#when she gets brutally bashed for doing nothing

[dexterthewolf]

hey why do people hate ana flores??? is it just because she "breaks up Buddie" or is there an actual reason ???? /gen

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 8

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

You’ll stay with her, he told the shadows fiercely. And if there is anything out of the ordinary, you’ll get me there.

He pulled the wards he shouldered around Rosehall tighter as well, making sure that he would know if there was anything…anything at all…

The shadows flickered around him, the creatures twining over his wings and snaking over his arms, and he felt a shiver of anticipation from them at the prospect of a fight.

They were ready for it. Nearly looking forward to it too. 

Yes, Master, they agreed with him. The High Lady and the General just broke into her cottage, they sneered in distaste. 

Azriel nearly growled when the statement registered with him. Fury rolled down his spine, rage igniting in him like something hungry for a fight.

He had nearly expected something like that. Though he hadn’t counted ont hem outright breaking in, but then it were Cassian and Feyre…maybe he should have expected this. 

Azriel took a deep breath in an attempt to control himself, pushing that anger away.

He needed to focus.

Why? he demanded. Actually, did he want to know? What kind of excuse was there for simply breaking into Zahra's apartment when she wasn't there?

He had to breathe deeply to stop himself from going over there and doing something that he wouldn't be able to take back.

They found your scent, Master, the shadows kept updating them. Now they think you had an affair.

His teeth clenched so hard he was surprised nothing shattered.

An. Affair.

He was going to break some bones.

It was a struggle, to keep himself back and not march right over to the River House.

The mating bond burned in him, as if Zahra felt his anger as well, and he had to force himself to remain in place, to breathe and control the raging emotion that burned in him.

He had a plan, damnit.

He needed to follow the plan.

The last thing he needed was his own stupid actions ruining the chance of his brothers coming around. And he wouldn't do that.

So he flew to Velaris, didn't allow himself to winnow and do anything ill thought out.

The flight was...brutally cold.

The air seemed extra chilled that day, the cold biting and painful.

But Azriel didn't let himself turn away. He pushed ahead, his shadows whipping around him as he pushed his wings to keep himself in the air.

He arrived just in time.

Azriel didn't even give himself a chance to warm up as he landed just outside of the River House.

The house looked tranquil enough, but the air still carried a tense charge to it.

Or maybe that was just his imagination, because fury was kindling deep in his gut.

He approached the front door. He didn't even try to sneak into the house.

No, he didn't give a damn if they heard him approach or not. He didn't bother to keep his wings folded or his presence masked.

He highly doubted that this was the moment for some of the quieter practices he employed as a spymaster after all.

Instead, Azriel took the few short steps up to the front door and pushed through it with perhaps more force than he should have.

Not that he seemed to care or mind in that moment.

 A couple of steps in the direction of the Dining Room... And there they were. His family. Their family. Though he wondered if Zahra was ever truly going to see them as her family after everything that had happened.

"Good Evening." His voice was carefully even. As much as he wanted to scream and hout..he wasn't going to. Not yet.

The room went silent in that instant.

Feyre's eyes widened, and her hand curled around the table, and the others...weren't even trying to disguise their surprise at his presence.

He could feel the mating bond, pulling at him, but ignored it with iron self control.

Feyre's face was set in a hard mask, but her eyes...her eyes were wild.

"You didn't bring your mate?" Mor wondered aloud.

"We need to have a talk." Azriel asked, his voice carefully measured despite the fury that simmered in him. He crossed his arms on his chest as he met Mor's gaze, his face an unreadable mask.

"Yes, we do," Feyre agreed sharply. "You want to tell me why your scent is all over my sister's house?"

"I imagine it's because I spent a lot of time there," Azriel shot back drily.

Fey's eyes widened at that response, but it was Cassian who spoke, his voice an odd mixture between curious and...something else. "You spent a lot of time there?" he echoed. "What exactly were you doing at her house, Az? It's not like the two of you are so close."

"Last time I checked I don't owe you an list of what I do in my free time." Azriel returned frostily. "And I spent time at her house, because we are friends."

"And time in her bed just because?" Rhys said with a sigh. "Azriel, what have you been thinking?" his brother demanded. If this is you trying to get back at me about Elian, don’t let Zahra be caught in the crossfire, he was admonished. 

And he was done.

He would never do something like that. Would never use one female to make another one jealous…and especially wouldn’t use one sister against the other like that. That Rhys even thought he would do something like that…it made him want to throw up. 

"Are you done?" Azriel asked. His voice was low, and the rage that roared in him was clear, as he met his brothers' gazes.

Cassian and Rhys exchanged a look before Cassian turned his eyes back to Azriel.

"Did you really have an affair with that girl?" Cassian asked him drily. 

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Really? Really?!

"No," Azriel said with a snort. "I am not having an affair with that girl." The sarcasm was obvious in his voice. "And not that it's any of your business anyway, because how dare you break into her home and judge what you find there!," he snapped. "But I shared my mate's bed, because she asked me too."

The silence was almost absolute at his words, and Azriel could sense the way the others froze.

They hadn’t been expecting that.

"Your mate," Rhys said flatly, the only one that didn't seem outright shocked.

"My mate," he agreed, his voice fierce. "Zahra is my mate."

Mor looked like she had seen a ghost, and Fey's eyes were like saucers, her mouth opening and closing silently.

Cassian seemed the only one who recovered himself somewhat, his eyes sharp as he studied Azriel as though seeing him for the first time.

Rhys looked between all three of them before he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I would ask if you're sure," he said eventually. "But judging by your reaction, that question is pointless. You are."

"Yes," Azriel said, his voice still a little rough. Oh, he was sure. 

His protective fury was back in full force and blazing away. 

Nesta snorted.

All eyes turned to the older Archeron sister in surprise, and she merely held her hands up in mock surrender.

"What? Am I not allowed to find this remotely funny?" she asked drily, her gaze landing on Azriel and staying there. "My sincere condolences," she drawled.

The reaction was immediate.

If Cassian's reaction, a thin red film of pure killing power...forcing Azriel back a few steps hadn’t been there… he was quite sure that he would have slit Nesta's throat just for that one comment. And if not him...then his shadows. His shadows that were swarming around and muttered about vengeance. 

"Calm down," Rhys said sharply. "Calm Down, Azriel." 

Our mate, Ours the shadows hissed and Azriel clenched his jaw.

Azriel’S hands were clenched in tight fists, his wings trembling behind him as he tried, and failed, to reign in his temper.

The shadows were practically crackling around them, and Azriel took a few deep breaths, struggling to get the fury raging in him under control.

"What exactly is your problem?" he bit out.

"My problem?" Nesta shot back, her eyes narrowing. "You deserve better than her!"

Azriel's head snapped towards her, the movement nearly too quick to follow.

"What did you just say?" he said, his voice like poison.

Nesta's gaze was unwavering as she met his, her face a mask of cool certainty.

"You heard me," she said. "You deserve better than Zahra."

The silence stretched between them, Azriel's words caught in his throat.

Feyre's face had gone a little pale, her gaze flicking between the two of them.

And the rest of the room was just silent. The tension in the air was so thick that a single wrong move might trigger a bloodbath.

 "What exactly is your problem with your sister?" he hissed.

 Nesta's gaze hardened further, the look in her eyes suddenly more likesteel.

"She is a bastard," she said simply, her voice cold as ice. "She uses the people around her for her own gain. She had no problem with sleeping with a married man and god knows what else."

"I am a bastard too," Azriel gave back icily. "So is your mate, Nesta. And you have absolutely no idea what your sister sacrificed for you." 

Nesta's face went a little pale at that, and Azriel noticed Rhys's gaze hardening, his expression one of sharp reproach.

"Did she tell you that?" Nesta said, her voice harsh. "And you actually believe her?"

"I do, yes," Azriel said, his voice harsh. "But even if I didn't take her word for it, I would take Madja’s."

The evidence was right there. 

Nesta flinched at that, her eyes widening in shock. "Madja?" she echoed incredulously. “What does she have to do with anything?"

He regretted his words instantly. He had already said too much. He had already...

His shadows seemed to sense his growing discomfort, and they started to writhe around his form, trying to offer a barrier between himself and the others.

He was already regretting this reveal, but it was too late to stop now.

And he knew that this…this was the only way to mak ehtem understand. Use Zahra’s fucking trauma as a bludgeoning weapong because otherwise they wouldn’t understand. 

"Madja was the one who diagnosed the extensive internal damage your sister sustained during the course of what you call an affair, Nesta. It wasn't an affair. It were 6 years of rape," he spat out. "She was 15 year old when it started and you know why it started? Because, and I quote: Was I supposed to let my little sister die?"

The room went silent at that, everyone seemingly stunned into speechless by that revelation.

No one seemed to be able to form a single word, their minds still processing what they had just heard.

"You were sick with that fever, Feyre" Elain said, her voice shaky. "That first winter in the cottage. Zahra got you...Zahra got the medicine."

That seemed like the last straw for Feyre.

The words seemed to snap her out of her surprise, a look of horror blooming on her face. "Oh Gods," she breathed.

Her shoulders shook, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears, the shock of the revelation hitting her hard.

Nesta looked stricken as well, her face pale, and a small voice in Azriel hoped that his words finally reached through to her.

Rhys wrapped an arm around Feyre, pulling her close as she buried her face in his chest.

The others...were stunned speechless, their expressions reflecting their horror, shame and shock at the magnitude of the situation.

For a few moments, the silence stretched as all of them tried to process this, the weight of it hanging over them like some oppressive force.

The shadows writhed and twisted around Azriel, their own distress felt by him as he remained tense, waiting for the others to speak up.

"Where is she?" Feyre choked out.

"Safe," Azriel responded, his voice even.

"Where?" Feyre demanded weakly, pulling back from Rhys' arms.

"As I said, in a safe place," Azriel gave back, voice sharp. "Why do you want to know?"

"Why do you think?" Feyre shot back, her voice wavering. "She's my sister!”

“Is she really?” Azriel asked with a sigh. "You forgot her very existence," Azriel continued, his voice even, emotionless. "None of you ever treated her like you were her sister. For cauldron's sake, you didn't even ask her to come with you to your father's grave when Elain told him about her engagement. She wasn’t your sister then, was she?"

The blunt words hit home, and Azriel could practically feel the way everyone in the room sucked in a breath.

Feyre winced as though slapped, her expression one of shock and then, shame and pain.

 "How does she even know about this?" Elain whispered.

Like that was the thing that mattered. How Zahra had found out. 

"Because, she saw you," Azriel answered nonetheless.. "She saw all three of you." The words seemed to echo through the room. Everyone froze, their eyes widening in shock at the implication of that one sentence, and Azriel felt a wave of vindication at the look of guilt that flashed across all their faces.

Maybe that would make them understand. Somehow he doubted it though. 

They should feel guilty, he thought as he clenched his fists in an attempt to get his rising temper back under control.

"You just..ignored her. Acted like she wasn't even there," Azriel accused, his voice as cold as ice, eyes blazing in fury. "Like she didn't matter, like she wasn't good enough because she was only your half sister, only a bastard."

Elain looked ready to break down in tears, her hands curled into fists as she swallowed, her face pale.

Cassian and Mor were silent, both of them looking sick, their faces twisted in a look of shame.

 Rhys's face was blank, as though he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.

Nesta was staring straight ahead, but Azriel could see the tightness of her clenched jaw, like she was gritting her teeth together.

 And Feyre...had tears in her eyes, the shame and pain written so clearly on her face that Azriel wasn't sure whether he should feel pity or fury.

"Did you even realize what you did to her?" he asked, his voice still cold. 

"No," Feyre muttered. "No, I didn't."

"You know what, I don't even care," Azriel said with a shake of his head. "Let me just make one thing clear. Zahra is my mate. Which means, she will be treated with a modicum of respect from now on. Clearly you can't manage that for eitherof us, but it stops now."

 "You have no right to keep us away from her," Nesta started to say, her face twisted in fury.

No right? No right?!?

"I have every right," Azriel snapped. "Why should I even let you be in the same room as her? So that you can berate her? So that you can fault her for something that's not any of her fault?" 

"She's still my sister!" Nesta shot back, her eyes blazing.

"You have a weird way of showing that," Azriel snapped right back.

Nesta flinched back at the words as though he slapped her. 

Azriel's shadows writhed violently, twisting in the air as he stepped closer to Nesta. "What gives you the right, huh? What right do you have, to even be in the same room as her, much less demand her presence? You never treated her like your sister, not for a single moment. So why should she consider you family?"

The words were like a slap to the face, and a few tears fell down Nesta's face.

Feyre looked ready to break down in tears as well, a look of agony on her face as she clung to the Rhys.

Azriel clenched his fists as if to stop himself from doing something he would regret later, and even Elain looked shaken by Azriel's words.

Cassian was staring at the floor, Mor was staring at him, wide eyed-brown eyes lined with tears. Emerie next to her met his gaze, her own eyes flaring with anger. 

Rhys had a look of regret in his eyes, his gaze hard as he stared at the rug on the floor.

Azriel's gaze darkened as he studied each of them. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to act like this. You don't get to treat her like garbage for centuries and then demand that she let you step into her life."

"She can't just...keep us out forever," Elain protested weakly. "She's still family."

"Elain." For the first time, Lucien's voice rose and he gave her a sharp shake of his head. The others seemed a little startled at the outburst, Feyre and Nesta both blinking at Lucien in surprise.

"Zahra is, and will be treated with respect," Azriel said firmly, his gaze sweeping over them all. "That is non negotiable. And if that means that I need to keep you, your sisters or the entirety of Prythian away from her, then I will."

The threat seemed to catch them off guard. "You wouldn't," Rhys said, breaking his silence. “She's still their sister Azriel."

"She's my mate," he hissed. "And I am your brother, but we do not want to start that discussion now, do we?"

An uneasy silence fell over the room at the threat, but Rhys didn't back down.

"Azriel. Be reasonable," he said, voice low and pleading.

“I am being reasonable," he insisted, voice rising. His fists were clenched as he glared at Rhys, a wave of emotion rolling off of him. “I am being so bloody reasonable, Rhysand, you wouldn’t believe it. If I wasn't being reasonable, I would let the shadows slaughter you," he snapped. “I had every fucking right to rip you into a dozen pieces of treating my mate like that, but I am not doing that because for some godforsaken reason, Zahra actually loves her sisters and would never want any harm to come to them!”

The words, spoken with icy coldness, echoed through the room and Rhys flinched as he glanced at the shadows twisting in agitation in the air.

The others in the room looked pale and a little shaken at the threat.

"We will not harm her," Feyre tried again, her voice a little shaky.

Azriel let out a snort of derision. "You already have," he said coldly.

"You let her believe that no one would miss her," he seethed. "You let her think she was worthless for years, to the point she didn't consider her own life worth living. She was ready to let herself die. You let her suffer alone for three years because you were more concerned about your own pain than hers. She starved herself because she believed her own life wasn't worth living! You ignored her, you belittled her, and you took her for granted! Nesta treated her like a whore for something she did to put food on the table, for something she did to safe your fucking life, Feyre!" He seethed. "She sacrificed her dignity, her body, her own self and her future for you!"

His words echoed through the room, the pain and rage he felt evident in every word, every syllable.

The others in the room seemed to reel from the harsh words, their eyes wide as they stared at him with a look of shock and shame.

"She was 15," Azriel seethed, his voice trembling with emotion, "She was 15 fucking years old, half a child and she sold herself to put food on the table! She didn't have anyone to turn to as she suffered! And then when Nesta found out, instead of talking to her, she jumps to the conclusion that Zahra did this willingly.”

The room fell silent, everyone staring at him as the weight of the words sunk in.

"So don't you dare," Azriel snapped, voice still trembling. "Don't you dare act like you have any sort of right to see her now. Not after everything you’ve put her through. Until she wants to see you, you’ll leave her alone."

The others remained silent, staring at him with a mixture of shock and shame.

Feyre looked close to tears, and she looked away, her face pale and drawn as she stared at the floor.

For a moment, it seemed like everyone in the room was frozen stiff, unable to do anything but stare at one another in the oppressive silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Elain spoke up, her voice shaking slightly. "How...How is she supposed to forgive us now?"

"She doesn't have to," Azriel replied immediately. His voice was soft and cold, almost careless, "and if she never chooses to forgive you, she would be completely justified."

A silence fell at the words, the others staring at him in shock as he held their gazes one by one, his chest heaving with the emotion coursing through him and his shadows twisting in agitation at his sides.

"Do you understand now?" he asked sharply. "Do you finally understand why I won't let you near her?"

"I understand," Rhys said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel looked him dead in the eye as he said those words, his gaze unwavering.

Rhys looked like he had just been punched in the stomach, his face pale and his eyes wide as he held Azriel's gaze.

The feeling of adamantium tipped claws on his mental walls. I understand. I am sorry. Let me know if you need anything.

[honeydippedfiction]

Joe x Angel General #30 “why is arson always your first answer.” With # 7 “ Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.”

One thing Angel is going to do? Crash out over her man. The one time she does, she goes viral for it.

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#30 “why is arson always your first answer.” & # 7 “ Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.”

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It was a Wednesday. The kind of midweek day where nothing felt right—gray skies, sticky air, and a mood clinging to Joe Burrow like the defensive linemen who kept finding a way past the Bengals’ O-line.

Practice had been brutal. Spirits in the locker room were low. And while Joe wasn’t the type to spiral, the weight of the season—the missed blocks, the broken plays, the endless postgame blame—was heavy.

So when he slid into the car after practice, hoodie half-zipped and hair still wet from the showers, he barely had time to exhale before Angel launched into a full-on rant from the driver’s seat.

Zariyah, their two-and-a-half-month-old daughter, was buckled into her car seat behind them, a pacifier bobbing rhythmically in her mouth as she blinked up at the roof, totally unbothered.

Angel didn’t even wait for the door to close before she launched in.

“You mean to tell me,” she began, one hand on the wheel and the other flying like it was directing traffic in a Beyoncé music video, “that Coach McFlop over there really said you need to play smarter? You? The same Joe who’s been dragging this team like a Costco cart with three busted wheels?”

Joe leaned back against the headrest, watching her with an amused, exhausted smirk.

“And don’t even get me started on the defense. They couldn’t stop a nosebleed if they had a bucket and a plan,” Angel continued. “And the media? The media can kiss my—”

Joe leaned his head back, let out a long, exhausted exhale, and closed his eyes. “Hey, babe.”

“No, no. Don’t ‘hey babe’ me. Because I know exactly what went down at practice today. You think I don’t have sources? You think that equipment manager didn’t DM me the second y’all wrapped?”

Joe cracked one eye open. “You’re texting the equipment guy again?”

“I told you,” she said, eyes on the road, tone deadly serious. “I have a network.”

He let out a slow laugh and shook his head.

Angel wasn’t done.

“I swear, if one more idiot in a headset points the finger at you instead of owning up to that fourth quarter disaster, I will drive down to the stadium with a blowtorch and a Spotify playlist titled ‘Rage, Volume 1. And AGAIN, don’t even get me started on that defense,” she continued, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other stayed on the wheel. “Giving up 380 passing yards and you’re the problem? Please. If I see the D-coordinator in a grocery store, I’m slapping the clipboard out his hand and filing it under ‘community service.’”

“Angel,” Joe interrupted gently, smiling. “Why is arson always your first answer?”

“Because it’s efficient, Joseph,” she snapped. “And these fools have clearly never seen a woman unhinged for her man.”

From the backseat, Zariyah let out a soft coo like she, too, was ride or die.

Angel’s face softened just a little at the sound. “See? She gets it.”

Their destination appeared around the corner: Swirl Up, their go-to frozen yogurt spot. Tucked between a nail salon and a sleepy pet store, it was the kind of small, unassuming place where they could just be a regular couple with a baby and a shared craving for dessert.

It was their spot—lowkey, simple, and always playing early 2000s R&B.

Joe unbuckled and stepped out first, scooping Zariyah from her seat with the kind of practiced gentleness that made Angel’s chest ache every time. He cradled her against his chest, one big hand supporting her head like she was made of glass.

Angel watched them for a beat, then exhaled the last of her rage and followed them into the shop.

It smelled like sweet cream and waffle cones inside, the air cool and clean. Early 2000s R&B hummed low from the speakers—Usher, pre-confessions. A soft smile ghosted over Joe’s lips. For once, it felt like a moment they could breathe.

Joe held Zariyah against his chest as they stepped inside. He rocked her gently, his hand protectively cupped over her tiny back, while Angel scanned the place like a lioness clocking threats in the Serengeti.

They stood in line. Zariyah snuggled into Joe’s hoodie, her small fingers curling against the drawstrings. Joe bounced her lightly on his arm, more out of habit than effort. Angel stood close, their bodies brushing with that familiar, magnetic ease that came from years of being each other’s gravity.

Angel leaned against Joe’s arm while he bounced Zariyah, who was blinking up at the ceiling like it was the Sistine Chapel. That’s when Angel noticed a group of teenagers whispering near the toppings bar, eyes darting toward them like they were witnessing a celebrity Bigfoot sighting.

Three of them huddled near the toppings bar, eyes wide, whispering and nudging each other like middle schoolers at a school dance. One of them—a tall boy with shaggy hair and braces—gathered the courage to walk up, holding his phone like a peace offering.

“Uh… Mr. Burrow?” he asked, voice cracking slightly. “Could I maybe get a picture with you? If that’s okay?”

Joe turned slightly to Angel. Not for permission—he didn’t need that—but to make sure she was comfortable, out of instinct. Just to check in.

She nodded, lips lifting into a small, proud smile, and reached out for Zariyah. “Go ahead, superstar.”

The photo was quick, polite. The kid was beaming like he’d just won the lottery, and when the group left, Angel could hear him whisper-shouting, “Bro! He’s so cool, and his wife is lowkey scary but hot!”

She smirked. “Damn right.”

They ordered—Joe got vanilla with crushed Oreos, Angel picked salted caramel with fresh strawberries—and made their way to their usual booth in the back. Joe sat with Zariyah nestled in the crook of his arm, carefully letting her tiny fingers brush against his spoon, even though she wasn’t eating solids yet. While Angel draped her arm over the back of the seat, finally relaxing.

For a minute, everything was perfect.

Then they heard it.

Two voices—one male, one female—sitting in the booth behind them. The woman sounded like she was just trying to get through the date. The man, unfortunately, had chosen Joe as his topic of the day.

“I’m just saying,” he said, clearly trying to sound like he had authority on the matter, “Burrow’s not that guy anymore. Dude peaked at LSU. He’s a system quarterback. Always has been.”

The girlfriend tried to hush him. “Can you not—he’s right there.”

“I don’t care. Someone’s gotta say it. He ain’t the future. He's fucking Cinderella except his knee is the glass slipper. Broken and worthless.”

Angel’s spoon stopped mid-air.

She hadn’t even looked up yet, but Joe knew—felt—that something had shifted. He didn’t need to hear what had set her off. He already knew what it was.

The booth behind them. A man and his date, talking just a little too loud. Loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Loud enough for someone who was already riding the edge of protective fury to tip right over.

Joe didn’t look back. He kept his focus on Angel, his instincts sharpened by three years of knowing exactly what her stillness meant.

He reached under the table and placed a firm but gentle hand on her knee. “Babe,” he said low, calm, practiced. “Don’t.”

But the rage had already arrived. She was past the warning stage, beyond talking down.

Angel stood slowly, not with sudden violence, but with the deliberate grace of someone who knew they were about to make a scene. Every line in her body was relaxed—but only in that dangerous, feline way. The calm before the clap of thunder.

Zariyah, now cradled safely in Joe’s arms, blinked up at the shop lights, completely unaware that her mother was about to throw hands over froyo.

Angel’s sneakers barely made a sound as she walked toward the booth.

“Hi,” she said sweetly to the man who’d been running his mouth. Her tone was polite, disarming—but the slight upward curl of her lip made the woman sitting with him stiffen in her seat.

“You wanna repeat what you just said a little louder?” Angel tilted her head, her eyes dancing with fire. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

The guy blinked at her, surprised, then offered a smirk. That kind of smug, performative confidence that only ever came from someone who’d never been punched in the face.

“Look, lady, I’m just calling it like I see it,” he shrugged, half-laughing.

Angel didn’t even blink. “Funny,” she said, “because I don’t remember anyone asking you to call a damn thing. What I do remember is my husband putting in more work before breakfast than you’ve done in your whole life.”

Joe rose from the booth behind her, voice steady but concerned. “Alright, let’s—”

“Let me,” Angel cut in, her back still to him. Her tone brooked no interference. “Handle this.”

The guy’s smirk faltered, but he still stood. Poor fool.

He squared his shoulders like someone trying to remember how testosterone worked. “It’s just my opinion.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Angel said, taking a small step forward, “but here’s the thing. You don’t get to disrespect my husband. Not in front of me. And definitely not in front of my daughter.”

The man scoffed and leaned back in his seat, arms folded like he was settling in for a show. “Please, it’s a free country.” he said with a smirk, “your husband’s just another overhyped quarterback with glass bones and a padded contract. Man’s spent more time in rehab than on the field. Honestly, I don’t know what’s softer—his knee, or his ego.”

His mouth curled upward in smug satisfaction.

Joe’s expression didn’t change—but his eyes flicked down for just a second, that old familiar wound reopening in his chest.

Angel, however, blinked once. Just once.

Then her entire expression dropped into something flat. Focused. Final.

The man barely had time to register the shift.

His mouth opened again—maybe to double down, maybe to gloat—but he didn’t get the chance to finish.

Angel’s fist moved so fast it barely registered.

Crack.

The sound echoed through the frozen yogurt shop like a firecracker. It wasn’t a slap, it was a full-force, knuckles-first right hook—years of boxing classes, weight training, and protective rage behind it. The man’s head snapped to the side violently. He reeled backward, crashing into his own table, a hand flying up to his face as blood immediately began to stream from his nose.

Gasps rang out from every corner of the shop. A spoon clattered to the floor. A child started crying.

Joe was already up and moving, Zariyah still nestled in the crook of his arm.

In one smooth, efficient move, he secured Zariyah against his chest, snatched both frozen yogurt cups from the table with a practiced football grip, and hooked an arm around a very pissed-off Angel practically over his shoulder as he made for the exit.

Angel wasn’t making it easy. She was still craning her neck over his shoulder, arms flailing, as if she had just one more thing to say—or throw.

“Let me just—one more shot!” she hissed, twisting in Joe’s grasp. “He said you weren’t the future, Joe! He said it in front of our child!”

Outside, the dusk had cooled the air. Joe all but wedged her between himself and the SUV, using the car as a barrier and his body as a shield.

His voice dropped low, heavy with command. “Angel. Enough.”

The words hung between them. Her chest heaved with adrenaline and fury, but she stilled.

A beat later, a small whimper floated from behind him.

Zariyah.

Joe glanced down. Their daughter’s little face was starting to scrunch with confusion, her lips puckering like she was gearing up for a cry.

Angel’s focus snapped back.

The fire in her eyes faltered, then dimmed as her gaze locked on her daughter.

Her shoulders dropped. “I wasn’t about to let him disrespect you like that,” she said softly, her voice rough with emotion. “Not when I’ve seen the work. Not when I know the weight you carry. Not in front of her.”

Joe didn’t speak right away. He studied her—his firebrand of a wife, breathing hard and bleeding, her knuckles red and raw but her pride intact.

“I get it,” he said finally, gently. “I do. But you can’t fight the whole world.”

Angel’s lip twitched upward. “You just watch me, Joe Burrow. I will burn the whole fucking thing down about you and Zariyah.”

He was about to respond when his gaze dropped to her right hand. His expression shifted instantly.

“Wait… is that blood?”

Angel looked down casually, flexing her fingers. Her knuckle was angry and red, the skin cracked and beginning to swell.

“Yeah,” she said, brushing it off. “But that’s not important right now. What is important—”

“You are literally bleeding, Angel.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That is not the flex you think it is.”

She sighed as Joe gently took her injured hand in his, inspecting it with furrowed brows like it belonged to someone precious. His fingers were careful, tender as he examined the bandage, the concern in his eyes impossible to hide. He stepped back, moving toward the car door. With a subtle tilt of his head, he motioned for her to follow him.

Angel slid into the back seat, her hand cradling her yogurt cup, now a sad soup of caramel and strawberry. Zariyah was in her car seat, hiccup-laughing softly, blissfully unaware that her mother had just broken at least one social rule—and possibly a man’s face.

Joe stood in the doorway of the car, one arm resting against the frame. He reached in, effortlessly buckling Zariyah in with practiced ease, checking every strap, every latch with precision. Once satisfied, he turned and handed Angel her yogurt, the cup warm in her hands.

“I told you not to let me go in there alone,” she muttered, blowing on her knuckle like it might cool the pain. Her voice was quieter now, the fire from earlier finally fading into a mixture of frustration and regret.

Joe gave her a dry smile, his gaze still intense as he leaned slightly into the car. “You walked over,” he replied, his tone even. “I didn’t let anything happen. I witnessed it.”

He stood there a moment longer, eyes roaming over her, the silent tension between them mixing with a faint undercurrent of amusement. He let out a long breath before leaning his head against the top of the car door, looking at her sideways. His expression was equal parts exasperated and awed.

“God help me, Angel,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“You’re gonna give our daughter a complex,” he said, half-laughing.

Angel winced as she took a spoonful of yogurt. “Good. Let her know early—Mama don’t play about Daddy.”

Joe dipped his spoon into the mushy swirl of vanilla and Oreo, feeding Zariyah a finger to distract her from the discomfort of her hiccups.

She gurgled, eyes wide and trusting.

They sat in the SUV with the doors closed and the windows cracked just enough to let the early evening breeze snake through. The adrenaline from the frozen yogurt fiasco had finally begun to taper off, replaced by a still, buzzing quiet that hung between them like smoke after a fire.

The interior smelled like caramel swirl and sugar cones, mingling faintly with the hot pavement outside and the distant scent of lavender from Zariyah’s baby lotion. It was that strange moment after chaos—where everything settled, but nothing quite felt normal yet.

In the back seat, Zariyah had finally calmed down again. Her tiny fists were curled tight, her lips parted in soft sleep-breaths, cheeks flushed a gentle pink from all the commotion. One little sock had slipped halfway off her foot, her pacifier loosely clinging to the corner of her mouth like she’d lost interest mid-suck.

Angel, now tucked into the passenger seat with her legs pulled up, cradled her freshly bandaged right hand in her lap. Her yogurt cup was still in her other hand, the once-firm swirl now a melted, soupy mess. She stirred it absently, the spoon clinking against the sides in soft, slow circles. Her shoulders, tight for the last hour, had finally started to sink back down.

Joe sat beside her, stretched out in the driver’s seat with one arm over the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console. His helmet hair was a little tousled from earlier practice, his shirt still faintly damp at the collar. He hadn’t said much since they’d gotten in the car, but he didn’t need to. He just watched her—calm, steady, his expression unreadable in that unique way only Joe Burrow could pull off. A mix of concern, amusement, and the bone-deep fatigue that only came from trying to wrangle an NFL season and a two-month-old baby in the same lifetime.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was laced with familiarity—like two people who didn’t need to fill the quiet to feel heard.

Angel finally exhaled, a slow, cleansing breath. Then she rolled her head lazily against the headrest, turned her face toward him, and smirked.

“You know,” she said, her voice hoarse from yelling and full of mischief, “you’re really hot when you go all papa bear/Big dick daddy and drop the bass in your voice like that.”

Joe blinked, caught just enough off guard to smile despite himself.

Angel arched a brow. “No, seriously. That whole ‘Angel. Enough’ thing?” She mimicked his deep, commanding tone with a playful rasp. “Whew. If I hadn’t been in the middle of trying to rearrange that man’s face, I’d have dragged you into the back seat so you could rearrange something else.”

Joe flushed immediately, the tips of his ears turning a warm, familiar pink. It traveled quickly down his neck, his expression somewhere between bashful and charmed.

He laughed, soft and low, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But I’m right.”

He glanced at her sideways, then down at her bandaged hand. “You’re also not off the hook.”

Angel pouted dramatically. “Oh, come on. I only hit him once. That’s growth.”

“You hit him hard enough to make the toppings bar go silent,” Joe said, voice deadpan. “Pretty sure the sprinkles jumped off the counter.”

Angel shrugged, not the least bit sorry. “He called you soft.”

Her tone shifted then—less teasing, more matter-of-fact. She turned her body slightly to face him fully, eyes narrowing like she was daring him to disagree.

“And you’re not. You’re the strongest man I know, Joe. On and off the field. I don’t care how many injuries you’ve had, or what the media says when the team struggles. I’ve watched you drag your body out of bed when you could barely stand, still showing up for practice, for press, for us. You get knocked down and you get back up every damn time. That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s what makes you, you.”

Joe’s expression softened. He didn’t say anything right away—just reached across the console, brushing a thumb along her cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it carried weight. His fingers lingered there, like he needed that physical contact to anchor everything she’d just said.

Angel leaned into it, her eyes half-lidded now, that fire inside her dimmed to something slow-burning and intimate. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside—the whispers, the chaos, the headlines waiting to happen—faded into nothing.

Joe leaned in, just a little, and Angel met him halfway.

Their lips touched—slow, unhurried, but full of knowing. It wasn’t a kiss of apology or passion. It was something steadier. Reassuring. A quiet promise between two people who’d seen each other at their rawest and still chose each other, over and over again.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads brushed briefly before Angel settled back into her seat, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

Joe exhaled, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And you love it,” she shot back, grinning now.

He sighed with a chuckle, the sound settling low in his chest. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing toward the back seat where their daughter slept on, undisturbed. “Yeah, I do.”

Angel followed his gaze. Her features softened too, the fight finally draining from her in full. Whatever flame had been burning earlier was now just a warm glow in her chest, resting somewhere between devotion and exhaustion.

She leaned back against her seat, her tone lighter now. “Next time someone disrespects you,” she mused, “I’ll use my left hand. Balance things out.”

Joe gave her a long look, one brow lifting. “I need to start carrying bail money when we leave the house, don’t I?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a satisfied nod. “Better safe than sorry.”

She dipped her spoon into her yogurt again, finally taking a bite. The melted mess didn’t seem to bother her anymore. Joe reached for his too, both of them eating in companionable silence.

The sun had nearly dipped below the horizon, casting the parking lot in that hazy golden-purple light that made everything look softer than it was. The street lamp flickered on with a hum overhead. Somewhere across the lot, a couple of teenagers whispered and pointed in their direction—but this time, Angel just leaned her head on Joe’s shoulder and let it go.

And there, in that quiet moment, with their daughter breathing softly in the back seat, frozen yogurt half-melted in their hands, and Angel’s bruised knuckles cradled in Joe’s large palm, they sat.

A quarterback and the chaos he married.

Wrapped in love, defiance, and melted frozen yogurt.

Joe looked between the two of them—his fierce, loyal wife and their wide-eyed little girl—and despite the bruises, the blood, the chaos of the season, he felt something settle inside him.

No press conference, no critical sports anchor, no bad call from the sideline could touch what he had right here.

Chaos and all.

He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, and finally closed the car door with a quiet thud. The engine roared to life as he turned the key, the sound a small comfort in the silence that surrounded them. As the car hummed, Joe adjusted the rearview mirror, making sure everything was in place, before giving Angel a sideways glance.

“Alright, Muhammad Ali," he said with a smirk, "let's get you home before you become a hit on WorldStar.”

Angel's lips twitched into a grin, a quiet giggle bubbling up from her chest. Her laughter was light, the tension from earlier slowly melting away. She shook her head, looking at him with a playful gleam in her eye.

"You’re lucky I didn’t knock you out, too," she teased, the warmth returning to her voice.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled out of the parking lot. The world outside may have been swirling with its usual noise, but in this little SUV, it was just them—two imperfectly perfect people with a baby who was probably going to grow up knowing that her mom could throw hands if needed.

And that, in the end, was enough.

Joe smirked, keeping his eyes on the road, but his voice dropped into a more teasing tone. “Save those moves for the bedroom, baby.”

Angel gasped, her hand shooting out to smack his arm. "Joe! Our daughter is right there!" she said, her voice a mixture of playful shock and mock indignation.

Joe laughed, the deep sound vibrating through the car. “Hey, just saying, that right hook? Kinda got me thinking… you’d be dangerous in the bedroom.”

She shot him a glare, though it was softened by the corners of her mouth, which were still curled in amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably lucky,” he quipped, winking at her.

Angel rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Zariyah, who had drifted off to sleep again, blissfully unaware of the banter between her parents.

“Just wait until she starts talking,” Angel muttered, "she’s going to be repeating everything.”

Joe laughed again, but it was the kind of laugh that felt like home—easy, full of affection, and just a little bit mischievous.

And as they pulled out onto the quiet street, heading home, Joe knew that no matter how crazy things got, this was exactly where he needed to be.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ���.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The Next Day – Bengals Practice Facility

The sun blazed over the practice field, casting long shadows as the team jogged through warm-ups. Cleats scraped against turf, and coaches barked instructions from the sidelines. Joe wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve as they hit a water break, making his way toward the benches where Tee and Ja'Marr were already half-slouched, guzzling water like it was life support.

“Yo,” Tee said, eyeing Joe with narrowed suspicion, “why you walking like your back’s tight? You sleep on the couch or something?”

Joe gave a dry laugh, twisting the cap off his Gatorade. “Nah. Just trying to recover from last night’s chaos.”

Ja'Marr glanced over. “What happened?”

Joe took a beat. He sipped his drink, then leaned against the bench like someone preparing to drop a bomb.

“You know how Angel is,” he started, voice low but amused. “We went to get frozen yogurt. Just a chill night, right? Me, her, and Zariyah.”

Tee raised a brow. “Sounds harmless so far.”

“Yeah… until some dude at the shop starts talking loud trash about me. Like loud-loud.”

Ja'Marr tilted his head. “You say something to him?”

Joe shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Both Tee and Ja'Marr stared, blinking. “…Nah,” Tee said slowly. “You don’t mean—”

Joe nodded. “Angel handled it.”

“Handled it?” Ja'Marr repeated, leaning forward. “Bro. Define ‘handled.’”

Joe tried to fight the grin creeping across his face, but failed. “She walked up to the dude, said something smooth and threatening, he said some reckless stuff about my past injuries—like, ‘washed up,’ ‘not the future,’ the usual loudmouth nonsense—and she just… clocked him. One hit. Boom.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then: “She hit him?” Tee yelled, nearly choking on his water.

Joe held up his hands. “Square in the face. I barely had time to react. Man flew back like someone hit ‘rewind’ on him.”

Ja'Marr started laughing so hard he nearly dropped his bottle. “Naaaah! Not Angel! Wait—how bad?”

“Busted his nose,” Joe said casually. “She messed up her knuckle. I had to carry her, the baby, and our yogurt to the car like we were fleeing a crime scene.”

Tee stood there with his mouth wide open. “Your wife turned a froyo run into a Mortal Kombat match.”

“I told her she was gonna end up on WorldStar,” Joe muttered, shaking his head with a smirk.

“Did she at least feel bad?” Ja'Marr asked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“She flirted with me in the car,” Joe said, deadpan. “Said I was hot when I get all ‘papa bear.’ Then told me next time, she’ll use her left hand to ‘balance it out.’”

Tee just stared. “You married a superhero and a menace.”

Joe shrugged, grinning now. “Chaos and all.”

Ja'Marr let out another laugh. “I swear, if I see this on Twitter later…”

“Oh, it’s coming,” Tee said, pulling out his phone. “Matter of time before someone posts security footage or a witness comes forward.”

Joe sighed, running a hand down his face. “Please don’t let this hit ESPN.”

Ja'Marr leaned in, still grinning. “Nah, man. If it does? I’m sending Angel a ‘thank you’ bouquet.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Y’all are the worst.”

“We’re not the ones handing out haymakers at dessert shops,” Tee said, already laughing again.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Later That Evening – The Burrow Household

The house was calm—finally.

Zariyah was asleep in her bassinet, arms raised above her head like she was dreaming about leading a revolution. Joe was curled up on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, baby monitor balanced on one knee. Angel padded in from the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas over her wrapped hand and dropped beside him with a groan.

“Remind me to stop punching people who have weak noses,” she muttered.

Joe didn’t look up from his phone. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Because I’m oddly injured,” she replied, lifting the peas to her temple with a dramatic sigh. “He had the bone density of a graham cracker.”

Joe grinned. “I still can’t believe you actually hit him.”

Angel smirked. “I warned him.”

Just then, Joe’s phone buzzed. And then again. And again. And again.

He glanced at the screen.

Then blinked.

Then sat up a little straighter.

“…Uhh. Angel?”

“What?” she asked, head resting on the back of the couch.

“Did you… see this?”

He turned his screen toward her. A Twitter/X video was playing on loop. Grainy footage—clearly a phone recording—captured every second. The frozen yogurt shop. Angel walking up to the man. The exchange. The punch. The gasp. Joe scooping up the baby. Angel being dragged out like a gremlin with unfinished business.

The caption read: “JOE BURROW’S WIFE KNOCKS DUDE OUT FOR TALKING SMACK 😭🔥 #.RideOrDie #.QueenEnergy #.ProtectJoeAtAllCosts”

Angel’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Who filmed that?!”

The video had over 4.2 million views. In four hours.

“Babe,” Joe said, scrolling through the replies. “You are trending.”

Angel whipped around to snatch the phone. “No. Nuh-uh. No way I’m—”

She froze.

The top tweet:

“I need someone to love me the way Angel Burrow loves Joe. I’d commit war crimes for this kind of loyalty.”

The next:

“Joe Burrow has a 2-month-old and a wife who throws hands like she’s in a Marvel movie. Bengals might be 2-5 but he already won at life.”

Then another:

“We don’t talk enough about the fact that a man disrespected Joe Burrow once and caught a knuckle sandwich with extra sprinkles.”

Angel’s eyes widened. “Why is this actually hilarious?”

Joe leaned back into the couch, biting back a grin. “Tee sent me the video and just wrote: ‘AYO. SHE REAL.’”

Angel couldn’t help it—she laughed. Loud, belly-deep, head-thrown-back kind of laugh. “Oh, this is insane.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “But also kinda flattering.”

“I mean,” she said, smirking at him, “you saw me in action. That was love and upper body strength.”

“And great footwork,” Joe added, nodding seriously. “You stepped into the punch.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she grinned proudly.

Another buzz. Joe checked his phone again and started reading: “‘She said “Not in front of my daughter” like she was in a superhero origin story.’”

Angel blinked, then looked at him sideways. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did. And then you punched a guy.”

Angel exhaled. “Okay, so now the entire internet knows I’m a menace. Perfect.”

Joe turned to her, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “No. Now the entire internet knows you love your husband so much, you’re willing to commit a minor misdemeanor in public. That’s soulmate stuff.”

Angel squinted. “You better hope this doesn’t end up on First Take. If Stephen A. Smith calls me a thug, I swear to God—”

“I’ll call him myself,” Joe replied dryly. “And ask if he wants the smoke too.”

They both burst into laughter again.

Angel curled into his side, careful not to bump her hand. “Guess I should work on my media apology voice.”

Joe kissed her temple. “We’ll script it after Zariyah’s next nap.”

The baby stirred lightly in the monitor, then fell back asleep.

Angel sighed. “At least she didn’t see it.”

Joe reached for the remote and turned on the TV. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“You’re officially the scariest Burrow in the house.”

Angel smirked, settling deeper into his arms. “Took them long enough to figure that out.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The living room was dimly lit, the soft flicker of the TV casting shadows across the walls as Zariyah cooed from her bouncer in the corner. Angel sat cross-legged on the couch, Joe sprawled beside her with one arm draped over the back cushions. Her phone was practically glued to her hand as she scrolled through the endless stream of tweets, memes, and tags lighting up her notifications like fireworks.

“Yo, people are fast,” she muttered, eyes widening slightly as she came across yet another viral remix of the incident—this one set to DMX’s “Party Up.” “This one has theme music. Like, actual sound editing.”

Joe chuckled beside her, his gaze flicking to her bandaged hand as she used it to swipe.

“You good?” he asked, not for the first time.

Angel just gave a dramatic sigh and kept scrolling. “It’s sore, but my pride is thriving.”

Joe smirked, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed loudly on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a FaceTime call.

Ja’Marr.

Joe grinned knowingly. “Here we go.”

He answered and propped the phone up on a throw pillow between them, hitting speaker.

Ja'Marr’s face filled the screen, already mid-laugh. “YO! Angel ‘Hands of Justice’ Burrow! What’s good, champ?”

Angel groaned but couldn’t fight the smile. “Goodnight, Ja’Marr.”

“Nah, nah, you don’t get to go quiet now. Sis, you really hit that man like he insulted your whole bloodline. I thought it was a prank at first. I had to rewatch it like four times.”

“Only four?” Joe teased. “I think Tee’s on his seventh. He said he’s studying her form for when the team fights back at pressers.”

“I’m just saying!” Ja’Marr laughed. “She squared up like she had a fight song playing in her head.”

Angel held up her bandaged hand. “And now I got a busted knuckle and a trending hashtag.”

“#AngelBurrowSaidBingBong is everywhere,” Ja’Marr said, wheezing. “You might be more famous than Joe now.”

Joe leaned into the frame. “I can live with that.”

“You don’t have a choice, bro. Y’all got Black Twitter and suburban moms on your side now. That’s the double threat.”

Angel tilted her head. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Ja’Marr grinned. “Oh, 100%. And guess who else is loving it?”

Angel’s brow quirked. “Please don’t say who I think you’re about to say.”

“Your mother-in-law,” Ja’Marr confirmed gleefully.

Angel sat up straighter. “Wait. Robin saw it?”

Joe raised a brow. “My mom?”

Ja’Marr laughed harder. “Bro, she texted me before I even saw the video. Said—and I quote—‘Well… she did warn him.’”

Angel stared at Joe, stunned. “Your mom saw it?”

“And she’s unbothered, clearly,” Joe chuckled.

“Your dad?” she asked slowly.

Joe’s phone buzzed again. He checked the screen. “And there’s a text from him now. Hold on…”

He tapped it open and held the screen up for her to see. It was a photo of Jimmy Burrow sitting comfortably on the back porch, holding a "#1 Dad" coffee mug, beside a printed-out freeze frame of Angel’s punch mid-arc like a Renaissance painting.

Underneath it was a caption: “Angel’s got a mean right hook. Proud to have her in the family.”

Angel threw her head back into the couch cushions and groaned. “Oh my God.”

Ja’Marr howled. “You’ve made it, sis. Y’all are officially a dynasty.”

Joe leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Angel’s temple, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “You’re a legend, babe. Chaos and all.”

She peeked out from behind her hands, barely suppressing a smile. “You think Zariyah’s gonna see this one day?”

Ja’Marr answered without missing a beat. “She’s gonna brag about it in kindergarten. ‘My mommy hit a man for talking trash about my daddy.’”

Joe laughed. “We’ll teach her to use her words first.”

Angel smirked. “Unless someone talks trash about her daddy.”

Ja'Marr gave a full salute through the screen. “Can’t wait for her TED Talk: Defending Joe Burrow With These Hands.”

Angel narrowed her eyes. “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“Love y’all!” Ja'Marr called out as the screen went black.

Angel dropped the phone into Joe’s lap and shook her head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement on her face.

“I just wanted frozen yogurt,” she muttered.

Joe slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, whispering with a grin, “And you got internet immortality instead.”

Angel sighed, leaning into him, the bandage on her hand cool against his side. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No more public dessert spots for the next month.”

Joe chuckled, kissing her temple again. “Deal. We’ll go underground with our ice cream runs.”

And as Zariyah snored softly in the background, the three of them tucked into the kind of peace that could only come after complete and utter chaos—with trending hashtags, family group chats, and a love fierce enough to throw a punch when it counted.

[malisorn]

𖤓 || 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

Pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary | Aemond has begged for many things in his life and for one last time, he gets down on his knees and begs for you ๋࣭ ⭑

Warnings & Suggestions | Fluff & tiny bit of Angst, soft dark!aemond, heavily inspired by Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want by Deftones (originally The Smiths)

Speak the wrong thing, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

These words have rotted deep inside Aemond's mind ever since he was a child, for he has always been the butt of a joke to his own brother and nephews.

In the beginning, he lets them jest all they wish, enduring their laughter as if it meant nothing. But after times and times of the same old jokes, it is no more fun, it has never been fun.

He started to defend himself, spit back at Aegon's words and try to fight, but still he failed. And in the last resort, he found himself on his knees, crying over and over again.

“Please, please, please, give me the biggest dragon in the world.” Tears streaming down as he begs the gods. He promises to be a changed man if he ever has a dragon.

And the gods seem to have heard him but nothing in the world has ever come without its price. For the very first time in his life, Aemond got his wish as he rode Vhagar through the dark night sky. And for a minute, he felt like he had own the world. After countless nights of practicing High Valyrian, imagining a dragon in front of him as he shouted the word out loud.

“Dohaerās!”

“Lykirī!”

“Sōvēs!”

Now, slowly patting the back of Vhagar, this is real, seeing his tears dropping on Vhagar, this is truly real. He has finally proved himself worthy to be a dragonrider to his father, a perfect son to his mother and a true Targaryen to his brother and his nephews.

His thoughts run short when he notices the Velaryons and the Strongs from below.

“I will not fear them, Vhagar has proved me worthy of her, I will not fear anyone.” He thinks to himself as he comes down to face them.

“It’s him!”

“It’s me.” Aemond feels confidence runs through him like a raging fire, pushing him to all the ways to say things he's always afraid of.

“Vhagar is my mother's dragon!” The girl argued hard with no less confidence than him. “Your mother's dead.” Aemond worries he is too bold but there is no stopping from this moment. “And Vhagar has a new rider now.” He continues with pride on his face.

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena shouts with her twin sister’s comfort from the back. Aemond was silent for a second as he observes everyone around, none of their dragons can compare to his. Arrax is young, Vermax can barely obey and Moondancer is nothing to Vhagar. Smiling at his realization, “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride, it would suit you.” He looks at all of them. Threats shouted with punches exchanged, Aemond has insulted them just as they once did to him but never in his life has he thought something so brutal would happen to him.

“The scar will heal but the eye could never do the same, your grace.” Aemond grips the chair hard, he has lost his eye. He looks at his mother with tears full of pain. “Please, please, please, mother, help me.” He thinks to the mother and his own as the maester stitches his scar.

And his mother tried to help him, with the same pleadings in her eyes as she looked at his father, The King, the one who can truly give him everything but the King didn't return the same look in his eyes, he gave those to only his daughter and bash away Aemond's pain. However, his mother couldn't give up, she stood with duty heavy on her back, running to takes Lucerys’s eye. Everything from that night still haunts him and he couldn't look at the King the same.

Aemond did become a changed man, just as he promised to the gods in exchange for a dragon. Not the kind of change he has imagined. Instead, he has become a brute, poisoned with hatred and not even an ounce of sympathy left inside of him.

The Sept is no longer his place of comfort and he rarely begs the gods for anything. Aemond believes he has gotten everything he ever wanted, everything he needs to be a Targaryen. But no, it is far from the truth. Deep inside, Aemond feared that if he ever dared uttering a single wish to the gods, they would take something important from him in return. It could be his other eye, his title, his dragon or even his own life-

“Please, please, please, let this woman be the bride of mine for I have endured the pain my whole life. Let her be mine, for this will be my one last wish.”

Aemond feels bitterness twists through his words, he feels like a fool being down on his knees. After all these years of resentment, he broke all his promises and ran all his way back to the gods one more time. He said his prayers sternly, the gods must answer his wish after all they've done to him, he believes himself deserving something as dainty and perfect as you.

All of his thoughts slowly fade as his blurring sight clears into the vision of you standing right in front of him, wearing a pure white gown with wild flowers in your hair.

With each time he blinks, each breath he takes, every single piece of you has finally revived into a wish he has always yearn to be blessed. The way you talk, the way you smile and how you spin around with that white gown of yours, he has never been allured by a woman's beauty like this.

The gods have answered his prayers, you are now his bride.

“I am forever grateful to be your wife, my prince.” The sweet words dropping from your lips. He didn't know whether he wanted to be eternally confined by your love or to be freed from your lure. After nights of endless prayers, thinking that his wish has been torn aside and forgotten. But at this sight with you as his bride and from now on, his wife. Aemond feels seen, listened and answered, not only by the judgment of the gods but also by you.

He turns to look at you once more, “Same as I, to be your husband is truly a gift from gods.”

Feeling all smug with his answered prayers, Aemond seems to forget that nothing in the world has ever come without its price. Now, he can enjoy his days and nights with the love of his life but soon, the gods will find their ways and take anything they could in exchange of his one last wish.

masterlist for more

requests are open! feel free to ask ♡

images' credits

Society Lady With a Spray of Lilac by Hermann Clementz

Dancing Fairies by August Malmström

Peacocks and Delphiniums by Jessie Arms Botke

[awionetka]

❝ 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑'𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄 ❞ ft. 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥

in which you want nothing but to finally film your magnum opus. so much so that you find yourself willing to trade part of your freedom for a chance at greatness.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫: slice of life...? mostly angst for now, but also heartwarming at times. arranged marriage / marriage of convenience. (old money) actor!rafayel x (sort of new money, sort of aspiring) film director!you. some entp x intj dynamics but maybe i'm just projecting. is he misunderstood or simply spoiled? let’s take a look. just showbiz, baby!

𝐜𝐰: foul language. alcohol(ism...?). (cigarette) smoking. trust and attachment issues. unhealthy coping mechanisms. burning of a building.

𝐰𝐜: circa 14k… when will i ever get to the point honestly

You shifted in your place, uncertain if you’d heard him well. "Pardon?"

Nikolai, one of your assistants, sighed in defeat, turning his laptop around and presenting you with a rather unpleasant sight.

As your eyes shifted quickly from word to unbelievably audacious word, you realised that you’d heard him incredibly well.

"You cannot possibly be serious."

There was a certain bashfulness in his gaze, as though it was him taking on the responsibility of shattering your long-held dream. "Apparently they’ll be starting a new mini series on some streaming platform. That’s what they used as an excuse at least."

"Motherfuckers…" you muttered under your breath, knuckles turning white as you gripped onto the chair situated in front of you. "I’ve spent years working on this goddamn script and they know that better than anybody else!"

And to think that merely a couple of hours ago you were cheerfully visiting local diners, a box of fries in one hand and a worn out notebook in the other, searching for the perfect place to shoot at. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat (or at least trying your absolute best to do so), you forced yourself to come up with a way to solve this brand new, soul crushing problem. 

Nikolai reached out towards you awkwardly, patting the table right next to where your hand was resting.

"For what it’s worth… you’ll succeed. You always do."

Do you now?

"Thanks."

"No problem, boss." He smiled, already rising from his spot, laptop propped under left arm. "Oh, also. I almost forgot to remind you. Your meeting with the marketing team director is scheduled for half past six this evening. I noted it down in your calendar some time ago, so I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget."

Shit.

Of course you forgot to check that god forsaken calendar.

"Sure thing, Nikolai." You beamed right back at him, raising your arm to wave him goodbye. "I’ve already made the necessary arrangements."

Not only your beloved project had been brutally tossed away like garbage, but now you also had to spend a fortune to secure a last minute reservation at one of the most luxurious restaurants in the district.

Days like these truly did make life worth living.

The Linkon Retreat served primarily seafood dishes. 

Which was unfortunately a loss in your book, since you’d rather eat pretty much anything else other than fish, shrimp and ostriches.

Malena – your manager, an (almost worryingly so) optimistic UPenn graduate with a gummy smile and a plethora of old school tattoos, seemed to enjoy the dietary options quite a lot, however. 

"He agreed to the arrangements I’d made and said he’ll go over it with the board but…" She chased a piece of shrimp with her fork for a bit before stuffing it in her mouth. "Let’s be honest here, I will probably have to constantly nag him until he does. I truly have no idea whatsoever why nobody in this field can actually carry out their responsibilities like a normal person."

You just hummed in response, staring down at your own plate.

The waiter managed to find you a dish that didn’t contain the entire oceanic ecosystem, but it still seemed unappetising. At this point, you couldn’t care less about Malena’s updates, her polite inquiries towards you or literally anything else for that matter. The safety of your flat half an hour away from this place was calling you relentlessly and, God be your witness, you were about to pick up. 

"Hey…" She cleared her throat. "Are you doing alright?"

Not even bothering to look her way, you downed the rest of your drink.

"Sure."

Malena reached over the table to wrap her hand around your curled fist.

"Love, I am so sorry." Her expression softened. "I’ve heard what happened. You’ve worked so hard for this…"

You shrugged her off. "Live, laugh, learn to lose, isn’t it?"

She only frowned at that, clearly unamused by your half-hearted attempt at a joke.

"Doesn’t matter anyway." You tried to hide your discomfort by pretending to stretch. "Let’s not dwell on it, yeah?"

"You know…" There was a certain look in Malena’s eyes as she spoke, one you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know the origin of. "There is something I’ve thought of that could possibly help you out. However, it’s not exactly… a conventional solution."

You raised a brow, wordlessly urging her to continue.

"Well… You know that I’m not just your manager, right?"

"Ouch...?"

She rolled her eyes. "Ugh, I didn’t mean it like that. You know it."

"Suppose so." You gestured at one of the waiters, requesting yet another drink. Your companion for the evening chose not to speak on that, even when she saw you absentmindedly checking your nails, clearly not expecting much from the upcoming offer.

"Anyway." She cleared her throat. "I took this job recently, it’s more of a PR thing, really."

"Are you trying to turn your new client into some grandiose lesson for me?"

"God, no. It’s not like you’d listen to my advice anyway."

A fairly amused chuckle escaped your lips. "Fair point. Go on."

"This family… They’re struggling with their public image quite a bit. However, their finances are doing pretty well, considering."

God, she surely knew how to keep her interlocutor on their toes.

"Okay."

"It’s not like I’ve set this up beforehand, you know." Her gaze kept slipping away, as if she became embarrassed. "Just… on my way here, I figured it out. God, I am so sorry about your project…"

That you just couldn’t hear anymore. Everyone was sorry. Everyone wished they could do something. But without actual deeds, all these words were worth less than dirt stuck to the soles of your shoes. It’d be better if they just didn’t mention it at all. 

"Malena,” you chose to say instead. "I appreciate your concern, but please get to the point."

She sighed, leaning over the table just slightly.

"Would you be opposed to signing a business contract with them?"

A what now?

"Sorry?"

"Don’t fret, I can vouch for them. Well… sort of. I’d be the one writing the agreement anyway."

"Hey. Hold on a second." Your left hand immediately went up to stop Malena right in her tracks. "Agreement on what? They’d fund my filming, that you’ve made quite clear, but what do they want in return? For me to go around chirping about how wonderful they are?"

"Not… exactly."

"Malena–"

Your reply was cut short by a human-shaped shadow appearing on the tablecloth in front of you. Malena rose to her feet in an instant, suddenly much more cheerful than just seconds before.

"Oh, perfect timing! Good evening, dear!" she exclaimed, shaking the unknown woman’s hand with deliberation. "Love, there is someone I’d like to you meet."

The woman stood before Malena looked and felt like royalty. Tall and striking, in a magnificent, shimmering gown made of dark blue velvet complete with delicate pearl detailing. She lifted one of her hands clad in an ivory glove that reached past her elbow and you froze, panicking. 

"You must be the brilliant director," she spoke, smiling in an utmost dignified way that left your throat dry. "I am so pleased to finally meet you, I’ve heard many great things."

Malena chimed in, watching excitedly as the two of you shook hands.

"This is Lady Talia, my newest associate."

Your brows furrowed involuntarily, yet you didn’t dare to speak just yet. 

"Lady Talia, please, take a seat. Would you like anything to eat? Or a drink perhaps?"

Watching as the woman settled in the booth right next to you, back straight and elbows nestled neatly at her sides, you couldn’t help but wonder what on bloody Earth Malena had cooked up for you in your absence. 

Newest associate meant newest client, an easygoing euphemism created to form some sort of bond between the employer and employee. That much you knew. So, Lady Talia had to be one of the apparently disgraced family members in urgent need of Malena’s assistance. And those two simply couldn’t coexist in your eyes, not with the way she held her champagne glass in between two fingers while politely inquiring about tonight’s special dish, gracing the nervous waitress with a distinguished smile on her lips.

She had probably never shopped at a farmer’s market before, wore nightgowns instead of pyjamas to bed and put out candles with one of those bell-resembling devices instead of extinguishing it with her fingers. You tried long and hard to imagine her pulling up to a McDonald’s drive thru, but it just wouldn’t stick. 

If you were to be the one to help her with a PR problem, it would mean that Malena considered you a god.

"Love, are you alright?"

You looked up, meeting your manager’s worried expression across the oval table. The corners of her lips twitched slightly, as if she was nervous. 

"Perfectly fine," you assured, forcing a tight-lipped smile. 

Lady Talia also looked your way.

"I am glad to hear that." There was a certain warmth in her tone as she spoke. "Miss Malena told me of your recent difficulties regarding your film."

Oh, of course she did.

"Is that so?"

The woman hummed, glancing down at her drink.

"I believe we could be of some help." A pause. "Only if that'd be your wish, of course."

For a while you stayed silent, trying to come up with an eloquent and polite reply that hid how anxious you’d become. Trying to navigate this game of distinguished business offers you felt as though you were set up for failure from the very start. 

Malena cleared her throat.

"I had only just gotten to explaining the possibility of a contract, Lady Talia. There is still plenty to discuss. But, I do believe we are on the right track here. It is certainly a lucrative arrangement, for all of us."

A droplet of champagne slid over the rim of the glass, making its unhurried way down.

"For you, it would mean full financial support of your project," Malena continued on. "Lady Talia would provide you with possibilities you wouldn’t have encountered otherwise. You’re free to film wherever you wish. It could be the moon for all we know."

"I see."

"On the other end…" She sighed, clearly avoiding your scrutinising gaze. "The Qi family would benefit greatly from your position in the professional scene and associating themselves with your line of work. Public appearances, a dinner party or two, a movie screening. Two birds with one stone."

"And how exactly would that happen…?"

"Now, that is trickier to describe. However, we–"

Lady Talia placed her glass back on the table with a dull clink.

"I would like you to marry my nephew."

A moment of silence. Someone started laughing a couple of tables over. One of the waiters dropped a fork on their way back to the kitchens. 

Then, a storm.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FU–"

Cigarette smoke furled around your form as you paced from one side of the terrace to another, fuming.

"I’m sorry." Malena was one step behind you, trying her absolute best to console you with her pleading eyes. "If I only had more time, I would have explained to you–"

"Explained what exactly?" you snapped back, turning around to face her. "That you decided to just marry me off like it’s the 1920s? What the hell, Malena!"

She seemed remorseful, she really did, but you just couldn’t help yourself. First you lost the biggest opportunity of a lifetime, then forced yourself to commit literal bribery to get a table at some boujee restaurant where even a glass of water cost an arm and a leg, and now you were being asked to get engaged to a man you’ve never even laid your eyes upon, because apparently he held such a catastrophe of a reputation, the only thing that could save his sorry ass was public hand holding and tagging along to your events. 

And the undeniably worst of it all – he was an actor.

"I’ll be frank with you here," you stated, voice low and almost threatening. "Shit like this only works in movies. And even there it barely makes a fucking difference. I don’t see why I would babysit a twenty-something old man who crashes two cars every month and gets banned from every foreign country he visits."

Malena whined in response, knees bent as if she was about to get down on the cold tiles and beg.

"It was only three countries, not all!" You rolled your eyes at that. "Love, please, consider it. I mean, come on, they’re filthy rich! You’d live in a house so big you probably wouldn’t even have to see him much. And she offered to put a time limit on it too! As soon as he hits forty, you’re free to file for divorce!"

You scoffed, turning around to take another drag.

"Oh, that is just lovely, isn’t it?" Malena looked away at the bitter tone of your words. "Just a couple of years, maybe the most crucial ones of my life, maybe not. But who can tell! Especially when there’s such a magnificent man by your side!"

The silence that stretched in between you two seemed non-disputable, final. You didn’t look her way and she made no further effort to convince you. The last remnant of Malena’s presence was a thick purple envelope she placed on the railing in front of you. The golden seal shimmered in the light pouring from the wide terrace doors behind your back.

The air began to gradually thin out and you stood there, watching as cigarette ash coated the edges of the expensive stationery.

Oh, what a horrible, horrible mistake you’d made. 

The silky fabric of your dress pants kept tugging at the underside of your heels as you made your way to the correct seat. 

They must’ve splurged quite a bit (well, Lady Talia must’ve splurged quite a bit), just to situate you two on the highest balcony of the opera hall. Actually, it would’ve been much more fitting if you said you alone, since Rafayel, your "date", was still nowhere to be seen. 

You were supposed to meet somewhere in the main hall, maybe have a cup of coffee or tea in the cafeteria downstairs, before proceeding to go watch the ballet performance. It was an agreeable spot for the first meeting between two (potential) soon-to-be business partners, one that arrived into your hands in the form of a scented envelope with a personal ticket and a brief, printed invitation. 

You’d never seen a ballet before, although you did listen to all the musical pieces included in The Nutcracker back to back when you were still a university student. It seemed personal, the way it just so happened to be the very play you were somewhat familiar with, as though it was chosen for you on purpose. So you thought and thought, and then drank half a bottle of wine before fishing out Lady Talia’s business card from the inside pocket of your jacket and sending her a quick text, confirming your attendance. 

Defeated, at last. Tempted so easily into agreement simply because your eyes managed to catch the name of your favourite composer. That night you went to bed more disappointed in yourself than you were back when you allowed some rookie to beat you in the high school screenwriting contest. The bitterness of it remained somewhat the same. 

The attendees below moved along the seats, slowly finding their assigned places. You observed them through a cautious, guarded lens, eyeing their tailored attire and exquisite jewellery. 

This wasn’t where you belonged, not in the slightest. Your blouse didn’t fit you quite right, pooling under your arms in an almost worrisome manner. The bracelet draped over your wrist seemed too shiny and too dull at the same time. There were leftovers from yesterday’s casserole in your fridge and half a packet of off-brand maltesers waiting for you back home. And, truth be told, you considered whether or not that was where you were actually meant to currently be.

It would be easy, sneaking off, while hopefully not getting too tangled in the heavy curtains which guarded the door to the main corridor. Two buses back home, maybe a double serving of raspberry sherbet on your way there. You weren’t above taking off your heels and walking the remaining distance barefoot either, already predicting the dull ache your feet were about to inevitably suffer.

However, the atmosphere of the opera hall was utterly mesmerising. It was almost magical, the way you felt in that moment, as though you were royalty yourself. How could you deny yourself such an indulgence? Especially when it was completely and utterly free of charge.

Besides, as far as you were aware, your companion could even skip the entire event altogether, crashing some party or terrorising an art auction instead. That seemed more up his alley, at least from what you’d managed to rip out of Malena during your earlier interrogations.

No, you were already there. Lights were beginning to dim and the lorgnette you managed to find at the very back of your underwear drawer laid patiently on your lap, waiting to be of use. 

He’d have to personally drag you out of that seat to get you to leave. 

The whispers gradually quieted and you eased further into your chair, excitement creeping in as you waited for the performance to start. The twenty year old you squealed almost audibly when the crimson curtain began to rise. This is for her.

Time seemed to pass differently in the opera hall, as if you entered some sort of enchanted bubble that kept you hidden from the outside world. Your chest rose as the various instruments picked up their pace and eased back again as soon as the dancers gracefully landed back on their feet. It didn’t take long for you to forget how you even secured your ticket for this performance in the first place. How could it matter, when your entire being physically shook with each step, each musical note?

In fact, you were so immersed in the performance, you didn’t even register where those annoying sounds were coming from at first. Furrowing your brows, you tried to shut them out, but to no avail. Then, giving up, you spun around in your seat, just in time to see a silhouette slipping through the doorway.

"Thanks, man."

No fucking way in hell this guy actually dared to show up.

The shuffling continued on as he made his way to the seat next to yours. The chair creaked under him as he draped himself over it leisurely.

"These doors are menace, I can say that much." He sighed, head slightly turning in your direction. "So… what’d I miss?"

You didn’t bother to look his way, although the closeness of his hand placed on your armrest irked you to no end. 

He muttered something again, shuffling in his seat.

"Can you stop?" you hissed at Rafayel, finally giving him half a glance. 

His eyes met you somewhere halfway, shining in the dark almost unnaturally. The corners of his lips twitched slightly as he tilted his head to the side.

"Are you mad at me?"

Oh, the sheer audacity of that question.

"Take a wild guess."

He let out an amused chuckle and it took every single muscle of yours, straining and fighting in order to NOT give in to your violent impulses.

For a while, it was quiet indeed, even though his fingers tapped along to some imaginary beat he’d conjured up in that brain of his. God be your witness, you could see loud and clear exactly why people absolutely despised him.

You were slowly beginning to drift back into the magical state induced by the ballet, when suddenly an outstretched hand came into your view.

"I’m Rafayel."

"I’m aware." You swatted his palm away, refusing to give it a shake. "Now back off."

His eyes widened in pure bewilderment.

"I’m sorry?"

"Oh, you will be even more sorry if you don’t close your mouth right this second, I can tell you that."

The sigh that escaped his lips sounded more theatrical than the performance you were trying to watch.

"Forgive me for merely wanting to get to know you… What an unpardonable crime."

With blood already boiling in your veins, you turned around abruptly to face him yet again.

"You had time for that before the ballet. Missed your chance. Not my problem. Now sit back down, stay quiet and for the love of God, stop fucking moving so I can watch the performance in peace."

Not even waiting for his reply, you let your eyes drift back to their rightful spot. Your mind, however, refused to return where you wanted it to. Instead, it wandered around the balcony, looming over the odd presence situated at your right. You could barely make anything out in this light, but you swore you saw him somewhere. Definitely not in a high end production, not with that boyish grin of his. Maybe some romantic comedy or one of those low budget tv shows that run for fifteen seasons, supplying the viewers with a whole bunch of nothing. He’d definitely suit something of that sort. It was an easy, non-demanding job, ideal for pretentious rich people who wanted to play house for a bit.

Although, you kept questioning yourself how exactly he’d ruined his family’s good name. No background research was made on your part since you met his aunt, there were more pressing matters on hand and frankly, you didn’t really care. Malena supplied you with enough entry level information to last you up until he finally hit the forty year mark. Anything besides that seemed rather redundant.

But what if he was addicted to gambling? Handling stolen antics? Did he sell hard drugs?

Suddenly wary of the fact that he was nothing more than a stranger, you sneaked a quick glance at him, only to jump in your seat as soon as his eyes met yours. Rafayel was already staring at you.

He let out an amused chuckle, clearly pleased with himself. Didn’t say a single word.

Good.

Because the vivid image of his multi-coloured eyes, part ocean and part sunset, sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

The performance was nearing its end. Your companion stayed utterly silent till the very final musical note that graced your ears that night. Not like that could help much at this point; not when your heart was racing faster than your usually rational mind could make its calculations.

Applause filled the room and the two of you joined in, rising from your seats politely. You were suddenly a little too aware of how crumpled your pants looked in this light and that singular broken fingernail on your left hand. 

His hands looked positively pristine. Adorned with intricate rings of all shapes and sizes, made of gold and gems. A thin, shimmering bracelet hung loosely around his wrist, making you hide your own jewellery under the fabric of your blouse. It’s a good thing you didn’t let him shake your hand before.

The attendees were unhurriedly making their way to the exits, prompting you to do the same. Rafayel motioned you to go first, still situated at a reasonable distance. As he was pulling back the curtain to let you pass, it happened – the narrow streak of light allowed you to see a bit more of his face.

There could be no doubts whether or not him and Lady Talia were related, not with how regal he looked in that moment. Dressed in an écru shirt with wide sleeves and a hand-sewn waistcoat fitted neatly to his figure, Rafayel could very much be a prince of some far away region, where sun set late and all the palace windows were open wide to let in the evening breeze. 

And then you saw it – the soft arch of his nose, sprinkled with the faintest of freckles, his long bottom eyelashes casting lazy shadows across his cheeks and the most obvious, vulgar hickey right at the base of Rafayel’s neck.

All the yelling that surrounded you in that instant made your head throb and throat go dry. Already partly turned away, you hissed as Rafayel looped his arm with yours and tugged in the opposite direction.

"The exit is that way!" he yelled, unnervingly close to your face.

"I don’t give a fuck!" you shouted back at him, making sure his right eardrum wasn’t left in too good of a condition. 

Swatting his hand away, you slipped past one of his bodyguards and the crowd of fans surrounding him, ignoring the way he called for you to come back.

That face of his, those sharp yet soft features, all of it framed by wavy strands of lilac hair, of course you’ve seen it. It belonged to the Rafayel, rising star turned misfit, the one who drove one of his most luxurious cars right off the cliff for a movie scene, showed up to auctions where they sold his own memorabilia, only to buy them all and toss in the trash. Rafayel who gave long, detailed interviews on how exhausting it was to be the people’s sweetheart. The one who whisked away some European princess a day before her wedding, took her on a week long cruise and left her right back where he found her. Modern day casanova, lover boy extraordinare.

And now, apparently, also your to-be fiancé. 

"Well, that escalated quickly."

Your laptop screen effectively covered the newspaper tossed onto the table by Nikolai. Even if you wished to grab it, you were surely no match for Quinn, your second assistant, whose eyes widened in pure shock as she read the article on the front page out loud.

"'Serial heartbreaker out of his league? Rafayel Qi shoots his shot at the industry’s best and brightest – and scores!' Well, that is just gross."

You rolled your eyes, busing yourself with something on your own computer.

"I’ve had relatives I thought were already dead call me just to say how much of a disgrace I am for having a quickie in the opera," you mumbled, taking a sip from your mug.

Quinn and Nikolai exchanged wary looks.

"And did you…?"

"Are you being serious right now? No, I didn’t. What the fuck?"

After catching yourself typing the same exact word over and over, you furiously slammed the laptop shut and stuffed it into your bag. Nikolai cautiously handed you your worn out leather jacket before you could say anything. 

"Leaving," you stated briefly, finishing the remnants of your morning coffee in one sip. "If anyone ends up needing me more than necessary, you know where to find me."

Refusing to wait for anything else they could potentially add, you made your way downstairs, already eager to escape this utterly suffocating office building. A gentle breeze passed through the floor to ceiling windows which were cracked open just slightly in some spots. It was as though everything else was waking up from its slumber, ready to bring in brand new experiences and fresh inspiration. Everything and anything other than what you needed. Why was it always you who got the short end of the stick…?

The annoyingly insistent vibrations of your phone pushed you off this new trail of thought. You looked at the screen. It was Malena.

"Just saw the news…" she trailed off. "Congrats…?"

She couldn’t see your clearly displeased expression so you opted for the next best thing – an exaggerated huff.

"Don’t piss me off."

There was something suspiciously similar to hope in her tone as she spoke.

"At least you took a liking to him, no?"

"Jesus, Malena, don’t tell me you also think I spent two hours eating his face on the opera hall balcony."

The chuckle that fell through the phone made you involuntarily roll your eyes.

"It’d be quite romantic though," she drawled, smile evident in the way she responded to your quip.

"Im not even going to grace that with a comment."

"So, how is he?" Malena angled the subject just slightly. "Funny?"

"Forty minutes late," you replied instead, nodding at the receptionist who greeted you from behind the lobby. "Couldn’t open the balcony door on his own and hoarded my side of the armrest. Yapped my ear off throughout the entire performance. Should I go on?"

Malena responded with a sigh of obvious defiance. "No need… Point taken."

You pushed the glass doors open, squinting at the sun reflecting off the neighbouring buildings. The buildings, as well as this absolute marvel of a car which stood parked neatly right at the bottom of the staircase. 

It was an undeniably majestic third generation Cadillac de Ville with chrome detailing, all in pristine condition. Spray-painted blood red, it looked as if someone pulled it right out of an old gangster movie. It took you a good couple of seconds to realise you’d stopped breathing altogether, desperately taking in each carefully crafted detail.

If you only could produce this god forsaken film of yours, complete with the actually useful cast and costumes that made sense, maybe you’d have earned enough to buy yourself one of these. Was this one up for sale? You couldn’t see even a speck of rust on the Cadillac’s body, it must have cost a fortune to keep it that way. The owner was probably some old man with one foot already situated in the family grave, so your chances could be pretty high...?

All your hopes were crushed just a couple seconds later when the doors opened, presenting you the car’s owner, young and energetic, with a pair of retro looking sunglasses and a colorful newspaper in hand. The breeze swept through his long-ish curls; curls the color of freshly cut lilac flowers and agleam amethyst stones.

"Hold on…" You could feel your throat going dry in an instant. "I’ll call you back."

Before Malena could protest, you shoved your phone back into the inside pocket of your jacket, stopping mid-step.

"This can’t fucking be."

Rafayel looked up from his magazine, pushing the glasses up and letting them tangle in his wind tousled hair. The smile that graced his features a second after could be only described as radiant.

"Hey there, pretty girl. Done with work?"

Choosing to ignore the nickname, you raised a brow.

"What are you doing here?"

"Not happy to see me?"

He pushed himself off the car in a laid-back manner, stopping right in front of where you stood. You couldn’t ignore the playful glint in his eyes, even if you tried.

"We’re not scheduled to meet until Friday," you said plainly.

"Schedule this, schedule that…" he drawled, clearly unamused. "What are we, business partners?"

"Yeah, well, pretty mu–"

"Hop in," he interrupted. "I’m taking you to dinner."

You just stood there, dumbfounded, watching as Rafayel made his way around the car. That day he was wearing a more casual jacket (a leather jacket, much to your dismay), one that made him look like a motorcyclist. Slipping his sunglasses back on, he gave you a pointed look from where he stood, one leg already inside the Cadillac.

"Come," he urged with an impatient wave of his hand. "I didn’t even drive you back home last night, let me atone for my sins."

A couple of your distant coworkers passed by, eyeing down the vintage car and its peculiar driver. You felt awfully exposed, much like yesterday when hoards of reporters surrounded the two of you after the ballet. How you managed to slip past them all, grab your coat downstairs and catch a cab in less than than seven minutes total was still beyond you. Yet here you were, presented with an opportunity to go through all of that again.

The gentle spring breeze flew in between you, creating an invisible barrier. Rafayel’s smile had diminished by then but there was still this curious spark in his eyes that made him seem content. You wondered how he managed to stay this joyful regarding your current circumstances. How badly did he want this deal to go through…?

Well, guess you had around fifteen years to find that out.

"Fine."

He beamed at you.

"No seafood though."

"Hey, I was just about to suggest–"

"Absolutely not."

Having an obscenely rich, fairly charming man at your side proved to be more helpful and prosperous than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Not like you were prone to dwelling in delusions of this sort, God forbid, he just suddenly seemed much more useful than any potential contract would describe. Perhaps it was yesterday’s misfortunes that caused Rafayel to act this way – giving in to your each and every whim without a question. And perhaps it just simply did not matter to him, at least not in a capacity it did to you, certainly with the abominable prices plastered atop of the restaurant menu.

"Did you see how much they’re trying to sell this risotto for?" You pointed at the sum, as Rafayel used his straw to fish out a lemon slice from the bottom of his drink.

"Trying and succeeding, may I add."

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. "Have you ever eaten here before?"

A nonchalant shrug.

"Don’t remember. Hey, are you going to eat those?"

You slid your own glass towards him without a word, observing as Rafayel repeated the citrus-retrieving process. He squeezed his eyes at the taste, shaking his head a couple of times.

"Ooh! It’s like the whole rum got sucked into this thing… Magnificent."

"I apologise for the interruption." The waiter from earlier appeared right next to you, almost out of thin air. "Madame, Sir, did any of today’s desserts capture your attention?"

You opened your mouth to speak, but Rafayel beat you to it, tongue darting out to get rid of the very last remnants of brown sugar on his lips.

"Actually, no," he quipped, turning you anxious in an instant. "I’d like to request a cherry cobbler for the lady."

The waiter glanced at you curiously and your face immediately flushed with embarrassment.

"Rafayel–"

"I’ll have a tiramisu." Ignoring you completely, he smiled up at the man without even a gram of shame.

As soon as the waiter disappeared behind the steel doors of the kitchens, you leaned forward, almost leaping over the table.

"Are you out of your mind?" you hissed. "There’s no cherry cobbler on the menu, you can’t just–"

"Darling." He placed a finger on your lips to shush you, leaving you entirely flabbergasted. "You said you wanted cherry cobbler. I’m getting you one."

Rafayel let out a huff when you slapped his hand away from your face. His eyes trailed your movements, not without certain mischief hidden somewhere behind his pretty words.

"I said." You closed your eyes for a brief moment to collect yourself. "I said I wished they had cherry cobbler on the menu. It wasn’t a suggestion for you to bother the fucking chef to bake me a simple cake out of the blue."

The smile that lit up his features was anything but bashful. With his chin resting on his palm, Rafayel observed you casually, as though it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Unable to hold his focused gaze, your eyes darted back to your lap, silently cursing out any deity that would listen for making you cross paths with this man. 

Luckily for you, Rafayel knew exactly when to shut his mouth (albeit it did not happen often, as you’d noticed). Your desserts arrived earlier than expected, a gracefully served cherry cobbler with a generous scoop of traditionally made ice cream placed right in front of your hungry eyes. 

Rafayel watched you silently, smiling to himself. "Looks good."

"Don’t." Your left hand came up to face him in an unspoken warning. "I genuinely feel so bad."

That seemed to stir something in him. The silver fork froze right in between the tiramisu and Rafayel’s mouth. He set it aside with a delicate clink.

"Please don’t."

His hands were twitching slightly, as though eager to reach over the table in a makeshift peace offering. 

"If they didn’t want to make it for you, they wouldn’t," he assured, brows furrowed slightly. "Why do you think they ask if you liked anything?"

"To be polite…?" you suggested.

He rolled his eyes.

"If it helps ease your discomfort, I’ll double my usual tip for your sake. Sounds good?"

You just nodded in defiance, knowing well this was a fight you’d never manage to win.

"So…" he hummed after a minute or two, sending you a playful glance over his dessert. "How’s your cobbler?"

"It’s fucking amazing."

The genuinity of Rafayel’s laugh washed over your entire being like a tidal wave, leaving you helplessly sprawled on the shore. 

Two weeks have passed since your unfortunate first "date" at the opera hall. 

You tried and tried, focusing on decoding his entire demeanour more than on your own work; yet you were constantly failing to figure Rafayel out. All those scandalous whispers you’d encountered, vividly painted newspaper headlines and compromising photographs seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Sure, he did have a certain flair for dramatics and kept embarrassing you with his unashamed antics wherever he dragged you to, but you were yet to witness Rafayel "ruining" his family’s good name.

The fact that he accepted it all, this abnormal courting period and business arrangement in one, without any protests whatsoever had only made it worse. When your phone buzzed, signalling one of his countless daily messages, you just rolled your eyes and went about your very day. It was all easy. Talking to Rafayel was easy. And that was perhaps the most worrying aspect of this entire predicament.

"So." Malena put away her pen, finally done with the document. "You’re halfway there. Two more weeks till the agreement takes place. How do you feel?"

Odd. No other word could describe it better than this.

"What does he even get out of this?" you questioned her instead, clasping your hands on your stomach. "I mean, he could marry anybody."

She scratched her chin, deep in thought. "Maybe, yes. But not anybody could marry him."

Your brows furrowed.

"Is there a difference...?"

"He’s tough to deal with. Demanding. Talks a lot and rarely listens. It’s a true miracle that throughout all these days you’ve been together he didn’t make a single condescending headline."

"We’re not together," you corrected. "Besides, he’s really not that bad. Obscenely rich, yes, which does make him horribly annoying, but…"

You trailed off, realising just now that you took on a role of his public defender, shielding your potential soon-to-be husband from anything that could harm his precious image.

Malena just raised a brow, intrigued.

"Yeah, well, you’d be the only one to have that kind of opinion on him. The other day I met up with Lady Talia to discuss her involvement in your project and she received a call from him. Turns out he got arrested and was asking her to bail him out."

Your mouth went dry in an instant.

"I… I didn’t know about that."

"Of course not." Despite her harsh words, Malena’s features softened upon looking at you. "It’s not exactly a husband material anecdote."

Leaning back in your chair, you anchored your eyes on the expensive chandelier in Malena’s office. Should you ask what he was arrested for? Did you even want to know?

"That being said." She cleared her throat, sliding a plain white envelope your way. "Are you sure you want to invite him? I still haven’t informed Lady Talia about this. It’d be great for his image but it is also a huge step forward. And, you’re not even legally bound by any contract just yet."

You thought back to that one time the two of you completely missed a movie because he stopped to play marbles with some random kids near a park fountain. Or when he scraped both of his knees on the harsh pavement after having urged you to pick a hang out activity, only for you to come up with cycling, which he apparently despised.

Rafayel was always just slightly late, his outfits were rarely coordinated with the weather, so he was constantly either overheating or freezing, and he genuinely had some acting talent. Upon meeting him (actually meeting him, not after that god forsaken opera hall incident), you sat down to conduct a brief google search and watched a couple of episodes of a tv show he starred in a few years back. His hair was longer and they kept styling him in these oversized flannels that he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in real life. As of then, you were yet to ask him about those, embarrassingly curious to witness his reaction first hand.

Rafayel wasn’t inherently reckless or rude or spoiled. He opened the car doors for you, gave generous tips in restaurants and made you laugh in ways you hadn’t laughed in what felt like millenia.

So what if he got arrested? Let he who is without sin… He probably just drove over the speed limit or talked back to a policeman or something. Since they let him go so easily, it couldn’t have been anything actually harmful, at least not to a degree that mattered. Jesus, it’s not like you could go on and make a fuss about such matters, not when for the first time in years you felt like you’d made a friend. As peculiar as he was, Rafayel gifted you a space in which you could exist without pretence. And despite your rather rocky beginnings, he became someone you didn’t care to perform in front of.

And, against your own better judgement, you were starting to hope he felt the same way in your presence.

"Barely two weeks ago you were the one trying to convince me to do this," you prompted, leaning back in your chair. "It'll be fine. I've been through worse."

Malena only nodded, handing you the envelope. As you exited her office, you could only pray what you'd just said wasn't about to turn on you in some vicious, malevolent way.

The Valentine Club was the first of your projects to "make it". 

Before the medium sized, yet steady success of the film, you stumbled around many different production companies, scribbling down scripts and conducting small-scale evaluations. So, when precisely five years ago you saw a chance to create your very own project entirely from scratch, you didn’t dare to leave it hanging for too long.

Back then you didn’t have nearly as much creative freedom as you did now. One of the main actors would normally never make it on screen if you could help it, but still had the necessary connections, so you were „strongly advised” to accept his offer. The budget was limited, so you hand-painted all the shop signs needed for the movie. Nobody forced you, of course, they even encouraged you to let it go, deeming it unnecessary, but you wanted, you needed it all to be perfect.

Looking back at it now, it obviously wasn’t anywhere near your definition of perfection. However, over the years you managed to make at least some peace with the fact that nothing could ever reach such state. Not like that ever stopped you from trying your absolute hardest nonetheless.

And that was precisely why you were currently picking out shades of purple for sashes that were to decorate buffet tables at the venue you decided to hold your event at.

"What about the other one?" You pointed at the rack behind the shopkeeper. "Sorry, I just can’t get behind any of those…"

The woman waved you off, patiently laying out yet another material on the counter. 

Well, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be this monstrosity. Still, you feigned contemplation out of politeness.

"I’m not sure…"

Then, something situated in your peripheral vision caught your eye. "And that one? Number… number twenty four?"

"It’s one of the more expensive ones." The shopkeeper sent you an amused glance over her shoulder, already reaching for the fabric you spotted. "You have a great eye."

"Yeah…" Your fingers grazed the delicate material, marvelling at the way it shimmered subtly. "Unfortunately for my wallet."

Your eyes fluttered shut, already imagining this particular shade of purple lighting up the entire venue. With the slightest of reflectiveness and these intricate details made with silver thread, it would be a (near) perfect addition to your anniversary banquet.

"I'm taking this one." You sent her a smile, trying to make up for all the time you spent complaining at each one of your own previous picks. "Here are the measurements."

Sliding an unfolded piece of lined paper over the counter, you mentally checked your bank account in nervous anticipation.

However, the shopkeeper’s brows furrowed in worry.

"Oh, honey. That is quite a lot of fabric… We don’t have even near this much at the store."

Your throat went dry.

"What…?"

"I’ll try to see if any other of our stores have some left…" She rummaged through a couple of drawers, fishing out a phone number scribbled on top of a pizza joint flier. "It’s a rather old-fashioned motif."

Just a couple minutes later, you were presented with a list of shops (a list that contained only one place, actually), and even though things were beginning to look up, the address of it made you internally swear.

"Chansia?"

The shopkeeper sent you a sympathetic look.

"I can contact them and make sure no one buys it before you get there?" she offered.

With all the preparations you were still to overlook and a rather unforgiving, narrow timeframe, you wondered if any of this could even prove successful in the slightest. The fabric of your choice was undeniably beautiful, precisely what you were searching for, but maybe you could find something else still, something that wasn’t preferably situated in Chansia City, a place only Rafayel could frequently visit without missing ten deadlines…

Rafayel! What if he was there right now? Chances weren’t too high, but… Plus, he did explicitly say to let him know if you ended up needing anything for the event. Ever since you’d given him the invitation, he’d been gushing about your movie constantly, possibly ending up even more excited for the anniversary than its director herself.

Letting the shopkeeper know, you took out your phone and dialled Rafayel’s number. He didn’t make you wait long before picking up.

"Hey there, pretty." You could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke, tone bright and welcoming. "Whom should I thank for the undeniable pleasure of receiving a call from my dearest director?"

Trying not to let his sweet words get to your head, you decided to keep the matter brief.

"Hi, Rafayel. Are you currently in Chansia by any chance?"

He hummed, seemingly used to not hearing direct replies to his half-hearted advances.

"Why?"

You let out a sigh. "Remember when I was telling you how I’d like to set the tables? So, I found the perfect fabric for those sashes, but the only store to have enough of it is in Chansia."

"Well… Today’s your lucky day then, miss director."

Your breath sped up. "Really?"

"Just send me what it is you need." You could tell he tried his absolute best to feign indifference. "How much time do I have?"

"Till this evening...? Tomorrow also works, as long as it's early. There's still plenty I need to do at the venue." You couldn't contain your excitement. Glancing over at the shopkeeper, you gestured for her to make a reservation on your behalf. "Keep the receipt. I'll pay you back when you get here."

"Now, that is just plainly offensive," he huffed over the phone. "It's already taken care of. Don't worry 'bout it."

Your brows furrowed, almost out of habit.

"You do realise that I have the funds for this, right?"

"Sure thing." The tone of his voice was cheerful as always. "Now why don't you go ahead and use said money to buy yourself something new to wear at the event?

Well... You didn't hate that idea.

Judging by the quiet chuckle on the other end of the call, Rafayel caught on in an instant. "It's set then. See you this evening, cutie."

"Yeah, see you."

Already about to hang up, you were abruptly stopped by Rafayel chiming in yet again.

"Now, quick question." The way he said this made it seem as though he was presenting you with a business deal. "Would you be opposed to watching the next episode of The X Files with me? Yes or no. They've been adding a lot of those connected ones lately and I can't lie anymore, I am rather invested in this."

Smiling to yourself, you texted him the necessary fabric measurements, ones he received with a characteristic "ding" you heard even through the phone.

"Bring some Vietnamese take out and I shall consider your request."

"Are you sure...? I still think that seafood restaurant–"

You sighed audibly, dragging a hand over your face in an exaggerated manner, almost like a cartoon character. "Rafayel..."

"What? I'm just saying!"

Back when you were a child, around five, maybe six years old, you had three potential careers in mind.

The first one was an astronaut – fueled by your never ending thirst for knowledge and adoration of the unexplored. Drummer was your second pick, warranted by your mom's almost career as a rockstar. And when it came to the last ideal job description, you fell victim to the classic case of peer pressure, as well as a couple of surprisingly well written fairytales – you wished to become a princess.

Movie director was, obviously, nowhere on this entirely probable list of yours, and sometimes you did in fact wonder if the young you would approve of the life you chose to live. What you were absolutely sure of however, was that she would definitely give you a thumbs up after seeing the venue you picked for your anniversary screening; all organised and decorated, it looked eerily similar to a princess' castle.

Although, you did have to admit that choosing to rent one of the smaller mansions on the outskirts of Linkon had probably more to do with it than the rest put together.

The way it all clicked, the entryway decorations, various poster designs propped artistically upon wooden easels and, of course, the purple sashes looped around the tables, made you almost giddy with excitement. The photographers you hired for the night were making sure everything would end up documented thoroughly, saving you the trouble of preserving the memories any other way. Even Malena found an empty spot in her rigid schedule, stopping by with her girlfriend to congratulate on your anniversary.

It seemed perfect. Well, as perfect as anything human-made could turn out to be, except for one, rather crucial matter at hand.

He was nowhere to be seen.

The event was launched personally by you less than half an hour ago and you knew Rafayel had the unpleasant tendency of showing up fashionably late. In fact, you actually considered switching the inauguration time on his invitation to trick him into being there for the opening, but ultimately decided against it, deeming it all not too important anyway.

However, with the hour of the anniversary screening approaching steadily, you were beginning to worry you'd made a mistake choosing to be truthful.

"Everything alright?"

You blinked a couple of times, snapping out of your trance.

"Yeah?"

Quinn tilted her head to the side, letting a couple of elaborate braids slip over her shoulder. "Someone inquired if there'll be non-alcoholic drinks at the reception later tonight, I said I'd ask and when I did, you replied with 'not for too long'...?"

"Did I...?" You internally squirmed at that. "My bad. I... There'll be some freshly pressed juice options available? I don't remember ordering any mocktails."

"It's perfect, you know." She placed a hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "As perfect as can be. There's no need to worry."

As perfect as could be... And surely, before all this it would have been undeniably enough. So why couldn't that be the case now...?

You tried not to stress while sitting next to a hauntingly empty chair right next to you in the screening room. After all, he'd told you before that he ended up watching The Valentine Club thrice, back to back. Perhaps he just didn't deem it necessary to sit yet through another portion of the same thing. However, despite your attempted reasoning, it did sting. Not enough to whip out your phone and send him a passive aggressive text, no, but just enough to grow bitter at the feeling of getting stood up. Again.

At some point, between a brief speech after the movie and transferring everyone into the main hall, you even began to wonder if anything unfortunate had happened. What if he ended up in a jail cell again? You still haven't asked what prompted him to go there in the first place and you were slowly beginning to lose your resolve over that. Not wanting to judge him so harshly, you also spent some time worrying for his wellbeing, various kinds of accidents flashing through your head as you tried to figure out where the actual hell he was at that very moment.

In order to avoid your assistants' attention, you busied yourself with the guests, making polite, surface level conversation and accepting their congratulations as gracefully as you could. Steadily making your way through the hall, you took notice of how people moved away from a certain faraway corner, one occupied by a group of men laughing jovially. Already slightly suspicious, you moved forward cautiously to investigate, trying to catch some of their conversation.

"And, and then he offered me the same fucking deal, you know? The audacity of that! As if I was on the same level as him, can you imagine?"

Eyeing down the middle aged man situated in the very centre, you pushed through the crowd, accidentally stomping on someone's foot in the process.

"H-Hey! Watch out!"

Filled with burning hot anger, you whipped your head around to face the other man.

"No, you watch ou–" The harsh words got stuck in your throat as you took in the sight in front of your eyes. This couldn't be... "Rafayel...?"

The man you grew to be somewhat fond of, the very same you binge watched like five episodes of your favorite show with just a couple of days ago, now stood before you, clad in a crumpled navy blue suit and a pair of the most ridiculous shoes you'd ever seen.

"What..." Are you doing here? You failed to force anything out your throat.

"Hey there, sweetheart." He sent you a smile, one that didn't quite reach his absent gaze. "Congrats on your movie, yeah?"

You just stood there, unsure of how to react to this utterly absurd scene. Rafayel must have taken that as a sign of annoyance (maybe he wasn't that far off, anyway) and breached the distance between you two, enveloping you in a clumsy hug.

"Come on..." he drawled, cozing up to you like a kitten. "Don't be mad."

"Rafayel, you... Is that–" You involuntarily took a whiff, spotting an unfamiliar scent. "Are you drunk?"

He took a step back, eyebrows furrowed as though he was the one offended by you, not the other way round.

"N-No?"

Exhaling shakily, you closed your eyes for a brief moment before grabbing his clammy hand and dragging Rafayel away from the crowd despite his whiny objections.

"Hey, let go! Where are you taking me? The event is still going–"

You rolled your eyes. "If you'd actually made it here on time, that wouldn't be this big of a concern to you, I bet."

It was almost like your words weren't even registered by Rafayel's brain. He still wiggled in your unforgiving grasp, up until you stopped by one of the emptier tables.

"What's going on?" You looked him right in the eyes, hoping that would somehow sober him up, even a little. "Are you okay?"

He tried to shrug you off, waving his hand right in front of your face.

"You're late," you pressed, growing more and more annoyed with each passing second. "You're late, even though you promised me you'd show up on time. You missed the entire screening and now I find you next to some random men, drunk out of your fucking mind–"

"Stop... yelling. God..." He groaned. "I'm here now, aren't I? What's the big deal?"

"What's– What's the deal?!" You were flabbergasted.

A couple of guests, including Malena and Nikolai, stopped in their tracks, watching the scene unfolding in front of them. Rafayel leaned on the table, rubbing his forehead.

"Jesus Christ, won't you get off my dick already–"

"Excuse me?!"

He seemed to sober up at that. Jolting from his half-folded stance, Rafayel faced you properly, using his entire frame to tower over you.

"You're always so... so stuck up. Always unsatisfied. With everything that I do! Nothing is ever enough! So what does it matter, if I get here on time or not? If I stand here, pretending to care about these random people neither of us will probably see in the next five years? I might as well do what I want instead. At least I know how to have actual fun."

God, you wanted nothing more than to slap him across the face and wipe that snarky grin right off. But instead, mindful of your reputation, you grabbed his elbow, trying to take all this outside.

"This isn't the place for this. You're embarrassing both me and yourself."

"Like you give a fuck!" he snapped, yanking his arm right out and reaching straight into his pocket.

"I don't think that– Hey, what is... Is that a cigarette?!"

Rafayel gave you an absentminded glance as he flicked a lighter. You couldn't believe your own eyes, alarmingly aware of how warm your face had gotten from all these intense emotions.

"Rafayel, you don't smoke. Put that down."

"Oh? And you know that from...?"

Reaching towards the cig, you attempted to jerk it away.

"So you can but not me?" he questioned tauntingly, keeping it just barely out of your reach.

"Put that out right now, Rafayel. You can't smoke in here, it's–"

"Yeah, sure..." He looked positively bored. "Can't do this, can't do that, it's almost like– Ouch!"

He yelped, yanking his hand towards his chest, as though burned.

"I don't know what you think you're doing right now," you started, forcing yourself to sound at least partly reasonable. "But this is the last place you'd want to argue with me at. I can promise you this."

"Oh, forgive me!" he mocked your tone in cocky amusement. "I somehow forgot that you know everything there is to know! My bad!"

Already furious, you had to force yourself to do makeshift breathing exercises in a rather futile attempt to calm down. Instead, it kept making you even more agitated, especially while accompanied by that horrendous scowl on Rafayel's face, one that twisted his features in an almost devilish manner.

"You know what, you poor excuse of a man–"

But before you could finish your cold-hearted retort, someone on your far left began screaming bloody murder.

"Fire! The table's on fire!"

That sent a jolt through you, from the soles of your feet to the very top of your head. Stumbling backwards, you tried your best to assess the situation, suddenly overwhelmed by panicked guests fleeting left and right.

"The sash!" You grabbed it with both hands, trying to put out the fire with some of the excess material. "Rafayel, get back!"

"Where... Ow!"

He jumped back clumsily, not noticing when a part of his attire began catching flames itself. In a desperate attempt to avoid making the matters at hand even worse, you rushed to his side.

Shortly after, hell broke loose.

Your luxurious, eye-catching purple sashes, albeit beautiful, turned out to be entirely impractical, as they were the ones to catch fire the fastest. Acting almost like a fuse, they passed the intensifying flames from table to table, surrounding you both with an abnormal amount of smoke in the process.

Somewhat still partly rational, you yanked Rafayel's suit jacket off his body before he could become a human torch. He, on the other hand, possessed less than half of your quick thinking, still disoriented and not entirely sober. You were forced to cage his face in between your palms, shielding his eyes from the smoke as you yelled loud enough to be heard above the ever-present chaos.

"You need to show people the exit! Gather half of them and go through the backdoor, the one near the pond!"

It was as though something had clicked in Rafayel's brain upon hearing the urgency in your voice. You had no doubts whether or not he knew where to lead the panicked guests; just a couple days ago he tagged along when you visited the mansion for some last minute check ups and the two of you spent half an hour playing sea battle near that exact pond. It was particularly hard to miss, especially with this enormous statue of Apollo situated in the very middle.

As soon as you saw him nod in agreement, you headed in the opposite direction, but Rafayel took hold of your wrist and turned you back around to face him yet again.

"And you?" After noticing you couldn't hear him well, he stepped closer, leaning down, and accidentally brushed your nose with his in the process. "What about you?!"

"Me?!" You placed your thumb on the front of your elaborate outfit. "I'll grab the other half and leave through the main entrance. Meet me in the garden!"

He nodded yet again, although failed to let go of your arm. The way his eyes kept jumping from one spot on your face to the other made your stomach twist and turn. Then, before you could wriggle out of Rafayel's grasp, he pulled you closer to him, letting his lips graze your temple as he spoke directly into your ear.

"Be safe."

You barely had time to register the featherlight kiss he'd given you just now, placed right next to your eyelid, because he was, somehow, already halfway across the room when your eyes fluttered open.

Wasting no more time, you also decided to put your plan into action. The adrenaline present in your veins did its absolute best and you managed to lead most of the guests towards the right exit without breaking a sweat. As soon as you stepped out into the gardens that hugged the mansion tightly, your gaze flickered from person to person, intuitively searching for Rafayel.

You did spot a couple of guests you were sure had headed near the backdoor and Nikolai, as well as Lady Talia, were among them.

"Did you see Rafayel?" you breathed out as soon as you caught up to the woman, tugging at her sleeve like a lost child. "We were supposed to meet here but I cannot find him anywhere."

She shook her head hesitantly, opening her mouth to offer some words of comfort, but you were already running to the next person in line, asking the same question, over and over.

Hours had passed and you weren't able to find him still. There was a couple of fire brigades at the scene, as well as a few ambulances, and you navigated in between them like a skier on a particularly unforgiving slope.

It was well after midnight when the firefighters managed to convince you to finally go home; one of the ambulances even gave you three fourths of a ride back to your place. Amidst it all, you somehow lost your left shoe, as well as the bag you took with you to the event, but when you plopped on the bed, you could only stare mindlessly at the phone in your hand, waiting for Rafayel to give you a call, which didn't come that night.

He also didn't contact you the day after that, and the next. If it weren't for some meaningless press article released the following evening, documenting one of his many reckless incidents, you wouldn't even know if he made it out of the mansion in one piece.

As you stared at the blurry photograph placed next to a wall of condescending text, you kept asking yourself this one thing.

How could it not mean anything to him?

She'd told you not to do it.

Used words more suitable for a hardened sailor rather than a marketing team manager, just in hopes of getting her point across. But you'd always been stubborn. A few would say that it turned out to be part of your charm, in some wicked, roundabout way. And that drove Malena positively insane, because each time she urged you to do something, you'd become absolutely hellbent on turning around on your heel and attempting the exact opposite.

Just like in this case; your fingers were tapping faintly on the steering wheel as you navigated through the grim forest leading to the Qi Mansion. Out of pure spite, you assured yourself. You yearned to see that look on his face, the embarrassment, the poorly masked exasperation. It was so palpable you could almost envision it.

You drove like you had something to prove, and perhaps that was the case here. While Rafayel was used to running away when things went sideways, you taught yourself to chase after what you wanted and needed, despite the unfavourable circumstances. So, when the one month mark finally hit, you decided to show up to the preplanned meeting scheduled when things between you two weren't in such a horrendous condition. You also believed you sort of owed it to Lady Talia, who'd been nothing but utterly kind and doting to you, despite all the mishaps caused by her own nephew.

After passing the main gate of the premises, you assumed a rather languid pace, curiously looking around the land. Before this day, you had never visited the Qi Mansion, which turned out to be not as far from Linkon as you suspected it to be. Tall and striking, decorated in expertly placed outdoor lamps that hung to the faded brick walls, it emanated status, wealth and prestige, all of them in their highest achievable form.

Stopping somewhere near the main entrance, watchful not to park right in the middle of the pathway, you fiddled with the cigarette case placed in the pocket of your corduroy trousers. Only a few windows were lit up on the front and you couldn't help but wonder if Rafayel's rooms were among them. Ever since the burning of that damned mansion you held your event at, you did in fact have plenty of time to think it all through. Constantly switching between pure, unfiltered rage and this unfamiliar affliction, you weren't even entirely sure what you sought at the moment.

And that, this act of going in blind and undecided, you weren't used to in the slightest. Hell, this entire situation felt like something out of a novel you'd read during vacation trips, something that didn't even stand near your day to day activities. It was almost as though after meeting Rafayel, each decision you made seemed entirely new and different, like you were forced to discover parts of yourself you weren't even aware of existing prior to that. And you realised that you weren't exactly opposed to letting that continue.

As soon as you entered the mansion, someone took your coat and offered a pair of vintage looking slippers. Besides a couple of polite greetings, no one gave you any explanation to what was awaiting you whatsoever. As you passed corridor after corridor, you couldn't help but notice how utterly empty this place was. Spotless and pristine, yes, but absolutely devoid of life altogether. Like a priceless painting, locked away in a safe. Or a bottle of expensive perfume, unused and put on a pedestal, reduced to a piece of interior design.

Upon reaching a dimly lit living room (one of many, you'd noticed), you were greeted by the lady of the house herself, who enveloped you in a rushed, somewhat cumbersome embrace.

"Good evening, dear." Her hands rested on your shoulders in an almost motherlike manner. "Words fail to describe how delighted I am to see you tonight, truly. I was almost sure I would never get to meet you again."

Granting her a bittersweet smile, you sat right where she pointed at, in a spacious, patterned armchair near the fireplace.

"I..." You swallowed the lump in your throat which grew with each second spent in this peculiar house. "I wasn't sure either. If I would come."

She sat across from you, in a similar chair, one that bore clear signs of frequent usage. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, atop of her elaborate nightgown.

"I wouldn't have blamed you, dear," she spoke. "It was only this morning I learned what truly happened that night. Although it may not mean much, I am deeply sorry for your loss and still, utterly grateful for a chance at retribution from our side."

They paid for it all.

Well, she did, you'd assumed.

"I suppose it was bound to happen. It was made rather clear what I would be stepping into, so..." you trailed off, unsure of how to continue the sentence. It was almost as if you were offering excuses. Again. You despised the sound of that.

"It truly is a shame that Miss Malena could not join us this evening." Lady Talia leaned back in her armchair, crossing her legs elegantly. "When you see her, please do send my warmest wishes for swift recovery." You nodded. "In the meantime, I had prepared a certain document that–"

"My Lady." One of the butlers, the very same that stood right by the entrance of this room, stepped in for a brief moment. "Lord Qi."

Oh, how you hated the way your body reacted in that moment, twisting around in such an utterly pathetic way and making you seem so, so desperate for merely a glimpse. Your fingernails dug in the thick armrests with such force that if it wasn't of high quality, the material would have surely ripped in half.

He stood there, stiff as a board atop the spiral staircase just outside the doorway. Hair a mess, pointing in all possible directions. Wearing this loose, tattered sweater with one sleeve rolled up and the other covering half of his palm. And the sincerest, most heart-wrenching look of stupor on his face, one you were absolutely convinced you would never forget, for as long as you lived.

You had never seen Rafayel so... raw. Without his planned outfits, fancy accessories and jewellery, generous amounts of cologne that followed him everywhere he went. How he was in that very moment, lukewarm and vulnerable, tugged at your heartstrings in such a violent way, your knees almost gave out.

He just stared at you wordlessly, not daring to look away for even a split second, as though terrified you'd disappear if he did. And, truth be told, if you weren't going through all five stages of grief back to back in that very moment yourself, you'd most likely find his gaze almost eerie.

Slowly, Rafayel came down the stairs and you met somewhere halfway, even though you didn't really plan on walking up to him. He looked even more candid here, up close, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body merely half a step away from yours.

His voice was quiet, strung-out.

"You... came."

A greater woman would put up another wall, guarding herself from what was to come. She'd prepare for the worst and be ready when it struck. But you were exhausted, so exhausted. And, judging by the slump of Rafayel's shoulders, he was too.

"You invited me."

He failed to mask the way his hands twitched at your words, or maybe he wasn't planning to do so. With utter terror, you realised that you wanted him, no, needed Rafayel to reach out instead, unashamedly, just like he'd done merely a few days earlier. And that feeling filled you with an entirely new wave of dread.

Lady Talia excused herself, muttering something about the kitchens and an extra meal, but, in all honesty, neither of you could even sense what was going on outside of this little energy field created in between you both. The way you were taking in each little detail of Rafayel's figure, from the dark circles under his eyes to the faint promise of his waist hidden behind a slightly see-through sweater, could be only described as desperate. Outside of this, in cafeterias and parks, in afternoon sun and the glow of the crescent moon, Rafayel was undeniably beautiful. You couldn't deny that, even if you'd never spoken of it out loud. It'd be utterly foolish to think otherwise and also a lie in its purest form.

But now, Rafayel was more than that. More than just beautiful or attractive or pretty. His slightly disheveled appearance had made him into something you didn't think was even possible – into perfection.

Somehow, through all the fragile, uneven parts that shone through, he achieved the absolute ideal of a man.

Rafayel broke the silence to clear his throat.

"I was sure you wouldn't come," he confessed, voice still low. "Thought you hate me."

You scoffed. "Maybe I should, after you decided to ignore me for three days straight."

Apparently, that was what touched him. With trembling hands, he reached out, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists.

"I... I just wanted to give you some space. You were upset and I–"

"You really thought this would make me less upset?" you interrupted, brows furrowed. "For God's sake, Rafayel, for solid fifteen hours I didn't even know whether you were alive or not."

His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment and the faintest of blushes spread across his face, up to the tips of his ears. "I apologise. Sincerely. You... You deserve better than this. Just– Please, stay for dinner. Yeah? I'll eat separately if it makes you feel better?"

Distracted by the warmth of his hands oh, so near your own, you almost failed to register his words.

"What?" you mustered. "What are you talking about?"

"I..." he trailed off, suddenly unsure.

Twisting your wrists just slightly, you laced your fingers with his, letting your joined hands dangle in between your bodies in a makeshift promise.

"Of course I'm staying for dinner." You couldn’t miss how Rafayel's eyes lit up at that. "I didn't drive all the way here just to grab the contract and go."

Another staff member showed up, offering to lead you to the dining room where food had just been served in your absence.

"Wait–" Rafayel caught up to you mid step. "You're willing to go with this?"

He looked absolutely bewildered in that moment and that made you realise that he had not only believed he would never see you again, but also that you called off the almost-engagement right after the mansion incident. You couldn't help but smirk at that, realising he was still yet to see the amounts of your innate perseverance when it came to getting what you wanted.

"After all this," he continued, stepping into the dining hall right after you. "you still choose to marry me?"

"Yes, I do," you retorted, picking one of the many places behind the long wooden table. "Now, won't you sit down already? Your jumpiness is making me anxious."

He obeyed without question, most likely still rather shocked by the turn of events. As Rafayel sat down, choosing his own place right across from yours, your gaze absentmindedly locked onto the delicate skin of his collarbone exposed by the oversized sweater.

God, you felt like a Victorian era man catching a glimpse of some lady’s ankle.

Rafayel did in fact take notice of your laser focused gaze, however misinterpreted it in its entirety.

"I look horrible," he muttered under his breath, awakening a wave of immediate and all-consuming protest within you. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight. Otherwise I’d have ... gotten myself ready."

You stared at him, unable to form a proper answer when he just criticised the greatest view you had ever gotten to experience.

"I’ll go change–"

"Don't." This time, your response was produced right away, resulting in a confused quirk of his brow. "There's no need. After all, the sooner you get used to spending your evenings like this, the better. Unless you genuinely want to wear suits and ties and whatnot for the rest of your married life."

Rafayel lifted up his right hand, as though he was about make a solemn promise, but the unmistakable glint in his eyes gave away the suddenly upbeat mood in an instant.

"Is that so?" he taunted, his usual bravado coming back full force. "You plan on doing that often?"

"Got anything better to do?" You playfully stuck out your tongue and he chuckled.

"Not really, no. I suppose I could get used to this... predicament."

You felt your eyebrows lift at that. "That is an interesting choice of wording."

"Well..." Rafayel leaned forward on the table, smile wide and beaming. "Do you have any other... words in mind?"

Somewhen in the meantime, Lady Talia had returned, offering you a variety of beverages to choose from. The meal that got served shortly after was kept rather simple, but still tasted incredibly well; only after devouring it whole you realised how hungry you'd been prior to that.

Rafayel was actively chatting you up the entire night, (and, unbeknownst to him) more effectively than all the times before summed up and doubled. There was something so hauntingly beautiful in the way he appeared that evening, skin gleaming ever so slightly in the flickering candlelight, hair tousled and neck bare. It was in that moment you finally allowed yourself to admit that maybe, just maybe, all of this wasn't as unpleasant as you kept claiming it was.

Even while accompanied by the utter fiasco of your movie screening barely three days earlier. And that particular thought terrified you like no other.

After dinner you were invited by Lady Talia to her private office upstairs in order to finalise the engagement. The shock you felt upon noticing Rafayel's signature on the document already there was so evident, she even disclosed he'd put it there over ten days ago, the same night your manager dropped off the papers at the Qi Mansion. You were yet to decide how exactly you felt about that.

Rafayel was waiting for you just outside the door, most likely nonchalantly pretending like he stumbled upon you on complete accident (even though this was, quite literally, his own house). It was late, you could see that in the way his eyes gleamed softly, in the way he followed you back to the living room you met Lady Talia in, observing as you slipped your sweater on.

"Leaving already?" he questioned, sending you a cautious glance from his spot on one of the couches.

You sighed. "Soon, yeah. I'm just going for a smoke."

"Can I come with?" He smiled bitterly at your distrustful expression, memory of the last time you two were in a similar situation still fresh. "Just to be there. I don't think I'll be touching any cigarettes in a while."

"Good."

The balcony led to the other, so far undiscovered side of the property, currently enveloped in almost absolute darkness. Leaning over the marble railing, you glanced up at the night sky and Rafayel followed suit. "They are so much brighter here than in the city."

"Light pollution," he muttered, as though the late hour required all words to be whispered reverently. "How good are you at spotting constellations?"

You shook your head, blowing out smoke in the opposite direction. "Not very. I think I know the Little Bear."

"Hey, that's pretty good."

"Just don't make me test this theory," you cautioned, taking notice of how the evening breeze made Rafayel shiver slightly.

He smiled, in a different way than usual, even by today's standards. Then, he leaned in a little bit closer and pointed upward. "Here's your Little Bear," he whispered. "And if you go just slightly lower than the North Star... you'll find the Dragon. Here. See?"

Using his finger, Rafayel traced the constellation step by step.

"All this?" you questioned, making him chuckle. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mmm. Just wait till you see the Pegasus."

You whipped your head around. "Where?"

"It's a little farther out. Maybe I'll introduce you two some other time."

With your neck already slightly sore from looking up, you shot Rafayel the meanest glance you could muster. "Are you seriously gatekeeping constellations now?"

"You know." He rubbed his chin, completely ignoring your little jibe. "You're sort of like Pegasus yourself. As a mythical creature, it represents the ultimate form of sovereignty. The truest embodiment of freedom and creative expression. There is no other quite like it, no matter how far you'd look."

Despite his gaze being directed elsewhere, you still looked away in hopes of hiding the warmth slowly creeping up your neck.

"Then..." you spoke slowly, careful not to disturb this contemplative atmosphere. "Which one would you be?"

The wind tugged gently at the hem of Rafayel's worn out sweater, although he didn't seem to mind the chilly air anymore.

"I'm not sure..." he hummed, sending you a sly wink. "Maybe a peacock."

It's been quite some time since you felt such a sense of peace, one even slightly similar to what you got to experience that night on the balcony with Rafayel. Cigarette ash scattered around with the wind long ago, yet you couldn't bring yourself to retreat to the familiarity of your car parked right outside the main entrance. It was as though by merely speaking of leaving you could have broken this bubble, existing in a place and time no one else besides the two of you could ever reach. You knew, however, the longer you'd stay, the harder it'd be for you to return to what once was. Rafayel must have realised that too.

"I want you to know," he spoke, weighing each word with utmost care and consideration. "how much I appreciate you doing this with me. I can be a handful, that much I'm aware of. But this... this is different. And I think that's what scared me. That's what scares me still."

Unsure of what to reply to the sudden sincerity that soaked Rafayel's words right through, you just stared at him as he took your hands in his, gently, like he'd already assumed you'd yank them right back.

"So." He straightened up. "No more running away. Not from you."

You smiled at that, looking at your intertwined fingers.

"No more running away," you agreed after a brief moment of silence. "Not without you."

[wroetolando]

so idk if these r open but carlos x leclerc reader who gets bashed by the media a lot and gets called a bad girlfriend for being in williams when charles does well and in ferrari when carlos does well. like kinda claimed to be unsupportive

𝚄𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 | 𝙲𝚂𝟻𝟻

𝗮/𝗻: i love this idea! And my inbox is always open. Feel free to send more ideas! 🫶🫶

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: carlos sainz x leclerc!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where carlos and charles sister faces media bashing, accused of being an unsupportive girlfriend, but finds comfort in the unwavering support of both carlos and charles

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: fighter - christina aguilera

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The media was brutal.

You had not been subjected to the nasty speculation and the painful accusations previously with any kind of frequency. They came in waves, more often than not impeccably timed with the race weekends, to only intensify as the result of the weekend began pouring in. The tale was identical, each headline worse than the last: "Leclerc's Sister Accused of Cheating in F1," "Does She Really Care for Her Boyfriend?" "Williams the Betrayal: The Truth About Her Team Choice.".

Your name, your relationship with Charles, your relationship with Carlos—nothing was safe from the wrath of the tabloids and social media. You were used to the perpetual glare of the limelight, yet it stung all the same.

Charles broached the negativity first, not long after the 2022 season had ended. His protective nature took over, and you'd waved him off, saying it was nothing. It wasn't anything novel, and you'd heard worse. Charles wasn't having it, however, and soon he was the one who had to sit you down and talk about how you needed to "stay above it."

"I know it's difficult, but you cannot let them get to you. You know the media loves spinning things. They will say anything for drama," he had told you, trying to console you.

But this time it was worse. They were not making the normal insults. This time, they were not just calling you a distraction or an opportunist—they were calling you an unsupportive girlfriend. They were accusing you of being with Carlos only when he was winning, only dating Charles when Ferrari were dominating. Your loyalty was in question. And worse, they tried to imply you were some kind of F1 gold-digger, girlfriend only when your boyfriend was winning.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The phone buzzed in your hand, the notification light flashing with another set of headlines. You rolled your eyes before unlocking the screen. Your stomach twisted as you read the latest headline—a story on you and Carlos' relationship titled "A Strategic Relationship: The Leclerc-Sainz Dynamic and What's Really Going on Behind Closed Doors." The newspaper was full of insinuations, stating that you were only with Carlos when he was winning and that you were using the Leclerc name to advance your public image.

Your heart dropped, and your hand hovered over the screen, half-wishing to click on it but knowing it would make matters worse. You had suffered long enough, the feeling that no matter what you did, someone would always criticize you. Always look at you as the villain of your own tale.

You sighed and threw your phone onto the sofa and ran a hand through your hair. You'd been here before. This wasn't anything new. And yet, each time, it was like an open sore.

You had spent years supporting Charles in the background, cheering him on through thick and thin, never asking for praise, never asking for fanfare. But the moment Carlos entered your life, it was as if the script was rewritten. As if, now, you were compelled to choose between them—or be branded a traitor for loving them both.

"Why do they do this?" You said aloud, largely to yourself.

As you uttered those words, your door was knocked. You did not have to look to know who it was—Carlos. It was always Carlos who visited to see how you were doing whenever you had had a terrible day, just like Charles would call you to see if you were fine whenever things had gone wrong.

The door opened, and there he was. Carlos. His dark eyes were worried as he entered and closed the door behind him. His laid-back demeanor was lost, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

"Seen the headlines again, have you?" Carlos's voice was soft but held a note of frustration.

You nodded, saying nothing. Carlos let out a deep sigh and sat beside you on the couch, hugging you tightly with his arms. You rested your head against his chest, the warmth of his body giving you the comfort you so desperately needed.

"I don't know what they want from me, Carlos," you whispered. "It's as if I'm being punished for loving both of you. I cheer for Charles when he's with Ferrari, and I cheer for you when you're performing well with Ferrari. But it's never enough. I'm always the villain, no matter what."

Carlos leaned forward and kissed your forehead. "You are not the villain. You're amazing, and you hold both of us up, no matter what. You've held my side through good and bad, just like you've always held Charles' side. You know the truth. That's all that matters."

"But it's not only the truth," you said, leaning back some to gaze up at him. "They're trying to make it into some kind of competition. Like I need to choose between the two of you."

Carlos gazed at you for a moment before his eyes gentled. "You don't have to choose, cariño. You don't have to explain anything to anyone. We know what's real."

You nodded, your heart brimming with appreciation. But still, the doubt lingered. You were so used to fighting wars alone, especially in the F1 world. Your last name was already under a microscope, and now you were being ripped apart between the drivers you adored. You could not win. Not with the media, and not with the fans.

Carlos squeezed your hand, pulling you back into the hug. "I know it's hard, but you're doing your best. We're proud of you."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The next few weeks were a blur. The media still bayed, but you had succeeded in anesthetizing yourself to their jibes. Charles phoned more often, phoning whenever he got the opportunity just to let you know that he was always with you. Even when his Ferrari team was still struggling, he never let the media pressure get to you. He'd phone just to hear your voice, and you'd say that you were proud of him, always.

But it was Carlos who always had time for you, always made time for you regardless of how stressed he was. He had come to see you after a particularly difficult race weekend, where Carlos had finished P2, and you'd sat and talked about everything other than F1. It had been a small island of peace amidst all the craziness.

You know, it does not matter what the media is saying," Carlos said to you earnestly, searching your eyes. "I do not care if they are saying that you are 'strategizing' your relationships or whatever garbage they are peddling. What matters is that I know the truth, and I love you. And Charles, as well.".

Your heart melted as you took his hand. "I love you too, Carlos. I don't know what I'd do with all of this without you. You and Charles are my world."

Carlos grinned, pulling you in for a soft kiss. "We'll do this together. Both of us. No matter what they have to say."

The media might have twisted what you had into something it wasn't, but the fact that you had Carlos by your side meant you would never be alone. You would always have someone who understood you. Someone who would always make you see that love, loyalty, and support were all that counted—not headlines.

And as the season went along, something became clear to you. The media could write what they wanted. The fans could say what they wanted. But you knew your reality. You knew that your love for Carlos and Charles, and their love for you, was all that mattered.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[stromuprisahat]

Has it ever occurred to you that maybe … you weren’t meant to exist?

I had a few days off, so let's get this over with... it won't get easier.

Six of Crows- Chapter 19

Y'no, if you have an urge to prevent people from seeing something, there might be a thing or two wrong with whatever it is they're not supposed to look at.

The amount of hatred needed to dig three holes in frozen ground, deep enough to secure higher than human-sized stakes (Don't forget enough space for a pile of firewood.)!

Fjerda is supposed to be a cold country, good firewood should be pretty valuable then, right? And still they're willing to waste enough of it to roast inedible humans?!

The pyres have been illegal since- I'm sure those three charred people would be happy to hear that.

Nina asks some pretty good questions. Shame she'll soon forget them.

Just read this several times and keep thinking about how this is a human being, not "creature" as Matthias calls it.

Considering some of the author's believes, one can't help but ask how many of these opinions are only a part of the characters' descriptions, and how many are expressing her own. ... It was not Baghra. I don't know what it was. ...

~I~'ve never... So we can simply ignore that everyone else does/would like to.

A fair trial... that's what? They're allowed to talk? (Even though nobody cares to listen.) As Nina counters- why has a Grisha never been found innocent?! And more importantly- why will Nina simply forget she used to care about this?! Why won't she do anything to stop it, when in the heart of that country, some of the worst perpetrators of such horrors at her mercy?!

One of the details that make Matthias' change believable (although a bit too fast) are the seeds of doubt. Why else feel ashamed when proclaiming something he deeply believes in?

And yeah- another portion of the typical rhetoric of hateful ideologies. It's us and them. They're less and worse, corrupted and inferior. They don't feel like we do, they're unnatural, inhuman, not meant to exist.

Fjerdans are not that different from ordinary Ravkans, who are willing to worship Saints, but deny they're Grisha even a few years after their deaths.

Don't mock... That's some pretty realistic shit too. This sort of bigots will always put inconsiderate words on the same level as bashing your head in.

This is Nina lashing out, hurling the worst things she can come up with at Matthias. It's sad how much of it would be well-deserved, and how little is even remotely realistic.

Nina's hoping for a Nuremberg trials of her world. Unfortunately for her there's no common law, no widely agreed upon set of morals, no base for it, so how come she's even asking for it?

Nina haven't sounded like a child as much as now yet. She paints a picture of strong, well-lead country, capable of more than a pathetic parody on self-defense. And her dream of the Second Army's beyond laughable.

I know some people like to claim the Darkling's, therefore Second Army's tactics is often sowing fear in the masses, but Matthias' story doesn't make much sense with this little information, unless Ravka and Fjerda were in that "fun" part of conflict, when they simply destroy a village or two, then pretend they know nothing about it.

Fjerdans already fear Grisha- there's no need for atrocities to provoke it. Why would a special unit of enemy army target some random village of no particular importance? How come Matthias knows for sure it were Second Army Inferni? And how is he alive and well?

Drüskelle leader's pet student lost whole family in brutal attack of well-trained Grisha?! Ain't Brum just SO lucky?!

In context of the author's opinions (link above), this reads pretty much like lecturing the reader on reality of Grisha persecution. They kill people too, and they are soldiers- look!

[therealslimshakespeare]

Lu being the empath of all empaths has me pondering how she’d respond to Ida’s guilt and anxiety when the SS take over. Because obviously, Lu is going through it as well, but do you think she’d try her best to make Ida feel better 🥹 Do you think she tried insisting that she’s ok and that she’s glad Ida stuck it out 🥹 Do you think she did that in the moment as well 🥹 And the only thing worse than the brutalization and the feeling of the dog tearing her apart was hearing Ida cry and beg 🥹 So amidst it all she tried to get the words out to tell her she was ok 🥹

FOR FUCKS SAKE—-

Get out of my walls and stop stabbing me baby wtf oh my, uh yeah ok. Wheezes, I gotta catch my breath …

I think despite her absolute bashfulness in this area, when something this horrifying is happening to her, in front of the one person who gave her that first context for it (Sex Ed that was all about when mommy and daddy love each other…don’t make me cry) I think Lu would totally look to her for some sorta grounding. And the fact Ida is fucking unwavering doesn’t make Lu doubt that she cares, no, it makes Lu cling to the fact that Ida thinks she can take this. And I don’t know for sure if she says anything, but I think when it’s like -day three and this is apparently gonna happen again?- they share this look before it begins that’s just like: fuck no, I’m not more worn down than the first time, don’t give them shit, we’ll have suffered this for nothing if you give them a peep

And also. Y’all remember Jack’s first convo with Ida when she got back? When he asked if she’d given up anything?

And she asked “what do you take me for?”

And what did he say? Yeah

[backjustforberena]

I guess that after watching the season and everything that happens I’m even more appreciative of the fact that Rhaenys can speak her mind freely to Corlys, give him verbal lashings, refuse his touch by physically pushing him away and there’s no violence.

H answers questions that have been in her inbox for far too long.

Oh, yeah, definitely. When you're looking at the marriages and the dynamics, they have the best. Even in terms of just gentle PDA and care taken by the man when in proximity to his wife, specifically for her comfort rather than to comfort himself, we get that from Corlys. Corlys is a physically intimidating man and he knows how to use that physicality against opponents, both in terms of just presence in a room but also as a commander, a lord and a warrior bashing skulls in with his bardiche. But he never ever uses those particular attributes against Rhaenys.

Corlys never hits her, threatens her or commands her. He never intimidates her or even seeks to. It's almost like he's incapable - the one time he tries to assert himself over her and use their social dynamic (aka him man, her lady wife) against her, it's fractured. It's pitiful and he's seated and he's grief-stricken and it hurts him as much as her. And he is the one who retreats.

I think what's interesting to me is that, Rhaenys can speak her mind but also she can pick fights with Corlys. There are instances where she deliberately provokes him - showing that lack of dear but also the notion she has of being heard in the first place: this is a conversation they can have, one that will make a difference and one that he will engage it (hopefully). Rhaenys has nothing to fear by deliberately trying to get him angry because even if he gets angry, he won't hurt her or punish her for it.

She says some brutal stuff wanting a reaction from him or wanting to engage in a fight or argument or something... where he doesn't rise to the bait. Episode 07 is such a good example of that, by the fireplace. She's insulting Daemon, insulting him, saying they could have done this or that, she's deconstructing how he sees the world and how he sees their actions and he not only lets her but keeps his temper. They still blow up and there is still opposition and hurt and devastation. But there's no physical intimidation. There's not a single raised voice.

But there's also their scene in Episode 05 as well which could have very quickly and easily turned into a screaming match but he adjusts his behaviour to her and she adjusts her behaviour to him and their ultimate aim, in my opinion, is to comfort the other. Corlys wants her to feel okay. That's his main aim. So he doesn't bulldoze, he listens. He shies away from the topics that will upset her (her claim) and he addresses her fears as best he can.

And then Episode 10, she hammers into him. And sure, his physicality and stereotypical masculinity are less of an issue because the guy is literally bedbound but, again, it's just showing that this is how they communicate which is a very even and equal way of doing it. It's targeted and it's specific and it's not petty or hysterical or poisonous. It's remarkably healthy and it results in Corlys doing what Rhaenys wants. Despite having no real in-world obligation to. When we're comparing that to conversations between other marriages, I can't pick anything like it on "House of the Dragon".

[jjungkooksthighs]

I did not train my body when I was younger for nothing. A few times, you happened upon me conditioning myself. You saw how brutal my regimen was. He hops to an adjacent tree, the waterfall they’d been at before but a speck in the distance now. Besides, you’re light as feather. I could do this all day.

Oh yes, she's seen him train. If seeing him in the workshop forging metal was hot, then seeing him work out had no adjective that was good enough. God- the way his muscles would flex, the way his skin would shine from the dripping sweat, the way his hair would fall on his face in the most perfect way- Her breath hitches at the thought. She'd never been able to stop herself from jumping his bones the minute he was done. Nor was there ever a chance she'd skipped to brag about how hot he'd looked to her friends or Jin. He was the definition of a walking sex appeal. The small little moments throughout the day like when he'd help her reach out for a container in the kitchen that he would have placed farther up than she could reach just so he could watch her struggle, or when he'd simply pull her closer to him effortlessly with a mere tug at her gown, and when he'd sit her down on his thighs to feed her dinner oh so sweetly.. She almost sighs dreamily. He might not know it, but she longs for him just as much as he longs for her. Even more so, she might say! She just.. isn't good at expressing it. She gets so.. flustered! All the time! And in all honesty, it is beginning to frustrate her to no end. She just.. she just wishes she could tell him that.. it wasn't one-sided. It scares her at times. She fears her bashfulness might end up pushing him away one day. She just hopes she can grow out of it soon.

He could read her like a book.

He knew she liked watching him workout. She’d developed quite a fondness for it, actually. Sometimes she tried to act like she wasn’t paying attention, but her lustful gaze, even all the way at the mouth of their den, would be heavy from across the glen he’d condition in.

She’d never been able to resist him when he returned to her covered in sweat, his hair mussed with all the activity.

Knowing how attractive she found that only made him want to do it more.

He’d developed other ways to entice her, too. Ways she hadn’t even known about until him.

It didn’t matter if he cornered her against a bookcase with one muscular arm. It didn’t matter if he easily sliced through the firewood with an axe like it were nothing but paper. It didn’t matter if he could carry an entire armoire around the den until it was placed exactly where she wanted it.

She fell for it every time.

And he was more than eager to give it to her.

[faemoona]

i wanna post more on tumblr, its not a super active site anymore but i got friends on here so. I got a new story in mind! Meet the leads of The Dragon Prince's Daughter

" Little Luri lived a modest but happy life with her mom and aunt when one day when she returns home from school, she finds her home ransacked and her mom and aunt are missing. She ends up in an orphanage but a royal knight comes and takes her to a palace? Luri learns that her father is the warlord prince of princes. Luri has to navigate this new and quite odd world of nobles and etiquette while getting to know the father shes never met. Can she learn to get along with her dad and the rest of her new family and find her mother? only time will tell" 

ive always wanted to try writing one of those webtoon elevator pitches hehe. 

Left to right we have Kiara, Luri and Silas

Kiara is an orphan circus acrobat and singer. she lives with her found family and lives a nomadic lifestyle, traveling from city to city. Shes outgoing, confident, brave and strong. shes also quite impulsive and has a vengeful streak. shes fiercely protective of her people and especially of her beloved baby girl. Kiara and Silas courted in their teens and for a long time Kiara had no idea who Silas was. he was just some bashful but kind kid who she liked teasing and hey if you move all that hair out of his face hes kinda handsome. Kiara serves as a catalyst for Silas, where silas is a calming agent for Kiaras. She showed him how to be more confident in himself and to be proud of who he is and he taught her all sorts of magic and helped her tame her fiery temper. Even after she learned he was a prince, by that point the two were deeply attached to each other and neither could bear to break it off. it wasnt until Luri came around, (very accidentally) that they stopped seeing each other. She mises her partner but is very fulfilled as a mother to Luri and has a support system through her found family that keeps her happy and sane through the whole single parent thing. 

Luri is the daughter of silas and Kiara. shes a curious and sweet but very skittish child. to be fair though, shes only five and still figuring things out. She lived nomadically with her mother for the first fopur years of her life. traveling from place to place in  a caravan with the rest of the carnies who all treated her as a beloved daughter or niece. She got to see lots of things and she loves seeing her mom and aunties perform. She loved exploring in the woods and collecting her own littler treasures. Luri knows nothing of silas but everything of her mother. She thinks the absolute world of her mother as most children too and struggles a lot without her. Shres a fish out of water in the palace environment and it doesnt help that Shes absolutely terrified of Silas.  Silas is the eldest child of the current queen and king and the crowne prince. as he is now, in his mid twenties, Silas is a cunning and wise prince with a tactical mind and a reputation for brutally destroying a group of terrorists who threatened to harm the nation. Hes also got resting bitch face and tends to come off as intimidating due to his large stature but this is all a wall he puts up. Silas is actually a very nervous person whos dying for genuine connection and companionship. Neither of his parent gave him much of their time when he was young, and every time he met somebody they usually just wanted something out of him. In his late teens Silas was a scrawny, almost mousey and skittish person who stayed buried in his books, isolated and was considered an embarrassment. he turned all of this around in terms of his public image but hes still the same person on the inside. He wants nothing more than to be a good father to luri but he doesnt exactly haver the best role model and the little thing is too scared to even speak in front of him. whats a guy to do? 

These three are our protagonists, Luri and Silas being the more prominent characters out of the three since kiara is currently missing but theres a whole host of other characters im cooking up too. keep an eye out > : 3 

[at-honeydevice]

𝐬𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 '𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐡' 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 age: 26 ethnicity: british-american hair: dark blonde,  tousled  &  slightly wavy eye color: ice blue,  sharp  &  penetrating build: lean,  athletic,  built for endurance rather than brute strength anomaly: bash’s enhanced perception allows him to anticipate movements before they happen, making him an extremely effective fighter & escape artist. (heightened hearing, sight, & spatial awareness) distinguishing features: › a faint scar along his jaw from a knife fight. › a tantalus tracking implant at the base of his skull (hidden under his hair). › always carries a silver ring on a chain — a keepsake from his sister.

› born in london to a working-class family,  recruited into tantalus at 15.  › older sister,  eleanor hartley,  was also an operative but mysteriously disappeared during a mission when bash was 20.  › one of tantalus’s most effective field operatives,  specializing in espionage,  deep-cover infiltration,   &  assassination.  › bash  &  clea meet at age 15,  during their early combat training.  › both had been in tantalus since childhood,  but clea had been sheltered from full training until now.  › clea,  despite her family's reputation,  is struggling to adjust to the harsh training.  › bash is already hardened — he’s been fighting for survival since the start.  › their first interaction is during a combat exercise where clea gets knocked down.  › bash is cold,  calculated,   &  detached.  clea is warm,  intuitive,   &  quietly stubborn.  › he tries to keep his distance,  but clea has a way of getting under his skin.  › clea sees through his masks — she can tell he’s not as loyal to tantalus as he pretends to be.  › their relationship builds through stolen moments — shared meals,  late-night talks,   &  training sessions that turn into something more.  › she makes him feel human again.  he’s spent years as nothing more than a weapon,  but when he’s with her,  he remembers what it’s like to just be a person.  › he becomes fiercely protective of her.  when training missions get too brutal,  he interferes just enough to keep her safe — without making it obvious.  › by the time they’re 20,  their connection is undeniable.  › but clea eventually realizes that bash is watching her on tantalus’s orders.  › she feels betrayed — was their connection real,  or just another assignment? › bash,  for the first time,  doesn’t know what to do.  › their love is a slow-burning rebellion against tantalus.  the more they care for each other,  the more dangerous their relationship becomes. 

[bradleymarshall]

I have brutal dreams

And I think you’re the only one I can send this too without people thinking I’m a serial killer

Hahah

So in my dream

It was like foreshadowed that I’d hide under this stairwell

At the bottom, where there was water

For some reason

There was police chasing me

I can’t remember what I did wrong

But I was hiding in my hiding place as they were chasing me and I was fast enough to get into my hiding spot and submerge myself under water until they left

There was 2 police officers which inspected the area while I held my breath

But then

Once they left

For some reason I was caught and then this super natural monster caught me and punctured my lungs and was stabbing me

And put me in prison

I broke free

But had to kill the person who was putting me in prison

And for some reason

One of the persons putting me in prison was my mum

When I turned the heard around

I realised I’d bashed the skull of my mum open

And she was still alive

And thinking

But she wasn’t aware that half the back of her skull was open and bleeding and her brain was exposed

My dad was watching and a few of my cousins

Saying look what you’ve done

You can’t undo it now

And I was crying saying I’m sorry mum

Because I didn’t know

And now her head was all open and I was the reason she might die

But there was nothing I could do

So I just held the bible to her open skull and just prayed

There were like these Japanese anime characters or Star Wars characters in the dream

We were trying to destroy this Jedi base or Sith base I can’t remember which side

But it was obscure who was good or evil

And we were making jokes

Imagine if one of your parents or your partner was sith and the other Jedi

How to cope

This anime girl was interested in me in the dream

I’m not sure why

She was real but dressed like anime

With hair sprayed hair

The brutal part was bashing my mums skull in to escape prison

And then crying as she was still alive but the damage was done

[maydaymadier]

have a bunch of shit I've written describing the dynamic between Jasna and Oddplace bc I am unwell

(Original Description): this is a mutually objectifying and transactional relationship, neither cares about the other outside of how they’re useful tools.

From a list of the disappointing men in her life: Oddplace: How hasn’t he disappointed her? Over the course of their ten-year relationship, he has never once respected her. He has been generally callous and dismissive of her that entire time, with poor bedside manner to boot. They’re bonded to each other by professional courtesy and the desperate tension of two people who will never be good for each other.

Her first impression: He is about exactly what I expected of a Reddening Order alchemist. Knowledgeable, precise in his actions, lacking in the finer details of social engagement. ... Given the opportunity he would study me. I’ll keep this as a last resort in my back pocket for now.

A fake duel: Perhaps I misjudged his social skills upon our first meeting. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand. It seems the brusque attitude is a front in and of itself. And he seemed exhilarated in the aftermath.

A report about a very real fight: I was being vague, it is not his business, but he made a comment that sounded far too close to him knowing about my personal activities over the course of this summer. And it did not immediately occur to him that he should hold his tongue when I bashed his face into the workbench. He enjoyed getting a rise out of me. For every new thing I like about Oddplace he feels the need to show me some repugnant new facet as recompense.

Fic about the fight: He is broken now. But he is still him. Even through the blood, she can see the original structure of his face. Even brutalized, he is beautiful.

In the aftermath: I envy Oddplace’s ability to keep a straight face. I can still taste his blood between my teeth. I know he’s limping because I dislocated his hip. But he just sits there and reads like nothing happened.

We don't know each other in public: He was an excellent performer and made it very clear that we didn’t know each other in public. Granted, we don’t. The Balearin cleric I’d been talking to said she wanted to introduce me to someone I would find interesting and she led me straight across the room to Oddplace in his Reddening Order finery. We even had a compelling conversation on the matter of medicinal versus magical means of reducing inflammation. He has always been respectful of my work, he isn’t one to just dismiss the raw magical approach. The conversation lasted perhaps ten minutes. He got up and left when someone else from his order (vaguely familiar, might have seen them before but I do not know who they are) came to fetch him, said that a superior was looking for them both.

I spent the rest of the night staring at the wall. I still do not know his real name.

[bllsbailey]

Morning Joe's Total Meltdown After Trump Obliterated Biden in the Debate Is Worth Rewatching

So much has happened that I couldn’t get to MSNBC’s Morning Joe’s total freakout over

Joe Biden’s abysmal debate on July 1. Mika Brzezinski delivered a most entertaining tantrum, emblematic of liberal America entering a state of hypoxia over Biden’s debate with Donald Trump because they don’t know what to do. Reality bashed them in the face, though if they only paid attention, they could have seen the president’s steep mental decline.

Brzezinski’s screed was something out of North Korean state media, listing the politically motivated charges Trump is facing, accusing him of slurring his words, bringing up his convictions, his liable suits, and claiming he tried to launch a coup in 2020. It was absolute cinema. Please list all the things that no one cares about because they’ve been either debunked or dismissed due to people seeing right through the political circus inherent with any anti-Trump campaign.

The MSNBC host then has the courage to ask why people aren’t calling for Trump to drop out of the race, claiming that maybe we’re all desensitized to the lies or misinformed. That was the kicker—let liberal America, which has shown to be media illiterate, lecture us about misinformation. It’s you people who manufacture it. 

Does Mika know that Biden's standard is higher because he’s the president? He claimed to beat Medicare, brutally botched an answer on abortion, veering off into some tangent about how we need to codify Roe because families are raping each other en masse, and couldn’t deliver any lines without looking and sounding his age. He was also mentally gassed and had to be helped off the stage by Jill Biden. 

Trump doesn’t have the nuclear codes, Mika. That’s Joe, who thinks Philadelphia is in Delaware. In the coming days since this equally braindead soliloquy, the Democratic Party has approached a state of civil war over Biden as megadonors, and Hill Democrats want him gone. In contrast, Democratic governors and the base want him to stay. 

The North Korean media aspect arose when Brzezinski tried to claim that a terrible night for Biden wasn’t a victory for Trump. Yes, it was—your feelings don’t matter, ma’am. One person wins, the other loses—the most elementary part of this issue. She then goes on about how Biden tells the truth while Trump lies and how Trump will threaten our institutions and the like. I guess she hasn’t read about the pervasive overreach and overall creepiness from Biden’s Justice Department, which is now visiting Americans’ homes over anti-Biden posts on social media. 

Oh, and she claims that Biden was “slowed down by a cold” and Trump is a man with a “cold, vile, and merciless heart.” Please, this segment alone only reinforces my support for the former president, as it will for millions of other Republicans if we watched this show that no one watches. They never learn; the more you hate Trump, the more we like him. Your guy has a broken brain and can’t do the job—75 percent of Americans are with us on that one. And there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Re-watch this tantrum for motivation, folks. It’s liberals freaking out because there’s no spin, no explanation that’s remotely believable other than Biden can’t do the job. Trump didn’t win the debate—says who. The polls show Trump commanding a 30-plus-point blowout over Biden when asked who won the debate, so who is uninformed, Mika? Trump is beating Biden in key swing states, with the president bogged down by a 32 percent approval rating and three-fourths of the country saying he’s too old to be president.

They don’t know what to do or how to react, and I love it.

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[floweryvibes]

This has inspired me to write. I love Feysand but my love for villain Rhys is just as strong.

Warning: possessive and dark Rhys ahead.

Feyre had no more tears to weep. 

“This dinner is wonderful.”

“I am glad you think so darling, I had the chef prepare it especially for you.”

“Aww, how sweet.”

Dickhead.

A mere puppet to be strung along and smile when her mate told her to do so.

No. That wasn't right. Some parts of her were awake, brought and kept on the surface. The most disgusting, vile parts. The pieces of herself Feyre had wished she could have healed after saving Prythian.

But clearly her sacrifice wasn’t enough to grant her such release.

“Nesta trained with Cassian and the Valkyries today.”

“Ha, let me guess she caused a stir once again?”

“Please, my sister isn't that grumpy all the time.”

“Oh, she absolutely is Feyre.”

My body giggled, “Don't worry, she's getting along just fine with everyone.”

“Good. Let's hope it stays that way.”

Oh Nesta…how Feyre wished she could grab her sister and yell at her to run. To help her flee.

Feyre would be a liar if she said she hadn’t enjoyed it when Nesta first came to the Night Court. How they made her bow before her. It felt good. After years of taking care of her sisters, the one who had always had the sharpest tongue was finally getting what she deserved. 

But then it crossed a line, locking Nesta up in the house of wind.

The same thing that pushed Feyre over the edge and away from the Spring Court, was used to break her sister over and over again all while Feyre was forced to stand by and watch.

She feared what would happen to Elain now. The way the shadowsinger watched her. The way the twins monitored and took care of her. Feyre feared that their love and affection would turn on her sister just as it had on her.

I swear if I ever break out I’ll bash Mor’s face in for suggesting we throw Nesta into Hewn City.

“Come, I have something I want to show you.” Rhysand took her hand, leading her over to the balcony of the restaurant he had brought her to.

The mountain side was beautiful as it was dangerous, the slopes full of sparkling snow, illuminated by the stars above. The gorgeous landscape concealing the brutality beneath in Hewn City, or that of the Illyrian war camps.

“Right over there.” Rhys pointed to the top of one of the larger mountains, “Is where we plan to build the second cabin, what do you think?”

“It’s a lovely idea.”

“I would love for you to paint it.”

Her body smiled brightly, “It would be my pleasure, just give me the paints and you won’t recognize it.”

“Perfect.” he smirked, leaning down, his hot breath on my ear as he kissed me. 

Ew.

‘That’s not what you said yesterday.’

I hope your dick breaks.

A small chuckle escaped his lips as he moved his kisses lower, Feyre’s body giving him a confused look, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing darling, I just love your enthusiasm.”

“I’ll bring Nyx with me so that he can paint too.”

“I was thinking it could be more of a…just the two of us kind of occasion?”

Feyre smirked, wrapping her arms around his neck as his hands began exploring her, “Well, then Nyx can stay with Nesta.”

“Let’s have him stay with Mor instead.”

“Okay.”

“Perfect.” he purred, pulling away, “I have another surprise for you.”

“Another? What’s with you being so generous?” she poked his chest playfully.

“I am always generous, now wait here while I get the surprise.”

Feyre immediately started struggling against the coil, only for it to tighten in response. She had run out of ideas of how to break free at this point.

I have tried talking to the part of me that is awake. I have tried fighting back against him, but no attack from within is able to break his barrier.

Feyre wasn’t sure if it was possible, but if she could get someone else to break the walls he created, she might stand a chance. A single second would be enough to push back enough and let her flee. 

If only that unnamed daemati was around…

The more time she had spent with Rhysand, the more she believed he lied about the Winter Court children. She had no proof of course, but after this she struggled to believe anything that man said.

Feyre tried to move her body, even just her fingers. The smallest movement would make her happy; the smallest bit of rebellion to prove she still had power over herself.

But nothing happened. 

Her body stood there, like a doll waiting for her master to return and keep playing with her.

Please…please let me-Wait…is that?

Her body was crying.

Tears? Since when could I do that? He didn't permit tears unle-

Sensing an opportunity Feyre pushed against the obsidian walls around her, punching and kicking them. 

A server who was rushing between tables inside the restaurant, paused, “Lady Feyre? Are you alright?”

No! Help me! Let me out!

The server approached her tentatively, “Lady Feyre?”

“I am back. Feyre? Darling?” Rhysand quickly rushed over, his face the perfect expression of the worried mate, yet his eyes held rage deep inside. Anger at the fact that he had permitted her enough freedom to pull one over on him like this.

“Feyre, darling what's wrong?” He murmured, his tone coaxing, waving his hand dismissively at the server. 

Don’t leave, please.

But alas, they were left alone once more.

“Nothing…I just…” the body flinched away from him as Feyre tried to claw her way to freedom.

His eyes narrowed and she stilled, the coil that had previously been present around her returning.

Fuck.

‘Language.’ the voice chidded.

Feyre wanted to scream but didn’t get a chance to as he embraced her, gently stroking her hair, “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I know it’s been hard for you after the pregnancy. I should have let you rest.”

“No, it’s okay.” her body smiled, kissing his cheek, “I am not crying because I am upset, I am just so happy…”

Feyre wanted to hurl.

“That’s good to hear.” he cupped her face, looking deep into her eyes, checking for that spark of rebellion that had dared to rear its face.

Not finding it again, he smiled kindly, kissing her forehead, “Here, my gift to you.”

He handed her a small black box, which she obediently opened to reveal beautiful silver earrings.

“They’re gorgeous.” her body whispered.

“They were my mother’s. I want you to have them.”

She felt him put the earrings on her; another piece of evidence of his ownership of her.

Feyre’s mind was on fire as she screamed from frustration.

“Rhysand, Feyre good to see you.” Helion smiled, shaking his fellow High Lord’s hand.

“It's great to see you too.” Feyre smiled.

Despite everything, it was wonderful to see Helion again. His court was always so warm and full of sunshine. A beautiful contrast to her current, dark surroundings. 

The space Feyre, or this part of Feyre occupied was a dark, sticky void. The dark wisps that monitored her behavior kissed every inch of her body that they touched, trying to ease her back into sweet bliss. 

I don’t understand why you don’t tell him that Lucien is his son.

‘Oh Feyre darling, why don’t you tell him?’ the voice sounded, its tone mocking.

I would but you won’t let me.

The voice laughed at her dry response, ‘Well Feyre, it’s quite simple. At the moment Lucien exhibits signs of being an heir to a court. As long as we keep him in our grasp, and reveal the fact regarding his paternity when necessary, we could stand to gain a lot from such knowledge. Imagine us, as Helion’s closest friends and supporters, returning his rightful son and heir to him?’

Lucien is my friend. You can’t use him like this!

‘Is he though? With how you treat him I’d think you’re sworn enemies at times.’ he mused, ‘Besides, you had no problem using him to get back at Tamlin.’

I didn’t want to do that!

‘Oh but you did. You found such great pleasure in watching Tamlin squirm. More than I at times.’

She scowled, but her body smiled as if nothing was wrong.

“Shall we?” Rhysand offered Feyre his hand, who took it, and walked to the meeting room, the rest of their entourage following after them.

Night Court might be rich, but Day Court had an unforgettable style that always left a lasting impression.

The marble columns in the hallway and the council room stood like the trees in Spring’s forests, tall and proud. The ceilings had large paintings depicting fantastical images of nature or beasts; the one above the long table, along which they would be sitting, illustrated an ancient battle between fae.

Rhys permitted her to stare at the painting.

The least the bastard can do for me.

She had asked in the past, but was denied to go to Day Court to study their painting techniques, confined to Night Court’s borders. 

Helion smiled, “Does our local painter approve?”

“Yes…” Feyre whispered in awe.

“If you wish, you're welcome to stop by and meet our painters some time. I am sure they would be honored to meet the High Lady of the Night Court.”

Feyre smiled, while internally she cried out in pain, the dark coil that held her, tightening - enough to hurt but not kill.

Possessive freak.

“I would love to go, but unfortunately I have been busy with court duties.” Feyre’s body repeated the words Rhysand fed her. 

Helion nodded, “Quite unfortunate indeed. Though, my invitation is always open.”

“Thank you for the offer Helion.” Rhys smiled, “We appreciate it.”

The group took their seats, with Feyre sitting next to Rhysand, Cassian on her other side, giving her a grin.

She smiled back politely, glancing at the other attendees. Beorn was keeping to himself, with the Lady of Autumn avoiding making eye contact with anyone and Eris casting subtle glances in their direction. Kallias and Viviane had just arrived, being greeted by Helion. Kallias was rigid as always, making the temperature of the room drop with his presence alone. Viviane was smiling happily, carrying her child who was snuggled up in her arms, asleep.

 Tarquin was chatting with Thesan, Cressedia and Varian at his sides.

Suddenly a bundle of adorableness was pushed into Feyre’s arms.

“I am going to go talk to Varian before the meeting begins.” Amren quickly left, before she could protest..

Nyx squirmed in Feyre’s arms, demanding her attention.

Oh Nyx…

Some days Feyre wanted to throw her child off the balcony of their mansion. Other days she wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and run away; to make a new life for themselves away from the inner circle. 

I love you.

“Your Mama loves you so much Nyx.” he permitted Feyre to whisper to her child.

Nyx babbled.

I am so sorry I can't protect you.

At that point he silenced her once more. 

“Now that everyone is here let’s begin the meeting-” Helion was interrupted by the large doors, detailed with the sun’s rays, opening.

Tamlin.

She stared, not her body of course, it was pitch fucking perfect as always, but her. The real her. 

He looked better. Better than what Rhysand described him as from his last visit to Spring Court, his hair properly brushed out and his clothes clean and well ironed.

“I apologize for my late arrival. I was held up.”

“It's alright.” Helion smiled politely, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Despite all the eyes that stared at him, Tamlin was calm. A stout fae followed behind, sitting with him when he reached his designated spot between Beron and Thesan.

Feyre leaned into her mate's touch as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Tamlin’s eyes followed the movement but he looked away before anyone else could notice.

She recoiled at the feeling of pride and pleasure that Rhysand sent down the mating bond.

Feyre may not have loved Tamlin's actions after under the mountain, but she couldn't get behind this sadistic pleasure that Rhysand extracted from this experience.

Stop it.

‘Hush darling, let me have my fun.’

You're despicable.

‘I think you mean handsome.’

Ugly.

His hand tightened on her waist, a reminder of her place.

Cassian noticed her body’s discomfort, glaring at Tamlin.

No Cass…no stupid, stupid Cassian. The monster you should be glaring at is sitting beside you.

He's the one you call brother.

“Let the meeting commence.” Helion stood up, displaying a map of Prythian, trade routes marked on it, “As you all know, we're here to discuss the trade routes currently running between our courts. With the war having come to a conclusion and our people…struggling,” Helion phrased lightly, “We need to find a more efficient way to reach everyone. With Spring now back in action, I was thinking we should move this route over here.” Helion pointed to a trade route currently passing through Summer to also include Spring.

“While I am on board with the decision,” Rhysand hummed, looking up at Tamlin, “How do we know that he can truly be trusted?”

Rhys, don’t antagonize him. Please.

‘Hush.’

Helion laughed nervously, “Well, we can’t know for certain, but based on recent activity we believe Spring Court to be reliable.”

“Well, I am sure that many of us here, based on past experiences, would like some proof that Tamlin has actually shaped up.” Rhysand smirked, “He’s known to be volatile. I would rather not commit to something that would…blow up in my face.”

Tamlin, please don’t take the bait.

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed, “I think you mean your ‘High Lady’ is worried about this blowing up in her face.”

Cassian growled.

Feyre internally face palmed.

I am surrounded by idiots.

The doors to the meeting room burst open, much to Beron’s displeasure, “If one more fae interrupts, I swear-”

The High Lord was however, consequently interrupted by a small faerie, dressed in scholarly robes covered in some sort of golden powder, “Helion, Helion they did it! They managed to actually do it-”

“Ahem.” Helion tensed, smiling brightly at the fae, quickly shutting her up.

Rhysand sat up, coughing, a small wheeze escaping him.

Feyre jolted, the coil that was wrapped around her loosening and the walls seeming more transparent. She didn't waste a second

Help me!

Feyre banged on the obsidian walls holding her mind.

Please help me! Someone! Please! I am in here!

Her body stood up, staggering.

Tarquin glanced at her with a confused expression. Her body couldn’t speak.

Please!

Suddenly her vision went black.

“I apologize, I suddenly feel quite unwell.” her body spoke, the words not her own.

“Ah, well please feel free to take a rest.” Helion answered, a bit confused, “And Miss Elanor, please don’t forget your manners. I am glad your academic pursuits are going well, but please don’t burst in.”

“Right, sorry.” Elanor quickly hurried away again.

Helion looked at them apologetically, “I am sorry, she’s quite the spirited young faerie.”

Beron grumbled, but Kallias smiled understandingly.

“She seems quite excited.” Viviane complimented.

“Oh she is.”

“May I ask what she is researching?” Rhys asked.

“Ah, just some alchemic reactions.” Helion.

Feyre felt herself walk out of the meeting room and what she assumed was down the hallway of the Day Court palace, carrying a whiny Nyx with her.

No! No, give it back!

‘Ah, ah, ah, we had an agreement darling. You don't cause a ruckus inside this body and you get to watch.’

Please. Please let me see.

Feyre didn't think she could handle what he made her go through the first several months. Absolutely pitch blackness. No sound. Nothing. Just her thoughts and his brief visits.

‘Hmm, I don't know, you almost ruined this whole meeting for our court. Don't you think that deserves a punishment?’

It's your court you winged bat bastard.

‘Hmm, that wedding ring would disagree.’

Fuck you 

‘I love you too darling, stay still for a couple hours and maybe I'll let you out.’

He paused, a small chuckle filling her mind.

‘Or maybe I won't. You're quite forgettable after all.’

Eventually her body stopped moving and she sat in silence and darkness for who knows how long, the only thing on her mind - the fact that he had somehow managed to lose control, even for one second.

Note: I have a continuation idea because I cannot for the life of me write a one shot.

Every time I look back through ACOTAR and the actions Feyre chose I can’t help but think this isn’t her. While this can all be placed on SJM and her horrible writing choices for the plot, book 1 Feyre has changed into the being she hated the first time we met her.

And my favorite theory will continue to be that Feyre is not in control of herself mentally. It’s all Rhysand. That bargain made under the mountain in book one was the beginning of the end for Feyre. And it was a trap that Tamlin and Lucien saw for what it was. But it was too late to save her.

I’d even go so far as to say that Feyre was Tamlin’s mate and that her death and the deal she made with Rhysand altered it so that the universe would believe it was Rhysand who was her mate.

Everything else was just sprinkled in at the right moments and the right times for Rhysand to play the ‘savior’ and pick up the pieces. And when his little puppet pretended that she was being controlled the entire time he genuinely thought she was broken from his spell for that brief moment.

So every little action, degrading outfit, and near death experiences were all a sick and twisted form of revenge against Tamlin. Possibly because they were exes, or for the crimes their fathers committed against each other and the unfortunate demise of Rhysand’s mother and sister.

And the real Feyre is trapped in a prison inside her mind. Watching as everyone and everything is stolen from her. And replaced with people who refuse to disobey their ‘precious high lord.’ A man so wrapped up in his own ego that he doesn’t even bother with 2/3 of his court.