mingles with the distant crash of waves, creating a symphony of domestic bliss.

You’re seated on the plush carpet, surrounded by an array of colorful toys. Your three-year-old daughter, Emilia, is busily stacking blocks, her little face scrunched in concentration. Across from you, Edward is attempting to wrangle his own two-year-old son, James, who seems more interested in knocking down Emilia’s creations than building his own.

“James, darling, let’s build our own tower, shall we?” Edward coaxes gently, redirecting his son’s attention.

You can’t help but smile at the scene. Five years ago, you never could have imagined this — you and Edward, raising your children together, free from the constraints of royal duty.

The sound of a door opening draws your attention. Lewis walks in, his arms full of grocery bags, closely followed by Lily.

“We come bearing snacks!” Lewis announces with a grin.

Emilia’s head snaps up at the sight of her favorite person. “Daddy!” She squeals, abandoning her blocks and running to Lewis.

Lewis sets down the bags just in time to scoop up his daughter, peppering her face with kisses. “Hello, my little racer. Have you been good for Mummy?”

Emilia nods enthusiastically. “I builded a big tower!”

“Built, sweetheart,” you correct gently, getting to your feet. “And it was a very impressive tower indeed.”

Lewis sets Emilia down and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a quick kiss. “And how’s my other favorite girl doing?”

You smile, leaning into his embrace. “Better now that you’re home. How was the market?”

“Busy,” Lily chimes in, setting down her own bags. “But we managed to get everything on the list, plus a few extras.”

Edward stands, hoisting James onto his hip. “Extras, you say? Let me guess — more of those brigadeiros that you’re definitely not addicted to, right, love?”

Lily’s cheeks flush slightly as she laughs. “I plead the fifth. This baby wants what it wants.”

Your eyes light up at the reminder. Lily is five months pregnant with their second child, and you’re all buzzing with excitement.

“Speaking of the baby,” you say, moving to help unpack the groceries, “have you two decided if you’re going to find out the gender?”

Edward and Lily exchange a look. “We’re still debating,” Edward admits. “Part of me wants to know, but there’s also something nice about the surprise.”

Lewis chuckles, joining you in the kitchen. “I remember that debate. Though if I recall correctly, someone couldn’t handle the suspense and made me call the doctor at two in the morning to find out.”

You playfully swat his arm. “Hey, you were just as curious as I was!”

As you all work together to put away the groceries and prepare snacks for the kids, you’re struck by how natural this all feels. The easy banter, the shared responsibilities, the love that permeates every interaction. It’s a far cry from the rigid formality of your royal upbringing.

“You know,” Edward says, as if reading your thoughts, “sometimes I still can’t believe this is our life now.”

You nod, understanding completely. “I know what you mean. It’s so different from what we always thought our futures would be.”

Lily comes up behind Edward, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Different, but better, right?”

Edward turns, pulling her close. “Infinitely better. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

As you watch your brother with his soulmate, you feel a wave of happiness and gratitude wash over you. It hadn’t been easy for Edward to follow in your footsteps, to give up his place in the line of succession and choose love over duty. But seeing him now, so relaxed and genuinely happy, you know it was worth every struggle.

“Earth to Y/N,” Lewis’ voice breaks through your reverie. “Where’d you go just now?”

You smile, shaking your head. “Just thinking about how far we’ve all come. How different things could have been.”

Lewis nods, understanding in his eyes. “Do you ever regret it? Giving up your title, your life in England?”

You don’t hesitate for a second. “Never. This life, with you, with our family — it’s more than I ever dreamed possible.”

A sudden crash from the living room interrupts the moment. You all rush in to find James standing triumphantly atop a mountain of scattered blocks, while Emilia looks on in horror.

“James Edward Henry Albert Windsor!” Lily exclaims, trying to sound stern but failing to hide her amusement. “What have we said about destroying other people’s creations?”

James, looking not at all repentant, grins widely. “I king of the castle!”

Edward struggles to keep a straight face as he lifts his son off the block mountain. “Yes, well, kings should be builders, not destroyers. Let’s clean this up and then we can all build a castle together, okay?”

As you all pitch in to help clean up the blocks, Emilia tugs on your sleeve. “Mummy, will James be a real king someday?”

The question catches you off guard. You exchange a look with Edward, unsure how to explain the complicated reality of your family’s situation.

Lewis kneels down next to Emilia, his voice gentle. “No, sweetheart. James won’t be a king and you won’t be a princess. But that’s okay, because you get to be something even better.”

Emilia’s eyes widen with curiosity. “What’s that, Daddy?”

Lewis smiles, pulling her into a hug. “You get to be yourself. You get to choose who you want to be and what you want to do with your life. And that’s much more special.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes, overwhelmed by the simple beauty of Lewis’ words. This is why you left, why you chose this life. So that your children could have the freedom you and Edward never had growing up.

As the afternoon wears on, you all migrate to the back patio. The kids play in the sand under the watchful eyes of their parents, while you, Lewis, Edward, and Lily relax on the comfortable outdoor furniture.

“So,” Lily says, her hand resting on her growing belly, “have you two given any thought to expanding your own family?”

You and Lewis share a knowing look. “Actually,” you say, unable to keep the excitement from your voice, “we’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.”

Edward raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell, little sister.”

Lewis takes your hand, giving it a squeeze. “We’re thinking of adopting. There are so many children out there who need loving homes, and we have more than enough love to give.”

“That’s wonderful!” Lily exclaims, her eyes shining. “Oh, Emilia would love a little brother or sister.”

You nod, watching your daughter play. “We think so too. We’re just starting the process, but it feels right.”

Edward leans forward, his expression serious. “Have you thought about how this might affect things back in England? The press ...”

You sigh, having expected this question. “We have. And honestly, we’ve decided that it doesn’t matter what they think. This is our life, our family. We’re not going to let fear of judgment or outdated institutions dictate our choices anymore.”

Lewis nods in agreement. “We’ve already faced the worst they could throw at us. We came out stronger. Whatever comes next, we can handle it together.”

Edward’s serious expression melts into a proud smile. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry, old habits die hard I suppose. I’m thrilled for you both, truly.”

As the conversation flows, touching on everything from potential names for Lily and Edward’s baby to Lewis’ upcoming ambassador campaign, you’re struck by how perfectly imperfect this life is. It’s messy and chaotic at times, full of unexpected challenges and joy in equal measure. But it’s real, and it’s yours.

The sun begins to set, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. James and Emilia, tired from their day of play, curl up in their fathers’ laps. As you watch your brother gently stroke his son’s hair, you remember a conversation from years ago.

“Eddie,” you say softly, “do you remember what you told me the day they ... the day they burned off your soulmate mark?”

Edward looks up, his eyes clouding with the memory. “I told you that if you ever found your soulmate, you should run. Run far away and don’t look back.”

You nod, feeling Lewis’ arm tighten around you. “I’m so glad I took your advice. And I’m even more glad that you eventually followed it too.”

Edward smiles, looking down at James and then over at Lily. “So am I, Y/N. So am I.”

As the evening draws in, you all move inside. The kids are put to bed, their excited chatter about building sandcastles and racing cars fading into peaceful sleep. You, Lewis, Edward, and Lily settle in the living room, glasses of wine in hand (sparkling juice for Lily).

“A toast,” Lewis proposes, raising his glass. “To family, to love, and to the courage to choose our own path.”

“To freedom,” Edward adds, his eyes shining with emotion.

“To second chances,” Lily chimes in, her hand resting on her belly.

You raise your own glass, feeling a swell of emotion. “To us. All of us. And to the beautiful, chaotic, perfectly imperfect life we’ve built together.”

As you clink glasses, you catch Lewis’ eye. In that moment, you’re transported back to that day at Silverstone, when you first ran into each other. The fear, the excitement, the life-changing decision you made in an instant.

You wouldn’t change a thing.

As the night wears on and conversation flows freely, you realize that this — this warmth, this love, this freedom — this is what happily ever after really looks like. It’s not a fairy tale ending, but a beginning. A beginning of a life filled with love, choice, and the joy of being truly yourself.

And as you curl up in bed that night, Lewis’ arms around you and the sound of the ocean in the distance, you know that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Your family’s story is still being written. And you can’t wait to see what the next chapter brings.

[httpsdana]

Heyy! Can you make a kenan x reader imagine?? So reader gets kind of ignored by kenan because of his full schedule and when she finds him relaxing at their living room she is all happy to see him and he gets annoyed that she's super clingy but he's actually angry because of a bad day at training. So she changes a through time, she's less around and less talking. Kenan later realises the mistake he made and tries to to be forgiven.

Silent Regrets~Kenan Yildiz

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

Kenan walked through the door, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

She had been waiting for this moment all day, eager to see him after weeks of barely spending time together. The excitement bubbled in her chest as she hurried to the living room, but when she saw his face—tired, irritated—she hesitated.

Still, she couldn’t stop the soft smile that crept onto her face. "Kenan," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "You’re home early."

He tossed his bag onto the couch and let out a heavy sigh, not meeting her gaze. "Yeah."

"how was training?" she said, her tone still light.

"Long," he muttered, sitting down and leaning back against the cushions, his eyes shutting briefly.

She bit her lip, unsure whether to push further. He had been distant lately, and the silence between them had grown unbearable. Maybe tonight could be different.

"I made your favorite for dinner," she said softly, trying to gauge his mood.

"Not hungry," he replied, his voice flat.

The rejection stung, but she swallowed the lump in her throat, determined not to let it show. "Do you want to talk about your day? Or maybe—"

"Can you just stop?" His words sliced through the room, sharp and sudden, and it felt like a slap.

Her heart sank. "Stop what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes, his jaw tight as he stared at her. "This. Hovering. Trying to talk when I don’t want to. You’re always… there. I just need some peace, okay?"

She stood frozen, the weight of his words crashing down on her. "I… I’m just trying to be here for you, Kenan," she said, her voice trembling.

"Well, maybe I don’t need that right now," he snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe I need you to give me some space."

The words hit harder than than expected, and she took a step back, her arms wrapping around herself as if to shield from the sudden cold between them. "Space," she repeated, the word catching in her throat.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I’m just tired, okay? I’ve had a terrible day, and I don’t have the energy for this."

She nodded slowly, blinking back tears. "Okay," she whispered. "I’ll… give you space."

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her heart heavy with all the hurt she kept in.

She could feel his gaze on her back for a moment before the sound of the television filled the room, drowning out the silence that screamed louder than any argument ever could.

Days had passed and she pulled back. It wasn’t intentional at first—it was self-preservation.

Sue stopped waiting at the door for him, stopped trying to talk to him when he came home. She became quieter, less present.

Where once she filled the silence with stories and laughter, now she simply jusy existed.

Kenan noticed. At first, he thought he had finally gotten what he wanted: space. But as the days stretched on, the emptiness began to gnaw at him. The house felt cold, her absence glaringly obvious even when she was just a room away.

He came home one evening to find her sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at her untouched dinner. She didn’t even look up when he entered.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice hesitant.

"Hey," she replied without emotion, her gaze fixed on her plate.

The lifelessness in her voice hit him like a punch to the gut. "Did you eat?"

She shook her head. "Not really hungry."

He frowned, stepping closer. "Is everything okay?"

She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "I could ask you the same thing."

He hesitated, the guilt bubbling to the surface. "I’ve been a jerk, haven’t I?"

She didn’t respond immediately, her fingers tracing the edge of her fork. "You told me I was too much," she said quietly. "So I decided to be less."

His heart sank at her words, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. "I didn’t mean it," he said, his voice breaking. "I was angry and frustrated, and I took it out on you. But I never meant that."

She finally looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt. "You said it, though. And it’s all I’ve been able to hear since."

He knelt beside her, reaching for her hands. "I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I’ve been so caught up in my own stress that I didn’t see how much I was hurting you. You’re not too much—you’re everything I need. And I’ve been pushing you away like an idiot."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "Do you even realize how hard it is to feel like you’re a burden to the person you love most?"

His grip on her hands tightened, his own tears threatening to spill. "You’re not a burden. You’re my world, and I’ve been too blind to see how much I was taking you for granted. Please, give me a chance to fix this. I’ll do anything."

She searched his face, looking for the sincerity she needed to see. When she found it, the tears she'd been holding back finally fell. "You really hurt me, Kenan," she said softly.

"I know, I'm sorry" he whispered, pulling her into his arms. "I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty (lmk if you want to be added!!)

[sgt-seabass]

I KNOW THE END ⋆ sylus x female reader

During a date at the museum, you and Sylus' growing affection intertwines with the portrayal of an ancient battle on a mural, uncovering feelings deeper than you could ever understand. But for Sylus, he knows the end of the story. w/c: 1.2k warnings: angst, feelings, no use of y/n, abstract references to sylus' myth notes: inspired by whatever the fuck was sylus’ tour memo chapter 4 cause that shit hurt beta: @vesearlee

It had been strangely pleasant to spend time with Sylus on his vacation. The atmosphere was domestic and natural, as if your being together was exactly what the world intended.

And even though you were at the event as Mr Sylus’ friend, it was clear to anyone that looked close enough that there was more at play than friendship —fleeting touches, soft contemplations, and the way he would stare at your lips any time he got far too close for a friend. 

It was nice to be out in public with him, to not have to hide in the shadows of the N109 zone.

The night was a flurry of activity, from the excitement of the donations, presentations, and various people coming to speak to Sylus; it wasn’t until you went for a private, late-night walk around the museum that you finally had some time alone with him.

There were many exhibits, each of which you only spared a glance at. Sylus seemed uninterested in the displays, until he stopped in front of an aged, cracked stone mural.

The mural, while only a fragment of the full picture, was a striking depiction of a female warrior with a sword in both her hands, the blade piercing the chest of a beast with horns and wings. 

You leaned in a little closer, feeling Sylus’ eyes watching you as you squatted down to examine the etched stone. Something about it made you feel a hollow pit in your stomach.  Even though it had been restored and the years had done its fair share of wear and tear, you could feel the anguish in the unfinished picture, sense the hesitation in the warrior as she made her final blow to the monster. 

Although for a fiendish monster, he looked remarkably like a man. Even with the features of a fearsome creature, he seemed… small, almost defeated in that moment. As if she held the fate of the world in her hands, and he was nothing but a victim of it.

Was she brave for slaying him? Or was he brave for facing death's door?

Your eyeline followed the intricate etchings of the mural, and as you focused on where the sword pierced the beasts chest, your own hands felt warm, as if you were burdened with his blood on your hands.

Slightly shaken, you stood back up, and Sylus placed his hands on your hips and his chin on your shoulder from behind. “What do you think? You seem entranced,” he asked.

“It’s… Poignant. It seems a bit melancholic; don’t you think?” You asked, relaxing in his hold, the smell of his cologne invading your senses.

Sylus hummed, the sound vibrating into your shoulder. “Hm. I think it’s rather beautiful. But it’s just a warrior slaying a monster, why do you find it sad?”

You considered the mural, letting your head lean against his, your heart thumping in the comfort of his embrace. “The monster doesn’t seem so monstrous to me. He’s not fighting back. If anything, it looks like he’s… he is actually helping her kill him — like she couldn’t deliver the final blow.”

Sylus let out a mirthless chuckle. “You really see so much in just an old fragment of stone?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It just… feels that way,” you said gloomily, unsure as to why you felt so connected to the ancient piece of art.

“Well,” Sylus hummed. “I can’t have you sad on a night like tonight. Come.” He extended his hand from your waist.

You took his offered hand, and he twirled you around to face him, your eyes meeting. The garnet of his eyes shone in the low light as you gazed upon him.

He truly was beautiful.

“Would you honour me with a dance, miss?” Sylus inquired softly, a gentle smile gracing his lips while warmth bloomed in his crinkling eyes.

“Of course, Mr. Sylus,” you quipped, a playful lilt in your voice as you allowed him to take the lead.

The soft strains of music floated through the elegant gallery of the museum, and Sylus enveloped you in a dance. Each step felt like a silent conversation, your bodies gliding across the polished floor with an effortless grace that spoke of your love. You made a mental note to dance with Sylus more when you both returned back home, each movement more freeing than the last.

Your gown swirled in a cascade of fabric, flowing elegantly with each spin, while Sylus moved with an elegant poise, his strong yet delicate hands guiding you like a master painter bringing life to a canvas. During those moments in his hold, your feet skimmed across the floor, light as a feather, while you twirled and lost yourself in the music. 

A radiant smile adorned your face, and you surrendered to the experience, closing your eyes for a moment as you spun under his careful guidance.

Yet, amidst the enchanting waltz, you couldn’t help but notice Sylus’ fleeting glances towards the mural adorning the wall, alternating between the artwork and your face. It was subtle, but you knew him well enough to notice it. “What is it?” You asked gently, still moving in tandem with him.

He seemed to consider his answer, a thoughtful look crossing his features. “They call me a monster, you know. So I suppose I see some of myself in the beast.”

You shook your head, the idea utterly absurd to you. “You’re no monster, Sylus. Misunderstood, maybe. But you are not a bad person.”

“I’ve done bad things,” he countered quickly, his brow arching as he twirled you around, a flicker of tension made his face grow taut. 

“Good people do bad things,” you replied firmly, your hands gently cupping his cheeks when he came to a stop, placing a chaste kiss to his lips. “I know you, and I know you’re a good person.”

A shadow passed over Sylus’ face, and his smile fell just shy of his eyes; it was clear he didn’t believe it. “Mm, it is your judgement I care about most. I shall have to take your word for it, kitten.”

Your lover pulled you back into the dance, this time his eyes fixed on you, as if he were trying to imprint every detail of the moment into his memory. “When we get home, will you play that song for me again, the one you know on the organ?” Sylus asked hopefully.

“Of course, it is your favourite.”

Without warning, Sylus pulled you into a deep kiss, and the world around you blurred as your hands instinctively found their place in his. A wave of passion coursed through you, sending your mind spiralling into bliss. Your evols instinctively resonated, your hands illuminating your grasp.

You didn’t leave his side for the rest of the evening, not for a moment. Sylus practically clung to you.He had a tendency to become like this sometimes—wrapped in a quiet anxiety—as though he anticipated the world would collapse around him.

 As if he would wake up tomorrow and you’d no longer exist.

As if he believed you were meant to be the brave warrior depicted in the mural. 

As if he expected you to sacrifice him—the monster—for the promise of a new world.

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[redvexillum]

@nyx91 Here's my take on your prompt, baby! 😘 Also, please check out these awesome writers - @whatswrongwithblue who wrote her prompt HERE and @redfoxwritesstuff version HERE! @inuhalfdemon I'm pretty sure Nyxy sent you this one too. Now, we are all waiting on yoOoooOooOu 👻

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, gentle s♡x, love making, established relationship, relationship on the rocks, alastor is bad with feelings, hurt/comfort

Your fingers clenched the glass with a force that belied the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. The cool rim pressed against your lips, the burn of the hard liquor a welcome distraction from the storm brewing in your chest.  

As the amber whisky slid down your throat, a shudder rolled through you, the heat searing into your veins, but it couldn’t touch the icy rage you felt. Slamming the empty glass onto the bar, the sharp sound echoed in your pounding head. You ground your teeth together, more in irritation than from the sting of the alcohol.  

Alastor’s voice, smooth and syrupy, drifted through the air like poison. He was laughing, entertaining the hotel crew with his usual cruel charm – those passive-aggressive jabs cloaked in that ever-present smile. You could barely stand to hear him, let alone look at him, so you kept your eyes fixed on the empty glass before, staring at the last remnants of whisky as your mind spun. Dizzying feelings of anger and the growing buzz of the alcohol swirled around in your head.  

Shaking your head, you shoved the glass toward Husk, who regarded you with his typical unimpressed expression. His long red eyebrow arched, but he continued to lazily wipe down the glass in his hand, barely giving you more than a glance.  

“You know,” Husk muttered, his voice low and smooth, “you should just talk to him.” The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, though he delivered them with a shrug, as if they held no consequences.  

A harsh snort escaped your lips. “’nother one,” you slurred, your voice thick with the effects of the liquor. You could feel the heat of it, spreading through you like wildfire, numbing the ache in your chest just enough to make you feel bold – foolish, but bold.  

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Husk asked, though his hands were already moving to grab the bottle of whisky from beneath the counter. He poured two fingers’ worth of the amber liquid, the sound of it hitting the glass like a promise of paradise.  

Your lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Nope, still mad as ‘ell,” you muttered, the words ‘nope’ punctuated with a sharp pop of the ‘p.’ Your gaze cut back to his eyes, “So, no, Husk, not nearly enough.” 

As your fingers reached for the glass, Husk slid it unreachable with an ease that only irritated you more. “He’s been staring at you all night, you know,” he grumbled, eyes narrowing. “He practically wants you to talk to him.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it made your head spine even more. “I’m not giving him the satisfaction.” The defiance in your voice felt hollow, and yet, you clung to it, desperate to keep the walls up between you and Alastor across the room. He didn’t deserve to meet your eyes tonight, or any other night for that matter.  

You slumped forward, elbow resting on the bar, your head propped in your head as you levelled a bleary stare at Husk. “What are you supposed to be tonight, anyway? A bartender?” You leaned closer, your body swaying slightly as the alcohol pooled in your system, your blouse straining against your chest as you moved.  

Husk sighed, eyes rolling as he muttered, “And you’re drunk.” His tone was flat, but before he could push the drink further away, you snatched it with a triumphant grin, tipping it back with a wink.  

The burn of the whisky barely registered anymore; it was nothing compared to the fury simmering under your skin. You could feel it, crackling just under the surface, mixed with the alcohol that made your limbs feel light and your head buzz.  

Standing up from the barstool, you leaned in close to Husk, a wicked grin spreading across your lips. “Guess what I’m dressed as?” you whispered, the words dripping with mischief. Without waiting for him to respond, you giggled, “That’s correct! A bar wench!” 

Your blouse hung low, teasingly revealing more of your cleavage, but you barely noticed. The tight girdle you wore cinched you in all the right places, but it wasn’t enough to keep the flush of heat spreading over your skin. It felt almost suffocating, the mix of alcohol, anger, and something indescribable all coiling tight inside you.  

Husk muttered something unintelligible, but you pressed on, your mind a swirl of emotions too tangled to untangle now. “You’re right, y’know,” you slurred, the words tumbling from your lips without restraint. “I shouldn’t be down. I should help you tonight – I'm already dressed the part.” You patted his shoulder with a grin, your hand lingering as you tried to ground yourself at the moment.  

He stared at you, eyes narrowing again, but there was something softer there too. “You’ve known him for over a decade,” Husk said, his voice gentler now, more serious. “You knew exactly what you were getting into when you decided to be with him.” 

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, unfortunately sobering you right up. He didn’t have to say Alastor’s name – just the thought of him was enough to make your stomach churn, the bile rising in your throat. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol, the fury still eating away at you, or the hollow ache of knowing that Husk was right.  

It was probably all of it.  

Your smile faltered, fading slowly as the memory of last week came back to the forefront of your mind without mercy. Ten years. You had been with Alastor just over a decade, but those years were fractured, seven of them consumed by silence and shadows. He had disappeared without a word, leaving you to wonder, to hurt, to grieve the love you thought you had.  

When he returned, it wasn’t the reunion you had once dreamed of. No, instead, you found out that he had traded away his soul for something – something he refused to tell you about. The secret gnawed at you, hollowing out the trust you had clung to for so long.  

Your fingers dug into the fabric of your black skirt, the material bunching between your knuckles as your grip tightened. You thought ...God, you thought you meant something to him. Enough for him to confide in you. Enough for him to trust you.  

But he didn’t.  

He kept you at arm’s length, always. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the abyss, never quite knowing if he’d catch you if you fell.  

Your breath hitched as your eyes blinked rapidly, fighting back the stinging salt of unshed tears. You had cried for him – cried for him night after night when you couldn’t bear to stay in the same room, couldn’t bear to let him see how deeply he had hurt you. Alastor didn’t deserve any more of your tears. Not after everything.  

Taking a shaky breath, you swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a smile, even though your heart felt like it was breaking all over again. “Anyway,” you said, your voice wavering for a split second before you forced it into a false cheer. “Looks like the Halloween party’s going great! But...there are empty cups in people’s hands!” You threw on a laugh, trying to mask the pain that threatened to claw its way to the surface. “As your best bar wench,” you continued with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “I believe it’s my duty to serve the customers!” 

Husk’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, his gaze piercing through your forced cheer like he could see every crack in the facade. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he could read you like a book. Husk always had that way of understanding, even when you tried so desperately to hide behind a smile. Still, he stayed silent, though his look spoke volumes – volumes you weren’t ready to face.  

“Well,” he finally said, his tone lightening with a smirk, “I ran out of whisky because someone,” he raised a brow at you, “polished it all off.” 

You rolled your eyes, trying to play along, even though your heart wasn’t in it. “There’s more in storage, Husk,” you replied, puffing out your chest in an exaggerated display. “I’ll just go get more! Look at that, I’m not only a gorgeousbar wench, but also a problem solver!” You tried for a grin, but it felt empty, the effort it took to keep up the pretense was exhausting.  

Husk chuckled, shaking his head. “Just hope you don’t remember this tomorrow,” he said with a snort, though you could see the concern still lingering in his eyes.  

With a heavy sigh, you let out a toneless laugh. “I’m not drunk, just a liltipsy.” The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but you turned on your heels before he could call you on it. You needed to get away for a moment – away from Husk, away from the party, away from him. 

As you made your way to the storage room, you caught sight of Charlie and Vaggie dressed as an angel and a devil, the irony of their roles not lost on you. They looked happy, content in their costumes, and for a brief moment, you felt a pang of envy. They didn’t have to worry about the walls that separated them. They didn’t have to question their place in each other’s lives.  

But you didn’t look at Alastor. Not once. You could feel his presence in the room, could almost sense his eyes on you, but you refused to give him the satisfaction. Not tonight.  

When you entered the storage room, the dim light from the hallway cast long shadows over the crates stacked along the walls. “Let’s see...” you mumbled to yourself, running your hands along the wooden boxes, searching for the whisky Husk needed. The quiet soothed you, a welcome relief from the noise of the party.  

Suddenly, the door creaked shut with a heavy thud, plunging the room into darkness. You whipped around, heart almost leaping out your throat. “What the-?” 

Before you could finish, you heard the unmistakable click of the lock sliding into place, sealing you in. Your breath caught, the air thick with tension.  

“My, my. Good evening, darling,” came the voice you simultaneously missed and dreaded. Alastor’s voice, rich and smooth, like velvet soaked in poison. It slithered through the darkness, wrapping around you, making your skin prickle with both longing and anger.  

You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest, not bothering to turn toward him. “Alastor, I don’t want to play games,” you muttered, the exhaustion in your voice apparent.  

He chuckled, the sound low and dark, echoing off the walls. “Alastor? Oh no, my dear,” he purred, amusement lacing his tone. “It’s Captain Alastor tonight.” 

With a snap of his fingers, green flames flickered to life, casting an eerie glow around the room. The shadows danced wildly on the walls, but it wasn’t the flames that held your attention. No, it was him. Alastor, dressed in a pirate’s costume, complete with a crimson bandana tied around his head. His jacket was adorned with gold buttons and buckles, his black leather booth shining in the sickly light. He looked every bit the part, but the smile that curled his lips was still the same – a smile that could hide an infinite number of secrets.  

He stepped forward, and instinctively, you retreated – one step, then another – until your back met the cold, unforgiving wall. Your heart raced, ever nerve in your body on high alert as Alastor closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming. His looming figure cast a shadow over you, but you refused to look at him, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.  

“What do you want?” you mumbled, the question trembling on your lips. You couldn’t muster the strength to sound defiant, not when his proximity made your breath hitch.  

Alastor’s smile widened, that ever-present unsettling grin that never seemed to face. “What I’ve been wanting since you rudely left my bed eight nights ago,” he answered with a playful lilt, his tone too bright, too casual for the tension building between you.  

Another step. And another. Until his chest hovered mere inches from you, the heat of his body radiating through his pirate’s costume. You found yourself staring at the third gold button on his jacket, unable to meet his eyes. It felt safer that way – safer than confronting the emotions threatening to spill over.  

“Rudely, huh?” you shot back, the alcohol in your bloodstreams emboldened your words, your anger simmering, bubbling up from your chest. “Well, I guess I’m just a rude girl now. So, if you’ll excuse me-” 

You tried to slip past him, but instantly, his arms shot up, trapping you between the wall and his body. The sharp intake of your breath was loud in the enclosed space, and your heart hammered against your ribs.  

“Look at me, darling,” Alastor’s voice was soft now, coaxing, almost tender, a stark contrast to the playful lilt he’d used moments ago. He leaned in, his breath a warm whisper against your lips, his words sending shivers down your spine. “It’s rude not to look at the person you’re speaking to.” 

The tip of his clawed fingers grazed your cheek, feather-light, as though testing the boundaries of your resistance. “Look at me,” he murmured again, his voice a gentle command, his finger caressing your skin like you were something delicate, fragile.  

Your body betrayed you. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the exhaustion of holding your emotions in for so long, or maybe it was the undeniable pull he had over you – whatever it was, you tilted your head up, finally meeting his gaze.  

You wanted to glare at him, to summon all the fury and hurt you felt into one look. But the moment your eyes locked with his, something inside you fractured. Alastor’s grin softened ever so slightly as he gazed down at you, and the intensity of his red eyes stripped you bare. 

Thus, the dam that you were so desperate to hold back, broke.  

Tears welled in your eyes, stinging as they gathered, and your lips trembled despite your best efforts to hold steady. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry for him anymore – he didn’t deserve it, not after everything.  

But here you were, standing on the precipice of breaking all over again. The anger you had been clinging to melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, aching sadness. Why did he have to do this to you? Why, after all the betrayal and heartbreak, did your heart still soften the moment you saw him? 

“I need to go now, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, weak and fragile. “Please unlock the door-” 

But before you could finish, his lips were on yours, sudden and firm, silencing the rest of your plea. The kiss stole the air from your lungs, igniting the familiar flames of passion within you. His body pressed against yours, enveloping you in a heat that was all too familiar, a warmth you had craved even when you hated yourself for wanting it. One hand cradled your face, the other settled on your hip, grounding you in a way that made your head spin.  

You should push him away. You should resist. Every part of your rational mind screamed at you to fight back, to remember the betrayal that had shattered your trust, to remember the anger that fuelled you for days.  

But you didn’t.  

Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as you allowed yourself to sink into the kiss, your body – your heart – betraying your mind. His lips moved against yours, tender and desperate all at once, and you stayed – tethered to him by something stronger than rage.  

When he finally pulled back, his breath came in shallow bursts, his forehead resting gently against yours. His thumb brushed away the stray tears on your cheek, a wistful sigh escaping his lips as his eyes searched yours. There was something in his gaze – something vulnerable, something he rarely let you see.  

He grinned, but it was softer this time, almost bittersweet. “Now, miss,” he said, his voice filled with mock grandeur, the teasing note returning. “What will you do now that you’re stuck here with a dastardly pirate such as myself?” 

The lightness in his tone didn’t match the intensity in his eyes. They bore into yours, searching for something – an answer, perhaps, or maybe forgiveness.  

You knew exactly what he was doing. Alastor, for all his bravado and showmanship, didn’t know how to bare himself – didn't know how to peel back those layers of invulnerability. Instead, he hid behind his endless masks, each one more carefully constructed than the last. And tonight, he wore the perfect one for you – the one designed to charm, to coax a smile from your lips even when your heart felt heavy.  

Your fingers trembled as they reached up, brushing against his cheek. The smoothness of his skin beneath your fingertips stirred something delicate within you, something raw and aching. Without a word, you threaded your hand into his hair, pulling him down until your lips met his in a kiss so soft it could’ve shattered.  

You wondered, in that fleeting moment, if Alastor even realized that he didn’t need to be perfect for you. That his strength wasn’t what made you love him – it was the rare glimpses of vulnerability, the moments when the masks slipped, that captured your heart.  

His body softened in your embrace, tension melting away as he pulled you closer, his need for you palpable in the way his hands clutched at your waist. His kiss deepened, urgent now, as though he were trying to communicate all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say. And perhaps you were complicit in this – playing along in his games of pretense, the dance of make-believe you both performed so well. Even now, wrapped in costumes, the charade continued, masking the truth neither of you had the courage to face.  

The words that should have been spoken – of hurt, of longing, of the chasm growing between you – were swallowed up in the heat of the moment. Alastor pressed his hips against you, the hardness of him dragging along your core as his hands roamed your body, setting your skin alight. His breath hitched, and soon the room was filled with the rustle of fabric, hurried movements, and the unmistakable clink of his belt being undone. Your skirt was pushed up, your underwear forgotten as it slid down to your ankles.  

But then, just as the urgency peaked, he paused. His eyes met yours, the glow of the green flames flickering around you casting half his face in shadow. His expression was unreadable, half hidden by the darkness, yet you could see the question in his gaze – the hesitation that belied the playful swagger he always wore.  

You lifted one leg, wrapping it around his waist, pulling him closer as the warmth of his length pressed against your core. Slowly, you moved, the friction between you drawing a soft moan from his lips. His eyes fluttered shut, the pleasure evident on his face as his hands gripped you tighter, his forehead resting against yours.  

Darling,” he breathed, his voice no longer playful, no longer teasing. It was soft, almost vulnerable, and the way he held you now – so tightly, as if afraid you might disappear – felt like the truest moment between you in a long time.  

Your mind, fogged with alcohol and the haze of lust, seemed to slow the world down around you. Every sensation was amplified – the heat of his body against yours, the way he trembled with each stroke, the way your own heart ached even as your body burned with desire. The initial anger that had driven you to this moment began to melt away, replaced by something deeper – an aching sadness, a profound loneliness that slowly eroded the edges of your soul.  

In the silence that followed, neither of you spoke. This act, this intimacy, had become the only place where the two of you could find any semblance of honesty. Here, with his lips pressed to yours, his hands clinging to you like you were his only lifeline, there was no room for masks. It was the one moment where the roles you played for each other dissolved, leaving nothing but raw, unfiltered emotion etched across his face. 

And in his face, you saw it.  

His red eyes, glowing and intense, were softened by the flickering green flames around you. He kissed you again, slower this time, murmuring soft praises against your lips – telling you how good you felt, how much he needed you, how right this moment was.  

But just below the tender words, you could feel the weight of everything left unsaid. The weight of the love you shared, the pain, the misunderstandings – the endless cycle of pushing and pulling, hiding and revealing. And as his body pressed closer to yours, as his lips lingered on your skin, you realized that this, for all its imperfections, was the only truth you and Alastor had left. A truth buried in the way he held you, in the way you couldn’t let him go, even when you knew you probably should.  

Slow languid kisses mingled with the heat radiating from his body, his hard length pressing insistently against you, grinding you in a steady rhythm. Each motion sent an addicting pulse of need through you, until the blunt tip of him nudged against your slick folds.  

“Darling,” he murmured, the words drenched in need as his lips found yours once more, dragging the kiss out as he slowly sank into your warmth, his voice trembling as he repeated, “my darling.” 

The sharp gasp that escaped your lips seemed to be all he needed, a soft moan slipping from you as he fully sheathed himself inside you, stretching you, filling you, pressing against every tender nerve. You clenched around him, your body naturally responding to the feel of him, and he shuddered, his breath quickening as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. There, hidden from your gaze, he could allow himself to be bare, raw, vulnerable – away from the performance, the masks.  

His hips rolled in slow, deliberate motions, the wet, intimate sounds of your bodies coming together filling the small, dimly lit space. The hardness of the wooden wall at your back contrasted with the softness of his touch, his hands gripping your hips, your fingers tangling in his hair as you held him close. Each slow thrust was a burst of sensation, your nerves alight with every deep, lingering stroke, every inch of his dragging along your sensitive walls. 

“Alastor,” you moaned softly, his name slipping from your lips as if in prayer, and you felt his body tense, his hips pausing mid-thrust. His breath ragged as his red eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw him – truly saw him.  

The trickery, the menace, the lies – all gone. In its place was something fragile, something real.  

Are we still okay? 

His eyes, wide and searching, asked the silent question, his gaze never leaving yours.  

Do you still love me? 

The soft brush of his fingers as they tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the tender way he touched you, begged for an answer he couldn’t bring himself to voice.  

Will you stay with me? 

The kiss he pressed to your lips was slow, pleading, as if asking for more than just the physical – asking you to give him reassurance.  

Tears welled in your eyes, not from sadness, but from the weight of it all. Tightening your hold around him, you slowly moved along his length, a moan catching in his throat as you took control, your body guiding his. The motion elicited a sharp hiss from him, the intensity of your choice, your desire, giving him all the permission he needed to abandon his restraint.  

His pace quickened, the cold metal buckle of his belt grazing your inner thigh as he began to thrust with more urgency, his hips pistoning into you, driving as deep as his can. The pressure against your swollen clit with his hips sent shocks of pleasure through you.  

His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he lost rhythm, the intensity overtaking him, his body seeking yours with increasing desperation. Each thrust drove him deeper, harder, the friction, the closeness pushing you both toward the edge. Your own breath stuttered, your muscles tightening, your abdomen clenching as your release built, the pleasure mounting with every stroke, every brush of his hips against your throbbing core.  

Your orgasm hit first, tearing through you with a force that left you breathless, a small cry slipping from your lips as your body trembled in his arms. Your fingers gripped the back of his jacket, holding on as your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper into your pleasure.  

Alastor’s moan followed, guttural and raw, his hips stuttering to a halt before resuming their slow, deliberate thrusts, each one sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you as he spilled into you, the warmth of his release filing you in hot, pulsing bursts.  

He slowed, each thrust dragging out the last moments of bliss, his cock throbbing inside you as he emptied himself completely, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless moan. His arms tightened around you, pulling you close, his forehead pressing against yours as he held you there. His chest rose and fell with the effort of his breathing.  

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared breaths, mingling in the quiet. No words were spoken, no conversations ventured into the unresolved matters that still hung heavy between you. In this small, stolen moment, it was only the two of you, lost in the aftermath of passion.  

You two were held together by something far deeper than the words you could never quite say.  

As he slowly withdrew from you, the heat of him still lingering inside, you felt the absence keenly—the slow, sticky glide of his cock slipping free, slick with the evidence of your union. His release, warm and thick, trailed down your thighs in lazy rivulets, a tangible reminder of the intimacy you had just shared. But even as your body still hummed with the aftershocks, there was a heaviness in your chest that clashed with the physical satisfaction. 

He gently tilted your chin, his fingers warm yet commanding, urging you to meet his gaze. And when you did, you saw it again—the familiar mask sliding effortlessly back into place. 

The trickster’s grin. 

“Well, I suppose I must whisk you away to my ship tonight, darling,” he teased, voice playful, yet it didn’t quite reach the depths of his eyes. Leaning down, he kissed you lightly, a fleeting brush of lips, more teasing than tender. “You will warm my bed tonight, right, darling?” 

Your head swam, still fogged from the orgasm that left your knees weak, the faint haze of alcohol mixing with the ache of something unsaid. His words were playful, light, but they didn’t settle right in your heart. They rang hollow, echoing against the unspoken truth between you. You opened your mouth, ready to ask the question that ate away at your heart. 

How much longer must we play this act, Alastor? 

The words formed, heavy and desperate, but they never made it past your lips. Instead, something else took over. The familiar script. The comfort of pretending. You rose onto your toes, closing the space between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that tasted too sweet for the bitterness welling inside. It was soft, tender, and yet... it was a kiss laced with unshed tears, a quiet plea neither of you would ever voice. 

And as his arms wrapped around you, as his lips moved against yours with practised ease, you felt it—how easy it was for both of you to slip back into your roles. To hide behind the costumes, the masks. His touch was warm, grounding, but the distance between your hearts felt greater than ever. 

It seemed you and he still weren’t ready to shed the costumes after all. 

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