#writing math formulas as a love language

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time jumps, slice of life.

Notes — There are no words, really. I hope you cherish all of the tiny, specific details I added here. I spent a lot of time on it. Yes, I will possibly write some additional snapshots/oneshots of their future.

2025

Autism, Womanhood, and the Mechanics of Belonging by Amelia Norris

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

In me, it’s always looked like this: a difficulty with eye contact. An inability to read the curve of someone’s mouth or the sharp edges hidden beneath their tone. I learned early how to catalogue expressions the way other girls my age collected dolls — not for fun, but for function. A survival skill. A flash of teeth? Friendly. Or hostile. Or forced. Raised eyebrows? Surprise. Maybe judgment. Maybe not.

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

Sarcasm took longer. I still miss it, sometimes. I can design a suspension system from scratch, but I’ll still turn to my husband after a conversation and ask, “Was that a joke?”

It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

Touch has always been strange, too. I don’t like uninvited contact. Hugs feel like puzzles with warped edges — familiar in theory, but always a little off. It’s not dislike. It’s friction between my nervous system and the world. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me.

I was wrong.

I’m not broken. I’m just calibrated differently.

And then there’s the focus.

When I was a child, it was Formula 1. Not the drivers, not the glamour — the systems. The telemetry. The pit stop choreography. The physics. The math hidden inside motion. While other kids learned to swim, I was memorising tyre degradation patterns. While girls my age planned birthday parties, I was building aerodynamic models from cereal boxes.

I didn’t understand how to be part of the world I’d been born into.

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

That obsession became a career — eventually. But not right away.

My father, Zak Brown, became the CEO of McLaren Racing. I thought that would be an advantage. I was wrong again. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to take me seriously. I brought ideas. He catalogued them without thought. I handed him data. He passed it off to other people without remembering I’d written it.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — but he did. In a hundred careless ways. 

Enough to make me leave.

I was already seeing Lando, quietly. It was early. Tentative. I was cautious because I didn’t always understand people. He was cautious because he was getting advice, loud, well-meaning advice, not to date the boss’s daughter.

He disappeared on me for a while. And I didn’t understand why.

I remember thinking: I must have done something wrong and not realised it.

But I hadn’t.

Eventually, he came back. Explained. Apologised. We learned each other slowly, and not always easily — but deeply.

Around the same time, I left McLaren. I took a job at Red Bull. Not for revenge. For recognition.

Max Verstappen didn’t care who my father was. He cared that I understood race pace like a second language. We won two championships together.

And in the meantime — Lando and I kept finding our way back to each other. Every time, more solid than before.

Eventually, I came back to papaya. But on my terms. Not as Zak’s daughter. As a lead engineer. With Oscar by my side and Lando in a car I had helped design, shaped precisely to fit his hands, his shoulders, his driving style.

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

And the hyper-focus I’ve carried my whole life shifted again — narrowed, but deepened.

It’s still data. Still equations and airflow and lap deltas. But it’s also Lando, who stopped having to ask to touch me years ago. Who doesn’t need explanations but still listens when I give them.

It’s Ada — glorious, curious, sticky. Who throws glitter onto my schematics and insists I help her fix the broken boosters on her cardboard spaceship with grunts and wife, pleading eyes.

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

My autism didn’t vanish when I became a wife. It didn’t soften when I became a mother. I am still who I have always been: meticulous, sensitive, blunt. I still script my voicemails. I still shut down when I’m overstimulated. I still have meltdowns. I still need more sleep than most people and can’t fucntion in rooms with flickering lights.

But I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve made peace not just with structure, but with chaos. With change. With soft interruptions. With a life I never thought I’d be able to build.

I’ve created a life where I don’t have to perform.

I just get to be.

And for the first time, I’m letting people see me. All of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere, there’s a teenage girl memorising lap times and scared she doesn’t belong in a world that moves too loud, too fast, too unclearly.

Because I wish I’d known sooner that I wasn’t alone.

Today, I’m proud to announce the launch of NeuroDrive — a foundation dedicated to mentoring, supporting, and funding autistic young women pursuing careers in motorsport.

We’ll be offering scholarships. Internships. Mentorship. Resources. Community.

From engineering to analytics to logistics to aero to comms — every role that makes this sport move.

I want these girls to know that their focus is a gift.

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

I want them to know they don’t need to hide.

There’s room for them here. There’s room for all of us.

And they belong — fully, loudly, exactly as they are — in motorsport.

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

She hadn’t meant to write it all in one frantic breath. It had just… unfurled. A loose thread tugged gently free at the edge of the day, unraveling steadily until it wove itself into something whole.

She stared at the last line. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then lowered to her lap. She exhaled.

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

A moment later, familiar arms wrapped gently around her waist — warm, unhurried. Lando pressed a kiss just behind her ear, right in that small, quiet space that always made her flinch less than anywhere else.

“She’s asleep,” Lando murmured, voice low and amused. “Finally. Made me sing the rocket song. Twice. And do the hand movements.”

Amelia huffed a small, warm laugh but didn’t turn. “You hate the hand movements.”

“I hate them passionately,” he said, bending slightly to press a kiss to the space just behind her ear. “But she likes them. And I happen to love her enough to tolerate them.”

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The sea air had slipped in through the open balcony doors behind them, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the gentle hum of nighttime Monaco. 

Lando’s arms slid comfortably around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the screen. “Let me read it?” He asked after a pause.

“You already know all of it,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, nudging her temple with his nose. “But I like hearing it in your words.”

She didn’t answer, not with words anyway. She just leaned into him, letting her body relax in increments. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before dropping quietly to her lap. Her pulse, which had been buzzing all evening, finally slowed. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen — steady, patient, waiting.

She would post the piece eventually. Maybe not tonight. But soon. She’d promised the women helping her build NeuroDrive that the launch would be personal, rooted in something real — something true. And this essay… it was all of that. Raw and oddly fragile. But hers.

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

“I think she likes it here,” Lando murmured, after a few minutes had passed in quiet. “Monaco.”

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

“Yeah. I had her out on the balcony earlier. She liked the sun.”

“She gets that from you,” Amelia said, dry as ever.

He laughed softly. “She does like the heat. More than I expected.”

“She likes everything here,” Amelia admitted, watching the night settle over the marina. “The boats. The water. Max’s cats.”

“She said ‘cat’ three times yesterday,” Lando said proudly.

“She’s five months old, Lando. It was probably just gas.”

“No,” he insisted. “She looked right at Jimmy and said it. Loudly.”

“Well, Jimmy did bite her toy rocket.” She said, her lips twitching at the memory of her daughter’s appalled face as the cat attacked her beloved stuffy. 

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

They both fell quiet again, lulled by the rhythm of the moment. Amelia let her gaze drift across the open-plan living space of their Monaco apartment; all soft neutrals and clean angles, intentionally simple. 

This was Ada’s first real stretch of time here. The first time Monaco would ever feel like home to their daughter, not just a temporary stop between England and wherever Lando was racing next. Amelia had worried about that — the splitness of things. Of belonging to multiple places but never fully resting in one. But Ada, with all her glittering confidence and stubborn joy, didn’t seem to mind.

“She doesn’t mind the change,” Amelia said quietly. “She just… adapts. Quicker than I do.”

“You’ve been adapting longer,” Lando said simply. “She’s still new. You had to learn the hard way.”

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

He brushed his lips against her cheek, slow and careful. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “I loved it when I didn’t understand it, and I love it even more now that I do.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight in the familiar, unwieldy way that happened when someone saw her too clearly. “It’s almost done,” she said, nodding toward the document. “Just a few more edits. Then I’ll post it. The site’s ready. The social channels are scheduled. The first mentorship emails go out next week.”

He squeezed her waist gently. “You built a whole new system, baby.”

“I built a team,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s not just going to be mine.”

He nodded. “You’re going to change lives, baby.”

“Hopefully not just change them,” she said. “Build them. Design them. Like a car.”

He grinned into her hair. “You and your car metaphors.”

“I don’t use them that often.” She frowned. 

“Mm. You’re right. Only four times a day.”

He was teasing her. The lopsided smile, squinty eyes and tiny red splotches on his cheekbones told her so. 

She rolled her eyes but leaned back into him anyway. Lando’s arms around her. Ada safe and sleeping. The sea just a five minute drive from their inner-city apartment. 

It didn’t matter that the cursor was still blinking on her screen.

She’d found her place in the world; or built it, piece by piece.

And she was going to help other girls do the same.

—

@/NeuroDriveOrg Today, we’re launching NeuroDrive: a charity organisation formed to empower autistic women in motorsport — because brilliance comes in many forms, and it’s time we celebrate every one of them. Find out more and discover how to get involved by clicking the link below. #NeuroDriveLaunch 

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

OMG AMELIA???? This is so crazy but I’m so here for it!! #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/racecarrebel

Autistic and a gearhead? That’s me lol. Signing up right now!

@/sarcasticengineer

wait so I can geek out about torque and not pretend i get social cues? literally a dream 

@/cartoonkid420

*gif of a car drifting sideways* When you realize your fave F1 engineer is actually a real-life superhero  #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

Yk honestly big ups to @/AmeliaNorris for making this happen. What a woman. 

@/indylewis

This being the first post I see when I open this app after my diagnosis review? CINEMA. 

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/notlewisbutclose LEWIS ON THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS? IKTR MY KING 

@/LewisHamilton Proud to see and have a hand in making initiatives like NeuroDrive happen. It’s about time that we start making strides to pave the way for real diversity in motorsport. Change is coming, and it’s about time. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/landostrollfan99 PLS I KNOW LANDO IS CRASHING OUT BC HE’S SO PROUD OF HIS WIFEY RN 

@/NeuroDriveOrg Thank you everyone for all the love! Our virtual mentorship program opens next week; sign up to be part of the first cohort! Over 18’s can sign up themselves, but anyone younger must have parental consent. Thanks, Amelia. 

@/AnnieAnalyst

My mom has been a hardcore motorsport fan for decades. She’s on the spectrum. She’s found such joy in watching Amelia Norris take the F1 world by storm over the past eight years. I know that she’s going to be so happy about this. Can’t wait to tell her. 

@/samliverygoat

This is sick. I’m a guy, but my sister is eight and autistic and wants to be a mechanic. I’m gonna tell my mum about this and get her signed up. Big ups your wife @/LandoNorris 

—

Lando woke slowly, the Monaco morning sun spilling in through gauzy curtains and casting pale gold across their bedroom. The room was still, quiet in that delicate way that meant someone had been awake for a while already.

He blinked, then turned toward the warm shape beside him; and stopped, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

Amelia was sitting upright against the headboard, hair pulled into a messy knot, one arm curled around Ada who was nestled into her chest, half-asleep and nursing. Her other hand held her phone, screen dimmed low. She was speaking quietly — not in a cooing baby voice, but in her normal cadence, clipped and slightly analytical.

“…recognises familiar people, understands simple instructions, imitates gestures, like clapping or waving; well, I’ve literally never seen you wave unless it’s to say goodbye to your own socks.” She frowned.

Lando smiled into his pillow, eyes still half-closed.

Amelia glanced down at Ada, who blinked up at her with wide eyes and a dribble of milk on her chin.

“That’s fine. You’re spatially efficient already.”

“Are we reading milestone checklists?” Lando’s voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and fond.

Amelia didn’t jump, didn’t even look away from her screen. “It’s her birthday. I thought I should make sure she’s not developmentally behind.”

“She’s licking your elbow,” he pointed out.

“Which is not on the list,” she sighed. 

Lando scooted closer, propping himself up on one elbow to see them both better. Ada detached with a soft sigh, then yawned, full-bodied and squeaky. Amelia adjusted her shirt without ceremony and let Ada rest against her, one hand gently stroking her hair.

“She’s perfect,” he said, leaning over to kiss the crown of Ada’s head, then Amelia’s shoulder. “Milestones or not.”

Amelia hesitated. “She’s not pointing at things. That’s apparently a big one.”

“She screamed at Max’s cats until they moved out of her way, does that count?”

Amelia hummed in thought. “I suppose we could classify that as assertive communication.”

They sat like that for a minute, wrapped in the warm hush of early light and baby breaths. Monaco in June was hazy and beautiful, a perfect little jewel box of a day already unfolding around them.

“Do you think she knows it’s her birthday?” Lando asked, voice still low.

“No,” Amelia said simply. “Probably not. But we do.” She glanced down at their daughter again, something unreadable, almost too tender, flickering behind her eyes. “I know it’s been a year since I stopped being one version of myself and started being another.”

Lando’s hand found hers where it rested on Ada’s tiny back. “Yeah, baby?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. I feel… broader. Like I can stretch in more directions now.”

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Ada, half-asleep, made a soft gurgling sound and grabbed Amelia’s Lando necklace in one surprisingly strong fist.

Lando leaned in again, voice warmer now. “Happy birthday, sweet little pea,” he whispered to Ada, then kissed Amelia’s jaw. “And happy birth-day to you.”

Amelia made a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted. “You did all the work. You should get recognition too.”

“I suppose.” She considered it for a minute. “Does that mean I should congratulate you on the anniversary of her conception?”

She was being serious — which was why he just smiled instead of laughing the way he desperately wanted to. “If you want to, baby.” 

She nodded and catalogued that away in the small corner of her brain that contained a long list of dates that mattered most to her. 

She think about it like this: dates she will never forget. Not because she wrote them down, but because they’re carved into the soft machinery of who she is. 

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday. 

November 7th – Her father’s birthday. 

December 12th, 2021 – Max’s first championship win. 

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day. 

July 2nd, 2023 – Oscar’s first Grand Prix start. 

May 5th, 2024 – The day Lando won his first race. 

June 30th, 2024 – The day Ada was born. 

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

But those dates don’t need charts or colour codes.

They live in her like heat. Like heartbeat. Like gravity.

Later, there would be cake. Balloons. Chaos. Max will appear with sacks full of wrapped gifts. Ada will probably eat something that she isn’t supposed to. 

Lando takes Ada into his arms and lifts her above his head, blowing a bubble at her with his lips. 

She drools sleepily, and Amelia winces when milky bile spills from her mouth. 

Yeah. Not a good idea to jostle a well-fed baby. 

Lando made a face and then used his t-shirt to wipe their little girls’ lip clean. 

She stared at him. 

And at their small, wondrous girl. 

A year old. 

—

Seventeen Years Later

The sky was brightening in soft lavender layers over the marina. Monaco looked almost quiet for once — like it was holding its breath.

Ada sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back pressed to the base of her mother’s old desk. The drawer had stuck for years, warped with sea air, but today it had slid open easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Inside: one neatly folded sheet of thick paper. Her name was written in the corner in her mum’s handwriting. Clean, sharp letters. 

She unfolded it carefully, even though part of her already knew what kind of letter this would be. Not sentimental. Not flowery. Not emotional in the ways people expected. But honest. 

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

You’re asleep right now — finally — with vanilla frosting in your hair and a purple sock on one foot and not the other. Your daddy’s asleep too, mouth open, curled around the giraffe that Maxie gave you today. I should be sleeping. But I’m here, writing this. That probably says a lot.

I don’t know who you’ll be yet. Not really.

Maybe you’ll love numbers the way I do. Maybe you’ll throw yourself into art, or animals, or flight, or noise. Maybe you’ll carry the softness your father wears so easily. Maybe you’ll burn hot like me and never quite know how to dim it.

Or maybe, hopefully, you’ll be entirely your own: unshaped by us, unafraid of being too much or not enough.

All I know is this: whoever you are, whoever you become, I will love you without condition and without needing to fully understand.

Because understanding is not a prerequisite for love. It never has been.

I want to get everything right. I won’t. I already know that.

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

I will learn what you need from me, over and over again, as you change and grow and outpace me. I will listen — even when I don’t know what to say. I will ask you what you need, and believe you the first time.

Love isn’t easy for me in the way it is for your daddy. I don’t always say the right thing, or give affection in the way people expect. But please know: I love you with everything I have. In every way I know how.

It may not always look loud or obvious. But it will be real. And it will never leave you.

I will always be in your corner. 

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

The letter smelled faintly of ink and something older; lavender, maybe, or the ghost of her mum’s favourite perfume. Ada folded it carefully along the worn creases and slid it back into its envelope, fingers tracing the edge before getting up and going back to her bedroom, tucking it inside the drawer of her nightstand.

The light from the marina hadn’t reached this side of the house yet, but the sea breeze had — soft and salt-laced through the open windows. Ada padded barefoot across the wooden floor, familiar as the lines on her own palm, and moved quietly into the hallway.

The balcony door was already ajar.

Her mother was there, as she always was on mornings like this — perched in her usual chair, legs tucked under her body, a latte cradled in both hands. Her hair was scraped back in a low twist, pale in the early morning light, and she hadn’t noticed Ada yet.

Amelia was humming. Softly. Tunelessly. A little stim she’d done for as long as Ada could remember.

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

Then she stepped forward, slow and quiet. Climbed into her mother’s lap without a word, curling against her like she was still small enough to belong there.

Amelia stilled for half a breath. Then she shifted, just slightly — letting her daughter fit against her without comment or tension. One hand settled over Ada’s spine. The other stayed wrapped around the ceramic heat of her cup.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she kept humming. A low, constant thread of sound that vibrated in Ada’s ribs as she pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder.

They watched the sun climb over the harbour. The light came in slow and sure, brushing over the rooftops and catching on the water in amber fragments.

Amelia didn’t speak. She just held her daughter. One hand stroking the same pattern — left shoulder to elbow, up and back again.

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

She was older now; too big, probably, to sit in her small statured mum’s lap like this. But not today. Not just yet.

In her mother’s arms, she was still allowed to be small.

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

And Amelia, in the language she had always known best, presence over words, held her through it.

As the light shifted across the sea, the only sound between them was the soft hiss of foam against porcelain. The familiar hum. The heartbeat of love — silent, constant, and entirely understood.

— 

2025

It was impossible to sum up the 2025 season in any cohesive way. 

There were days she felt like she was balancing on the tip of a needle. 

Her car was perfect. That much was undeniable. For the first time since she’d begun clawing her way through every door that had once been locked to her, the machine under her boys wasn’t just competitive — it was untouchable. Fast on every compound. Nimble in the wet. Ferocious in the hands of a driver who knew how to take it to the edge.

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

But McLaren hadn’t combusted. Not yet, anyway. Not under her watch.

Oscar had grown into himself in ways that still caught her off guard — all lean control and precision, carrying the ice-veined patience of someone who had watched others take what he knew he was capable of. He drove like someone with nothing left to prove and everything still to take.

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

There were days he was still impossibly frustrating — still too harsh on himself, too reactive on the radio, still hurt in ways she couldn’t always patch. But he was stronger now. Calmer. Faster. And he trusted her. Not blindly, not because he loved her — but because he believed in her. Her mind. Her leadership. Her.

Every race had been a coin toss. Oscar or Lando. Lando or Oscar. Strategy calls had to be clinical. Unbiased. And every week she made them with the knowledge that whatever she chose could cost someone she loved the chance at something immortal.

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

Not when the car was finally everything she’d spent her life trying to build.

When the upgrades landed and they locked out the front row, she didn’t smile. She just stared at the data until the lines blurred, heart thudding, and told herself she’d allow joy when it was over.

When they took each other out in Silverstone; barely a racing incident, but brutal nonetheless, she didn’t speak to anyone for two hours. Just shut herself in the sim office and breathed through the silence until the tightness left her hands.

When they went 1-2 in Singapore, swapping fastest laps down to the final sector, she didn’t even hear the cheers. She just watched the replay of the overtake again. And again. And again.

Precision. Patience. Courage.

They had everything. And they were hers — in the only ways that mattered in this arena. Oscar, her driver. Lando, her husband. Both brilliant. Both stubborn. Both driving the car she had finally, finally perfected. 

In the garage, she never played favourites.

In the dark, she ached with the weight of both of them.

Now, the season was nearly over. One race to go. One title on the line. Between them.

And Amelia?

She felt something not quite like calm. Not quite like pride.

Something vaster.

She didn’t know who would win. She truly didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if she had a preference. Her love for Lando, loud and chaotic, as real as gravity, lived beside her fierce loyalty to Oscar, who had never once asked her to earn his trust, only to maintain it.

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

And whatever the final points tally read, whatever flag waved first in Abu Dhabi, it would not change what she’d built. What they’d built. A machine so complete, so purely competitive, that the only person who could beat it was someone inside of it.

That, she thought, was the mark of something enduring.

And in the quiet before the finale, Amelia allowed herself a breath of pride so deep it nearly broke her open.

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

It was about the fact that the world had doubted her. Them. 

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

Amelia had been keeping a spreadsheet. Of course she had.

A private one — just a simple, tucked-away Google Sheet with six columns: Developmental milestone, Average age, Ada’s age, Observed behaviour, Paediatricians’ notes, and Feelings (which she almost always left blank).

She updated it weekly. Sometimes daily. Just in case.

And she knew, clinically, that speech development wasn’t one-size-fits-all. That some children talked at eight months and others waited until twenty. That it was normal, even healthy, for some toddlers to take their time.

But normal never did much to soothe her.

Especially not when the silence had started to feel louder than it should.

Ada babbled — just not much. She gestured, pointed, tugged their hands, grunted with specific frustration when her needs weren’t met. She understood them. That wasn’t in question. But her lips hadn’t shaped a word yet. Not one.

At twenty-two months, Amelia was trying not to spiral. But her spreadsheet had too many empty cells. Too many quiet mornings.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have anything she feels like saying yet,” Lando said one night, rolling onto his side to face her in bed. Ada had gone down late and Amelia had spent the evening researching speech therapy assessments and second-language interference. 

“She should have at least one word by now,” Amelia muttered, eyes on her screen.

“She’s got plenty. She just hasn’t said them out loud.” Lando reached out, nudged the laptop closed. “She’s fine. You know she’s fine.”

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

The next afternoon, Ada was with them in the garage — tucked into her earmuffs and her tiniest McLaren hoodie, perched in her playpen while Amelia ran final aero checks on a new floor configuration. Lando had stopped by between simulator sessions and was now crouched beside Ada, offering her a padded torque wrench like it was a teddy bear.

Amelia looked up from her laptop, distracted by a little squeal.

Ada had pressed both palms against the concrete floor. And a smudge of oil had made its way across her hand.

She looked at it, then at Lando, wide-eyed.

Then she scrunched up her nose, a perfect mirror of her mother’s expression, and said, clearly and without hesitation, “Yucky.”

Lando blinked. Froze. Then looked up at Amelia, stunned.

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

Amelia’s heart felt like it missed a step. Her head jerked up so fast she hit the underside of the wing she’d been crouched under.

“Ow—shit—”

Lando was already lifting Ada out of the playpen, laughing in disbelief, oil smudge and all.

“Say it again,” he coaxed gently. “Yucky? Yucky, bug?”

Ada just beamed at him and smacked his cheek with her dirty little hand, leaving a streak behind. “Yucky,” she declared again, giggling like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Amelia didn’t know whether to cry or pass out.

She walked over in a daze, eyes locked on her daughter. “She said it. She actually said—”

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning. “You heard it too, right? I’m not making this up?”

“No,” Amelia said, soft and stunned. “I heard it.”

Then she reached for Ada without hesitation. Let her daughter press her messy little face into her neck and pat her collarbone with smudged fingers.

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect. 

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

Not the official kind, with a lanyard and uniform and carefully timed steps. She wasn’t old enough for any of that. She wasn’t even tall enough to reach the front wing of her father’s car without climbing onto someone’s knee.

But she was there — always. Like a mascot, a comet, a little bit of joy wrapped in neon.

At three years old, Ada had developed a sense of style entirely her own. This week, it was neon pink. Head to toe. From the glittery bucket hat she refused to remove, to her sparkly tulle tutu layered over orange papaya leggings, to the pink Crocs decorated with star-shaped charms.

She stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the paddock; all matte branding and fireproof greys. But nobody dared to comment.

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

She’d grown up within the walls of paddocks. Learned to walk behind the McLaren hospitality motorhome in Hungary. Her first solid food had been a biscuit stolen off Oscar’s pre-race snack plate. Her mini paddock-pass gave her access to every team’s motorhome, just in case she got lost and needed a soft place to land.

By now, she knew the names of every mechanic, every engineer, and every race director on the rotating FIA schedule. She greeted them all by name. Correctly. And she remembered who liked what kind of sweets.

The media barely saw her. That was a conscious boundary. Amelia — razor-sharp, unbothered by PR expectations — had drawn the line early and made it immovable. No up-close photos of Ada’s face. No intrusive questions. If Ada wanted to be public someday, that would be her choice — not something sold for a headline before she could spell her name.

But within the paddock itself, Ada was a fixture. A streak of colour and mischief. Fiercely protected. Fiercely loved.

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

One of them involved storming onto the grid like she owned it (Amelia walked slowly behind), pushing past engineers and camera rigs, and beelining toward two very important people.

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

Oscar turned the moment he heard her voice, already crouching down with open arms. He was in his race suit, grinning like he hadn’t just been pacing with nerves ten seconds earlier.

“Oi,” he said, “that’s not my name, trouble.”

“But it’s what Mummy calls you!” Ada argued, already climbing into his lap like a koala. “I remember!”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Lando called from a few feet away, amusement curling through his voice.

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned forward for his good luck kiss. Ada planted a dramatic one on his cheek, complete with a mwah sound effect, then hopped off and marched across the grid to Lando.

Her daddy.

He crouched before she even reached him. She barrelled into his arms with the enthusiasm of a girl who had never once doubted she would be caught.

“You ready, Ada Bug?” he asked as he scooped her up.

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

She nodded solemnly, then leaned forward to kiss him right on the tip of the nose — her signature move. Soft, sticky-lipped from the fruit pouch she'd insisted on finishing on the way in. Then she whispered, very seriously, “Be fast. And be smart. Love you, Daddy.”

Amelia, standing just behind them, caught Lando’s expression shift; just a fraction. A sudden, raw quiet behind his eyes. He pulled Ada closer, briefly, wordlessly. Pressed his nose into her hair.

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

Amelia took her easily — muscle memory now — resting Ada against her hip like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag with her free hand and took a long sip of her iced coffee.

“Drive fast,” she said evenly, meeting Lando’s eyes.

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

And then, casually, almost too casually, she added, “I’m pregnant.”

He froze. One step from the car. “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time. No smile, no build-up — just fact, like announcing the weather.

They hadn’t expected it. Not exactly. They’d been trying for a few months, hopeful but guarded. Amelia had been tracking everything — methodical as ever — but refusing to let herself get too wrapped up in the outcomes. Lando had taken a more gentle approach. Faith over control. He’d just kept telling her, It’ll happen when it happens. We’re already a family.

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

Then he turned fully — slow, like gravity had stopped working — and blinked at her.

Ada, oblivious, was babbling about how she wanted to wave the checkered flag today and if Max’s cats could come to the garage next time.

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice cracking wide open. “Holy shit.”

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

He was already in his race suit, just minutes from lights out, about to hurtle into one of the most competitive qualifying sessions of the season — but suddenly, he looked younger. Dazed. Entirely undone.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to reach for her — didn’t know where to begin.

And Amelia, ever precise, ever composed, leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Solid. Grounding.

“We’ll be fine,” she murmured against his lips. “We always are.”

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

Lando let out a breath. One hand came up to his chest like he needed to physically hold it all in — the awe, the fear, the quiet wonder of it.

Then his comm crackled: “Two minutes to final call.”

He blinked. Straightened. Looked at his wife. Then at his daughter. Then back again.

“Okay,” he said, drawing in one last steadying breath. “Right. Fast. Clever. Safe.”

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

“Love you,” he echoed, already stepping toward Will, adrenaline and awe carrying him forward.

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go and tell Maxie you’re gonna have a baby?” she asked, eyes wide and serious.

Amelia bit back a laugh and turned them toward the edge of the grid. Her mum was already waiting near Lando’s garage to take over babysitting duty.

“Not yet. Your daddy drives better with adrenaline,” she said, adjusting Ada’s ponytail with one hand, “but your Uncle Maxie gets distracted. We’ll tell Maxie another time, okay?”

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

“I think… we’ll tell him next week. At the wedding.”

Ada’s face lit up. “I can’t wait to wear my pretty dress, Mummy!”

Amelia kissed her forehead, pulling her a little closer as they weaved between team personnel.

“I know, baby,” she said softly. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

—

202X 

He did it.

The air was electric. No — it was charged, like the world itself had paused mid-spin to catch its breath.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in one hand, heart in his throat. There were tears in his eyes — real ones, wild and stinging, completely unfiltered. His face was flushed, soaked from the spray, but his grin was a thing of pure, stunned wonder.

He’d done it.

World Champion.

A cheer rolled across the circuit like thunder. The fireworks lit up the sky behind him in great booming waves, streaks of orange and silver and gold — and below, just past the glittering wall of photographers, she was there.

Amelia.

The crowd blurred. The moment blurred. But she didn’t.

She stood at the base of the podium steps, her hair tousled from wind and chaos, arms crossed tightly across her chest like if she didn’t hold herself together she might simply combust. Her eyes were glassy. Her face unreadable — until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

He caught her with the kind of ease that didn’t need choreography — years of knowing her weight, her stillness, her everything. His arms wrapped around her middle, and before she could say a word, he spun her. Under the lights. Under the fireworks. Under the full, beating heart of a decade in the making.

Her laugh cracked open the noise. Her legs curled up instinctively. Her hands dug into the back of his fire suit.

She said his name, just once. No title. No superlatives. No team radio.

Just him.

Lando.

He set her down slowly, like she was fragile, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast — but she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the corner of his mouth, where the champagne had pooled and the smile wouldn’t quite leave.

The world spun again.

And somewhere, behind it all, Ada was being passed from Oscar to George to Max to Amelia’s mother, hands raised above the crowd as she screamed, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

What a season. What a finish. What a moment. 🧡👑 #WDC #LandoNorris #F1

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

Congratulations, Lando. You’ve earned every second of this.

And yes — that podium was everything. No, we’re not crying, you’re crying. 🧡🧡🧡

@/formulawivesclub

There is NOTHING more powerful than a man who wins the WDC and immediately spins his wife under literal fireworks. Iconic. Romantic. Cinematic. I am unwell. 😭😭😭

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

the most magical WDC celebration this sport has seen in decades. maybe forever. PAPAYA ON TOP

@/maxverstappen1

*photo of Ada asleep on his shoulder post-podium, wearing her dad’s cap*

she said she had to stay up to see the champion. i think she made it to the fireworks. ❤️

— 

202X

Final lap.

The sun was setting in streaks of copper and violet. Floodlights cast the track in electric brilliance, shadows long and sharp. And the world was holding its breath.

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

Not enough to coast. Not when Lando was behind him.

Not when the championship hung in the balance — years of sweat and heartbreak and razor-wire precision culminating in this.

From the pit wall, Amelia’s voice came through steady and clear.

“Final sector. No traffic. You’re clear. Bring it home, Ducky.”

No theatrics. No screaming. Just her voice, the one constant he’d had for the entirety of his F1 career. Focused. Fierce. Full of something rare and warm and undiluted: belief.

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

And then, in the most un-Oscar voice imaginable — thick with feeling, stripped raw, “…I don’t think I’m breathing.”

She laughed. A beautiful, cracked little sound. The comms team didn’t mute it. No one could. “Please breathe.”

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

The fireworks hit the sky immediately; red and gold and brilliant. The pitman and garages erupted. McLaren, orange-clad and screaming, split open with euphoria.

And then Amelia’s voice again; louder this time, breaking apart at the edges: “Oscar Piastri. You are a Formula One World Champion.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t reply. He just let out one long, disbelieving breath, and you could hear the hitched sound of someone trying not to cry and failing anyway. “We did it, Amelia.”

“You did it,” she corrected.

“No,” he said, firm now. Fierce. “We did. All of it. Every lap. You’re the best engineer and best friend I could’ve ever wished for. God, I love you so much.”

The audio went everywhere. Uploaded by the team, by fans, by rival engineers who had no choice but to respect it.

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

It was the most-streamed F1 clip of the year.

Because there he was — Oscar, still barely in his mid-twenties, helmet resting on the halo of his car, chest heaving as the gravity of it sank in.

And there she was; Amelia, halfway to the pit barrier, shoving her headset at a stunned junior engineer, sprinting.

He met her halfway. 

She didn’t usually hug. But she did then. Tight and wordless. Face buried in his chest. Years of partnership and pride wrapped into that single, silent second.

And when they pulled apart, he knocked his forehead against hers, grinning like a boy again. “Told you I’d win it.”

“I never doubted you.”

—

The footage of the podium showed Amelia next to the team, arms crossed, blinking hard. Oscar had to compose himself twice during the anthem. And when he raised the trophy, he pointed straight at her.

No words.

Just… pride. 

—

2028 

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee — her coffee. The specific roast she loved from that tiny roastery near Lake Como. Brewed in silence while she slept in. No baby monitor, no toddler noise, no midnight feeding schedules. Just the steady hush of morning, and Lando moving through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Amelia stirred around 9:00 a.m. — a luxury in itself.

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

Happy anniversary, baby. Today is yours. We’re doing it your way. Uncle Ducky has both of our babies today. Yes, willingly. Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to check in on them.

Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got step one waiting for you.

Love you forever,

— Lando

She blinked. Then smiled. Then got up without rushing — another gift.

When she padded downstairs, wrapped in one of his old t-shirts, she found him barefoot in the kitchen with a table set for two, sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

"Happy anniversary," he said softly, crossing to her with a hand on her cheek and a kiss that lingered. "Sit. Eat."

There were croissants from her favourite bakery in town. Raspberries and whipped butter. Her coffee, perfect. And Lando — already looking at her like the day was made.

“The kids?” She asked eventually, narrowing her eyes.

“Totally fine. They always are with Oscar. He made me promise not to call unless someone was bleeding. He said that you deserve a proper day off.”

“I don’t need a day off from my children,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But it’ll be nice to be able to kiss you without tripping over one of them.” 

“Exactly,” Lando said.

Breakfast faded into a walk — hand-in-hand along the coast, slow and sun-warmed. No schedule. No pushing. Just the faint hush of waves licking the edges of Monaco and the occasional squeeze of Lando’s fingers in hers.

They didn't talk much, and that was deliberate.

Afterward, instead of a spa or anything tactile, he drove her twenty minutes out to their favourite low-key golf course — a hidden gem tucked against the edge of a hill, quiet in the off-season.

It had started a few years ago, this habit of hers. Her golf-ball collection was ever-growing, each one labeled and tucked into a little wooden tray above the fireplace. A more serious, tactile comfort that had slowly morphed into a silly, sentimental thing. 

Lando had never once questioned the golf ball. Not in the beginning, not in the middle. 

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

She picked out a new ball from the pro shop (green) and tucked it into her coat pocket. 

“You’ll label that one later?” Lando asked, swinging her hand between them as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's Ada’s favourite colour.” 

“This week.” He said. 

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.” 

—

Lunch came after.

A rooftop place they both loved but hadn’t been to since before Ada was born. White tablecloths, soda on ice. Her favourite risotto, his ridiculous stack of truffle fries, two hours of soft conversation without a single interruption from a baby monitor or a toddler needing to pee.

No baby wipes in her bag. No cutting food into tiny, manageable pieces.

Just them.

—

The sun was setting when they got back to their place.

Amelia kicked off her shoes by the door and reached for her hair tie. Lando caught her hand before she could disappear upstairs.

“One more thing,” he said, almost shy. “Come with me.”

They climbed to the top-floor balcony; her favourite spot in the house. There, waiting: a blanket. Two glasses of wine. A bowl of green olives (Amelia’s vice). And a tiny projector already humming against the far wall.

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

Clips started to roll. Grainy little moments he’d stitched together over months — Ada’s first steps down the hallway at the MTC, the hospital selfie when Amelia had delivered their second baby (Lando’s eyes red from crying, Amelia’s thumb still smudged with blood), lazy footage of her asleep on the couch with both kids curled up on her chest.

Her laugh in the background of a hundred quiet seconds. The clink of teacups. The sound of a little voice calling, “Mummy, look!”

Then his voice — low, warm, recorded late at night from the quiet corner of their bed, “I’m so in love with this life.” 

Amelia said nothing. She was biting her lip a little too hard.

Lando didn’t push. He just shifted behind her on the blanket, pulling her gently between his legs and wrapping his arms around her waist — not too tight, just enough to say I’m here.

“You always make things perfect for everyone else,” he said into her shoulder. “So I wanted to make one perfect day for you.”

She swallowed once. Then leaned her weight back into him, just a fraction — a silent thank-you.

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

And finally, softly, “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, I think.” She admitted, truthfully. 

Lando smiled into her hair and didn’t let go.

—

Later that night, Oscar sent a photo of Ada fast asleep on a pile of couch cushions in the middle of his flat, a cereal box half-open in the background.

Amelia texted back a blurry photo of her and Lando curled up on the balcony under a blanket, the projector still casting shadows across the wall.

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

Amelia had been trying to hold it back for hours — maybe days, if she was honest. The world had gotten too loud again. Too bright. Too many textures and demands and interruptions.

The fridge was humming wrong. Ada had spilled orange juice and then cried when her leggings got wet. The baby had been colicky all night. Lando was out doing media. Someone had moved the coffee mugs and none of them were in the right order.

She was standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the countertop so hard her knuckles were white, when it all finally crashed down on her. 

Her chest seized. Her eyes blurred. The sound in her ears turned to static.

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She slid to the floor, knees curling up, hands covering her ears. Her breathing shortened. She rocked back and forth. Tears leaked out — not from sadness, but from pure sensory overload.

Across the room, Ada, six years old, in a T-shirt covered in glitter paint and crumbs, froze where she stood.

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway.

She found her daddy in the bedroom, changing the baby’s nappy. He’d only come home a few minutes ago. Her little hand tugged at the hem of his shirt urgently.

“Daddy,” she whispered, breathless. “Mummy needs you.”

Lando paused. His head whipped up instantly. “What’s wrong, little-pea?”

“She’s on the floor. She’s crying with her hands on her ears. She’s not talking.”

Lando’s jaw jumped, but he kept his cool and handed Ada her baby brother. “Stay here, okay? You hold him and don’t move. I’ll go help Mummy.”

—

Amelia was still in the same spot, crumpled in front of the dishwasher, the noise of the appliance now too sharp, like claws dragging through her skull.

Lando knelt slowly beside her. Not touching. Not speaking yet. Just breathing in sync.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“I knew the dishwasher was making a weird noise,” he added gently, knowing exactly what she was hearing. “I’ll call someone to fix it tomorrow.”

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

He sat down properly beside her, close but not touching, and began counting out loud.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

“…twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When he finally reached forty, her hands lowered. Just a little. Her breathing slowed.

Lando waited.

And when her eyes finally fluttered open — puffy, red-rimmed, exhausted — he reached out with one hand, offering it but not insisting.

She took it.

No words, just pressure — fingers threading through his, grounding herself.

“I hate this,” she rasped, barely audible. “I was fine. I should’ve been—”

“Nope,” he said. “No rules. No shoulds. You just were. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Amelia blinked. Let out a breath that stuttered on the way out.

From the doorway, a soft voice, “Mummy?”

They both turned. Ada was peeking in, barefoot and clutching the baby monitor against her chest.

“I put the baby in his chair,” she said proudly. “And I put my light-up shoes away so they won’t hurt your eyes.”

Lando smiled faintly. Amelia just blinked again, overwhelmed by the careful compassion of a six-year-old.

Ada padded over, crouched carefully beside her mum, and offered a tiny, glittery toy dinosaur — the kind she usually kept in her backpack for comfort.

“You can hold this if it helps,” she said seriously. “Sometimes it helps me.”

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

And Lando wrapped them both up in his arms, squeezing tight. 

—

Later that night, when things were quiet again and the world had shrunk back to something manageable, Amelia whispered into the crook of Lando’s neck, “She went and got you. She knew.”

Lando kissed her hair. “She always knows,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Amelia smiled, small and raw. “No. She’s ours.”

— 

2033

They were sitting under the shade of an umbrella, barefoot and sun-drowsy, watching their children build increasingly complicated sandcastles twenty feet away. Ada had her arms bossily crossed, giving instructions like a forewoman. Her little brother — all curls and slightly sunburnt cheeks despite the copious layers of SPF50 — was digging trenches with his hands. 

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

Lando leaned back on his elbows, sighing. “Is it Thursday or Friday?”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. Her sunglasses were halfway down her nose. Her hair was damp at the ends from her swim. “Friday,” she murmured. “Pretty sure.”

He nodded, squinting toward the sun. “Days have been blurring. If it’s Friday, it’s already the twelfth.”

He was right. The days had all started to melt together. Long mornings. Naps tangled in hotel sheets. Late dinners with sticky fingers and endless laughter.

Amelia sat up a little. Not sharply — but enough to catch her husbands attention. “Oh,” she said, very quietly.

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

She furrowed her brow. Like she was doing mental arithmetic. Calendar math. Gut instinct. “I’m… late.”

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

“Four days?” She said it more like a question. “Maybe five. I didn’t notice. With travel and the kids and— I don’t know.”

Lando sat up straighter, heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears.

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Down by the water, Ada shrieked with delight. “Mummy! We made a castle for the sea princess!”

Amelia waved back, mechanically, then turned back to Lando. “I didn’t bring a test.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should we go find a pharmacy?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, threading her fingers between his, palm warm. “Let’s just sit. Just for a minute. I want to stay here a little longer, before everything changes again.”

His grip tightened on hers. “Is that okay?”

Amelia nodded. “I’m happy. Just… surprised.”

Lando exhaled, gaze flicking back to their children. Ada was crowning her sandcastle with a plastic fork she’d found. Their son was diligently filling a bucket with sea foam.

“I think we’re gonna be outnumbered,” he said softly.

“I think we already are,” Amelia murmured, smiling faintly. “But that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it? Three of them. A couple of years apart. It’s perfect.” 

And they sat there. Under the umbrella, hand in hand, watching the beginning of their forever shift again.

The ocean kept talking, its waves crashing against the rocks at the other end of the beach.

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box. 

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.” 

“Three of them. Two of us. Five total.” He murmured. “We’re missing four.” 

“No we’re not.” She whispered. “You’re right here.” 

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her. 

—

2034

Ada slammed the front door shut with the theatrical force only a ten-year-old could manage.

“Mummy!” She yelled before she was even properly out of her shoes. “Mummy, I have to tell you something very important!”

Amelia looked up from the kitchen table, where she was re-assembling a snapped pencil sharpener and ignoring the half-eaten apple Ada had left on the kitchen bench to rot that morning.

“In here,” she called calmly.

Ada thundered in, socks half-falling off, her backpack barely zipped. Her cheeks were pink. Her plaits were lopsided.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

Ada flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her. “I’m in love, Mummy. With a boy in my class. His name is Ethan and he wears Spider-Man socks and he let me use his sparkly blue gel pen for colouring even though he really likes it. He said I was clever.”

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

Ada sighed. “Yes, mummy. I know that.”

There was a pause.

From the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, the front door opening again.

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

“In the kitchen!” Ada called sweetly. And then, switching gears with dizzying emotional agility, she leaned in and whispered to her mum: “Don’t tell Daddy. He’ll make it weird.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t lie to your dad. You know that.” 

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

Lando appeared in the doorway a moment later, freshly back from sim training. “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime?”

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

“Oh, cool, that’s comforting,” he deadpanned, kissing the top of her head. Then he gave Amelia a suspicious side-eye. “What’s happening?”

“Well,” Amelia said, “your daughter thinks that she’s in love.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “I leave her at that school for six hours—”

“Daddy!” Ada groaned, flinging her arms dramatically over her face.

“—and now she’s in love?” He leaned over her chair, mock-serious. “Who is he? What does he do? What are his qualifications?”

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

“That’s not a qualification,” Lando said, faux-grave.

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

“Daddy,” Ada said solemnly, peeking at him through her fingers, “his name is Ethan, and he gave me the good gel pen. The sparkly one. That’s basically marriage.”

Lando clutched his heart. “God help me. Wait until I tell Max about this.”

“I knew you’d make it weird,” Ada whined.

“I am weird, Bug,” he replied, scooping her up despite her protests. “That’s your legacy.”

He spun her around like she weighed nothing. 

Amelia smiled as she watched them. 

But when Ada caught her eyes mid-giggle, cheeks flushed, safe and loved and full of her first little crush, Amelia just smiled at her.

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

He moves to Devon at the end of Year 6, and she forgets the way his name made her stomach flutter by the time she’s twelve.

The next crush is taller. The next one after that plays guitar.

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

But she never says anything. Because… she’s Ada Norris.

And Ada Norris grew up being known. Watched. Treasured.

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

Until one day, fourteen years after her dramatic kitchen confession, she finds herself in the back of the paddock in Monaco, barefoot and suntanned, her hair in a braid, with a camera slung over her shoulder and dust on her jeans.

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

And in front of her, sitting on a pile of stacked tyres, grazed knees tucked up under his arms and ice cream dripping down his wrist, is him.

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

She’s known him since before either of them could talk properly.

They played tag between hospitality units. Swapped Pokémon cards in Red Bull’s simulator room.

He once peed in her toy car. She once cut his hair with nail scissors because she thought it would make him less ugly. 

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s the way he listens. The way he gets it — the legacy, the pressure, the strange ache of being a paddock kid with a famous surname and the expectation to become someone.

It’s the way he defends her when people assume too much.

It’s the way he doesn’t flinch when she stim-rambles or tells him she needs exactly ten minutes of silence.

It’s the way he waits — patient, steady, eyes bluer than any sky she’s ever seen.

She’s Ada Norris.

And someday soon, someday when the dust settles, and the stars line up just right, she’ll be Ada Verstappen.

And damn… it does have a nice ring to it.

—

2035

Amelia sat in the doorway of Sienna’s nursery, back pressed to the frame, coffee cooling in her hands. The house was quiet — unusually so. Ezra was napping. Ada was at school. Lando had taken a rare moment to go for a run.

And Sienna… Sienna was asleep. Peacefully. A soft halo of curls pressed into her muslin blanket, one fist curled beneath her chin like she’d already begun dreaming of something secret and important.

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

Ada, her first, her fiercest, had taught her what love felt like when it broke you open.

Ezra had come quieter. A gentle soul with his father’s smile and a knack for slipping into people’s arms like he’d always belonged there.

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

Amelia hadn’t cried — not then. Not when the results came in. Not even when the specialists had spoken gently about cochlear implants and early language support and accessibility.

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

It was adjustment. Recalibration. Learning a new language — not just in signs, but in patience. In pace. In how to prepare for a life she didn’t know how to predict.

Sienna would be fine.

Better than fine. She had her father’s stubbornness and her mother’s ability to see patterns in chaos. 

She had a sister who’d already started practicing fingerspelling at the dinner table, and a brother who kissed her ear every time she blinked up at him. She had grandparents, uncles, a paddock full of honorary aunties and mechanics and engineers ready to build her whatever she needed.

She had love. The whole, complex, unshakable kind.

Still, this baby, this challenge, this gift, it had made Amelia stretch in ways she hadn’t before.

And there, on the floor, in the hush of a warm afternoon, she finally let herself feel it all. The fear. The wonder. The sheer magnitude of how much she loved these children — all three of them. So differently. So fully. So irreversibly.

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

The garden behind their Monaco home wasn’t large, but it was theirs.

The sea glittered just beyond the hedges, and the sunlight slanted golden through the lemon trees. There were chairs set out in uneven rows, a makeshift arch wrapped in white linen and fresh lavender. No press. No guest list politics. Just the people who mattered — their parents, their siblings, a few of their closest friends, and the three children who had rewritten their lives in the best possible ways.

Ada was fourteen and refused to wear anything but the pink dress she’d picked herself. Ezra, five, clung to Oscar’s leg until Lando knelt and whispered something that made him laugh. And Sienna — three and a half, curls pinned back with daisy clips, cochlear implant nestled behind one ear — was already signing “cake” to anyone who made eye contact.

Amelia stood barefoot in the grass, holding her bouquet with one hand and Sienna’s palm with the other.

Her dress wasn’t new. She’d pulled it from the back of the closet — the pale ivory one she’d worn to a gala years ago, the one Lando had stared at like he’d forgotten how to speak. Soft and silky against her skin, it still felt like him.

Lando met her halfway up the path, smiling like he always had.

“Hi,” he said, taking Sienna’s hand too. “You look beautiful.”

“You look sunburnt,” Amelia replied, then softened. “But handsome.”

Beneath the lazy sway of the breeze and the quiet murmur of waves, Lando took both her hands and said, “I’d marry you a thousand times in a thousand different lives. But I’m really glad I got this one. With you. With them. With all of it.”

Amelia, ever spare with her words, just said, “You’re the love of my life, Lando Norris.”

Later, while the kids played under the fairy lights, Max and Pietra poured champagne, and Oscar stole cake straight from the platter, Lando found her standing off to the side, heels dangling from one hand.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head.

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew. 

They had each other. They had their home. 

And their love had only deepened with the quiet weight of time.

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. Your hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

[thollandsgirl2013]

Hii, could you please do one where the readers not as smart as peter in science subjects but she's great at english and econ. And she's just absolutely dying during exam season and peter comforts her?

Hi!! Sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoy ✨

-----------------©®©®©®©-----------------

𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Academic stress, self-doubt, fluff, comfort.

Summary → It's exam season, and you're stressed over science subjects. Peter comforts you and makes you take a break.

Exam season was absolute hell.

Your brain was fried, your hands were sore from writing notes, and your eyes burned from staring at textbooks for too long. No matter how hard you tried, Physics formulas refused to stick in your head, and Chemistry equations blurred into an incomprehensible mess. And don't even get started on Maths—it might as well be in another language.

Peter, on the other hand? He breezed through science subjects like they were the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes it was annoying, but right now, it was just unfair.

You groaned and let your head drop onto your desk with a loud thud.

"I'm never going to pass. Just let me perish right here," you mumbled into the pages of your textbook.

A chuckle came from behind you, and then you felt warm hands on your shoulders. "C'mon, don't be dramatic," Peter said, squeezing gently. "You're not going to perish. Not on my watch."

You turned your head slightly to glare at him, cheek squished against the book. "Says the genius who literally built his own web fluid in high school."

Peter huffed out a laugh as he pulled out the chair beside you and sat down. "Okay, fine, but English? Economics? You ace those without even trying. Meanwhile, I had a whole crisis over an essay last week."

"Yeah, because you wrote 'there' instead of 'their' like five times," you teased.

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You said you’d never bring that up again!"

You smirked, but the brief moment of amusement faded when you looked back down at the mess of notes in front of you. The numbers and equations seemed to mock you. Your shoulders slumped.

Peter noticed immediately. He reached out, nudging your knee with his. "Hey. Talk to me."

You sighed. "It's just... I feel so stupid, Pete. No matter how much I try, I can't make this stuff stick. I look at a question, and my brain just... short-circuits."

Peter frowned. "You're not stupid. Not even close."

You groaned again, flopping onto your back dramatically. "You have to say that. You love me."

Peter grinned, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at you. "I mean, yeah. I do love you. But I’m also right."

Your face warmed, but you refused to be distracted. "Flattery won't make me magically understand Chemistry."

"Okay, okay, let’s try something different." Peter stood up and stretched. "You, my love, need a break."

"A break? Peter, I just said I can’t afford one!"

"And I say you have to take one," he said, grabbing your hand and pulling you up. "Come on, you’re going to burn out if you keep forcing yourself to study like this. Five minutes won’t kill you."

You huffed but let him drag you over to the bed. He flopped down first and patted the spot beside him.

Rolling your eyes, you sat down, and immediately, Peter pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up in a warm hug. You felt yourself relax against him, his scent—clean, a little like laundry detergent and something distinctly Peter—calming your nerves.

"You’re not alone in this, okay?" He murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I’ll help you. However long it takes, I got you."

You sighed, closing your eyes as you let yourself rest against him. "You really are the best."

Peter smiled. "I know."

You groaned, lightly smacking his chest. He laughed, holding you closer.

And just like that, for the first time all week, you felt like you could actually breathe.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[endless-ineffabilities]

Maroon (part three)

modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

You were standin' hollow-eyed in the hallway Carnations you had thought were roses, that's us

a/n: proposed ages of the characters in this series - Viserys (64), Daemon (55), Alicent (53), Rhaenyra (44), Aemond (26), Helaena (25), Daeron (22), Aegon (30), Lucerys (22), Jacaerys (25), Joffrey (15), Alys (35) ---- as much as I'd like to pretend this took 5 minutes... heh. The Math simply wasn't Mathing for a long while. Anywho, just thought I'd write this in since I've aged up the characters.

Also - with all the time I've spent on this fic, I've decided to ultimately restructure part three. So part four will cover the night of the Dragonstone ball, where it's all about to go down.

themes/warnings: angst!, mutual pining, jealous!Aemond, language, description of accident/injury, Aemond in his stalker era

word count: 8.7k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Everything that occurs leading up to the Dragonstone ball - the outcome of the accident, Aemond struggling with his current state, and the reader left hoping for a love, that perhaps, never truly was.

Lucerys Velaryon has already garnered quite the reputation, at only 22 years old. 

A darling of the masses, everyone loved the young heir to Driftmark, a great company built by his grandfather, the notorious shipping tycoon, Corlys Velaryon.

But having the name Velaryon is a double-edged sword for Luke.

It only increases his privilege and prestige, already being a Targaryen on his mother’s side. Luke is set for life; he has everything he could ever need at his disposal. As a young boy, he has always enjoyed cars. Tinkering with them under the guidance of his father Laenor, as well as his uncle Daemon. Luke got himself into kart racing at the age of 9. Illegal street racing, much to his mother’s disappointment, at the age of 14. And just recently, he has been competing in Formula 2 division racing.

From the outside, he is just like any other boy. Apart from the fact that his family is literally worth billions, that is. 

But Luke has never been content. He has never been self-assured, borne out of the truth, one that everyone simply chooses not to mention, that Laenor Velaryon is not his true father. That he is a bastard, and therefore, not the rightful heir to Driftmark. He has always known this, despite his mother’s pleas otherwise. He knows this each time he hears the employees of Driftmark whisper amongst themselves after he passes by. Whenever he is invited to sit in the council meeting of the company, he feels his true status in how the shareholders disregard his opinions like he’s just some intern.

He grew up amidst the tension between himself and his brothers, and their young uncles, especially Aemond. When Aemond and Lucerys were growing up together, they simply did not learn to exist well around one another. Luke had bullied his young uncle long ago - an act of rebellion, of a boy growing up with resentment in his bones -  when Aemond had been weak and scrawny as a child. Aemond retaliated in kind; but he finally matured and found some inner calm in his mid-twenties. A year or two before you met him.

Luke's uneasiness has only worsened, now that he is nearly set to take his place on Driftmark. Since his family hails from Valyria, everyone expects them to uphold the tradition of only passing down inheritance to rightful heirs. Never bastard children or outliers.

But what the hell. Luke has never been one to follow the rules. His very existence does not abide by them, so why should he?

The night of the accident, Luke had to sit in yet another board meeting for the company. This time, Aemond was there too. Only he was treated as he should, being a Targaryen. Like someone capable, someone worthy. 

It should not have made any difference, really. Luke thought he was used to it all by now - the stares, the hushed whispers, the poorly masked scorn. They think Aegon or Aemond to be more competent. If the board had their way, it would not be Luke who would inherit Driftmark. Perhaps, his grandfather’s brother, Vaemond. Or hell, even his cousins Baela and Rhaena, though they never expressed any interest in the business.

Anyone but Luke.

-----------------------------

As a child, Aemond Targaryen saw himself as some kind of a ghost. A spectre simply moving around his family, their company, their horde of sycophants. Not the first to be considered. Not the designated heir to anything. The second son of the owner and chief executive of Dragonstone, and his much younger, barely beloved second wife.

Once upon a time, his father Viserys had been well and truly happy. 

He was married to the love of his life, Aemma, and they had a lovely daughter who was loved by all due to her charm and fiery nature. 

When Aemma passed in childbirth, Viserys had been near inconsolable. But he could not remain so for very long. Soon enough, his board of trustees, his advisors, urged him to remarry. He did not have an heir yet after all, and as per tradition, he soon needed to have a son so that he might raise him to become the next CEO and owner of their business empire.

But Viserys decided to essentially bypass such tradition, for less than a year after his wife’s passing, he had publicly announced his only daughter as his successor. It did not matter what the board of trustees or the shareholders preferred. They may have considerable sway over the affairs of the company, but in the end, the word of Viserys prevails.

And so Aemond and his three siblings have been pushed to the periphery. Not that they ever stood a chance anyway. In the end, their father will always uphold his precious Rhaenyra over them. Their mother plays the part of a mere trophy wife, though she is a noble Hightower herself, having to feign contentment in spite of all the times she and her children are slighted. 

Aemond thought himself calmer now, and matured. Painstakingly made every effort to be far from that weak boy who had no place anywhere. He is still unsure if he likes the person that he is, and perhaps he never has. But he morphed - or masked - this self-loathing into an unfailing desire to do better, to be better. He’s always wanted more. And he has learned to be strong for his mother, his sister. Himself. 

And now, you. How unpredictable you had been, bursting into his life like the Dornish comet of ‘07. He knew early on that you liked him, sort of, with how your eyes would dart back and forth to his direction whenever he’s in the room. 

It made him uneasy, at first, when his looks developed in such a way that garnered him plenty of attention. The spectre of the city turned ‘Prince of the city’, a strapping young man who can have anyone he wishes. 

But, funnily enough, all those socialites, models, glorified urban princesses with millionaire parents, Aegon’s harem of traditionally near-perfect friends from Lys that he often offers - none of them ever stood a chance to you, his sister Helaena’s earnest, gentle, and quick-witted best friend. 

Aemond would be lying if he said he fell for you immediately. It would be far from his nature to do such a thing. But he had, slowly, found himself enveloped in your light, and only feeling warm, only feeling home - only feeling like he could truly love himself - when you look at him with those soul-piercing eyes of yours. Maybe he isn’t so bad after all, if you can see him in the way you do. And he trusts your judgement; when you profess to want him in turn,  then he must be worth more than he thinks.

But the night of the accident, his forsaken shadow seemed to envelop him like an old friend. One that he can never shake. His anger, his darkness. He had long buried the Aemond Targaryen who frequently got into fistfights. The Aemond who deliberately ordered the expulsion of certain people he simply did not like from the employ of their company. The Aemond who chose to openly mock the truth of his raven-haired cousins’ parentage.

That night, that Aemond resurfaced, and with dire consequences. 

The night of the accident, four months before the Dragonstone ball

The storm had begun just before the board meeting ended. Heavy rain spattered against the Driftmark tower, with the night sky illuminated by streaks of lightning.

Aemond and Lucerys were coming to a head at the council table, and the other members were having to intervene at multiple points, just to mitigate the rising tension. The storm brewing inside the young men’s hearts could easily rival the one threatening to flood the streets.

Lucerys repeatedly interrupted Aemond’s suggestions, having grown tired of his own being cast aside by everyone else. 

“Wait for your turn to speak, my Strong nephew.” Aemond smoothly countered when he did not get to finish addressing Vaemond Velaryon.

“I didn’t think what you were saying was particularly important, uncle.” Luke retaliated in kind.

“Hmm. Some things never change, it seems. You still don’t know your place.”

“My place will soon be the highest seat of Driftmark. And you will still be grandfather’s second son, a mere placeholder at Dragonstone.”

“Please, sirs,” the meeting director complained. “We must get on with more urgent matters.”

Aemond and Luke barely contribute for the remaining minutes, opting to glare and sneer at each other from across the table.

But their council tiffs would not end up being the most unpleasant occurrence for that night. As if the storm also cast its darkness over their reasoning, they soon found themselves racing towards Gods Eye.

-----------------------------

It was meant to be a game. A show of bravado. Two young men, though in their depths still wounded boys, found themselves spewing offenses in an attempt to lower the other.

“You might inherit Driftmark, but everyone knows the truth, plain as day. You will always be a bastard.”

“Sure, but I am still more than you. What have you ever truly accomplished, uncle? Poor y/n, if she’s fallen for your tricks. Does she know who you truly are? She’s too bloody good for you.”

When Luke raised the challenge of racing to the edge of the cliff of Gods Eye, Aemond grasped at the opportunity to humiliate his nephew. To prove all of his claims to be wrong.

It might have been either one of them, or both, who deigned to edge their car close to the other’s, trying to veer it off course. Just a little nudge to make it spin out of the road.

But the turbulent weather was strong, causing mud and water to pool along the gravel. When the cars collided, Aemond’s took the brunt of the hit. Before he could even register the impact, his car was already spinning right towards the treeline. 

Luke had veered off road, his car rotating upside down. His right leg suffered from multiple fractures, including a busted knee cap.

But Aemond… 

His screams resounded despite the ceaseless pattering of rain, louder than even the roaring thunder overhead. A shard of glass had been wedged deep on one side of his face, splitting the flesh open. 

So much blood had pooled into his one remaining eye, that he feared he went entirely blind. The memory of your face flashed across his mind, and he despaired at the thought of never being able to see you again.

Later in the operating room, when the full extent of his injuries was delineated to him, Aemond thought that perhaps, it is you who would never want to see him again.

Why would you, with what has now become of his appearance?

Two months before the Dragonstone ball

You’re finding it hard not to keep tabs on Aemond, still asking Helaena every now and then if he’s really alright. To which she always responds with some version of “He’s okay. He just needs some time.”

Time. That’s fine. You suppose that the accident must have shaken him up, enough to cause him to go into hiding and to avoid everyone.

Unfortunately… painfully, including you. 

You find your mind drifting back to him every day - during your lectures, at work, at home, whenever you’re spending time with Helaena and you’re trying so hard to simply not just pester her about her brother. 

You think back to those secret moments you shared in crowded rooms, up in their penthouse, whenever Aegon would throw a party. Back then, you did not know one another yet, not really. But he would sit on the couch adjacent to yours, shoot you a smile, and silently keep you company while you wait for Helaena to return. He did so because he could sense that you were anxious, and that loud gatherings aren’t really your thing, as he revealed to you when you were… dating. As short of a time as that might have been. 

Gradually, you got to know him, in all those rare moments. His knowing, mischievous smiles. The subtitles nuances in his expression. His calculated manner of speaking.

You knew him, you had him, you lost him. Well, you do still know him - he is your friend, is he not? But it just as well could have been the end, the night of the accident. He has become a kind of spectre to you, leaving you yearning for what could have been. 

Weekends offer some respite from the whole ordeal of having to miss him. Your job at the bookstore allows you to just sit in silence, entertain customers once in a while, and bury your nose in your book-of-the-week.

Once in a while, a friend even drops by. This time, Jace burst through the entryway, bell chiming in his wake, beaming with a brown takeaway bag in one hand.

“Hey, stranger,” you put down your novel, and leave your post on the counter to greet your dear friend with a tight hug. Jace takes note of the fact that your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, and his spirits sink. But he immediately gets to work on making you feel better.

“I’d say you’re going to love me for this, but you probably do already,” he says, presenting you with the paper bag.

“Don’t be so sure,” you jokingly say, narrowing your eyes at him, before peering inside, hit with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries.

You shrug, starting to dig in with no hesitation. “Actually, good of you to be sure.”

He laughs as you drop the bag on the counter, and rip it open to reveal all the goods. He takes his own coffee and leans closer to have a bite of the profiterole you eagerly wave in front of his face.

“Thanks,” you manage to puff out, with a mouthful of pastry. 

“Anytime, sweet.” Jace swallows, giving you a once over. “How are you holding up?”

It’s hard to act all nonchalant when he gives me those puppy-dog eyes. Jace’s innate sincerity almost makes you want to just cave in and vent all about Aemond.  “Nice of you to be concerned, but it’s not like I was the one who got into an accident.”

“I know, sassy, but I also know that you and Aemond were… you have seen him recently, no?” he asks, sounding certain of the answer to his question, which downright confuses you.

“No,” you shake your head. “Along with the rest of the city, I haven’t seen nor heard anything from him.”

“Really?” he remarks, incredulous.

“Come on, Jace,” you take a comforting sip of coffee, still warm. “You know this. He doesn’t want to see me.”

“Huh,” his head tilts back slightly as he mulls over your response. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“I could’ve sworn that was his car parked across the street. Right outside.” he says, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. You freeze, but your eyes are drawn straight toward the shop windows.

“That’s not - ,” That’s not possible, you want to say. But your feet already drag you to the edge of the shop, with Jace in tow. “Which one is his?” you ask, knowing Aemond’s got quite a few cars, privileged boy that he is. Your voice comes out in a hushed tone, as if you don’t want Aemond himself to hear. Ridiculous, you chide yourself, it probably isn’t even him.

“That silver Jaguar idling on the curb,” Jace answers, and you see it. Slantwise on the opposite side of the road, stopped right before the bus stop across the bookshop.

“Are you sure?”What the hell could he be here for? You didn’t want to admit it, but you feel the hope right in your bones. You want him here, of course. You want him to come see you.

“Yes,” Jace easily replies. “There’s only one vehicle in the city with that personalized plate."

Before you can stop yourself, you take a tentative step outside, hand still on the shop door.. I’m sure he can see me, if he’s really there.

The windows of the Jaguar have the darkest tint, making it nearly impossible to see inside. 

“That’s him,” Jace says from behind you. “He doesn’t let anyone else drive his cars. I even thought he was already inside the shop when I arrived.”

“Well shit,” you breathe, your heart racing in your chest. “What do I do?”

“What is he doing?”

“Fuck it.” You only manage to take a step forward on the sidewalk before the car roars to life, engine purring smoothly. Aemond maneuvers the car from its spot and leaves, driving right past you, a cloud of leaves and dust billowing all around.

“What the fuck?” Jace scoffs, thoughtfully waving his arm around to keep the dust from your face. “What is he on?”

“Aemond,” his name escapes your lips in a soft whisper. A silent plea that will never reach him, but you say it all the same. That it doesn’t matter to you, whatever state he is in after the accident. That even though he chose Alys over you, you can understand, or at least try to. He is still the same boy who captured your heart not so long ago. 

But why did he just leave? What is he so scared of?

“Come on,” Jace says, holding the door open for you. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

When you go past the entryway, you turn on your heel and hang up the ‘On a break. Come back soon’ sign on the door. Sighing heavily, you shrug at Jace, “What a day, huh. You sure know how to bring drama with you.”

Jace only smiles, well-used to your banter, “How is this my fault?”

“I dunno,” you raise your hands, and walk back to the counter. You’re not sure how you feel at the moment - anxious, worried, disappointed? It’s all up in a haze since Aemond suspiciously drove off, and so, you can’t control the flood of dry sarcasm spilling out of you. Like some kind of coping mechanism. “You must have called Aemond here, so you two can drive my poor heart into a frenzy. Like I don’t already have a lot on my plate.”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Jace slowly nods, playing along. “Aemond hasn’t even spoken to me since everything went down. But I definitely sought him out today, and definitely forced him to watch you from out there in his car like some obsessed creep.”

“I knew it!”

-----------------------------

Fifteen minutes into your impromptu break, the tone has lightened to some degree, and you sit at a corner table with Jace, sipping the remains of your coffee.

After a lot more banter, and catching up about Luke, Joff, and the rest of his family - those who can still tolerate your presence,that is - Jace finds you staring blankly at a bookshelf. “Hey,” he says, “I don’t think my uncle is hiding in between those books.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Anyway, enough about him, eh?” Jace offers, taking your hand from across the table. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

You squeeze his hand in return, staring back into his doe brown eyes, “Yeah?”

“Seeing as Aemond isn’t taking you to the Dragonstone ball,” he pauses, gauging your reaction. He decides that it’s all good when you remain impassive, “How would you like to come with me instead? I did mean to ask you, you know, but dear uncle beat me to it.”

“Oh.” Your hand loosens around his a bit, as you take in his words. “Well, I mean I would love to but - ”

Jace adds quickly, as if he is already reading the thoughts whirring through your mind. “No pretenses about it, I assure you. I’m not expecting anything else. Just that you honour me by being my partner to the ball.”

“Mmm,” your shoulders relax, and you find yourself smiling at Jace’s heartfelt nature. One that immediately warmed you to him when you first met. “Partners, huh?”

His tongue makes a clicking sound in confirmation. “What do you say?” 

“Jace,” you start, weighing the options in your mind. “I would go with you, of course - ”

“That settles it then.”

“- but I just… I don’t know, if… Aemond does not want to see me, maybe I shouldn’t just show up at the ball?”

Jace rolls his eyes, “He doesn’t own the bloody ball, you know. He can’t control whether you come or not.” He leans in, voice lowering like he’s sharing a devious ploy, “Besides, if he doesn’t want to see you, then why would he be loitering across the street simply to watch you through the shop windows? Let’s be real now, eh?”

Fair point. You reply, “Far be it from me to know what he’s up to.”

“So come to the ball with me and ask him yourself. I’ll even back you up. With my own pitchfork and everything.” The way his eyes blaze in excitement sparks something in you. Being around Jace is always fun, like you’re free to do anything - you could even cause any kind of trouble and he would only be cheering you on. 

If only… if only you liked him the way you do a certain someone, then you might actually have a greater sense of calm. Your self-doubt might be assuaged, your days brighter. 

But no. It is Aemond who fills your wandering thoughts. Aemond who haunts your sleepless nights. It was him who nearly made your heart stop that night on their rooftop, who laughed with you and held you close when you were a fumbling, wine-stained mess. 

Perhaps unfortunately so… it is Aemond whom you love.

That realization makes you straighten in your seat, scaring some sense back into you. Fuck, what am I even thinking? It’s Jace right in front of me. Jace who is asking me to the ball. 

“You got yourself a deal, mister,” you playfully hold your hand out for him to shake.

-----------------------------

Later that night, the Targaryen penthouse in the Crownlands Tower is relatively quiet. Most of the family is away, save for Helaena, their housekeeper Talia…

… and Aemond, who sits in front of his desk, staring at the object atop it which is aglow under lamplight. His eye drifts to the metal surface of the lampshade itself, and he sees it. A scar stretched from his forehead to his cheekbone, with its edges tinged with maroon. 

Revolting. It’ll take some time to heal, they all say. Well it’s been two long fucking months, and it doesn’t feel any better. Nothing feels right.

It isn’t fair, his mother wailed upon seeing him. None of this is. It was the rogue Lucerys’ fault, she insisted, for egging Aemond to go on a damned speed chase in the middle of fucking storm.

His father Viserys merely appraised him for a long moment, before mumbling something that sounded like, “I am sorry this happened, but you’ll be alright”. Then to his mother, “Lucerys is injured as well. This is what they’ve always done, as you know. Luke and Aemond don’t really get along but they’re grown now.”

He added with a warning gaze to Aemond, “They have to learn to be civil to one another. We are all family, after all.”

“Family,” Alicent spat the word like a curse. “Family should not be the cause of grievous harm.”

Aemond remembers the shrug that Viserys did. It is a gesture he has seen endlessly, it might even be the first thing he remembers of his father. All of his pains, and his achievements will always be met with a nonchalant gesture. Some father he is.

There’s only one thing that would make Aemond feel better in this moment, and even that, he cannot allow himself to have. He shall not present himself, this self, to you. He looks at his reflection and he hates what he sees. Perhaps he always has. But he also learned to love himself around you. How easy it can be, like second nature. 

Maybe he was drawn to the fact that you are not from his world, with all its intrigue and playacting. How you choose not to perceive status as a tool, and how you can be kind to anyone. You, the girl who always keeps a book in her bag, even at parties, even if she most likely won’t have time to read it. Just in case, you had said, you never know. You, though very well-mannered, called one of Helaena’s so-called friends a “spoiled cunt”, when you heard her making nasty jokes at Helaena’s expense behind her back.

“Sorry you had to hear that,” you had said to Aemond in a grumbling tone, still quite irate, when you found out that he was just in the library adjacent to their living room. “They were just being so… so…”

“Fucking rude?” he finished your thought, his dimples showing in amusement when your eyes widened. “Don’t worry, doll. Maybe I would have done the same. Though that Beatrice would never say shit about Helaena in front of me, seeing as she tried to claw off my jacket once. Her fake nail got caught in the leather. Her attempt at seduction, I suppose.”

Your mouth fell open, then closed once more. You were at a loss. Your blood was just boiling at having to confront Beatrice, who has thankfully left the penthouse, and now Aemond is standing in front of you. Aemond, sharing some story, in good humour. About some girl trying to get with him, and failing. Later on, you will find yourself jumping in frustration in your living room, thinking how in the hell your mind must have short-circuited because you responded with, “It’s a good thing I keep my fingernails trimmed and plain then.”

It was Aemond's turn to stand there, lips parted in surprise at your sudden show of audacity. Where has this girl been hiding all this time? Or has she always been this way? Then your face morphs into one of shock, and you remain still, waiting for some other pin to drop. Something to distract Aemond so you can mumble some excuse and run away. Aemond observes the minute changes in your expression, like you’re struggling to get your bearings, and he finds it all endearing.

Suddenly, the door you had been leaning against is pried open, making you take a step closer to Aemond. An unruly, blonde mop of hair that can only belong to Aegon pokes itself inside, “What are you nerds doing in the damn library?”, then he turns on his heel letting the door slowly close on its hinges, “Never mind, I’m gonna get a drink!”

At the exact same time, you and Aemond burst out in a fit of laughter, the pure and melodic sound of it echoing throughout the room. The very first time that Aemond witnessed you laughing freely in front of him, and his thoughts would later drift back to this moment. To the way your eyes lit up, how your teeth clamped down on your bottom lip to keep from laughing harder, and how your dainty hand clasped his forearm, holding on to him for a while.

He did not know then, not yet at least, that he had started falling for you.

When your desire had become apparent, you did not attempt to cross a line. Correctly inferring that Aemond valued his solitude, you became content with admiring him from afar, treasuring every small interaction. 

Everyone keeps remarking at how different he is around you, and maybe you do not realize the truth of their claims, because you had never seen him… like this. So broken. His mask of composure torn to shreds.

No longer the caring, attentive, and self-assured Aemond you claimed to desire. 

“Aemond?” Helaena's voice drifts from his door, which is opened narrowly. She silently lets herself inside when he does not respond.

“Care for some dinner?” she asks, her gentle voice almost breaking through Aemond’s resolve. Perhaps it might have been able to, but not anymore.

“No, I’m not hungry.” Aemond answers, barely audible.

“Right.” Helaena doesn’t press further; she knows that nothing will shake her brother while he’s in such a state, so she tries to bring up something else. Something that might get his attention. “So, I, uh… y/n just called me.”

Helaena notices Aemond slightly tense up at the mention of your name. So that’s what it takes, she thinks.

“Aemond,” she steps closer, now standing beside his chair. “Why were you outside the bookstore where she works?”

Aemond shuts his eyes. Of course you had seen him. And he saw you, clear as day. Beautiful as ever. With bloody Jace right next to you, laughing while sharing some coffee he had brought. 

“She misses you, you know,” Helaena says, and the words drive straight through Aemond’s heart. “I really think you just should speak to her.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you even afraid of?”

A long pause, as Helaena waits for a reply. Fidgeting with the edge of her sweater, she begins to say something more, when Aemond finally says, in a muffled, reluctant tone, “She deserves better.”

“Of course she does!” Helaena perches on the edge of Aemond’s desk, and his eye drifts over her for just a second, before looking down at the object again. “So call her and - ”

“Better than me.” Aemond clarifies, croaking the final word as if in pain.

“Oh, Aemond.” Helaena’s lifts an arm in an attempt to offer comfort, but Aemond instinctively flinches.

“No.” He breathes. “I can’t.”

Helaena nods in understanding, though her heart aches at the sight of her brother like this. She looks to the side, and sees the journal-seeming object sitting on his brother’s desk. The thing he seems to be staring at. 

Helaena lets her fingers run over the smooth forest green cover, and she instantly recognizes it to be Valyrian leather. A rare commodity, so this must not be just any ordinary journal.

“May I?” she whispers, to which her brother shrugs in response.

She gently pries open the leather clasp, and she sees a dedication on the first page, in a swooping scrawl that can only be Aemond’s. Some special ink was used, staining the page with a deep shade of maroon. It reads in High Valyrian, their native language - Ñuha prūmia iksis aōhon.

“I meant to give that to her… before…”

My heart is yours.

“Aemond-” Helaena mutters, her mind stuck on the words, and she knows exactly who they are meant for.

Aemond abruptly rises from his seat, and puts on his black coat, “Just put that back where you found it.” Reaching for something else on his desk, he puts it on his face to conceal his deformity.

Before her brother reaches the door, Helaena manages to voice out, “Where are you going?”

“Away.”

Two weeks before the Dragonstone ball

The accident finally seems to have departed from the mainstream, turning into fodder for small talk as all sensational news pieces do. 

Unsurprisingly, despite the tragic event, excitement abounds. The city is buzzing in anticipation. Everyone is already poring over the main list of attendees which has been made public online. You only glanced at it once to confirm that you are on the list as Jace’s partner, but something else catches your attention. You immediately close the tab in your browser after you read - Aemond Targaryen - and across from his name, as his designated partner - Alys Rivers.

“For fuck’s sake,” you sigh, biting your lip. You opt to open Youtube, but immediately your homepage reminds you of your recent activities. Not stalking, no. Just some curious research. Aemond has never been one to give interviews. That’s more in Aegon’s wheelhouse. Daeron especially, since he also works as a model, gracing the front cover of Vogue thrice already at only 22. 

When Aegon graces the headlines, it’s most likely due to some disorderly conduct at a high-class party or a local dive bar. True to his brand, there is no in-between when it comes to Aegon. It’s either go big or go home. Which usually means he ends up drunk on the sidewalk, having to call Aemond to pick him up and give him a ride without letting their parents know.

But they always find out, of course. It’s hard to be discreet when you’re one of the most recognizable faces in the country.

As for Aemond, you’ve always found it hard to find even a single crumb of him from the internet. Save for a couple of sightings, including those of him and Alys Rivers, and clippings from the few times when he would speak in press conferences on behalf of Dragonstone. But even those were kept mostly private, and not freely available on Youtube. 

As it happens, there have been some rumours of Aemond allegedly coming into blows with the Duke of Lannister and his entourage, after humiliating the man’s sister. Onlookers claimed that they saw the poor girl coming onto Aemond at some party in Pentos, flirting with him. Apparently, he was far from welcoming of her affections. There were some pictures of the fight, or at least, that’s what people say. You were not in the loop when the news spread, sitting through a lecture. Any trace of such pictures quickly vanished from the internet. The Targaryens are always on the lookout to protect their precious image, but they’ve never done anything so methodical when it comes to such occurrences, such as Aegon’s countless mishaps. 

Aemond does have an Instagram profile. You asked him about it once, ages ago, even before your brief - what would you call it… Tryst? Dating period? Well, whatever it was, it’s all done for now.

“Was it your idea to have a profile anyway?” you asked him, after he had playfully teased you about stalking him. That was the only verified account of Aemond’s that you found, complete with the blue tick. His profile was empty, and the following list was at a whopping zero. Though of course, he had about 3.7 million followers, just waiting for the moment that he would choose to do anything on the site.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Aemond looked down and smiled, and you did not know it, but he found himself feeling warm due to the interest you were giving him. He’s confident about nearly everything, but when on the receiving end of attention from the woman he secretly longed for, he felt almost shy. “It was mostly due to the fact that I wanted to have one sole verified account online. I’ve heard talks of impersonators sending people messages and all that. Fucking annoying.”

“Ah, yeah.” You did not tell him, of course, but you knew of those fake accounts, having clicked on several slightly convincing ones to see if they were actually his. But none of them matched. You found yourself muttering, “He would never post that.”

“Didn’t hurt that I got to look through your pictures, too, love.” He smirked then, regaining his confidence. 

You nearly melted into a puddle on the fancy designer-carpeted floors of their apartment, right then and there.

That doesn’t matter now. You sigh, slamming your laptop shut. Instead you choose to dramatically jump onto your bed and growl your frustrations out onto a pillow. 

You roll over, amused at the whole thing. The digital alarm clock Helaena gave you reads 6:32 pm, it’s a Friday night, and you’re left with nothing to do. You’ve already finished the majority of your exams, and for the next month or two, you’re free to go on holiday and do whatever you wish.

But what? You finally decide to give Helaena a call, and reach for your phone on the nightstand. But right then, it lights up. ‘Hel’s Bells’ is calling you. An inside joke the two of you came up with about a week after you met.

“Speak of the devil,” you smile, and press accept. “Hel! I hope you’re just about as bored as I am.”

She laughs on the other end, “I don’t even have time to be bored. Mother has us doing all these preparations for the ball.”

“Do you need any help? I’m no expert at pomp and pageantry but I’ll do my best.” She had just stayed at your apartment a few nights ago for a sleepover, and you noticed that she was careful when mentioning anything about the ball. Trying not to stray into Aemond and Alys territory for your sake, you assumed.

“Sure, come over whenever you want. I don’t really have any idea what it’s all for, but hey, at least we get to put on fancy dresses and look pretty.”

“Oh, you always look pretty,” you say sincerely. 

“Thank you, doll,” she says, before sighing dramatically. “Anyway, I actually called to tell you something. You’re going to come over to our place on Sunday night. We’re throwing a little party.”

“A party, huh.” Will Aemond be there, you wanted to ask, but held back. 

You haven’t seen him for the last three months, after the fateful night of the accident. There was that incident when he parked outside the bookstore, but it was barely anything. 

Word on the street is that the ‘Prince of the city’ had gone into hiding, as comical as that sounds to you. For what exactly? There has been speculation - perhaps he was left horribly disfigured from the accident, which is also why there isn’t any trace of the alleged pictures taken of him in Pentos. But Helaena immediately dissuaded that notion. My brother is not disfigured, she insisted when you brought it up, he’s simply recovering.

If Aemond wants to keep things to himself, then he has the right to do so. He would tell you if he wanted. Call you, send you a message. Anything. 

“A party,” Helaena repeats. “It’ll be for our inner circle. Which includes you, of course. A little prequel to the ball, so everyone can catch up with each other.”

“Aegon’s idea?” you guessed with a wry smile. 

“There might be a direct correlation there, yeah,” Helaena laughs. “Anyway, come over! Since you’re coming with Jace to the ball, then we have to plan everything for you, too! What colour dress do you want to wear? Well, there is a theme but we’ll work with that. Mum assigned a stylist and hairdresser for me, which means they’re for you too and - ���

“Hel, I don’t really need - ”

Then she says something that puts a stop to your protest. “Oh, Aemond won’t know what’ll hit him.”

“Huh.” The thought of seeing Aemond again gives you a surge of excitement. And nervousness. Your yearning for him reawakens, but it never truly left.

Having made her point, Helaena knows she’s got you hook, line and sinker. “I’ll expect you in the next hour.”

-----------------------------

Sunday came rolling over soon enough, and the party at the Targaryen penthouse is well under way.

The ballroom on the 2nd floor is packed, filled with people whom you either don’t know or barely recognize. Of course, it wouldn’t be complete without some snooty heirs and heiresses who would openly regard you with what could be confusion or derision. Until a Targaryen or Velaryon would approach you and eagerly whisk you away in conversation.

“Who is she?” you hear someone say when Jace takes your hand and directs you to sit on the couch with him and Daeron. “Why is Jace so close to her? And what on earth is she wearing?”

Unfazed by it all, and already used to such comments, you smile sweetly in that girl’s direction and greet her with a friendly, “Hi, how are you doing?”, without giving her a chance to respond.

Jace watches the exchange proudly. As you sit down, he says, “Aegon invited her, I think. I don’t really know, I don’t like her much.”

“How come?” you jest. “You two have so much in common. Heirs to the kingdom and all that.” Your sarcasm again comes out of you in waves, trying to temper your nerves. You look around the room, though it is not the first time you’ve scanned through everything. 

“I’d much prefer your company,” Jace easily says, then notices your divided attention. “He isn’t here.”

In a transparent attempt at surprise, you ask,“Who?”

Daeron overhears the exchange, after his friend stands up to get a drink. “Aemond’s not here, y/n. At least I haven’t seen him. Last I heard he was holed up in our holiday estate in Pentos.”

“Oh.” Your face visibly falls. You didn’t know what to expect, really. Of course Aemond would  not just show up at this party after avoiding everyone for too long.

“He will be at the Dragonstone ball though,” Daeron pats your knee in sympathy. “He might be going through some shit, but mum would lynch him if he misses that event.”

Jace and Daeron continue to look at you, seeing if they need to offer more comfort, and you can’t stand it. “Alright, you two. Thanks for… I don’t know… but this is a party! We should just go and have fun. No need to be concerned about me and…” You choke up at his name, negating your false show of indifference. 

“Okay,” Jace says, saving you from saying anything further. “How about I get you a drink, hmm?”

“Yeah,” you say, but something crosses your mind. You stand at the same time as Jace, grabbing his arm, “Actually, I’ll go get some air first.”

“Are you alright?” This time, Jace’s sincere gaze is not enough to distract you from that familiar gnawing ache.

“I am,” you smile placatingly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

-----------------------------

Aemond Targaryen, contrary to what everyone in the party believes, is no longer wasting his days in Pentos. 

He had slipped back into the city earlier that night, and in the safety of their 7-floor penthouse. Right in time for the revelry. He has no intention of making an appearance, but when Helaena let it slip that you would be attending, he could not help himself.

The fact that you would be under the same roof was enough to get Aemond to scurry back home. While he might not be ready to show himself just yet, there are methods which allow him to see you. Watch you.

Helaena would probably smack him upside the head, if she found out. That not only had Aemond come back without telling her, but also that he is watching her friend through the CCTV cameras littered throughout the penthouse. 

Perhaps it is unsavoury, and you might cross your arms and huff at him if you found out. Oh, what I would give to see that in person. But he’ll take what he can get. Do what he must. To still have you, still see you. 

His left knuckle is taut, still bandaged and bruised from his recent activities. Luckily, the stitches on his face had not come loose and the medical treatment his mother is putting him through has done considerable wonders. What would you think, I wonder, if you saw me like this, my love.

His laptop is propped up on his desk, right next to the green journal he means to give you. On the screen, he watches as you trail Helaena for a while. As you sit alone, watching everything unfold. As Jace comes for you, and you sit together on a couch. Too close. Too comfortable for Aemond’s liking. Is something going on between you and my fucking Strong nephew? 

When news reached him that you would be coming to the ball with Jace, Aemond had broken something. He can barely remember what it was, just the sound of it shattering against the wall. A wine bottle? A vase? A mirror? Whatever it was sent his company fleeing from their table, and Criston had rushed forward to make sure that he wasn’t harmed.

Aemond glares at the screen you walk after Jace and whisper something close to his ear. 

Jace regards you for a long while. He better not…

But then you nod and smile, stepping away from him. Aemond finds himself breathing a sigh of relief, predictably, and he almost snorts at his own reaction. 

You walk out of the ballroom, and Aemond has to switch between cameras to follow your path. You pause down the hallway, and lean next to the wall.

What are you doing, ñuha jorrāelagon?

Seemingly decided on something, you swing the door to the staircase, forgoing the elevator. The cameras on each landing track you as you continue to climb upward, panting slightly when you finally reach the entrance to the rooftop.

You take slow, sure steps toward the golden railing. For a moment, you just stand there, seemingly watching the city below.

I have to see you. I have to try. In a split decision, Aemond slinkers out of his room, the party below still unaware of his presence. 

Then he heads up the flight of stairs as you had done, feeling more apprehensive with each step. What do I even say to you? Do you still want to see me? He finally reaches the final landing, and heart in his throat, he pries the door open as silently as possible.

You no longer stand at the railing. Instead, he spies you sitting on the plush seat the two of you shared on that one night. Facing away from the entrance, looking up at the stars. 

Aemond knows that isn’t as it was before. He cannot simply approach you and watch as your eyes immediately welcome the sight of him. It’s not the same, and it is all his fault. He wonders if your heart might still race because of him, or will it have become cold, after all this time?

He draws closer, with each footstep uncertain. But your pull is stronger, taking precedence over all of his worries. 

“I miss you,” is all he can bring himself to say, throwing caution to the wind. You freeze at the sound of his voice. 

Then a shiver runs up his spine as it dawns on him - in his haste to see you, he left his eyepatch in his room below.

-----------------------------

I must be dreaming. The hairs along your arms stand in your shock, and you keep both hands flat on the seat to keep you steady. 

Is it… You start to turn back, but cease all movement when Aemond pleads, “Don’t. Please don’t turn around.”

“Aemond?” your voice is shaky, and you feel a tear threaten to escape. “They said… we all thought…”

“They do not know that I am back yet,” he answers. “Just you.”

“Oh.” Your head is still turned to the side, and you have to fight the urge to simply rise from your seat and face him. You exhale, trying to calm down. When that doesn’t work, you lean back against the seat, and force yourself to count the windows on the building down the road. 

6… 7… 8… 

But the sudden feeling of his hands on your shoulders makes you lose all train of thought.

“Did you miss me?” Aemond asks, standing right behind your seat now, his sweater grazing the back of your head.

Your mind is flooded with thoughts of all that happened between the two of you - the beginning, the brief affair, the end. Is it the end? 

Answer him. “Did I miss you?” you bite your lip, and your brows scrunch in frustration. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Your expletive makes Aemond take a step back. “I-I’m sorry…”

“I’ve been so worried about you, Aemond!” Your hands bunch up into fists beside you. You did not realize you had all this pent up anger, with the past few months being spent pining. Longing. Yearning. Like some silly little fool. When he didn’t even make any effort to reach out to you, and the most you got from him was that episode outside the bookstore.

“Oh yeah, and what the hell were you doing outside my place of work?” you stand then, and lean against the railing in front of you, careful not to turn and catch a glimpse of him. “You wanted to speak to me? Well, why didn’t you just do that?” You can feel your erratic heartbeat pounding in your chest, and for a moment you become afraid that it might just stop altogether. 

“I did want to speak to you. To see you.” Aemond sighs heavily. “I always want to see you, my darling. You’re all I’ve ever thought about since - ”

“Yeah, right. I bet you did.” You threw the offhand accusation over your shoulder.

“I did,” Aemond swears. “I miss you every day, I -”

His voice is softer than before, and kind of nervous. Your resolve is at risk of breaking, because… Why does Aemond sound… broken?

He finishes, “I just needed some time.”

There are so many more that you want to ask him - What really happened in that accident? Where have you been all this time? What is going on with you and Alys? Where do we truly stand?

But instead you mutter the one thing you are most certain of, “I miss you too.”

Aemond breathes a sigh of relief. He moves to stand behind you, and steps closer. 

Closer. You don’t dare move a muscle, because you just might turn around and forget about his request. He moves closer, until his chest is pressed against you from behind. Closer, until his hands squeeze both of yours on the railing.

You feel Aemond rest his face on your shoulder, inhaling deeply. At this point, he is practically enveloping you. Each breath he takes warms your neck. His thumbs run over your knuckles, and he says, “Are you still angry at me?”

“Should I be?” You lean your head back to rest on his right shoulder. From the corner of your eye, he looks as he always has. Almost ethereal, with his silver-blonde Targaryen hair and sharp, defined features. 

Aemond moves his head slightly toward the left, careful not to reveal the ruined side to you, when he feels your wandering gaze. 

“Please don’t be angry with me,” he pleads. You hum in affirmation, and in a lower voice, he purrs, “Close your eyes, darling.”

You try to ask why, but then you feel his lips lightly press against the nook between your neck and your shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut on their own goddamn volition.

His mouth parts even more, before coming down once again and nipping at your skin. His arms wrap themselves around your waist, and his hold tightens until your entire body is flush against him.

Still, you haven’t seen all of him. 

Your hand reaches up to touch him, and your fingertips graze the side of his face. When your thumb runs over a bit of what must be raised flesh, like some partially healed lesion, Aemond jumps away. At once, you feel the cool evening air hit you, the warmth of his embrace having gone.

“What is - ” you start to ask.

“It’s nothing.”

“Aemond…” you hesitate. What could possibly be so terrible, he won’t even allow me to look at him? “If anything happened to the way you look… it wouldn’t matter to me. You would still be the same boy that I lo - ” The words hitch in your throat, their sentiment heavier than anything you’ve ever said. 

Everything is at a standstill. Aemond does not say a single word, but you know that he understood what you were trying to say. He must.

And how can I even gauge his reaction when I can’t even look at him?

“Aemond?” 

Much to your surprise, his voice is already farther away when he responds with a hurried, “I’ll see you at the ball.” 

You swiftly turn around in your disbelief. Did he just fucking leave? 

The door to the penthouse shuts behind him, and you are left dumbfounded at his actions. The old Aemond would have never done that to you, but what do you know?

Perhaps my Aemond is truly gone.

The ball is coming up next!!! Reader may finally learn to let go of Aemond, or at least give him what he wants - a whole lot of space and time.

Also, reminder - Aemond's injury is still pretty fresh, considering the damage. So no, he hasn't stuck a sapphire in there yet. Imagine how little Aemond looked in episode 7, with angry stitches running down his face, but a bit more healed. His eye socket is still sewn shut, and it still causes him much pain, so go easy on our boy, y'all.

taglist still has some spots left! I've managed to continue it in the comments 🖤

and I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on this, and what you're hoping to read in the next part!!!

Series taglist: @caught-in-the-afterglow @aemondtargaryensrider @punggo66 @dollfaceyourfear @candypurplebutterfly @moonmaiden1996 @mxrgodsstuff @lolitaisreal @blue-serendipity @melsunshine @thejanecampaign @fxngsfxgxrty @padfooteyes @msmarvel-19 @tempo-rary-fix @lauraneedstochill @julczimozart @sarcasticfangirl @witchyvik @pyjama-shorts @bellaisasleep @zillahvathek @thincrusttheworks @krispold @yougotthatlove @raging-panda @fleetingly-artistic @throughgoeshamilton @polireader @katsav17 @minttea07 @kravitzwhore @meggiemay82 @hedonefox @daenysx @schniiipsel @namoreno @afro-hispwriter @aemondswifeisme @emcharra @malfoytargaryen @iiamthehybrid @fullmetalriotts @kellzlib @justsumtuffstuff @daydreamy-me @yentroucnagol @kezibear @queenofshinigamis @paprikaquinn

[libraloves-writing]

My last AP exam is on Monday (calculus 😔✊ pray for me) so I’m thinking about which AP class the 141 would teach

(If you don’t know what AP classes are, they’re college level courses for high schoolers and are notoriously difficult, some classes more than others. At the end of the year there’s an exam where if you pass you’d get college credit.)

The most obvious to me is Johnny he would do teach AP Physics or AP Chem cause like dude is a demolitions expert ie bombs and explosives. He HAS to have a high level of education in the physics/chemistry of explosives to do that so I think that background would make him a very qualified AP teacher. I know his class is a lot of hands-on labs and cool presentations. He would also just be that teacher that made everything so cool and interesting, def a favorite of the energetic kids. Has he set off the fire alarm before? Of course he has. He has a poster in his room of how many days his class has gone without setting something off, the longest they’ve gone is three days.

Price is a bit tricky for me. I want to say he would be either AP World or AP English language. He gives me history buff dad who has like a bajillion books on WWII but he also gives me English major. I’m leaning towards World I just feel like his class would deeeefinely be a weeder class, like only the strongest survive. But he would be super good at setting his students up for success, def tough love. His class is clean cut and straight to the point, practice exams throughout the year and pop quizzes without mercy, but that’s also the reason his students have the highest passing rate of his schools AP classes. Dad jokes galore also, if you do well on a test he’ll write one on the back of the paper.

Kyle would be AP Environmental Science. Science with a smidge of history sprinkled in is my fav (nuclear energy unit was my favorite 😩 ask me about Three Mile Island). His class is definitely lecture heavy but he always makes the coolest slide presentations. FIELD TRIPS dude loooooves field trips he has like two per semester. You’re going to a national park to look at soil erosion and he makes it so fun. He takes his job so seriously like beyond an AP teacher he wants his students to see the world around them with new eyes. He has kids fighting over who gets to be his TA every year cause they love him so much. Although being his TA is like a full time job bro has you grading so much stuff, you’re on a ladder stapling student projects to his Wall of Fame TM. He makes up for it thought by having a nice lunch for his TAs at the end of the year though.

Simon would be AP Calculus. Besties w/Johnnh obvi cause their classes are both math heavy/math based and their students are often taking both of their classes (Simon def calls his students nerds but he loves them). He just really likes how straightforward calc is, like no fluff it’s formulas and theories and boom there’s your answer. He’s made a reputation for himself for being a tough teacher but he just wants to challenge his kids. His classes always have the same structure everyday and it’s very organized, grades put in every other day and test grades even sooner. He knows math is scary for some students so he makes sure to look out for the ones who struggle a bit more, the last thing he wants is for someone to totally give up on math. To encourage his students to participate, to get them comfortable with being wrong sometimes, he gives candy when students go to the board to solve an equation (they get candy if they’re right or wrong 😉). His classroom is definitely a lunch hangout spot for quieter students, he lets them stay there to eat and over time they open up and boom besties.

😘

Anyway, pray for me on my exam. ISTG I BETTER MOT SEE AN E OR LM ANYWHEREEE (i definitely will and I’ll be cooked. I’m sooo good on area under the curve tho 😛)

HAPPY AP EXAM SEASON WE WILL ALL GET FIVES

[rosiarie]

my essential stationery as a uni student

happy 2025 my loves ! with my winter quarter starting soon, i know a lot of you are going back to school. here is a list of my essential stationery that i love. keep in mind that spending money on expensive stationery or buying new notebooks all the time is not necessary at all to succeed academically. but if you guys do need to buy new pens, pencils, or notebooks, here are my favorites.

i. bag i use the longchamp le pliage medium tote. the medium imo is the perfect size, but some more affordable options are: - trader joes tote bag (available in store. i used this senior year of hs!) - thrifted leather bag i prefer shoulder bags, but again, you can wear whatever bag/backpack you prefer or already have!

ii. notebooks here are my favorite notebooks i use for school. when i look for a notebook, i try to get one that isn't too thick or big because it is less weight to carry in my bag and more functional. for wide ruled notebooks, i prefer college ruled as i get to write more on one page and it is aesthetically more pleasing for me to look at.

muji, college ruled (economics, language, science): i use this for note-taking, both in class and out of class. i prefer writing notes on paper to taking them digitally, as it is easier for me to retain the information. maruman, graphing (math): i discovered this brand last year at a local stationery store and it's become my favorite stationery item discover! i prefer spiral notebooks for mathematic courses, as it's easier to write on and use a full page! there's only 80 sheets on this, but it almost lasted me almost my whole ap calculus ab class last year! i only needed a new notebook on the last 2 months of hs. midori, graphing (math): i haven't used this one yet! but i'm planning to buy it for my first college calc course next quarter. i'm going to use this one as a formal math notebook where i keep notes on different formulas & theorems, whereas i use maruman for homework and note-taking during class!

iii. pencils & pens

mitsubishi alpha gel - my favorite mechanical pencil ever! the gel is so squishy and it helps make note-taking easier/faster. i have a pink & silver ver of this! sakura sumo grip - i like the mitsubishi gel one more, but this one is really good too! it also makes note-taking smoother/faster.

pilot - you can find this pen in any store (target or stationery) and easily online. the ink can get messy, it does take a while to dry (wait before flipping the page!), and it is pretty disliked, but this is my all time favorite ink pen. i love the way it feels when you write with this and how it turns out. muji dupe - i think i ordered this my second year of hs, and as a college first-year, i still have half the pack left. the muji ones might be better quality (i don't know, i've never tried them), but these work fine and i quite like them! they're 0.35mm, so the letters come out very smalll.

i wish you all the best in 2024. may happiness, love, health, and success find & keep you. bisous!

[voltaridylla]

hiiii! Would you care to talk about any Kenchole in college au headcanons you might have <3

WAAAAAAAH OH MY GOD INDIGO I WAS THINKING ABOUT THIS ALL DAY 😞😞😞 !!! I love college aus I can’t lie so this was a lot of fun <3 thank for the ask ?,!;&:!:.! I feel like I have decent hcs so I hope you enjoy them :>

Kenchole college AU hcs :

-So Kenny/Nichole started dating in highschool and go to different unis !! Luckily Boulder and CSU aren’t too far apart so they make it work.

-Kenny pursues physics and Nichole does botanical science.

-As electives Nichole would take French, ecology/earth science and something arty like pottery.

-I can’t see Kenny being strong in languages but he would probably enjoy creative writing (I love this hc because of Going Native and The Black Friday trilogy) and probably take math electives (🤓)

-Kenny lives off of red bull for college (bro has died of accelerated heart attack because of this) and while he has good memory he still needs to study exact formulas which kick him in the ass sometimes.

-Nichole is quite competitive, she would study for hours just so she has the precise answers for exams and be the top of her class.

-Before they move in together they call eachother late at night.

-Kenny and Nichole enjoy the parties but the next day Nichole has to nurse Kenny’s hangovers since he over does it with Stan. Nichole shakes her head about it with Kyle who is also pinching the bridge of his nose.

-They eventually save up for a flat together!! Kenny and Nichole live off of ramen noodles and cheap take out for the first couple of years whilst balancing out rent but they make it work.

-Nichole is like those students with perfect aesthetically pleasing notes and calligraphy!! I love this hc - I adore IT!!

-When they visit South Park during break they usually take Karen out and bring her shopping with the money they saved!! <3

[oldwritingm]

Heyy I love yourrr writing soo muchhh and I wanted to ask if you could write a Kyle x y/n like the first moment when Kyle is going to have a crush on her 😍I would love that !!

I’m very glad you like my writing!! Here you go!

Word count: 682

South Park - Kyle Falls for You

You were totally lost. The numbers on the whiteboard might as well have been in another language; you couldn’t make anything of them, despite your valiant efforts to follow along throughout the entire class period.

You sighed, slumping forward in defeat. You rested your head on your palm, tilting it slightly to the side as you eased into the pose.

Your eyes landed on the paper next to your own. You idly watched the pencil scribble numbers down rapidly, circling one number in particular.

The teacher loudly announced the answer. It was the same number that your neighbor had circled on the page.

In a burst of shock (and perhaps a little frustration) you exclaimed:

“How did you do that?!”

You felt your cheeks turn pink. Luckily it wasn’t loud enough for the whole class to hear, but unfortunately it was loud enough to reach this brainiac’s ears.

To your surprise, he started talking back. “Oh, I just used the formula. You find the a and the b by looking at the dimensions of the shape…”

Quickly blinking away your initial shock, you followed along with his explanation. It actually made more sense than anything the teacher had been saying for the past hour, and, trying it yourself, you were able to get the same answer!

“Ha!” You beamed at your page. Then you turned your smile to your benefactor. “Thanks!”

He barely even looked at you. He just bobbed his head in acknowledgement, returning to his own work. You were too happy to interpret this as rudeness, so you went to your own work gratefully.

Kyle twisted the lock on his locker, carefully inputting the combination to unlock it. But the second he removed the lock, the door flew open on its own, papers and textbooks spilling everywhere. It had entirely emptied out onto the linoleum floor of the hallway; the only thing remaining inside was a rather large coat. Kyle knew that coat.

“Cartman..!” He fumed, slamming the locker door shut with force.

He was already almost late to class; the hallways were practically empty. He threw the coat as far as his arms would let him before stooping down to attempt to gather his things.

He was surprised to see the majority of them already gathered in a pair of hands that seemed vaguely familiar. He followed the arms to a face that, again, gave him a strange sense of recognition.

The hands jutted out, offering the stack of pages and books to him. He reluctantly accepted them.

“Thanks,” he said slowly, dividing his attention between this person and his locker as he stowed the supplies.

Their face wasn’t unpleasant to look at. No, not at all. With e/c eyes and h/c hair, Kyle might’ve actually said that this person was… attractive.

Ultimately, it was their smile that did it. “That’s for helping me in math today,” they jested with a twinkle in their eye.

Kyle stared dumbly. So that’s where he’d seen them before! He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them then; they were certainly more eye-catching than anyone else at school, now that he was looking at them.

A little laugh filled his ears. Oh no. His heart officially melted.

“Uh, we should probably get to class now.”

“C… class. Right.”

They cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah… class.” With an amused smile, they shut his locker for him and turned around, hurrying away to their own class.

With a sinking feeling, Kyle realized he was about to miss an important chance. “Wait! What’s your name?”

They turned their head just enough to call over their shoulder.

“Y/n!”

“Y/n,” he repeated quietly to himself. “I’m Kyle!”

He watched them disappear around a corner. His eyes flicked to Cartman’s coat on the ground. Maybe he wouldn’t have to throttle him after all…

His heart was hammering, and he was certain that his cheeks were darker than their usual tone. He didn’t mind, though. Just to have met this wonderful person… it was worth all of it.

The bell rang.

On second thought, Cartman was dead meat.

Thank you for your request! And thank you for reading, take care you sweethearts <33

(divider by saradika)

[tofulikesmala]

hii!! how are you? i hope good, could you write a draken x fem reader, maybe smut if you feel comfortable with it, where reader is a shy nerd and since she met draken she changed completely and you do the rest!! sorry for bad english but its not much first language!!😭

At the flip of a coin

Draken x fem reader

author notes: hello, thank you for requesting! Unfortunately, I am a MINOR, so I don’t write smut. I apologize for the inconvenience. ANDAHHHB I TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE THIS IM SOS SORRY

It was time for midterms. Again. This time, Draken finally mustered enough motivation to study for it the first time in his life. The cold breeze of the aircon caused his long hair to sway a little. The quietness of the library was in contrast to the noisy environment of the Tokyo manji gang. Observing the tables—which were mostly packed with people, he sat himself down at a table which only had one person.

You watched as this tall and muscular guy sat down on your table. Looking back at the three assignments that was due the next day, you sighed. Well, you can’t do anything about it, might as well not complain, it’ll be beneficial for you anyways! Hey, it might even teach you to write faster! Looking at the guy who was flipping through his notebook, creases forming on his eyebrow, glaring at his notebook as he scowled. PleasedonttalktomePleasedonttalktomePleasedonttalktome

Placing his very clean textbook on the table, he begun flipping through the pages, not understanding a single thing at all. Staring at the girl in front of him, he sighed, before nudging her and placed his textbook in front of her. “Hey, if you can, can you explain what it’s trying to say?” The girl took some time to process his words, but after that she read the pages of the textbook, flipping here and there quickly. “This is my curriculum for next year…but be glad I still studied one year ahead.” She mumbled quietly. Draken jaw internally dropped. Which motherfucker would want to study a year ahead? The girl sitting in front of him, apparently. The girl started mumbling words Draken couldn’t even make up. “Can you speak up. You’re too soft.” A tinge of red appeared on her cheeks as she cleared her throat. “Alright….sorry…” Speaking a little louder, she explained the formulas, how to solve it, scribbling all over his textbook. Draken had to stretch his ears to be as long as a Buddha’s in order to hear her clearly. But Draken didn’t ask her to speak louder, since she seemed to have social anxiety. Shaking her leg, hand shaky, eh Draken decided not to push any further. After like half an hour of explaining the chapters tested for the exam, she put down her pen and sighed. “W-well, I hope you understood everything…..sorry if my explanation isn’t the best, I’m not very good at teaching, I mean I can understand the topic but I just can’t teach I’m really weird and all, so sorry. I’m so bad at teaching I hope you understood if it was too complicated just tell me….” As the girl went on and on, her voice got softer and softer, until she stopped speaking all together. “It was great, thanks.” Draken replied. The girl blushed a deeper shade of red. “T-thanks, it means a lot….” “Let’s be friends. You can help me with math and shit.” A deeper shade of red appeared on her cheeks. Friends….? Dang, she didn’t have a lot of that…. “I take that as a yes.” Draken stared at her before packing his things and walking away.

Time Skip. The young couple falls in love…

Dating Draken while being shy and nerdy would include….

Due to your shy personality, he feels an even more overwhelming sense of protectiveness over you

bring you to meet toman when your comfortable, of course

would 100% bonk anyone on the head if they try to make a dirty joke, he’d rather keep your innocence

A lot of times you rant about the topic your interested in to draken, although he doesn’t know what your talking about 90% of the time, he’ll listen anyways

remembers the stuff you rant about. He would see something related and would be like “hey don’t you like this”

very caring, protective and accepting! 10/10

if anyone bullies you, he’d beat them up, immediately

You groaned as your classmates who are a waste of oxygen forcefully pushed you against the locker again, slamming a hand beside you, causing all your books from your hand to fall to the ground. The smirk on his face only grew wider at your scared expression. What’s he gonna do next, beat you up? Like every other day? “If it isn’t the ner-” blood splattered on your cheek as your classmate fell onto the floor, blood trickling down your nose. Huh? What just happened? A tall figure loomed over you, as he placed his hands on your shoulders, a gentle but firm voice rang out. “Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?” You nodded your head, you were perfectly fine, after all. Draken nodded, before straddling the guy and beating the shit out of him, saying some curse words you didn’t even know, spitting insults here and there. As you were bullied quite frequently, more beating occurred. More shouts. More blood. More gore. More swears. Of course, it started to affect you in some way!

Three missing assignments, two exams, and 7 worksheets to complete by tomorrow. You were pissed. Very pissed. Things really decided not to go your way. You were sick, absent for only TWO days, and your asshole of a teacher decided to release all the homework that was meant for like, a fucking week. You weren’t even given an extension! Oh the urge to stab a knife into your teachers stomach and twist it, see her beg for mercy as more blood flowed out— “Ah!” You collapsed to the floor, scraping your knees on wooden floor somehow. “Oh! Isn’t this the WHORE who’s dating Draken? How did you even pull him, he’s so out of your league! Hahahah! I know, maybe it’s because you’re such a SLUT!” Of all days, she decided to piss you off today. Fuck. You were so done. Standing up, you launched right at her, pushing her onto the ground as you slammed her head against the locker. Screams sounded as both her and your classmates were shocked. Several others from other classes begun peeping their heads in, curious about the commotion. Grabbing her hair, you forcefully lifted her head, before slamming her head down again. You’ve seen draken do it many times, it was pretty easy to imitate. You lifted up her head tearing her hair. “I hope you get raped. Multiple times.” Taking your scissors, you brought it to her stomach, running the blade through her clothes. “I’m gonna make sure all the yellow fat from your stomach flows out.” Pressing a bit harder, the girl screamed and kicked, but the immense unknown strength from your body kept her down. Blood began to flow, but before you could continue, somebody picked you up, throwing away the scissors from your hands and pulling you into a hug. As you the scent of Draken’s shampoo filled your nose, you relaxed and leaned into his arms.

Draken went to the classroom too because, firstly, it’s your classroom, secondly, there was screaming.

But instead, he found you slamming your bully’s head on the floor, blood spilling everywhere.

He knew you would usually cower behind your own hands, but this time you didn’t even flinch.

“W-wha…?” Draken is SO confused, what happened to his cutie potootie pookie wookie sweet honey bear gentle girlfriend?

he can’t even MOVE. That’s until you started going a little too far

Back at the brothel, Draken used some wet wipes to gently scrub off the blood off your face. “So…who taught you all that….?” “You…?” You replied bluntly. Draken gulped. Guess there’s no turning back now

[heavenssins]

Get to know Your Moots!

thank you for tagging me @arcane-vagabond

what’s the origin of your blog title?

idk honestly, religious trauma? maybe? idk i like idea of something “heavenly” being “sinful”

OTP(s) + ship names

TimePetals (10th doctor & rose!) CaitVi, Lottienat, taivan, destiel, ronance (robin and nancy!) Peter Parker & Mary Jane, Sam Wilson & Bucky barnes, & probably so many more!

favorite color

Forest Green, Blood Red, & Espresso Brown

favorite game

Alice: Madness Returns, Lollipop Chainsaw, & Resident Evil 3! (also stardew valley and marvel rivals)

song stuck in your head

Sports Car by Tate McRae

weirdest habit/trait

Uh i lift a leg by my head when im sitting or laying down by myself

hobbies

cosplay, writing, photography, walking in nature, baking, and im trying to get into hiking this year!!

if you work, what’s your profession?

Social media, research, & script writing for a podcast!!

if you could have ANY job, what would it be?

Film Journalist/critic or a meteorologist!!

something you’re good at

listening! i’ve gotten a lot better about creating boundaries and leaving when something becomes unenjoyable.

something you’re bad at

confrontation!!! i get so worried one wrong thing will lead to me losing everyone!

something you love

weather!!! nature!!! art!! music!! film!! animals!! i love my friends! i love a warm day with a breeze. i love trees so much. New Orleans!! Comic Cons! just got a lot of love in my heart lmao

something you could talk about for hours off the cuff

Tornadoes! the mcu and how they wasted sharon carter (sharon i miss u come back) horror movies, the formula behind horror (slasher) movies, and how horror is a political genre! how purity culture is harmful & religion in the south is used as a leash almost.

something you hate

cis white men claiming “they’re literally peter parker” while being pieces of shit! bigots!! when people smack!!

germs!! i hate germs!! i hate when people dont communicate!!

something you collect

i used to collect funkos but i just got rid of a majority of them! buttons and pins!

something you forgot

a lot, my memory is shitttt!!

love language?

quality time and words of affirmation!

favorite movie/show

movies: Poor Things, Bottoms, The Substance, The Virgin Suicides, Nope, Captain America: The winter soldier, challengers, Spider-man: Into the Spider-Verse, Kives Out, Fantastic Planet, Rent, Now You See Me, spirited away, coraline, twilight, and so many more (follow me on letterboxd if u want @/oliveoyl86)

tv shows: Law & Order: SVU, Veronica Mars, Yellowjackets, The Falcon & the Winter Soldier, X-Files, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Bear, Normal People, & again so many more!

favorite food

Philly Cheesesteak, Beignets, Petit Fours, chicken tenders, cajun alfredo, potstickers, buldak ramen, and so much more

favorite animal

pigs, bunnies, cows, snakes, and really just most animals!!

what were you like as a child?

“ a Chihuahua on crack”- my fourth grade teacher! i was quiet mostly, just a lot of energy (undiagnosed adhd!!) and i was reallyyyyy into glee and doctor who. like really into them so people thought i was “weird” i was also a bit moody!

favorite school subject

english, science, & music/choir! (in high school it was definitely dance and costuming!)

least favorite subject

math!! which ended up being one of my best subjects!

what’s your best character trait?

i’m kind and understanding.

what’s your worst character trait?

kind and understanding to the point of overexerting myself or letting myself get walked all over!

if you could change any detail of your job right now, what would it be?

a more consistent schedule, and more work honestly!

if you could travel through time, who would you most like to meet?

emily dickinson? sappho? yeahhhh!

recommend one of your favorite fanfics!

sacred new beginnings by @sorchathered

sugar & spice by @floydsmuse

Like I Can universe by @sometimesanalice

Sugar and Beer Boy universe by @roosterforme

Stats!Bob by @attapullman

Fool’s Fare by @arcane-vagabond

Go look through my #fic recs!

tagging: @waytogosmudge @withahappyrefrain @sorchathered @bobfloydssunnies @fairyheart @floydsmuse & whoever else wants to!!

[staravyz]

︖﹖ㅤㅤInsignificant Things

ㅤㅤ🪻ㅤㅤ—ㅤ143 lines

ㅤ﹑tags ... not fandom related or anything/random/overthoughts/prompts

ㅤ౨ৎㅤ—ㅤa/n﹕just small stuff i don't think about often. feel free to take any of these for writing inspo or anything

positive intentions behind white lies

the warmth of the sun in the winter

listening to someone's heartbeat

comfortable silence

going on long walks during sunsets

staying up to talk to someone more

experiencing nostalgia through your sense of smell

breathing normally again after being sick for a while

staying near the window when it rains

when you forget about your hiccups and it stops

telling a secret to someone and they’re the first to know

finding an interesting/nostalgic item when you're cleaning or exploring the house

having small talk with someone before you stop seeing them for a long time

that feeling after finishing making something

making an unexpected friend

drawing the first thing you like/think on the snow

wiping foggy windows

finding an accessory that fits with an outfit

childhood stuffed animals

someone giving you the bigger piece of food

the perfect position and temperature when you're in bed

that feeling when you see that random person that's suddenly everywhere

waking up early but it gives you enough time to go back to sleep before school starts

grassy hills

picking flowers

blowing dandelions

making bubbles with the soap on your hands

playing an old game you used to play

sticking to childhood habits

the first bite of your favourite food

talking to yourself when no one's around

looking at the sunset when everyone's asleep

counting the stars in the sky

seeing shapes in the clouds/stars

when someone reminds you of a certain song, colour, etc

drinking cold water after being outside for a long time

the first sketch in your sketchbook

when your vision perfectly translates to reality

holding something warm when your hands are cold

a special compliment from someone you can't stop thinking about

having a conversation in the car with only one of your parents

swinging on the swings at a playground

you see a feature on someone that you like but no one notices

thinking of a really good plot for a story in your head

the absence of overwhelming thoughts while you're doing something mundane (washing dishes, showering, sweeping)

that feeling when you're under the shade and it's a sunny day with some clouds covering it

watching the clock hands move

the teacher answers a student's question that you've also been wondering

looking at the small details on your hands

drawing on your hands

doing math formulas really quick

zoning out during a lecture to observe what other people are doing

finding the right angle on your pencil to get good writing

sondering in public areas

when google gives you the answer in big bolded words instead of 20 sites

staying up to binge a show while eating in the darkness

being with a group of friends and not feeling left out at all

looking at the ceiling after a good nights rest

cold pillow

crying after holding it in for so long

hearing the birds come back from the south when it starts to warm up

that feeling when you see someone being kind to another person

helping someone and watching them finally understand and get it right

when you get into a new room in the hotel

collapsing on your bed after a long day

a rainy window that has city lights in the background

sleeping right after you close your eyes

changing into comfy clothes

smiling at your reflection

remembering the thing you were trying to find

finding patterns in someone's behaviour/personality

fidgeting with something

noticing someone's pretty eye colour

running your hand through your hair without any tangles

noticing pupils dilate

cold hair on warm skin

that slight wind on a hot day

having so much fun that you temporarily forget what it's like to be sad

a song stuck in your head

humming

finding something you're good at

seeing someone's love language in action

finding pretty rocks/sea shells

finding something that you think someone you know would like

finding a new hyperfixation

the sound of water in a fountain at a park

when a child compliments you

when a baby smiles at you

holding hands/linking arms just because

when someone grabs your hand to drag you somewhere

debating random topics

looking at someone's eyes when they're busy talking

laughing so hard that you cry a little bit

when no one is listening to you but there is one person who is

getting the right answer on the test from guessing

displaying a gift someone gave you

wearing brand new clothes

trying your best not to laugh loudly when your family is asleep

snowstorm/rainstorm nights

the other person falling asleep on call while you repeatedly call their name

seeing progress in something

having all the ingredients to make the food you've been wanting to make

when someone remembered something about you

getting comforted from that one person

being listened to

introducing something you like to someone

losing track of time when you’re talking to a person

pinky promises

singing along to a song with friends

listening to music while cleaning

someone looks out for you in the smallest ways (tells you that you have crumbs in your teeth, eyelash on cheek, hair sticking out, etc)

looking in the mirror at 3am

someone giving you credits

when someone insists you to come to something because they like when you're around

calling someone but you guys are just doing your normal routine (brushing teeth, folding clothes, etc)

having a favourite something that’s uniquely yours

grabbing an animal's attention

being checked up on at just the right time

when you're friends with the person you've been wanting to become friends for a long time

becoming friends on a trip but you never get to see them again

going on escalators

window shopping

someone tells you/does something minor that no one has ever done before

writing your username and trading it with someone else to friend them after school

playing games on call like you're making a youtube video

relating to a character in a show

finding the right moment to talk about the thing that popped up in your mind

doing something right on the first try

charging your phone right before it dies

starting to cry without noticing

proving you have empathy

deep conversations in the middle of the night

the familial feeling towards someone despite not being related

resting your head in your arms/hands

playing a game of cards with friends

the refreshing wind in your hair

floating on your back in the water

finding a candid picture of yourself that you like

celebrating holidays

the morning afters

spending the money you earned on something you’ve been saving up for

flickering lightbulbs

unsaid words, mutual understanding

©️ staravyzㅤ(¬_¬") do not steal, translate, or repost.

[daechwitatamic]

Get to Know Me

I was tagged by @sailorsoon @tomodachiii and @eoieopda :)

WHAT'S THE ORIGIN OF YOUR BLOG TITLE?

made back when i considered myself a double-bias for Taehyung and Yoongi, it is half daechwita and half tata mic

FAVORITE FANDOMS?

I'm currently in bts, svt, and skz fandoms

OTP(s)/SHIPNAME?

i don't ship real people but in terms of friendships and dynamics you KNOW i'm insane about vmin and boochan :')

FAVORITE COLOR?

purple!

FAVORITE GAME?

i was heavily into the sims franchise for almost my whole life but my laptop stopped running it so i had to go cold turkey lol also ACNH, all the zelda games, and all the pokemon games

SONG STUCK IN YOUR HEAD?

lol actually it's ultra by skz rn

WEIRDEST HABIT/TRAIT?

i think a lot of things i do are probably weird. the random noises, the patterns and routines, many of my mannerisms, etc.

HOBBIES?

writing, reading, video games, shitty reality tv, puzzles, easy hikes, food and drink for enjoyment!!

IF YOU WORK, WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?

i am unfortunately in public education

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WISH, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

an author :/ that was the dream and goal when i went to college

SOMETHING YOU'RE GOOD AT?

writing, sometimes lol i'm also a strong swimmer and i think i have a lot of resilience to push through tough situations

SOMETHING YOU'RE BAD AT?

counting lmao. cooking. cleaning. anything the adhd says we shouldn't do.

SOMETHING YOU LOVE?

coffee :') my spouse. my cats. my couch. mornings where i don't have to go anywhere. traveling. eating good food.

SOMETHING YOU COULD TALK ABOUT FOR HOURS OFF THE CUFF?

certain books/authors, probably. my own misadventures... i've had an interesting life lol

SOMETHING YOU HATE?

my job lmfao

SOMETHING YOU COLLECT?

when i travel new places i like to get a christmas tree ornament to represent that place/trip :)

SOMETHING YOU FORGET?

lmao bestie i have seveeeeeeeere adhd and i am fast and loose with actually taking my meds so i forget every fucking thing.

WHAT'S YOUR LOVE LANGUAGE?

receiving is words of affirmation, giving is time spent

FAVORITE MOVIE/SHOW?

pacific rim and inception are my top two movies lol i'm only a little embarrassed about it. show might be the good place or ted lasso.

FAVORITE FOOD?

i fuck with all foods. i love food. give me any food. i think the only food i actively don't like is coconut and that's just when it's coconuts shavings on top of sweets, if its cooked in a dish we're fine lol

FAVORITE ANIMAL?

idk man cats i guess

ARE YOU MUSICAL?

i actually am very musical. started piano lessons when i was six and stopped when i moved out at eighteen, took vocal lessons on and off in those same years. played oboe with school band from age 10 to 18. played violin 2-3 years with school but couldn't tell you the first thing about it now that i'm grown. i love music, i'm passionate about music.

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A CHILD?

loud and annoying!! also very very smart and very entitled because of it!! :) and that's on undiagnosed neurodivergence!!

FAVORITE SUBJECT AT SCHOOL?

reading and writing, everything else was torture

LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECT?

math in any capacity. i'm very slow at it and i don't remember math facts and formulas well

WHAT'S YOUR BEST CHARACTER TRAIT?

dude idk lol i try to be empathetic and fair and logical?

WHAT'S YOUR WORST CHARACTER TRAIT?

i reject this question on principle because young women spend too long learning to like themselves to them have to sit and yap about what's bad about them go away you're not my therapist and this is not productive!

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ANY DETAIL OF YOUR DAY RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

the fact that i have to go to work tomorrow :) and i have not had coffee

IF YOU COULD TRAVEL IN TIME, WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET?

Rumi but only if we could also speak to each other and understand so there needs to be a translation clause in with the time travel clause

REC YOUR FAVE FANFICS (SPREAD THE LOVE):

favorite authors are: @sailorsoons (also sailoryooons), @eoieopda, @moni-logues, @kkaetnipjeon, @withleeknow (also jeonqkooks),

@magicshopaholic, @casuallyimagining (also featseungmin), @bookyeom, @sluttywoozi, @ylangelegy (also xinganhao),

and @100vern sorry that you're all alone down here lmao but iirc it will tag everyone if its in batches of 5 by section

TAG OTHERS TO COMPLETE (NO PRESSURE):

anyone who hasn't played yet!!

[verdemoun]

What subjects do you think the vdlg was good at in school?

quick high school au. grimshaw, hosea, dutch, pearson, swanson, uncle, molly and strauss are all teachers. rest of the gang is de-aged to teens.

arthur: art. he is the definition of the quiet kid the teachers let sit in the art classroom during lunch despite rules because he all he wanted was the peace and quiet to draw

john: pe. not just the actual physical activity side of it but really good at the health and human development, understanding of physiology side of it. could've been an all-star if he hadn't had an injury in middle school

javier: languages and music. unsurprisingly his brain is just pre-disposed to the particular process of learning third/fourth/fifth languages after moving to america as a very smol bean and having to learn english. still argues sheet music is easier to read than shakespeare. english is his least favorite language.

bill: chemistry. admittedly he can't explain how he's good at it and will forget a formula the second he learns it but on the practical side of things will outperform the teacher on experiments.

micah: home economics/FCS. which he will never admit to liking. but a bit of privacy and encouragement from his fav teacher and he can patch clothes, and cook like he's been doing it since was seven years old (because his father's an alcoholic and his mother died so he had to take over domestic duties to look after his little brother)

charles: vocational. woodwork, metalwork, outdoor ed, anything he can do with his hands without being in a classroom.

sean: history is the only class he pays attention in. except he's usually correcting the teacher because 'but my da said' and then going on with a mostly fantastical story about revolution and victory for the working class.

lenny: legal studies. he wishes it wasn't how his brain worked, but it's really intuitive to him even without his father's pressure to excel. he can't help he's got that belief that in righteousness and social justice. presentation on a class action? lenny and sean dream team going to make you think you're in court.

sadie: automotive! at least when she bothers to show up. she skips school more than sean does, usually to hang out with her bf jake and give him a heart attack as he plays backpack on their motorbike.

karen: english but only persuasive writing. captain of the debate team. her and lenny get into a fight it's the presidential debate. sean is increasingly aware he might just have a thing for being yelled at.

tilly: maths, specifically financial maths. but she's an all-rounder who knows she can go into absolutely any field she wants because she's just designed to learn. despite all warnings not to, she decides to go into teaching.

mary-beth: also maths. obviously she loves english but she is a maths prodigy effortlessly doing work several grades ahead of her actual level. when she eventually decides to pursue creative writing she has to put up with everyone who knows her telling her she wasted her potential. no i'm not projecting.

abigail: drama. she's hosea's little prodigy, lead for every play and landing some minor acting jobs while still in school. she's going to end up getting pregnant at prom and spend the next 5 years putting up with john's bs before he decides to grow up.

trelawney: it! he's amazing with computers, stopped attending school for two years at only to reappear at graduation with his wife in a fancy car. he was definitely running scams and apparently already owns his first house and is talking about getting a bigger one for when their first born arrives. he's 19.

kieran: english. yes, he couldn't read until senior school because it took that long for the teachers to realise he is hella dyslexic. but he's getting a lot better at it and it's still his best subject because he's just terrible at everything else.

[magicshopaholic]

Get to know me

I was tagged by @jihopesjoint and @daechwitatamic <3

WHAT'S THE ORIGIN OF YOUR BLOG TITLE?

I wanted a catchy name with a pun but not aligned to any particular member. I'd drawn up a list; Magic Shop is one of my favourite BTS songs so this is the one I ended up choosing.

FAVORITE FANDOMS?

In k-pop, I haven't quite ventured out of BTS much. I was starting with SVT but with lack of time over the last year or so, it's been tough.

OTP(s)/SHIPNAME?

No real-life romantic/sexual ships for me but in terms of friendship and banter, Jimin x Taehyung and Seokjin x Jungkook kill me.

FAVORITE COLOR?

Anything dusty - teal, rose, lavender, mauve, rust, etc.

FAVORITE GAME?

I'm not really a gamer tbh but I had a phase during Covid where I obsessively played Real Racing (this close to earning enough points to buy my own Red Bull)

SONG STUCK IN YOUR HEAD?

In this very moment, End of Beginning by Djo

WEIRDEST HABIT/TRAIT?

I read newspapers back to front - idk why, I've done it since I was a kid

HOBBIES?

Writing, reading, dance, working out

IF YOU WORK, WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION?

I'm a product manager in an MNC 🥲

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WISH, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

I always thought I would love to be an author but lately I've realised that while I love writing, career-wise I would have loved to be in publishing as an editor or brand manager

SOMETHING YOU'RE GOOD AT?

Writing, dance and making killer Powerpoint decks

SOMETHING YOU'RE BAD AT?

Cooking, making decisions

SOMETHING YOU LOVE?

My dogs, my husband, Asian food, quiet weekends, a clean kitchen

SOMETHING YOU COULD TALK ABOUT FOR HOURS OFF THE CUFF?

My dogs, animals in general, fantasy fiction, Formula 1

SOMETHING YOU HATE?

Road trips, lack of planning

SOMETHING YOU COLLECT?

I don’t think I really collect things but I do love listening to and adding songs from different places/countries I visit. My Spotify playlists are all multi-lingual :)

SOMETHING YOU FORGET?

I have this horrible habit of constantly getting distracted and forgetting what I was about to do. But in particular I forget names of people that I’ve worked with, which doesn’t bode well for my job tbh

WHAT'S YOUR LOVE LANGUAGE?

Acts of service, help and support

FAVORITE MOVIE/SHOW?

Movie - Flipped, Nowhere Boy; Show - Breaking Bad

FAVORITE FOOD?

Asian food - and that includes anywhere in Asia. The spicier the better

FAVORITE ANIMAL?

Dogs

ARE YOU MUSICAL?

I have learnt dance from a very young age, different forms of it, and that naturally made me very in tune with the music it was set to. So I’ve always loved music, can’t go anywhere without listening to it - but I never learnt any instruments or had singing lessons.

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A CHILD?

Loud and chirpy and oversmart. Literally, kids like me are the worst ones :/

FAVORITE SUBJECT AT SCHOOL?

Maths, English, Economics

LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECT?

Anything jn the social studies space, or my second and third languages

WHAT'S YOUR BEST CHARACTER TRAIT?

I think I’m empathetic? although my tolerance for bullshit has dipped severely with age, but I think I’m also good at looking at problems rationally

WHAT'S YOUR WORST CHARACTER TRAIT?

A little birdy told me I can get a tad defensive when challenged or criticised

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ANY DETAIL OF YOUR DAY RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

Wish more than anything it was Saturday evening and not Sunday evening

IF YOU COULD TRAVEL IN TIME, WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET?

I really never know the answer to this question. Maybe Tolkien to study worldbuilding.

REC YOUR FAVE FANFICS (SPREAD THE LOVE):

I have called out my favourite authors in the past here! There aren’t too many additions to this, except maybe @daechwitatamic herself.

Tagging: @written-in-flowers @oddinary4bts @quarter-life-crisis2 @moccahobi @btsmosphere and anyone else who wants to play!

[cityscidewalks]

Get to know your mutuals ❤️❤️

Thanks for the tag @orbitalmirror

What's the origin of your blog title? Is that just your username? My friend's cousin came to visit one time and I was quiet bc I get that way around new people and he started calling me baby silence. I went to make it my insta handle and babysilence was already taken so I just added the "c" and made it babyscilence

OTP+Ship name: I'm picky with my otp's bc I feel like when I have an OTP I'm protective of them, so I think it's a tie between Dartain (Darman x Etain from Republic Commando) and I think their ship name is Sareth (Sarah x Jareth from Labrynth)

Favorite color: we've been over this before but it's that purple that you get from bisexual lighting

Favorite game: mmmm the first Fable game. I love all three, but Fable has my heart

Song stuck in your head: God Complex by Violent Vira

Weirdest habit/trait: umm I can't think of any habits or personality traits (not to say I don't have any I just can't think of them) but if we want to talk physical traits, both of my pinky toe nails grow vertically

Hobbies: I've been trying to get into reading again, sometimes I start a crochet project that I will literally never finish. I also like to hike and I take Krav Maga classes

If you work, what's your profession? Pretending I have a will to live :-)

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? I want to make money and a sustainable living writing novels (I have to actually write on first tho)

Something you're good at: writing. I promise when I have motivation and energy I'm good a good writer

Something you're bad at: doing my homework

Something you love: Raymond from Animal Crossing. I think about him frequently

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: ghost hunting and hauntings. God I want to go on a ghost hunt so bad

Something you hate: eating cake with a fork (is that my weird trait?)

Something you collect: My pets' Whiskers 🥹 they all have distinct whisker colors. My dog's are short and black, my scaredy cat has all white and my dumpster cat has black and white or 4" long whiskers. They all have their own jars

Something you forget: I frequently forget to water my plants 😅 somehow they're all still alive but yikes

What's your love language: I've seen love languages used primarily as a way for abusive partners to be like "this is the only way I'll experience love so you have to do this otherwise you don't love me and I won't keep loving you" which is a big ick. But I also think it's a good way for our rat brains to put things in neat little boxes so I like to do things for people I love and spending time with them bc seeing them happy makes me happy

Favorite movie/show: Favorite movie is Labyrinth, favorite TV show is Avatar the Last Airbender

Favorite food: Cake is a food and I will die on that hill

Favorite animal: Giraffes 🦒 ❤️ but bats are becoming a close second

What were you like as a child: I was a funny little dichotomy bc I wouldn't say I was shy but I also had panic attacks when my dad tried to get me to call and order pizza so like (God I'm so glad online ordering is a thing now)

Favorite subject at school: English/literature

Last Favorite subject: math 🤮 "yOuVe jUsT nEvER hAd ThE RiGhT tEAcHeR" no. I've had great teachers. I do the formula right but the numbers are wrong all the time never fails

What's your best character trait? I'm super empathetic :-)

What's your worst character trait? I'm super empathetic :-(

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? I'd be in a better job and passing college (the correlation is the cause)

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? I think I'd want to meet my great grandparents on my dad's side. Their cultures got sort of lost in the generations and I would love to learn from them

Npt: @ithillia @mamuzzy @verpineshatterrifle (do you do tag games? Idk I feel like we've been over this) @arliganzey @still-nix-d-goffic @justaflyintooka

[schumi-nadal]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you @yoellglia, @shambolicchaos and @rafasbiscuits for tagging me (I'm very late, but you're used to it), I love reading your answers and more, I love reading your works, please go on with writing sweeties ♥

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have eight works but two of them are just translations of two so my works.

Ce que la vie nous prend/What life takes from us (Titanic 1997 & Titanic 2012)

Not just a game (FR)/Not just a game (ENG) (Formula 1 RPF)

I will always believe in you (Tennis RPF)

Caught in the storm (Tennis RPF)

And baby makes three (Tennis RPF)

It's just a bad day, not a bad life (Tennis RPF)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Wait, I need to do maths? 😫

114859 words if I'm correct and if my phone works 🧐

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I wrote a Titanic fic and a Formula 1 RPF fic an eternity ago (I really need to post the next chapters btw), some Tennis RPF too and I just started writing a MotoGP RPF oneshot.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Not just a game (ENG) - 80 kudos

Caught in the storm - 37 kudos

Not just a game (FR) - 29 kudos

I will always believe in you - 25 kudos

And baby makes three - 18 kudos

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, I always do! I write fics in small fandoms, we are a family so of course i'm answering to everyone! ❤

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Didn't finish it yet but probably: Ce que la vie nous prend/What life takes from us.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I don't know... maybe Caught in the storm. 🤔

8. Do you get hate on fics?

The only hate I get is from me Never, my readers are the best! ❤

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I tried, but I just can't, even if I'm the first one to read smut. 😂

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Well, Ce que la vie nous prend/What life takes from us is a crossover with the Titanic 1997 movie and the Titanic 2012 minseries. But it was not crazy I guess.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope, who would want to steal my garbage? 😂

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes. By myselft. That's it.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I would love to if someone wants! 👀

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Well, I wrote a lot about Casper and Matteo (Ruudettini) power and at the moment everything is about Fabio and Marc (Mabio supremacy) BUT my all time favorite ship will always be Drarry (yeah, nothing to do with what I'm writing 😭).

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I WILL FINISH MY WORKS IN PROGRESS, IT'S A PROMISE!

16. What are your writing strengths?

Knowing that people enjoy what I'm writing is my biggest strenght 🥰

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I am unpredictable and irregular: a day, I can write 6-7 pages in a row in a few hours and the day after, I'm just staring at a blank page. 🥴

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I love it, I do it in English when I translate my works haha.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

First since I start writing for myself in middle school was a Bleach think. 🤣

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

I don't really know, I love my writing for Ce que la vie nous prend/What life takes from us but Not just a game holds a special place in my heart too and I need to finish those works fr. 🤩

Tagging: Nobody, i'm so late doing it so I don't even remember who already did it 😂 but if you want to do it, feel free to tag me!