#Crash Course World History | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starpens · 3 months ago

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CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !

asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?

caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.

he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.

he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.

because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?

it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.

thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—

“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.

knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”

“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”

you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.

he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—

“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”

“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”

“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.

“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”

“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—

“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”

caleb immediately chokes.

a lesson on what not to do.

the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.

slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”

“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”

“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”

“y-yeah…”

“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”

“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.

however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”

he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”

“w-what?”

you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.

“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”

you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.

“use your words, pipsqueak.”

“y-yeah, i get it.”

his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”

caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.

“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”

“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.

caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.

the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.

his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.

caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”

backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.

“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”

your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.

you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.

“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.

“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”

caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”

“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”

“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”

“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”

his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.

“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”

“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.

the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.

it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.

“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”

you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb’s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.

it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.

too deep.

the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.

“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”

you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.

he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?

he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?

his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.

and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.

he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”

“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”

“o-oh.”

the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”

for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.

he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.

“teach me the rest, ge?”

the rest.

caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.

“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.

“c-caleb.”

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”

his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”

“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”

“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”

you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”

and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.

the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.

“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”

“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”

“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”

he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.

“c-caleb!”

you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.

“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”

he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.

you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”

“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.

“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”

caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”

what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.

“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.

caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.

he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.

those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.

seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.

“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”

that’s all it takes.

one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.

you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”

“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”

you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”

“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”

your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.

caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”

you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.

“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”

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pasukiyo · 10 months ago

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A PLACE IN THE SEA OF STARS

anakin skywalker x f!naberrie!reader word count: 10.4k (my longest yet... i'm so sorry) warnings: two idiots pining, pining, reader is padme's younger sister (whether biological or adopted is up to you), first time having sex, soft smut, angst synopsis: a life spent in padmé amidala's shadow and never once did she ever think she'd be envious of her sister. that is, until anakin skywalker walks his way into her life and she finds herself praying that one day, he'd look at her the way he does at padmé, that she'll be given a place in the sea of stars, that her destiny will include him.

read on ao3

It came as no surprise that Anakin Skywalker would be enamored with her second-to-oldest sister.

After a life spent behind Padmé Amidala’s shadow, she’d grown accustomed to it— being overlooked. But for once, just this once, she wished history wouldn’t repeat itself, wished the prophecy could be rewritten and for once, let it be her who was chosen, who was noticed.

But of course, it’s futile.

You can sink to your knees and pray to whatever higher being is in the sky but at the end of the day, there are millions of lost souls just like you doing the same. You can have faith, you can believe that someday you’ll be heard but with each silent day that passes, your voice still falls on deaf ears.

She’s done her time playing the fool who sinks to her knees and pleads with the night sky to find her a place in the sea of stars, so that she may fit in a constellation too. She’s been the statue who's been made to wait— and she’s started to crumble.

She remembers the day she started to pray like it was yesterday. It was the day she first met Anakin Skywalker, back when he was only a Padawan, still searching for his own place in the world. Her parents were restless then, having heard of the multiple assassination attempts on their dear second oldest daughter. Of course she was worried too, but she still could feel the guilt that settled into the marrow of her bones when she found herself pondering whether her parents would react the same way if it had been her life at stake instead.

She remembers helping her eldest sister, Sola, and her mother with dinner in preparation for the arrival of their sister Padmé and her Jedi escort. She’d been tasked with bringing a bowl of fruit to the table and she remembered nearly being trampled over by her nieces, Ryoo and Pooja, as they squeal Padmé’s name, sprinting for the door.

She remembers huffing, mumbling a curse in an alien language beneath her breath just as their guests step inside, looking up from where she leaned over the table, dropping the bowl down onto the surface. She remembers her breath catching in her throat when her gaze found a sea of blue that put the Naboo waters to shame.

Padmé’s lips curved into a grin as she exclaimed her sister’s name, circling the table to capture her in an embrace. Her sister wrapped her arms around her and her chin found Padmé’s shoulder as the blue that took her breath away crashed into her and she swore everything changed in that moment.

She remembers the first time Anakin Skywalker looked at her. It was a brief, friendly locking of the eyes but a fleeting moment for him felt like lightyears for her. His eyes were the blue of the water where the sun’s reflection gently ripples and warps. They were the blue of the sky after it rains and the sun begins to spill through the cracks of the wall of clouds.

She’s never understood what it meant to be speechless, for something to literally steal the breath away from her lungs. But from the moment her eyes met his, she began to understand.

“Anakin! This is my youngest sister,” Padmé announced, pulling away from their embrace. Her spine stiffened when her sister introduced her and she watched as his full, pink lips moved to form her name. His voice is like nails scraping against the itch she can’t reach on her back, his voice is like velvet she can swallow, deliciously soft and rich against her throat.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Anakin dipped his chin in greeting, the silly, little braid falling off his shoulder. She drained the lump that had formed in her throat, bowing her head. Her lips trembled and her breath was shaky as she prepared her salutations but her words fell dead on the tip of her tongue when Padmé’s squeal permeated the room.

“And my eldest sister Sola!”

And just like that, all attention rolled away from her and onto her eldest sisters but she still watched him, heart beating against her chest.

And that was the moment she began to pray.

She prayed, even though the looks he’d given Padmé didn’t go unnoticed. The way he watched her, even when she wasn’t the one speaking, the way he’d soak in every word, every praise for her that fell past her parents’ mouths. The way he stared longingly at her sister when he was certain nobody was watching— and no one was, for their attentions were on Padmé, save for hers.

It was typical.

It should come as no surprise that everyone would worship the ground her sister— the former Queen, current Senator of Naboo— walked on. She’s not surprised that someone young and benign like him would fall in love with her sister— she’d only seen it happen more times than she ever really cared to count.

And she’d never really cared about all the suitors on their knees at Padmé’s feet before— they were her sister’s problems, not hers. She’d never even really envied her sister, at least in that sense.

But everything changed the moment Anakin stepped through the door. Everything changed the moment their eyes met, if only for the most fleeting of seconds.

So she prayed.

Inside the inner realms of her mind, she sinks to her knees and stares into the void above her, the stars that beamed down at her twinkling, almost as if they taunted her. She swallowed her pride, folding her hands together and raising them to her chin, brow dipping as she pleaded with the higher being in the sky to hear her cry.

“Please, hear me, Maker,” she whispered into her mind, externally staring at Anakin, internally losing her gaze amongst the stars as if the Maker himself would appear between them. “Hear my plea. Whatever destiny you’ve pre-written for me, please be sure it includes Anakin Skywalker.”

She didn’t see Anakin Skywalker again for another year after that.

Apparently, being a Jedi means he’s constantly from place to place, but next time they do end up in the same place, it’s even more fleeting than the last. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again, if she was foolish to continue hoping that he might notice her, that he might even love her. But she still remembers the way his eyes flickered in recognition when they caught hers across the courtyard of Theed Royal Palace. His hair was longer and he didn’t have that ridiculous braid or tiny ponytail on the back of his neck anymore. The Chancellor was speaking to him and another Jedi with umber hair and a matching beard, but his attention was on her.

He looked… darker. As if the years of war had finally begun taking its toll on him. But he’s still the same man he’s always been, still the same one she’s dreamed about. He even looked better.

They don’t get the chance to talk, only share knowing glances, as he was on duty and their paths unfortunately didn’t cross. But that gleaming in his eyes, the one that blazes with knowing is all the kindling in the pit of her belly needs to bloom, to blossom into a raging wildfire.

So, she prayed again.

“Maker,” she said into that night sky inside of her head. The stars shone brighter, as if to laugh at the foolish girl beneath them. She ignored them of course— because she truly believed that one day, she’d prove them wrong. “Please. Hear my plea. Let Anakin Skywalker see me again. Give me a place in your sea of stars and make sure it is in Anakin Skywalker’s orbit.”

She doesn’t see him again for another two years.

But still, he lingers, just like a phantom weaving through every corner she passes, cloaked in shadow. She sees Anakin Skywalker everywhere she goes— in the lakes of shining waters out in the country, in the rain that falls on a dark, cloudy day, in the litany of stars that idle in the sky.

She sees him in her dreams, staring the way he did at Padmé. Only, in her dreams, his gaze finds her. Almost like he had that day in the courtyard, but in her dreams, his eyes would linger longer.

His voice calls out to her whenever she’s sleeping and it lingers in gooseflesh on her skin, frosting over her bones. She’ll open her eyes when he calls but she’s never truly awake. Alas, if dreaming is the only way she’ll see Anakin Skywalker again, she’d gladly succumb to her sleep and trick herself into believing it is real.

Except tonight, she does not think she can take it much longer.

“Anakin,” she whispers one day when she peels her eyelids open after he calls. She says his name like it’ll be the last time she ever will. That look is on his face again— the one she’s seen so many times directed at her in her dreams, she’s nearly forgotten it wasn’t meant for her in the first place.

She used to wake and long for sleep to come again, just so she could watch him look at her like that.

But three long years of waiting and foolishly praying to beings who do not hear have begun to rust the illusion she’s deluded herself into hopelessly believing in. Three long years of silence and she’s finally cracked. She is broken— she sees it now. She’s grown weary of hoping he’d be the one to fix her.

His lips curve to form a smile and for three years, she’s fooled herself into believing it could be for her— truly be for her, outside of her dreams. But to be forthright, she’s tired. She’s grown tired of pretending, tired of clinging onto the dying embers of mere memories of how a man looked at someone that wasn’t her— but rather her sister. She’s grown tired of hoping, waiting, praying that one day, he may wander back into her life and thread his way into the tapestry that her destiny’s been woven into.

Tonight is the night she forfeits with her palms to the sky, tonight is the night she yields to the stars that have taunted her for far too long and admits her defeat. That they were right all along. Tonight is the night she blows away the ashes she’s desperately held so close to her chest and sealed away in secret urns inside for far too long.

Tonight is the night she lets go.

When she wakes the following morning, birds chirp outside her window. Sunlight spills into her room as it rises over the mountains across the lake and she yawns, stretching her arms over her head. Today is merry— it is the day her sister, Padmé Amidala, marries.

Today is merry but instead, she feels dread seep into the marrow of her bones. She’s happy for her sister, really, she is, but it serves only as a reminder that her time is ticking, and time has turned vexing. It serves as a reminder that she must make haste to find her own purpose, to find someone who will cherish her the way she’s spent many fortnights dreaming about. Sola’s already married and found her purpose, and Padmé’s had her entire life laid out before her since she was only fourteen years of age.

Sola, the wife and mother, Padmé, the Queen and then the Senator, and then there’s her. Unsure. Undecided. An ellipsis.

She’s envious. How could she not be? She’s envious that she’ll never be the perfect mother like Sola, envious that she’ll never live up to Padmé’s legacy, she’s even grown envious of the stars: they simply idle in the night sky but even their idleness has a purpose because their places have reason, to create constellations that in turn, tell stories.

She knows that after today, the pressure of fulfilling whatever destiny’s been written for her will only further suffocate her. She will suffocate beneath the weight of this pressure and she will be expected to continue breathing. She’s tried for so long to keep the air in her lungs but it’s so hard when with each day that passes by, the darkness grows more appealing.

She’s tried so hard to find the right path she’s supposed to take, but there are so many roads, so many choices and so many consequences. She’s afraid— and it’s why she’s allowed herself to hide in her sisters’ shadows for so long. But it feels so stifling now.

She sighs and blinks up to the terracotta ceiling. And then of course, dread wears her bones for an entirely different reason. Because it’s inevitable that she’s going to see Anakin Skywalker today. And things will be different.

It’s been lingering like an annoying, little insect since Padmé announced she’d invited her Jedi friends to the wedding, ever since she heard Anakin’s name being read off the list. Things were certain to change because he is but a mere guest, and not the groom.

It may have come as no surprise that Anakin would fall for her, but it certainly came as a shock that Padmé wouldn’t fall for him.

It makes her flesh blaze with a strange anger she’s not quite sure how to describe. How could her sister have something she so desperately wanted but not pursue it? How could she reject Anakin when he would willingly break and bend to her every whim? Why must her sister take his infatuation for granted— why could it not be given to her instead?

She thinks it must be some cruel trick the Maker is playing on her, dangling Anakin in front of her like that, cursing him with an unrequited love when she was right there. She thinks it must be the Maker’s— damn him— cruel way of taunting her, as if the sneering stars had eyes, his eyes. Even if part of her is relieved Anakin is not marrying her sister, it still feels like a blaster wound to her chest, puncturing her skin and searing her insides.

She hears her name called from outside her room’s door and groans.

“What do you want?” She replies in displeasure as the door slides open. Her eldest sister, Sola, steps into the room and glowers at her youngest sister’s tone.

“Well, good morning sunshine,” Sola remarks and she rolls her eyes. Sola makes her way towards the bed, dropping a dress the color of fire onto the mattress. “Is there a reason for your ill-temper today?”

She pushes herself to sit upright, wrinkling her nose at the dress as she takes a fistful of it in her hand. “Orange?” She scoffs, tossing it back down onto the bed. “I thought we were wearing blue?”

Sola shrugs, plopping down onto the mattress. “Padmé changed her mind last minute,” she says. “I suppose if we wore blue, we’d mesh with the background, don’t you think?”

She sighs and flops back down against her pillows, one arm folded over her stomach, the other folded behind her head. Sola pokes her forefinger against her knee and she grumbles, narrowing her eyes at the ceiling.

“Now, answer the question,” her oldest sister insists. “What’s the matter with you?”

Her eyelids flutter closed and she wishes more than anything that she could simply wink out of existence. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be here for Padmé, she does, but she’s uncertain how she could possibly explain how she feels to Sola in a way she could understand. It’s exactly this that’s made her feel so alone all these years.

She’s never had someone who could understand her, really get her. She’s always been different from her sisters, even before marriage and coronations and political promotions. It’s something she’s certain her sisters have known, that even her parents must’ve known. She’s never been jovial and nurturing like Sola, or clever and independent like Padmé. She’s always preferred silence and privacy, and maybe that’s been her problem. But it’s all she knows, being alone.

Sola’s never spent years yearning for a boy who yearns for another, so she couldn’t possibly understand. She doesn’t think she could even make her understand.

She sighs, lolling her head to the side until her gaze finds Sola’s.

“Not looking forward to wearing that dress for the entire evening,” she says instead. Sola’s eyes roll and she leans over to pinch her calf beneath the covers. She hisses and swats her sister’s hand away as she clicks her tongue, moving out of the way.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” Sola tries to reason.

“It’s hideous,” she deadpans.

Sola deflates with the acceptance of her defeat. She grabs her sister’s knee, giving it a shake. She glares at her older sister.

“Come on, that can’t be the only reason why you’re in such a foul mood,” Sola insists, her bottom lip rolling in a pout and she swears it’s almost comical how her eldest sister can act like such a child. It’s a wonder how she has children of her own.

She blinks at Sola as a sort of realization creeps onto her eldest sister’s face and she blinks, internally grimacing. For she knows that whatever is bound to come out of her sister’s mouth next is going to be completely and utterly wrong.

“I think I get it now,” Sola’s tone is softer, her face falling to match it. “You’re upset you’ll be the last of us to be married.”

And there it is.

She internally cringes at just how wrong Sola is but she says nothing, further prompting her sister to lean forward, reaching for the hand that rests on her stomach. Her muscles stiffen when she takes it and she wills herself to stay still. It was better to let Sola say whatever she had to say than recoil and deny it— it’s not like she had any better excuse anyways.

“I know it can be tough,” she begins. “Feeling like you’re left out. Believe me, I had my fair share of it. I was so jealous of yours and Padmé’s relationship when you were younger because I was so much older, I felt like I just didn’t quite fit in with you two.”

Her eyes finally meet Sola’s and she begins to see her eldest sister in a different light. All this time, she’s believed she’s the only one who’s felt this way— lost, left behind. While this isn’t quite the same context, she still feels her heart tremble in her chest for her sister, still feels like something’s shifted. It’s at least one thing they can understand each other on.

“But then, I found my husband. And then I had Ryoo and Pooja,” Sola continues. “And it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

Sola’s grip tightens around her hand and she leans forward to place her other one on top. “I know it must seem hard, seeing as both Padmé and I are married— well, almost anyway.” Her lips curve into a soft, reassuring grin. “But you’ll find that same happiness one day. I just know it. So don’t fret, little sister.”

And there, she fears, is where her sister misses the plot.

She almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all sounds. She remains silent, however, and Sola gives the back of her hand one last reassuring pat before she lets go, sliding off of the mattress.

“Anyways, I’m going to breakfast. You should come too before all the blue waffles are gone.”

She watches as her eldest sister slips out of the room, the door sliding closed behind her and she sighs, digging her knuckles into her closed eyelids until the galaxy shimmers before her. How could Sola have come so close to understanding her one minute only to read her so wrong the next?

She doesn’t make any effort to get out of bed and in all honesty, she wishes she could simply stay here forever, or at least for the rest of the night. At least long enough that she doesn’t have to face Anakin Skywalker.

Because even though she’s already promised herself that she’d let him go, she wasn’t entirely certain she could hold true to her own word when she sees him again.

The day goes by in a blur. In the blink of an eye, she’s wearing a satin dress in that deep orange she finds hideous beside Sola who stands beside Padmé. Padmé stands facing her husband-to-be, fingertips delicately placed in his palms as they recite their vows.

The sun paints the villa’s terrace with an orange glow and she watches it sink beneath the mountains across the lake from the corner of her eye. The sunlight looks like fire rippling in the gentle waves of the water below and she has to look away because she thinks of Anakin, how his eyes glimmer just the same.

She’s determined to keep her gaze away from the audience, however, because she knows he’s there, the incarnation of all she’s ever wanted, of all her bad ideas, of everything she cannot trust herself with in one. She searches the ground below, watches the way her dress ruffles with the breeze, like fire askew in the wind.

Padmé says something that makes the audience erupt in laughter and it startles her, so much that the hair on the back of her neck erects. When she flinches, she makes the mistake of blinking up— right into the eyes she’d been bound to avoid all night.

The world around Anakin Skywalker seems to stir until it’s all wet, blurry hues of orange, green, and white. Anakin is the only one she sees in high resolution— she can see every lock of wavy, dark blonde hair, every rippling wave in his irises, the scarlet line that slices just beside his right eye. She’d never seen this scar before— it must be new.

But what’s the most peculiar of all is that she meets his eyes— she meets his eyes. She’d blinked up to find he’d already been staring, already transfixed on her by the time their gazes met and his eyes had illuminated with that same knowing gleam she’d seen in them that day in the royal courtyard.

Anakin Skywalker is looking at her and she is not in a dream. It’s both momentous and utterly devastating all the same.

She isn’t quite sure whether to look away or not. This is what she's mooned over more times than her pride will allow her to admit. She’s dreamed this many nights, for Anakin Skywalker to simply look at her and now he is. Anakin Skywalker is looking at her and she should feel elated but instead she feels… conflicted.

Does her heart flutter in her chest? Sure.

Does her stomach twist itself into knots? Certainly.

She felt so confident just the night before when she threw her hands up in surrender to the black sky, admitting her defeat to the stars who spent many moons mocking her that she was done. She felt so confident that she was ready to move on, to let go of this desire she’s harbored for Anakin for so long.

With the simplest of looks, Anakin Skywalker has proven capable of crumpling the paper walls she’d placed around herself. She was left feeling feeble, exposed and any sense of courage she thought she had was now lost.

Because three years of waiting and praying to higher entities who did not hear her pleas could not cease overnight. Her attraction to Anakin Skywalker could not cease in hours. She thought she’d extinguished the last flames of her withering hope but, as it turns out, a single dying ember remained. It means a part of her still yearned for him. A part of her still burned for him.

She wonders now, that he’s still looking at her, what possibly goes on inside his head. Why does he look at her now? Why does he stare, why do his lips twitch before curving in a smile when their eyes meet, why do they irradiate the longer her gaze lingers on his? Why does he not look sad at the wedding of the woman he loves? Why does he not even look at Padmé?

Her mind swirls like a tempest— churning with unhinged, vicious anguish. She has to look away before the acid that bubbles in her throat can come to fruition but she can’t, and Anakin seemingly can’t tear his gaze away from her either. It’s all the more sickening and earth-shattering nonetheless. Her heart swells and pounds in her chest, the border of her vision beginning to blur with the familiar sting of tears. Her head is aching and it’s all just too much— she needs an escape.

“I now pronounce you, husband and wife.”

She blinks away her emotion to the best of her ability, using the end of the ceremony as an excuse to look away as the crowd around her thunders with applause. Her mind is reeling and she feels like her head is spinning as she subconsciously claps her palms together, the sound muffled like water in her ears. The watercolor around her stirs until it’s clear again and the entire world suddenly seems to move again— it’s her, this time, that’s in slow motion.

The cheering sounds like thunder, the applause like rain pelting against a window, and her mind begins to crumple, just like metal. She longs for escape, to flee and to be beside herself for the rest of the night. Padmé and her husband begin walking back down the aisle as their guests congratulate them, tossing flower petals into the air above them. She thinks that this is her chance to escape, she thinks everyone is distracted enough that no one will notice her leaving.

They never cared to notice her before anyways.

She begins to shuffle away but she doesn’t make it very far before her stomach lurches when someone clasps a hand around her wrist, tugging her forward. She snaps her head to the source to find her eldest sister, Sola, with her face illuminated by a grin.

“Come on!” Sola exclaims, dragging her down the aisle and back inside the villa. “It’s time to party!”

Dread drains the blood from her cheeks but she’s given no time to protest before she’s being dragged down the aisle, right past Anakin Skywalker. She doesn’t dare look up but she feels him when she passes by, a mere brush of the arms, the feeling of his elbow brushing going just as fast as it came.

And it’s still enough to make liquid of her insides.

She drowns in a sea of people as she and Sola find Padmé, wrapped in their mother’s arms. She can hear her heart drum in her ears as Sola releases her hand to draw Padmé into an embrace, tears streaming down the apples of her cheeks. Everyone around her is so happy and she should be too— but she still feels like she’s beside the altar, caught in the trap Anakin has seemingly laid out for her.

A tear that’s been painfully dormant in her eye falls and she’s certain her distress shows on her face but it must be easily mistaken for tears of joy, because Padmé pulls away from Sola to turn to her, drawing her in for a hug. Her sister’s arms wrap around her body, a palm on her back, the other cupping the back of her head. Even Sola reaches forward to give her upper arm a reassuring squeeze, undoubtedly thinking back to the conversation they’d had earlier.

“Don’t cry for me, baby sister,” Padmé laughs tearfully beside her ear. She can feel Padmé’s smile against her shoulder. She pulls away and rubs her palms up and down the length of her arms. “I’m still the same Padmé I’ve always been.”

She’s unable to reply— again, she’s misunderstood. But it’s her sister’s wedding day, she won’t burden her with her own confliction. So she swallows the boulder-sized lump in her throat, curving her lips just enough to form a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m just… happy for you,” she manages. Padmé cups her cheek and soothes the pad of her thumb over her skin before Ryoo and Pooja draw her attention away. Padmé’s hands fall from her arms and finally, she can breathe.

But even that is momentary.

“You make a perfectly fine bride if I do say so myself, Senator.”

Her spine stiffens. She knows that voice. And she knows exactly who is near when she hears it.

Padmé laughs and tosses her hands. “Obi-Wan,” she greets him just like an old friend would, pulling him in for an embrace. “And little Ani.”

How is it that she’s already seen him more tonight than she has in the past three years? She sees Anakin’s dark boots from the top of her vision, not daring to tear her gaze from the ground.

“Padmé,” Anakin’s deep, enriching voice sounds and rumbles deep in her belly. She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, desperate to flee. She thinks she can manage it now— Obi-Wan and Anakin are engrossed with Padmé now, right?

She begins to make her first attempt of escape, taking slow, careful steps to the side until her second effort crumbles when Anakin speaks her name.

Ice frosts over her spine and she’s no choice but to acknowledge the man she was so intent on avoiding the entire evening. Padmé and Obi-Wan are engrossed in their own conversation but Anakin’s gaze remains on her, eyes even sparkling when she finally meets them.

Her mouth is a desiccated oasis and her throat feels like a desert as it constricts painfully when she swallows. Still, she manages to breathe out, “Anakin.”

It’s the first time she can ever recall having a true, proper conversation with him. The last time being when they said their goodbyes that very first time before he and Padmé left for the Lake Country. It’s confusing how this is everything she’s ever wanted yet, she feels an urge to push it all away.

Anakin clears his throat and his eyes flicker to his feet for a moment as if he could possibly be nervous before they find hers again. “You look good,” he says and her heart stops beating in her chest. “That dress is beautiful on you.”

She thinks she could punch him.

Or kiss him.

She has to look away, or she may very well do the latter.

She wonders if this is some cruel, senseless joke the Maker is playing on her. She wonders if she’d upset him by unlatching herself from his hook and this is his way of reeling her back in. She hates that it has the potential to work.

“I…” she stammers and closes her lids frustratedly, willing air back into her lungs. She shakes her head— she cannot be here any longer. She may very well explode if she has to succumb to this torture for even a second more. “…thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

And then, she bolts.

She’s lost track of how long she’s been locked in her room, sitting in the window, staring at the moonlight that ripples in the water below. It was long enough for the chatter downstairs to quiet to murmurs until it finally ceased altogether. The villa is now quiet and suddenly, her room feels suffocating.

With a sigh, her feet meet the floor and she pushes away from the window seat, cupping her neck to roll it around her shoulders as she pads towards the door. It slides open and she slips through, making her way down the hallway leading towards the main foyer. Her dress flows behind her like flames in the wind, the satin cool against her legs as she walks. Fresh, night air greets her and she inhales, letting it flood her lungs as she saunters to the wide terrace ahead.

She stops at the stone arches of the railing and exhales, feeling the wind sift its fingers through her hair, breathing on her skin like a lover in the throes of passion. It caresses her neck and rolls down her back, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

She’d spent many nights just like this one. Staring at the moon rippling through the water, at the stars that twinkle overhead, the sky that blackens behind them. She’d spent many nights praying, releasing her pleas into the air and letting it drift away with the breeze.

She does not pray this time. When she lifts her head to brave the dark that faces her, she merely asks why.

“Why, Maker,” she whispers beneath her breath. There’s an edge, a strain to her voice that stings her throat, that feels like daggers to her chest. “Why must you be so cruel? I have done everything, I have given you everything. Why wasn’t it enough? Why do you mock me now?”

The stars overhead gleam as they cackle, sneering at the misfit below. “You’ll never have a place among us,” they seem to say. Tears well in her eyes and she drops her head, fingernails scraping the stone edge of the railing. She leans back on her heels and wills herself to breathe before a sob could wrack her body.

She feels lost and utterly alone, and she truly begins to feel like the weight of this prolonged pain has started to fall on top of her. She’s lost and alone and her entire world has started to crumble around her. And then she hears her name.

It’s like the call that haunts her every time she closes her eyes, the same velvety voice that caresses her ear every night when she lies down in bed. But it is not a ghostly whisper this time, because it is real.

Footsteps sound behind her and she further scratches her nails against the railing.

“I was wondering where you wandered off to,” Anakin remarks as he approaches and she can feel him beside her, like a whisper of shadow creeping along her skin. She rolls back onto the balls of her feet and stands straight, sniffing.

“Anakin,” she says, steadily, methodically. As if it took great effort to say it without stammering. She can see him out of her peripheral, dark blonde curls falling when he leans an elbow against the railing, tilting his head in an attempt to meet her eye.

She does not move.

“I was looking for you, you know,” he continues. “You must’ve found a good hiding spot.”

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was in my room,” she replies simply, a steely, monotone in her voice.

Anakin inhales and hums. “Then it makes sense why I could not find you. I would never barge into a lady’s room.”

It’s an attempt at humor but she feels anything but. She’s stuck between a rock and a hard place with seemingly no clear solution in sight. She could walk away. She should walk away. She shouldn't spend a single second more in Anakin Skywalker’s presence— she simply couldn’t trust herself to not betray her own vow.

Or she could stay. She could stay and once again succumb to the fool’s game she’s been playing. She could stay and let Anakin Skywalker tie another noose around her neck, allowing him to drag her along for another three years.

She knows what is right. She knows what she should do.

But she’s frozen.

She cannot move, cannot even bring her lips to move so she can speak. She instead wilts, like a rose who once stood beautifully now losing its color, shriveling in on herself until she inevitably withers away.

She can feel Anakin draw himself just an inch closer beside her, and he’s like a single drop of rain that’s enough to somewhat salvage the husk of who she once was.

“Why do you avoid me?” He asks and it’s a question so simply but so damn infuriating all the while. She’s been a volcano in dormancy up until this point, but there’s a rumbling deep within her, threatening to erupt.

“Why are you doing this?” She questions, snapping her head towards him, brows dipped and drawn. Anakin blinks and draws back, a dent forming between his own brows.

“Doing what?” He asks and that feeling of wanting to ram her fist into his face comes back. She turns to fully face him and he pushes off the railing, uncertainty warping his features.

“This,” she gestures between them. “Staring at me. Talking to me. As if we’ve spoken more than hellos and goodbyes to each other.”

Anakin raises a brow, the one his scar pierces, and it warps with the movement.

She continues. “And then you have the audacity to tell me I look beautiful in this gods-awful dress just to spite me.” She is a volcano, no longer dormant, no longer overlooked. She is exploding and Anakin is unfortunate enough to be in her wake.

He shakes his head. “Spite you?” He repeats. She begins to pace, a hand on her hip, the other rubbing her chin. Anakin follows, exactly like a lost puppy. “I wasn’t— I would never—“

“Don’t say you’d never,” she turns on him, sticking an accusatory finger in his face. He blinks from it back to her, that ocean in the irises of his eyes raging, lightning cracking in the sinkhole at its center. She drops her hand and it curls at her side, her fists two shaking balls of fury. Blood bites her cheeks and she thinks of all the times she’s imagined speaking with Anakin Skywalker, of being alone with him.

This certainly was not how she’d ever imagined the scenario playing out.

She inhales. “Don’t say you’d never do anything to spite me while you are actively using me to get over Padmé,” she exhales, braving the stormy sea in his eyes. The tide shifts and his manner does too and she believes she’s already cracked him. She thinks she’s already shattered the illusion he was trying to create, that she’s lifted the wool he’s tried to veil over her eyes.

She thinks that he believes whatever game he was trying to play was over.

Anakin straightens. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he says and she scoffs, backing away.

“Don’t I?” She retorts. “You don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve always looked at her? How you’ve always loved her?”

It brings her great pain to merely mention it. Her palms wipe at her face as tears begin welling in her eyes again, her cheeks warm as she desperately tries to quell the beginnings of a sob that stutters through her chest. She realizes now that by keeping all of these emotions, these feelings she’s harbored for Anakin for so long bottled has made her restless, has made her tick like a time bomb.

And her time to detonate has come.

He says her name again and tries to step forward, reeling back when she steps away from him. His hand wrapped in a leather glove hovers in the air between them and he drops it with an exasperated sigh.

“Your sister means a great deal to me, yes,” he begins. “But it is not—“

“My sister is the sole reason why you torment me!” She snaps. “And you have no right to use how I feel against me just because she does not love you back.”

Her words are an arrow meant to strike, to pierce through his chest, his heart her target. Her words are meant to cut deep, to draw blood, to make him bleed just like she has everyday since they met. She thinks they will, she thinks her blows will etch deep, will even leave scars in their wake. Part of her longs to see that pained expression upon his face, just like the one she wears now.

But her arrow merely grazes, soaring past until it sinks in the shining waters below.

Anakin’s face shifts but it is not in the way she thought it would, not in the way she hoped it would. His brows dip and his eyes swarm with a pained sort of desperation she’s never seen before in someone. She certainly never expected to see it in someone like him. His chest rises and falls with his breaths as he steps forward again. She stands still, unable to move. She is stunned— Anakin Skywalker has surprised her.

“Padmé does not love me,” he admits. “I met her when I was only a child. The only girl I’d ever seen before her was my own mother. So, of course, I felt drawn to her.” Her jaw tightens and her lips fall together in a firm, thin line. Anakin’s brows knit closer together and there’s a flicker in his eyes that she swears looks like the predecessor to tears.

She doesn’t quite want to believe it. He could not cry.

“And I spent a decade pining, a decade praying that I’d one day see her again, a decade hoping she’d been counting down the days until she saw me again, just like I was.”

She doesn’t believe what she’s hearing. It’s a reflection of her own story, her own foolish pining, her own foolish praying but not hers, but Anakin’s. Her heart stutters in her chest and she forgets to breathe, having to gasp to gather air back into her lungs.

She’s never once felt like she could be understood. She’s never once felt like anyone else could experience the inner turmoil she has, the seemingly fruitless yearning she has.

But she’s realizing now that that's not true. Not anymore, at least. Everything is changing right before her eyes.

“And then I did,” Anakin shakes his head, a humorless laugh leaving his lips. “And I felt nothing. But I tried. I tried to convince myself I loved her. But I just… didn’t.”

Her brow furrows and Anakin’s gaze darkens as it finds hers.

“I spent a decade obsessing over someone I didn’t really know, and how could I? I was a child.” His eyes search hers, searching for something unbeknownst to her. But she lets him. “I didn’t know what love was. All I knew was infatuation. I didn’t know what it meant to truly feel seen, to truly feel drawn to someone.”

Anakin pauses and she gets the feeling that whatever he says next will be calamitous.

“Until I saw you again, that day outside the palace.”

Her lips tremble and her breath shudders, an icy chill frosting over her skin. To think he’s thought about her everyday since their eyes briefly met in the midst of a crowded courtyard was hard to believe yet, when she looks at Anakin Skywalker now, she sees the softening of his brow, the quiver in his lips, the honesty in his eyes.

She’s only ever imagined one look in his eyes. Desire.

But she looks at him now and finds an entire galaxy— there’s longing, there’s earnest, there’s optimism, there’s burning. As it turns out, living creatures are not black and white like she initially thought them to be. Anakin Skywalker is a complex creature, made of flesh and blood and of an intricacy she’d never stopped to consider before.

He’s even better than she’s imagined he’d be.

Every moment spent under the stars, praying that she’d one day have a place among them, that she one day would sit among them with purpose rather than in an ellipsis suddenly begins to feel like it wasn’t all for nothing after all. Every prayer she’s whispered into the night breeze with Anakin Skywalker’s name in it suddenly feels like they begin to matter, like they begin to come true.

Still, she is wary, and Anakin seems to recognize this caution.

He takes a step closer and he steals the breath from her chest, just like he had the first moment she saw him. Her fingers twitch, itching to find his, her palms tingling with the desire to feel his skin, her lips buzzing with yearning. She does not touch him, she does not kiss him, she does not do anything. She simply waits for the rest of his story to unfold and her brain aches with the hope that it will unravel into hers.

“I saw you that day at the palace to find you were already looking at me. That you were already seeing me,” he mutters, a little breathlessly. “It may have been for… for only a moment but when you looked at me, I felt…” he trails off, a furrow in his brow as he searches for the correct word. “…I felt… like something shifted.”

She watches as he rolls his lips together, watches as the moonlight catches how they glisten with spittle. Her breath catches a little bit, her gaze lingering there, her desire to lap it all up flaring.

“It felt like there was a string there between us I’d never noticed before,” he continues. “There was a connection I’d never realized until the moment our eyes met. I felt you, and I felt you see me. There hasn’t been a day that’s passed by since where I didn’t feel you, where I didn’t feel like we were connected, like we were two stars written in the same constellation.”

Her chest rises and falls to the erratic beating of her heart as Anakin draws nearer, the hand with his glove meeting her cheek with a tenderness she’d felt from no one before. She’d never realized how starved of touch she’s been until now and it feels so invigorating. Her stare drops to his lips and she feels that string Anakin must’ve been talking about, feels it drawing her closer into his mouth.

“Padmé does not love me back, and I do not care,” he says in just above a whisper, his voice rising and falling in a way that jellifies her knees, that makes liquid of her insides. “Because I am burning– foolishly, maybe, yes– for you.”

She inhales sharply and it truly feels like all her prayers are finally being answered, like she’s being inducted into her rightful place in the sea of stars. And in her constellation, Anakin Skywalker resides too.

She reaches up with a hand to hold the crook of his elbow that’s strung between them as he brings his other, ungloved hand to rest on her other cheek. She feels his skin on her cheek as the pad of his thumb soothes over the warmth of her flesh and her body quakes with shivers that roll down her spine all the way to her toes. He begins to lean in, his breath hot where it fans against her skin but she tilts backwards, just enough for him to halt, a quirk in one of his brows.

“I will not let you settle for me, Anakin Skywalker,” she whispers, admitting that insecurity still lingers, despite his words. Anakin’s eyes narrow as he uses his hands on either sides of her face to draw her in, his lips but a mere whisper away from hers when he murmurs, “settle? This is not settling. This is binding.”

Then, his lips are on hers in an electrifying bind that shatters her spine with cracks of lightning and she falls into him, her hands on either of his forearms to keep herself steady.

Anakin kisses her with an ardor she could never even dream up in all of her wildest of fantasies. He kisses her and she feels like she finally fits in her dress, as it is the color of fire and she’s engulfed in flames. He kisses her and he is the flame that lights her candle, the flame that melts her from the center, that makes heat course through her that washes all the way down to her toes. He kisses her and she is melting, right into him.

His tongue pirouettes over hers and she hums into his mouth, feeling his fingers thread through her hair. Her heart is pounding and her lips are buzzing but all she feels is Anakin, she feels the muscles in his arms, the warmth that radiates off his body and spills into her. She feels the push and pull of the passion, the yearning he’s kept inside all this time. She feels her own longing and fervor pour into him and they are floating, two clouds that collide into one another to become one.

Anakin steps forward and steps backwards until she hits a wall. When they pull away for breath, she realizes he’s backed her into one of the pillars, a vine caught in the hair on the back of her head. Their chests heave with the weight of their breaths and she watches as Anakin’s hand, not the gloved one, but the one with skin rises, following it as it reaches for her neck. She shudders when he touches her collarbone, exposed from the side of the fiery satin of her dress. His fingertips sear her skin as it drags to the neck of her dress, following the satin where it wraps around her throat, all the way to the back of her neck where the lace falls.

Her breath catches when his fingers find the small strings keeping her dress together. Her gaze finds his again to find he’s already staring, a narrow, earnest look upon his face that darkens his eyes and hardens his features. There is a silent question that hangs in the air between them: “do you want to stop?”

Maybe they’re moving too fast. Maybe this is crazy, maybe they’re simply caught up in the moment, high off the feeling of burning for someone who burns for them too. But after years of pining, of waiting, of praying, it only feels right.

But still, she asks, “what if someone sees? Someone like Obi-Wan who can get you in trouble?”

Anakin shakes his head, “they won’t. Now, I don’t want to talk about Obi-Wan. Do you want to stop?”

The shake of her head is all Anakin needs to see before he unlaces the strings holding her dress together, the satin falling like a spark blazing down the frayed edges of a rope until it pools at her elbows. Her breasts spill from the dress and the night’s ghostly whisper chills her skin, peaking her nipples.

Anakin’s eyes devour and she is prey.

His stare pierces through her skin to the marrow of her bones that catch a chill and she quakes. He meets her eyes again as his hands drift lower, dipping until they finally find her chest. A sharp gasp escapes when his palms cup either of her breasts and she arches into his touch, already aching for more.

“Anakin!” She gasps in a breathy exclaim when he dips his chin to press a kiss over the top of one of her breasts, heat blossoming in his lips’ wake. His eyes catch her again, a little warily. “Is this okay?” He asks, his voice low and gravely, scratching the itch in her brain she didn’t even know she had. It makes her knees feel weak and if it hadn’t been for his body pressed up against hers, she would’ve crumpled straight to the ground.

“Yes,” she breathes, chest heaving into his palms. “I’m sorry, I’ve just… never…”

Anakin’s lips curve and she can see a flash of white peek between them. He shakes his head. “Me neither,” he admits with a breathy laugh and she titters too, grateful for the fact that she’s not the only one who’s a little green.

“Can I keep going?” He questions and his voice is liquid desire, melting straight down to her core. She swallows the lump that’s formed in her throat, nodding. “Please,” she adds, feeling her heart beat straight into his palm.

Anakin’s head dips again and she watches, cheeks warm as he places an open-mouthed kiss just above her nipple. His palm kneads the other breast as his lips venture just an inch lower, finding the peaked bud that awaits, suckling it into his mouth.

It’s like electricity flooding through her veins.

She throws her head back, lips falling agape as her eyelids snap closed, soaking in the pleasure of Anakin’s lips on her nipple. He cautiously flicks his tongue against the bud, watching through his lids as a moan falls from her lips, encouraging him to do it again. He flattens his tongue against her nipple and licks a long, fat stripe from the underside of it up, feeling her tremble in his arms. He lets go of her breast with a wet pop, trailing kisses through the valley between them to make his way to the other.

Touching him, feeling him, kissing him is somehow even better than she’d ever imagined, even after all those years of dreaming for moments like this. She can’t believe she’s gone so long without feeling him like this, she doesn’t think she can ever stop touching him.

Anakin suckles on her breast, flicking his tongue against her nipple as his hand not wrapped in a glove ventures down her body, past her waist, down her hip. He pulls the satin material of her dress up until his arm can sneak his way beneath it and she shivers when his fingers find her center over her underwear. Her nails dig into his sleeves above his shoulders, holding her breath as he finds the wet spot in her underwear, gently pressing against it.

Her hands tighten on his shoulders and ceases all movement, peering up at her. “You’re wet,” he says rather matter-of-factly because of course she is, how could she not be? She nods down at him, swallowing thick layers of saliva down her throat. “Can I touch you here?” He asks and his voice drops to that silky, velvety tone that makes her core ache. She presses her lips together to stifle her groan, head vigorously nodding up and down.

“Gods yes, Anakin,” she moans, slowly rocking her hips against his finger. “Please.”

She feels filthy in a way for asking, for needing friction so desperately. She’s only ever taken her own fingers when she’s too lost in pleasure at night to sleep, never been touched by anyone else but it’s all she craves now, for Anakin’s fingers to touch her, for him— whatever part it may be— to be inside her.

A flame had been ignited in the pit of her belly long ago, back when Anakin first stepped through the door the day they met. It’s sat stagnant for too long, waiting for its moment to further bloom and now it has. It blossomed when her eyes met Anakin’s that day in the courtyard but it’s now in full bloom, now that they burn together, now that his kisses have seared her skin, now that his fingers are pulling her underwear down her thighs, just enough that he can reach her center.

When his fingertips brush her clit, she bursts.

Anakin’s arm wraps around her waist as she practically collapses into him, his middle finger drawing circles against her clit, his breath hot as his lips rest on her brow.

“Is this good?” He asks against her forehead. “Do you feel good?” He questions again as he adds his forefinger to the mix, applying just a little more pressure and it makes her eyes roll.

“Yes, just… just don’t stop,” she exhales, feeling her stomach twist itself into a knot, his fingers against her clit threatening to pull it undone any moment.

So he doesn’t.

He’s unrelenting in the way his fingers press to the aching bud in her center, tracing tight circles until her eyes squeeze closed so hard, milky-ways shimmer behind her lids. He dares venture lower, gathering her slick on the pads of his fingers as he teases near her entrance. It’s a foreign and strange feeling, it’s a pattern she’s traced many times with her own fingers but never been touched by someone else. Even in spite of how many nights she spent trekking that path wishing it was Anakin’s fingers instead, but it’s still strange feeling him there now.

She clutches his arm tighter and he slows, beginning to retract his hand. She stops him, lifting her head until their eyes meet again.

“No,” she pants, shaking her head. “Don’t stop, just… just take it slow.”

He nods, his finger a little unsure as it circles her entrance, unintentionally teasing until she begins to crack. She’s panting, trying to wiggle her hips so that she can draw his fingers in, seeking that feeling of being full. Anakin dips his forefinger into her hole and she tosses her head back, her lips parting for an “oh” to emit.

He watches her face, even if she can’t see it, she can feel his gaze behind her closed lids. He is testing the waters, learning what makes her moan, what makes her squirm, what makes her come. Slowly, he sinks his finger further in and she feels every single millimeter that drags along her walls until he’s knuckle deep. Her legs feel like jelly and her knees begin to wobble, nails clinging to his sleeves like they were her lifeline.

Pressure builds in the pit of her belly as Anakin carefully retracts his finger, just to sink it back in again, a slow, cautious rhythm that leaves her mind spinning. His fingers are so much bigger than hers and she already feels so stuffed despite it only being one finger. Somehow, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

“Ana… Anakin,” she gasps, peeling open her lids to find he’s already looking. His finger slows but picks up its pace again when he realizes she’s not in any pain. “Another.”

His brow dips and his head tilts in confusion, uncertain what she means. She gathers moisture on her lips, trying to speak through the pleasure-driven haze in her mind.

“Another finger. Please.”

Their eyes lock and there’s a flicker in his, a hint of doubt.

“Are you su—“

“Please.”

So, Anakin gathers her lips with his and she mewls into his mouth when he presses his middle against his pointer, sinking them into her cunt until they reach as far as they can. She’s trembling against him but he keeps her upright, with his arm and with his lips.

Just one of Anakin’s fingers had made her feel stuffed but two of his fingers made her feel full to the brim. Her walls clench around his fingers and she gasps his name like the beginning of a prayer, pleading for more.

It’s a twist on the prayers she recites to the Maker every night. It’s rewriting her every broken hymn, transforming it into something entirely new. She moans Anakin’s name and his fingers turn it into a song so that she cries like a dove into the night. The Maker may have left her feeling broken, wasted, unimportant but Anakin has found her, patched her up, polished her until she’s brand new.

The tangle in her belly begins to rupture, slowly unraveling and so she pushes his arm away, his fingers sliding out of her cunt, her walls pulsing with the loss. They both pant and Anakin’s face hardens in question as his chest heaves.

“What is it?” He asks, searching her face.

She gathers air deep in her chest. “I want…” She trails off, her embarrassment washing over her cheeks in blood. Her gaze drops and Anakin tilts his head to find it again, their eyes locked. He says nothing, only the nod of his head encourages her to continue. “…I want more. I want… I want you to…”

She purses her lips in frustration. For heaven’s sake, she’s talking to the man who just had his fingers inside of her mere moments ago. Why does she feel embarrassed now?

She takes another deep breath, mustering the courage to tell what she truly wants. “…I want you to feel good too.”

Something shifts in Anakin’s eyes. It could be easily mistaken as a trick of the light but she sees it, she feels it. Anakin is burning just the same as her, his pupils becoming a backdrop behind the fires of desire, and she burns within it.

She watches as Anakin’s hand sinks below the belt around his middle, all the way down to the waistband of his trousers beneath his dark tunic. She watches with her breath lodged at the base of her throat as he pulls down his pants, just enough for his cock to be set free and oh, it is just like her dreams but even better.

Nothing could have ever prepared her for the sight of Anakin Skywalker’s cock. Not even the wildest of her dreams could ever capture the essence of the art of Anakin Skywalker. He is handcrafted by the gods themselves— he is the physical embodiment of masterpiece.

He steps forward and towers over her, his breath like smoke rolling over her face. She peers up at him, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. His hands find either side of her face and she stops breathing altogether, wondering what he will do next.

Then, “put your arms here,” he whispers, guiding her arms over his shoulder. “And hold on.”

She squeals when he drops his hands to the undersides of her thighs, lifting her off the ground so that her ankles lock behind his back. Her arms tighten around his neck as he presses her back against the pillar, his chest pressed into hers. She can feel his length as it’s squeezed between either of their bodies and her walls clench around nothing, practically sobbing to feel him inside.

For a moment, the world stills around them and it’s like when she sees him in the audience during Padmé’s wedding. The night stirs and blurs until it’s dark watercolor, but Anakin is what she sees in high resolution. It’s the perfect mirage— she and Anakin feel like two stars in the middle of the black abyss above, forming their own little constellation.

And when Anakin finally slides himself inside of her, she feels like her place in the sea of stars has been cemented. She finally feels like she’s where she belongs.

a/n; SO! MY LONGEST IMAGINE YET.... may or may not have gotten a bit carried away (more like a little too wordy...) BUT! i really hope some of you enjoy and i truly appreciate anyone who reads this all the way through. i know 10k words is a lot 😭 also i hope this doesn’t seem too insta-lovey… this idea just came to me in a dream so i wrote what I dreamt lol

💫 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the world to me 🫶

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#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker fanfiction #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin smut #anakin x you #anakin skywalker x you #star wars #star wars prequels #star wars fanfiction #star wars imagine

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purplesigebert · 6 months ago

Text

Yesterday's lecture was called Enter The Mongols. So naturally, I wrote in my notes: Enter - Wait For It - The Mongols.

#gabby goes back to school #medieval mediterranean history #the mongols #john green #crash course world history

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scarlet-star-witch · 11 months ago

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The moon and his sun

Aemond Targaryen x Female reader

Summary: People would remember their story. Even decades after they were gone, Septa’s would tell young children about the one-eyed dragon prince and his sweet wife as if they were a part of a fairytale, too good to be true for the harshness real life possessed.

Aemond meets a young girl who quickly becomes his most cherished friend and changes the course of history.

Word count: 11.5 K

Warnings: Fluffy, Aemond finally makes a friend, characters will be aged up next chapter, reader is from a made-up house

AN: This is my first time writing for HOTD and I'm excited and terrified to share this story with you. I've had this idea in my head for so long and decided to finally get it out. Hope you enjoy xx

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Epilogue

He was used to playing for second best.

In his short life he became used to disinterested gazes, murmurs of his supposed cold heart and fits of rage, avoidant steps when he passed, the curse he possessed as the scarred second son.

But never from her.

She looked at him as though he put the stars in the sky. She looked at him as if he was the reason the sky bloomed with breathtaking colors in the early morning.

He felt himself unworthy of her attention and affection, something she was aware of, and she would hold him and tell him all the love she gave him was very much deserved.

It was a sentiment he always had trouble not disputing instantly.

She made his miserable heart full.

Aemond couldn’t believe his luck himself for the sun that entered his world and brightened his life.

He never believed he was worthy of her love.

And she spent her entire life trying to prove him wrong.

It was a beautiful, sunny, cloudless day.

A day Aemond was dreading.

It wasn’t often their family made trips away from King’s Landing. His father was King and most visitors made the effort to come to the Capitol and spare them the effort of a visit, but a sudden trip had their entire family uproot their usual routine and he found himself hating every moment of it.

Being dragonless, he was left to endure the crashing waves of the sea that made his stomach turn.

“This place is disgusting.” Aegon said the moment they landed on solid ground.

“Aegon.” His mother admonished with a steady glare. “The Ixtal Islands are a beautiful place and they’re home to one of the most powerful houses in the seven kingdoms. You would do well to show them some respect.”

“Not like they’ll offer me anything of importance.” He muttered bitterly. Rumors had spread of his mother and father’s desire to wed him to his sister Heleana, his future already planned for him.

His mood was immediately soured at the realization that none of the beauties he saw on the Island shore were his intended, but that wouldn’t stop him from having his fun.

“Why are we even here?” Aegon whined immaturely, making his mother suppress yet another eye roll in response.

“The Lord of Ixtal is an old friend of your father.”

“I still don’t understand why that demands my presence here.” Aegon rolled his eyes.

“Our council is in need of a new Master of Coin and your father is considering his dear friend. We are here for negotiations and our family is nothing if not loyal. Your father, our King, needs us.” Alicent answered shortly.

Aemond was excited to finally see the Island he had read so much about. He knew their history, their riches and goods they traded with the entirety of the realm. The Ixtal Islands were the most plentiful and prosperous house in the realm and he was in awe to see his readings come to life before him.

It was the socialization he dreaded.

Nobles would look at Aegon with respect, respect he didn’t deserve even being the first born son of the King. Helaena would be regarded with reverence, a comparison to the Realm’s Delight.

But he was nothing more than a second son, easily brushed over.

Daeron was still just a babe, too young to understand the slight they possessed not having been born first, but Aemond understood all too well.

Their family was escorted into a grand throne room and Aemond was in awe of the intricate ornaments that decorated the hall and he briefly wondered why King’s Landing was where the most powerful man in the realm sat when this place existed.

His wide eyes eagerly took in every sight in front of him, admiring how the vast forest behind the castle casted a mystical green glow on the room from the giant window sitting behind the intricate gold throne.

“Viserys!” A cheerful voice called and for the first time in a long time, Aemond heard his father laugh, a genuinely delighted sound as he embraced his friend.

Aegon shared a brief look with him, his shock at hearing his father's laughter clear in the way he furrowed his brows in bitterness.

“It’s been too long, my friend.”

“Alicent, always a delight to see you, my dear.”

Aemond noted the blush on his mother’s cheeks as the charming lord embraced her. He shifted on his feet as his siblings were introduced. He knew what came next, the flippant dismissal was familiar yet it stung each time.

He looked up as the Lord shook hands with Aegon and gave Helaena a polite nod, her body language giving him the signal she wasn’t comfortable with anything else.

As he stepped in front of Aemond, he suddenly felt two feet tall under the man’s gaze. Until he smiled. It was a gesture filled with warmth he hadn’t been expecting.

“Aemond, a strong name for a strong lad.” The lord clapped his shoulder and Aemond felt his body straighten, his confidence reappearing the second he realized he wasn’t going to be passed over yet again.

He looked up at the Lord with a smile, feeling more respected by the stranger in front of him than he ever had from his own father.

“You remember my wife,” The Lord gestured to a finely dressed woman who smiled and bowed to them courteously.

“My son and-” The lord stopped abruptly, suddenly noticing the absence of the person who was supposed to be next in line and looked to his wife who was already wincing, having expected the abrupt drop in conversation due to their eldest daughter’s absence.

“My apologies, my daughter has lived here all her life yet still feels the need to explore.” The Lady of Ixtal explained, the lack of anger in her voice that gave way to begrudging acceptance made it obvious this was a common occurrence.

Viserys laughed and looked at his friend.

“You could not possibly think your children would give you any trouble, would you?” He chided sarcastically to the Lord who could only laugh in delight at his beloved daughter’s antics.

Aemond watched the interaction with wide eyes, intrigued by the sense of ease that surrounded everything.

If they were in King’s Landing and he was late to an event, his mother would have his hyde.

Suddenly, the great doors slammed open and an armored knight was seen running into the room, his hand latched onto someone small who was giggling in delight.

“My Lord, My Lady, I am so sorry, she wanted-”

“It’s quite alright, Ser Jerrod. I know my daughter could not have made it easy for you.” The Lord dismissed the unnecessary apology and smiled down at his daughter who smiled somewhat sheepishly as she passed by to take her place in line.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her silk dress and stood straighter, putting on the air of the perfect and primed daughter, as if they hadn’t all just seen her enter in a tizzy five minutes late.

Her mother looked down at her and leaned over her brother’s shoulder to pluck a leaf from her disheveled hair. Her eyes widened slightly, fearing retribution for her antics, but her mother only raised a teasing brow, silently admonishing her.

The girl brushed her messy hair off her shoulder and finally moved her gaze to their guests, a smile coming to her face as she met the eyes of the silver haired boy in front of her.

Aemond was rooted to his spot, his expression one of perplexed confusion. The smile she sent him, the gesture which was so simple - and usually faked by most at court - was blinding.

He was taken aback by the fact that she hadn’t looked at the powerful presence that was the King or the Queen faithfully at his side. She hadn’t looked at Aegon, Daeron or even Helaena, the only girl close to her age in the room.

She looked at him first.

She smiled at him first.

It was a gesture that wouldn’t mean much to anyone else, but to him, it meant everything, it lifted the veil of neglect he was so familiar with from his shoulders, leaving him to feel lighter than before.

He listened as the Lord introduced his daughter and he ran her name over and over in his head, feeling his cheeks heat, a blush easily coming to his face as she greeted everyone, but her stare came back to him, smiling shyly.

“This place is beautiful.” Helaena spoke dreamily as she took in their surroundings.

They were granted leave to look around while the servants prepared to set up the welcome feast.

Aemond couldn't take his eyes off the white sand and the crystal blue water. He breathed deeply, relieved to smell nothing but fresh flowers and ocean water and not the filth that permeated King’s Landing.

“Father should take over this place.” Aegon mused, earning looks of disdain from his siblings, which he easily shrugged off. “What? It’s much better than our shithole of a home.”

Aemond rolled his eyes at his brother’s crass nature and kept walking, praying Aegon would somehow get lost or at least get bored of his company and leave.

The sound of a loud laugh caught all of their attention and they walked their way through the lavish gardens to find it. Aemond suddenly became nervous as he saw the children of the Lord and Lady of Ixtal.

The oldest son was playing some sort of ball game with his younger brother. The youngest sibling was reading quietly with her Septa. But the eldest daughter was nowhere to be found.

As they stepped forward, the youngest son straightened and nudged his brother to stop. Catching sight of the young Targaryen princes and princess they let the ball they were playing with drop to the ground as they bowed respectfully.

“Hello.” Helaena spoke brightly and the two young boys were helpless against her sweet nature and they both smiled and greeted her warmly.

“Where’s the other one?” Aegon asked rudely, looking around for the pretty girl from earlier who was missing.

Aemond grit his teeth, praying Aegon wouldn’t drive her away before he even had the chance to speak to her.

“She’s in her tree.”

“Her tree?”

The oldest brother pointed to the enormous willow tree behind them.

He called out to his sister, alerting her to the presence of the royal children and just seconds later, Aemond watched with a slowly growing smile as a lithe form began to descend the ancient tree.

She was slightly out of breath as she jumped the last few feet to the ground, brushing her already tangled hair out of her face as she practically skipped towards them.

As if her Septa’s teachings and her mother’s scolding from that morning had finally caught up to her, the smile on her face fell slightly, remembering she was in the presence of royalty. She slowed her pace and curtsied slightly clumsily as she came before them.

“It is lovely to see you all again. I hope you are enjoying Ixtal.”

Aemond felt his face heat with a deep blush at the sound of her voice, the slight accent he heard capturing him instantly and he wished nothing more than to take the book from her young sister’s hands and demand she read it to him just so he could continue to hear the beautiful sound of her voice.

“Your home is lovely. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Helaena spoke, breaking him from his thoughts. She moved towards the girl, the two of them engaging in easy conversation.

Aegon began speaking with the two brothers, learning the rules to the ball game they were playing, the young boys instantly getting along. Which left Aemond to stand by himself.

He shifted on his feet anxiously, contemplating if he should leave and find his mother. He’d at least have someone to talk to then. The pit in his stomach that grew as the familiar feeling of loneliness settled over him broke abruptly at the sound of the beautiful voice again.

“Would you like to sit?”

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers and for a moment, he wondered if she had actually been speaking to him. His gaze found Helaena who was now kneeling to talk to the youngest of the children who was mesmerized by her lavish dress.

Which left the oldest daughter alone and her gaze on him.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat and stepped forward slowly, his heart racing as he took a seat on the bench next to her.

“What are you writing?” He asked after clearing his throat, wincing to himself at the nerves that lingered in his words.

“Drawing actually.” She corrected. “And not very well by the looks of it.” She shifted closer to him to show him the sketches in her notebook, the scent of lavender invading every one of his senses as her shoulder brushed against his.

His eyes looked over the shaky drawings of flowers and the willow tree she had been sitting in just moments ago.

“They’re beautiful.”

She smiled and the sight was enough to leave Aemond thankful that he was sitting.

“Do you draw?”

“No, nowhere near as well as you.”

“You must be shit then because these are awful.”

Aemond choked on his breath at her words, his wide eyes looking over at her in shock. She had a carelessness to her that he thought he would’ve found arrogant, it was certainly how he felt about the other ladies at court who were so brazen before him.

But he found he could only feel enamored by the girl beside him.

A quiet laugh escaped him, his stomach flipping in ways he had never felt before.

“They’re not so bad.” He spoke quietly, his nerves reverting him to his bashful nature.

“You’re quite the flatterer, Aemond.”

No words came to him, he was left to stare back at her, completely taken aback by her easy nature and blinding smile.

She continued to show him her other sketches, the conversation between them flowing easily, something that Aemond had never experienced.

Later, as their guards escorted them away to prepare for the feast, Aemond’s ears rang with the sound of her laughter, leaving him to hope he would hear it again before he had to leave.

He spent the night with a smile on his face, behaving more animatedly than he had in all his life. Alicent had looked at her second son with barely contained emotion, delighted to see him so at ease.

She was so caught up in her emotions, she hadn’t even noticed how his eyes never strayed too far from the eldest daughter of Ixtal.

The mischievous island girl was known to walk around the halls of the castle at all hours. It had happened so often for so long the guards didn’t bother to stop her anymore and no one batted an eye when they saw her wandering.

She made her way to her parents chamber hours after she had been put to bed.

She couldn’t stop the thought in her head and she had to see it through.

With a smile to the guard at her parent’s door, she strolled in as if it were her own chamber. Her parents looked startled for all of a second before they sighed in resignation.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Darling?”

“I was.”

Her father huffed out a laugh. “So what brings you here, Troublemaker?”

She let out a breath, her shoulders straightening, as if portraying herself as proper would help her cause.

“I want to go with you to King’s Landing.”

Her request did not go over as easily as she wished, she spent the next hour arguing with her parents, pleading her case. She may have overstated how much her decision to learn more about court, but her parents did not need to know her desire lay purely with her need to explore what the Capitol could offer.

Her parents knew she loved to explore and the chance to see a new part of the realm was too tempting to not indulge her in. Her parents loved her more than anything, they loved and doted on all their children in ways that left Lords and Ladies from other houses to scoff and roll their eyes in disdain.

They couldn’t say no to her.

By the next morning, she stood at her father’s side as their ship sailed to King’s Landing, her arm linked through his, her head filled with the wonders of what this new place would have to offer.

A smile grew on her lips as she pictured the shy boy who had complimented her drawings and her excitement began to grow.

She was more reserved than she had ever been as she sat beside the table of royals. King Viserys had planned an extravagant welcome feast for the Lord of Ixtal, his new Master of Coin and his daughter to welcome them to King’s Landing.

She had never experienced so many Lords and Ladies approaching her before, giving her their hand to shake and curtsey before them in greeting. It felt as though she had never truly existed until she made it to the Capitol, where the matters of the court actually held weight and prospect.

Her father had regaled many a knight and Lord over the course of the night, leaving her by his side to sit quietly, the overlooked daughter. She knew the power her house held, she knew the reason most Lords gave their good fortune to her father was to ensure their trade routes would continue prosperously. She knew she was nothing more than fodder at her father’s side.

She picked at her food unhappily, contemplating her decision to venture so far from her home, so far from what was comfortable. Her eyes rose from her plate, surveying the large throne room before her, catching sight of her father in talks with a large group of Lords from around the realm.

With a heavy sigh, knowing she couldn’t interrupt her father, her eyes moved to the head table where the Targaryen family sat.

The head seat where the King sat was empty, he was busy at her father’s side. She let her eyes roam over the queen, taking in her quiet servitude and demure presence. Her gaze fell to the heir, Princess Rhaenyra sat with her husband Laenor Valaryon, her brows quickly rising at the sight of the brown haired children sat beside the silver-headed wedded pair.

Her eyes fell to Queen Alicent’s children, a small smile growing as she caught the gaze of Princess Helaena, the quiet girl sparing her a wave to which she eagerly reciprocated.

She was never one to fade into the background and she eagerly took the Princess’ gesture as a sign of goodwill, standing from her seat to make her way to the head table.

Helaena beamed at the girl as she approached, oblivious to her elder brother’s lustful intrigue and her younger brother who sat up straighter as the girl approached.

“Hello, my Lady, I hope King’s Landing is treating you well.” Helaena greeted the girl happily.

“It is lovely, Princess. I am sincerely grateful to your father for allowing myself and my father to reside in your home.”

“We are delighted to have you.” Helaena assured her. She fidgeted with her hands for a moment, her face turning bashful for a moment. “The ladies of the court will be gathering tomorrow, you should join.”

“I’d love to.” She responded eagerly, relieved to know her newfound solitude would not be long held.

“You should join us for breakfast as well. I can show you my collection.” Helaena added excitedly.

“By the Gods, Helaena.” Aegon groaned beside her.

“Collection?” She asked, staunchly ignoring the prince sitting next to the blushing princess.

“My insects. I’ve collected quite a beautiful group of them. I’d love to show you.”

Helaena had a lovely innocence to her she was powerless against.

“I’d be delighted to see them.” She told the princess sincerely, hoping she had found a friend in the eccentric girl. “I’ve also heard wonderful things about your library. I’m eager to read the works about Valryian history and the Targaryen dynasty. There are only rumors where I come from.”

Aemond sat forward in his seat, his eagerness to interject himself finally coming to a head.

“I can show you to the library.” Aemond offered, finally making his presence known.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to take you from your duties.”

“You won’t.” He insisted, positive his face was blooming with a pink blush as her attention now lay on him. “There are many books that have not been translated, I would be happy to read them to you.”

He seemed to melt under her gaze that watched him curiously.

“You would do that?”

“Of course.” He insisted.

“That would be wonderful.”

He was thankful he was sitting because her smile would have knocked him off his feet.

By the next morning, as soon as the sun rose, he was sitting in the library, anxiously anticipating her arrival. He didn’t have to wait long until the door creaked open and her eager eyes took in the vast shelves around her.

She greeted him with happiness as if they were long time friends, causing his stomach to flutter in ways he had never felt before.

“This is incredible.” She mused, eyeing the many books she had to indulge in.

They spent the afternoon together, her at his side as he read the Valryian texts of their history, stopping every few minutes to answer the many intrigued questions she had.

Aemond was sure his face was on fire, he had never blushed so hard. No one had ever taken such an interest in him, no one had ever paid so much attention to him, no one had ever bothered to listen to him.

But here she was, this girl at his side, eager to know more, asking question after question, trusting him to give her the answer. As soon as he began to fear he had spoken too much, taken too much of her time she’d drawl out ‘tell me more’ or ‘what happened next’ and he was rooted to his seat, turning to the next page as he explained the history of the Targaryen dynasty to her eager ears.

He had never felt so important.

King’s Landing proved to be just as wondrous as she dreamed it. Granted, it didn’t have the luxurious beaches or sprawling forests her home did, but she was just thrilled to be exploring a new corner of the world.

Aemond had quickly become her closest ally. He had taken to showing her every inch of the place he thought she would enjoy, dragging her along to the mazes of gardens, the weirwood tree, the luxurious Sept, but her favorite had to be the library. She had spent many late nights with Aemond at her side, perusing through the many ancient works of Valyrian history.

It fascinated her, but she couldn’t deny she loved to hear Aemond’s voice as he read to her, enthralled with stories of Aegon the Conqueror and his two sister-wives, stories of ancient dragons and their riders, of wars long passed.

A week into their stay, as she broke her fast with her father, she was practically bouncing in her seat, shoveling her food into her mouth as quickly as she could, eager to get the meal over with so she could meet with Aemond and Helaena, the two of them quickly becoming her closest confidants.

“Slow down, my love, you’re going to choke.” Her father warned with a chuckle at her enthusiasm.

“Sorry.” She mumbled through the food in her mouth, causing her father to grimace at her very unlady-like behavior.

“Your eagerness wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain Targaryen, would it?” He asked slowly, his knowing smile teasing her clear affection for the young boy she was growing closer to each day.

“Helaena and I are good friends.” She shrugged, effectively dodging her father’s prying. He rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat, watching her thoughtfully. He had no idea where she had gained such a witty mouth, it certainly wasn’t from him or his sweet, quiet wife.

She finished the rest of her breakfast at record speed and hopped out of her seat, pressing a quick kiss to her father’s cheek.

“I’ll see you at dinner!” She called out over her shoulder as she skipped to the door.

“Be safe!” He called out, but she was already racing down the halls. He looked to the guard at the door pointedly who nodded and trailed after the rambunctious girl.

She slowed her pace once she reached the courtyard, suddenly very aware of the many eyes that would be on her if she was caught sprinting through the halls. She spotted a head of silver hair by the gates and she beamed, throwing all care out the window as she began to jog towards him.

“Aemond!” She called out and watched as the boy turned to her, his own smile growing at the sight of her.

“Took you long enough.” He jested playfully and reveled in the dramatic scowl she sent him.

“I’m not late. You are just an insane man that voluntarily wakes with the sun.”

It was so small, something so miniscule, but it still managed to make his heart race. Knowing she remembered a small detail about him, no matter if it was something that was so inconsequential, was something he couldn’t wrap his head around.

He hadn’t expected it to affect him the way it did.

~~~

She found herself with Helaena in the gardens, finding any bugs she could for the enigmatic

princess. Digging a jittery bug out of the dirt, her nose scrunched in distaste as the many legged creature crawled over her hand.

“What is this thing?”

Helaena peered over curiously and a wide smile beamed on her face.

“That’s a beetle.”

“They’re not poisonous, are they?”

The princess laughed in amusement at the widened eyes that met her gaze and she shook her head. “No, you’re safe.”

The girl nodded and, though still on edge, was less stressed as she held the bug in her hands.

Helaena, preoccupied with her own bugs, stole frequent looks at the girl next to her, noting the unease in her eyes. She smiled lightly and leaned in close to her.

“You don’t have to do this with me. I know not everyone likes the things I like. I can do this by myself.”

The girl looked startled by her words, a frown growing on her usually bright features and she looked down at the bug in her hands again, her eyes shifting from a look of disgust to one of determination, as if she could force herself to not feel grossed out at their existence.

“I like being here with you.” She said softly. “I don’t really have anyone else here.”

Helaena frowned, the thought of her brother immediately coming to mind and the smile that would grace his usually sullen face every time he was with the Island girl. As if she had conjured him herself, she looked over her shoulder, noticing him coming their way.

“Hello, Brother.” She smiled, though it was futile as his attention was locked onto the beauty beside her.

“Hello.” He spoke, though his eyes never left his sister’s friend. “What are you doing?”

“Finding bugs. Would you like to join?”

Helaena, having expected a ‘no’, given it was always Aemond’s answer anytime she asked him for help digging through the gardens, was shocked as he took a seat among them and dug his hands in the dirt before them without question.

The Princess watched with barely contained delight as her brother and friend immediately started conversing as if she weren’t there, the comfortable ease between them thriving.

Usually she would feel slighted by such an occurrence, but rather than feeling ignored, she was happy to see her brother, who was usually so serious, look completely unburdened. She worried about him, about how tightly wound he was, but since the Lord of Ixtal and his daughter had come to King’s Landing, she had noticed his demeanor change, as if he could finally take a deep breath and release the things that so often held him down.

Aemond looked at the dirt beneath his fingernails and mourned at what his night routine would be subjected to, but he found he didn’t care all that much. The stolen glances to the girl beside him had all sense of propriety out the window.

“Do you do this every day, Princess?” She asked the Targaryen who shrugged shyly.

“Most days. I find I prefer the company of bugs over people.”

The bark of laughter that left her had both the siblings smiling, her joyful nature contagious.

Aemond was transfixed, until he heard his name and he was forced out of his daydreams. He looked up at Aegon who was standing before them, judgment painting his features.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re digging for bugs, Brother.” Helaena answered innocently, her eyes thankfully locked onto the caterpillar on her finger so she didn’t see how her brother rolled his eyes in disdain.

Aemond glowered at his brother, his mood dampened, his protectiveness for his sister rising involuntarily whenever he was around. He hated seeing Helaena’s eyes dim with every one of his hurtful words.

The Island girl looked between the siblings, beginning to understand just how different they were to her and her own siblings. The more time she spent with Aegon, the more she disliked him. She looked back at Aemond and frowned, noticing the dower expression grow on her friend’s face, and she called his name.

“Hmm?”

“What are these?” She asked, her dirt covered fingers trailing over the petals of the flowers in front of them, diverting his attention from Aegon.

“Marigolds.” He answered quickly, as if he wanted her to be impressed by his knowledge. “You don’t have these in Ixtal?”

“No. It’s a shame, they’re beautiful.”

Aemond bit his lip, his heart racing as she moved back to digging for bugs. He ignored the nerves that coursed through him and reached out to pluck the flower.

“Here.”

She looked up and her eyes widened, her cheeks burning as he tucked the flower behind her ear, his shy smile mirroring hers, his hesitance clear, but his bravery clearer.

Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes at the pair.

The noise caused them both to glare at the older Targaryen, their eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“You two are pathetic.”

“It’s not our fault your pea sized brain cannot comprehend the idea of caring for someone other than yourself.” She snarked easily, making Aemond’s eyes widen as he nervously looked between her and his brother whose face twisted in anger.

Thankfully, his brother was smart enough to know not to start a fight with her and he stomped away, most likely in search of more wine.

“You shouldn’t do that.” Aemond mumbled, his worried eyes lingering on his brother’s figure as he stormed off.

“Do what?”

“Antagonize him.”

“Someone needs to knock him off his high horse. Why can’t it be me?” She shrugged, perfectly content to be the antagonist in Aegon Targaryen’s life.

“Because I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Why would anything happen to me?”

“Because… he’s… it’s Aegon.” He stressed, as if his brother’s existence was enough explanation.

“Yes, and he’s an absolute cock.”

Aemond’s eyes widened, not expecting the vulgar word to leave her lips. Helaena giggled and leaned into the girl at her side. His shoulders slumped and he allowed himself to laugh, amazed yet not surprised at her ability to evade him of his worries.

A body crashed into her as she turned the corner, almost knocking her off balance, but arms that quickly wrapped around her waist stopped her from falling to the floor.

She recognized the boy immediately.

“Aemond.” She greeted breathlessly with a smile. He pulled away from her instantly, taking a step back to create space between them, his head bowed downwards, avoiding her gaze.

But she saw the tear streaks through the stains of ash on his cheeks. Her smile fell and she stepped towards him, her hands gently lifting his chin, though he vehemently refused and harshly pulled himself away from her.

“What happened?” She asked, trying to keep the hurt from her voice at his avoidance, something she had never experienced from him.

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.” She admonished gently. She hated when he acted like this, so unlike the kind boy she knew.

He kept his head down and she sighed heavily, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I won’t leave you alone until you tell me what happened.”

Aemond huffed and side stepped around her to continue on his way to lock himself in his chambers and wallow, but she was too quick. She grabbed his hand to stop him and pulled him back towards her.

He spoke her name, the groaned pronunciation indicating he wasn’t in the mood.

“I just want to go to my chambers.”

“Fine. We can go together.” She said simply and linked her arm through his as they began to walk.

Aemond let out a long breath, his annoyance flaring for a second, but the moment he looked over at her it faded away into nothing. He brought his arm that was linked with hers closer to his chest, as if needing her touch to soothe his nerves.

He thought he wanted to be alone. After his mother had brushed off his tears and scolded him yet again for venturing through the dragon pit, he just wanted to wallow by himself, but with her arm in his, her steady presence at his side, he found he wanted nothing but to be with her.

Once they made it to his chambers, he reluctantly let go of her and practically slumped his way to sit on his bed, his head bowed down to his feet, his brother and nephews' latest prank ruminating in his head, causing shame and anger to cascade over every inch of him.

“Are you going to tell me what happened now or am I going to have to force it out of you?”

Aemond huffed at her words and began to fidget with his fingers, focusing on the sand that lingered on his skin rather than meeting her inquisitive gaze.

She rolled her eyes and moved to sit next to him on the bed, brushing the sand from his hair.

“Were you in the dragon pit again?”

He nodded wordlessly and she felt something inside her clench. She would never understand the hole in Aemond’s heart, how his lack of a dragon made him feel so worthless.

“They said they found a dragon for me.” He mumbled, causing her to look over at him with concern, her stomach sinking at the hurt she heard in his voice, knowing his dreams hadn’t come true that afternoon.

She knew it could only be a cruel prank at his expense.

“They gave me a pig.”

Her shoulders slumped, her hand reaching out to grab his, intertwining their fingers with an ease as though she had done it a million times before. She had only held his hand a few times and it made Aemond blush bright red every time, even now as he wallowed.

“I’m sorry. They shouldn’t be so cruel to you.”

“They’re right. It’s pathetic, a Targaryen without a dragon.”

“Aemond-”

“Maybe I’m not worthy and I’ll never get a dragon, maybe that’s why my egg never hatched. I don’t deserve it.”

“Stop it.” She spoke sternly, gripping onto both his hands in an effort to calm him down from his ranting. “You are every bit as good as any one of them, dragon or no dragon.”

Aemond sighed shakily and moved his gaze back down to his shoes, feeling as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“What if I never find one?” He asked quietly, as if afraid to speak the possibility out into existence.

“You will. I know you will.” She assured him, though it did little to release him from his sadness. “There are plenty of Targaryens that didn’t claim dragons until later in life.”

Aemond gave her a plain look, to which she just smirked. Serves him right for teaching her about his family history.

“Aemond, we’re young, we still have so much life to live. It’s not over because you don’t have a dragon yet. You have so much time to find what you’ve always wanted.”

The breath that escaped his lips left him feeling lighter, his hand finally gripping hers back, sending a bashful smile her way, hoping it was enough to convey how grateful he was for her.

He didn’t think he could ever find the words to tell her.

“You’d be with me, won’t you? For my first ride?”

“You would want me there?”

“Of course I would.”

She smiled and he was powerless but to return his own. “Then I’ll be there.”

Aemond’s glare was steady on his face, his eyes locked onto the Strong bastard that twirled her around.

How dare he ask her to dance, how dare he touch her, how dare he make her smile.

His disdain for his nephews was clear, they certainly didn’t give him much reason to be cordial, but this was the last straw. Seeing Jacaerys’ hands on her made his blood boil.

Those damned nephews of his had already stolen her away from his side that afternoon. He could only watch helplessly as she played around with the bastards and spoke politely to his half sister Rhaenyra.

He almost resented how sweet his friend was. He loved her kind heart, he just hated when it extended to his elder half sister and her sons who he despised.

He hated when Jacaerys and Lucerys stole her away from his side. It was happening more and more as they became closer. He felt like he was losing her, the more times she spent breaking her fast with his eldest sister and her brood, the more he dreaded every moment away from her.

She was his only friend, the only one he felt truly understood him, or at least made the effort to. Losing her would mean losing the only shred of happiness he’d managed to find for himself.

He averted his gaze from Jace and the Ixtal girl, the sight of both their bright smiles becoming too painful.

“They seem to get along well.” His father mused, prompting Aemond to torturously follow his gaze to the pair yet again.

His heart began to race at the insinuation, at the knowing look in his father’s twinkling eyes.

“Yes, he seems to be quite taken with her.” Rhaenyra noted with a loving smile.

“They’d make a fine match.” His mother added. Aemond looked to his mother, betrayal in his gaze. His mother knew how much his friend meant to him, she knew someone so precious shouldn’t be shackled to a bastard.

He refused to hear another word. His chair screeched loudly against the floor as he abruptly stood and made his way out of the room as if there were no air left for him to breathe. They couldn’t take her away from him, they couldn’t give her to that bastard.

He raced to his chambers, hoping he was quick enough that no passing guards could see the tears forming in his eyes.

By the next day, he found himself in the gardens, his eyes locked onto the open book in his lap as he read and re-read the same sentence over and over, his racing mind not allowing him to focus on the words in front of him.

The dread he had been feeling since the night before had not dissipated in the slightest.

“Aemond!”

His heart leapt within his chest at the sound of her voice. His hopeful eyes looked around the garden before landing on her and a feeling of lead settled within him, bringing him right back down to his dour mood as he noticed Jace and Lucerys beside her.

She motioned for him to join but he just shook his head softly and moved his gaze back down to his book.

He let out a long breath, trying his hardest to ignore the bitterness that grew in his heart, one that was all too familiar from before he met her. He startled slightly as a body slumped next to him. He looked up and his eyes widened slightly at the sight of her looking at him questioningly.

“Why are you sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.”

She breathed deeply, as if disappointed by his obvious lie. “Why didn’t you join us?”

He shrugged, he couldn’t very well tell her the truth about how he despised his nephews and seeing her with them was like a dagger to the heart, how he feared losing her, his greatest friend.

“I didn’t want to intrude.” He spoke softly.

Her eyes narrowed at his words, her gaze moving to the two Velaryon boys who were talking quietly amongst each other, their curious eyes occasionally drifting to her and Aemond.

She knew there was tension among them, the way they seemed to side with Aegon and play along in the cruel pranks he would play on Aemond always made her stomach twist. She suddenly felt guilty that she had never considered how it would make Aemond feel to be forced in their vicinity after how they treated him.

She turned to her friend and shuffled closer to him.

“You could never intrude.”

Aemond looked over at her, but quickly averted his gaze, finding it just too much to look in her eyes while she sat so close to him.

“You don’t have to stay with me. If you want to be with them, I won’t stop you.” He spoke quietly. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel smothered by him.

“I’d rather be with you.”

Her answer left him using all of his willpower to keep himself from marching directly to his father and demanding a betrothal this instant.

She chose him.

No one had ever chosen him.

She was bored out of her mind. With Aemond and Helaena gone to Driftmark for Lady Laena’s funeral, she was left without her closest confidants, leaving her little to do in their absence. She wished she’d been granted leave to attend the funeral with them, but her father had never met Laena and had been tasked with extra duties while the King was gone, leaving her to stew in her loneliness.

She was curled up on the settee by her bed, her sketchbook in her lap as she scrawled out an attempt at drawing Dreamfyre, to horrible failure.

A soft knock on her door made her lift her head and she sat up straighter when her father entered. The look on his face made her stomach twist, dread falling upon her like a crashing wave.

She got to her feet quickly, feeling unsteady on her now weak legs.

“Darling, there was an… incident on Driftmark.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her heart racing. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t privy to all the details but all I know is that Aemond has been injured.”

The breath was knocked out of her and at the first sign of her face crumbling into despair, her father crossed the room and held her tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as the first sob broke free.

“Is he alright?”

Her father let out a long breath at her hiccuped words, holding her tightly. He knew his daughter had certain affections for the young boy, but hearing her now made him realize just how deeply she cared for him.

“The Maesters say he has lost an eye.”

A shuddering breath escaped her and she suddenly felt faint. She had no idea how, what could have unfolded, who would dare to do something so barbaric to him.

The next days were spent in agony. She barely left her chambers. Every time her father came to check in on her, he found her sitting by her window, her gaze locked onto the horizon, waiting eagerly for the Targaryen family’s arrival.

On the third day of her lonely torment, she finally spotted it. Dragons on the horizon. She was on her feet in a second and racing down to the courtyard. She was out of breath and disheveled by the time she made it, but her pace only quickened when she saw Helaena with her mother.

She called out to her friend and Helaena let out a breath of relief when she saw her, her arms opening for her as she approached.

Helaena didn’t let many touch her, but she was one of the lucky few she allowed.

“Are you alright? Where’s Aemond? Will he be ok?” She fired off questions, not even able to get a breath out through her frantic words.

“It’s alright, my Darling. Aemond will be fine.” Alicent consoled her, placing her arm around the shaking girl’s shoulders.

“Where is he?”

“He’s been taken to the Maester’s solar. He’ll have to spend some time there while he heals.”

“What happened?” She asked breathlessly.

“What I told him.” Helaena interjected calmly. “He gained a dragon, but he had to close an eye.”

She looked at Helaena with shock. “He… he claimed a dragon?”

She couldn’t make sense of the despair, relief and joy she had felt all at once. Knowing Aemond and his endless plight to gain a dragon, she knew he would see it a worthy trade, but the thought of him injured, permanently maimed, made her want to crumble to the ground below her.

After bidding goodbye to Alicent and Helaena, she made her way to the Maester’s wing of the Keep. She was denied entry, but she was determined to not let it stop her. Each day, at the crack of dawn, she’d drag herself out of bed and, before even breaking her fast, would make the trek to the Maester’s wing and ask to see Aemond.

She was refused each and every day, but it did little to deter her. She kept trying.

It had been weeks since she had seen Aemond. Her heart was aching without the presence of her best friend, without the boy that made her smile like no other could.

On the fifth day of the third week, as she made the familiar walk to his door, the guard stopped her, as usual, though his words were different.

“The Prince does not wish for any visitors.”

She frowned. It always used to be the order of the Maesters or Alicent, claiming her son needed his rest, but now it was Aemond himself refusing her.

She couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but she knew she had felt her heart crack in a way she had never felt before.

She walked away from the door with her head bowed in defeat.

The hurt she felt mirrored Aemond’s own. Refusing her made him ache, but the thought of her seeing him as he was and looking at him with disgust was unfathomable and he would delay that inevitable despair as long as he could.

He sulked in his bed, the dour expression on his face one that had been constant for weeks.

His mother was by his bedside as she had been for weeks. He couldn’t stand to see her wince or her teary eyes everytime she looked at his ghastly scar.

She had been trying, in no subtle terms, to get him out of the room, even going as far to bring up his friend, the one he longed to see yet dreaded ever seeing the same look on his mother’s face on hers.

“It’s been a few weeks. She’s been worrying herself sick.” His mother told him, making his already weak heart more fragile.

He stayed silent, his frown deepening in despair.

“Aegon and Helaena will be heading out tomorrow to Ixtal. You should take Vhagar and join them.”

Aemond shifted uncomfortably. He knew his friend was leaving tomorrow, to visit home for her mother’s name day. They had all been invited, but with his father’s fading health and his mother’s refusal to ride on dragonback, it left just Aegon and Helaena to join the festivities.

“Aemond.” His mother prompted again, the disappointment in her voice clear.

“I don’t want to go.” He mumbled, one of the few sentences he’d managed over the past few weeks.

His mother sighed in defeat and didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night, leaving him to his solitude as he preferred.

The next morning, Aemond lay in bed, the wound over his eye itching gratingly. He longed to claw at the wicked scar, to scream in anger, to enact his vengeance on that Strong bastard. The fury festered in him like the open wound on his face, red and flaming.

The soft sound of his door opening and closing made him stir, assuming it was his mother yet again. As he lazily turned his head, dread settled in his stomach, his remaining eye widening in horror at the sight of her, the one he longed for yet resisted.

She froze in her place at the door, her jaw falling slack, a shaking hand covering her mouth as a hitched breath escaped her at the sight of him.

Aemond’s face twisted in agony. This was exactly what he wished to avoid.

“What are you doing here?” He asked angrily, tears forming in his remaining eye.

“I just wanted- I wanted… we’re leaving soon.”

It was faint but he heard it. Fear. The stuttering of her words, the quiet, almost docile way she spoke that was so unlike her was like a hatchet to his heart. The look on her face was even worse. She could barely make eye contact with him.

“Get out.” He spoke lowly through gritted teeth.

“Aemond, I-”

“Get out! I don’t want you here!” He screamed at her, tears steadily falling down his cheeks.

Her own tears began to fall, her face twisting with agony. He hated it. He didn’t want her pity, he didn’t want to see the disgust on her face that everyone would face him with for the rest of his life.

“Leave me alone! I never want to see you again!”

She let out a sob and turned on her heel, leaving the room with haste.

Aemond slumped back in bed, placing his hands over his face, ignoring the way it made his eye ache, and he cried for what he had lost.

Not just his eye, but his love, his happiness. His everything.

She stood on the balcony of the banquet hall, breathing in the fresh ocean air. She missed home. She had thought of this moment for weeks, had been eager and excited to finally visit, yet now that she was there, it was bittersweet.

The sound of the waves weren’t as peaceful as she remembered. The food she ate wasn’t as delicious as she remembered. The music and the dancing wasn’t as exciting as she remembered.

“Darling?”

She turned to see her mother approaching, concern written across her face as she moved to stand next to her daughter, her arm crossing over her shoulders, bringing her in close to her side.

“Are you alright? I thought I’d see you dancing all night.”

“I’m fine.”

The Lady of Ixtal looked to her once vibrant daughter worriedly. She was far from the girl that had left all those months ago. From all the letters she had sent, it seemed her daughter was having the time of her life in King’s Landing. The girl she saw now wasn’t the one who had gleaned nothing but happiness.

“Was it not what you expected?”

She stiffened, the need to defend her friends and her new found home rising. “No, it’s- King’s Landing is lovely.”

Her mother sighed. She had gotten a short re-telling of the last few weeks in the Capitol from her husband and she was starting to put the pieces together.

“I couldn’t help but notice your friend isn’t here.”

She looked up at her mother, her wide doe-like eyes giving everything away.

“Aemond?”

She felt her cheeks heat and she turned her attention back to the view before her, focusing on the waves of the ocean, mirroring her breathing with each crashing wave.

“He’s not my friend anymore.” She spoke quietly through the lump that grew in her throat.

“From what I’ve heard, it sounds as though he is going through an awful time, something no one, especially someone so young, should ever have to endure. People don’t exactly act rationally when they are hurt. It is easy to speak things that are untrue in that state.”

She stayed silent, taking in her mother’s words thoughtfully. It was easy enough to explain, but it didn’t lessen the hurt she felt.

“You can stay here if you wish. The Gods know I would love to keep you in my arms, but I don’t think that is truly what you want.”

She let out a shaking breath, her mind a mess as she thought of her life in King’s Landing, of what she’d be leaving behind. But, if Aemond was being truthful and he didn’t want to see her or be her friend anymore, what would her life be like there?

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Her mother assured her. “Or else we’ll have a dragon landing on our shores demanding you come back.”

The smile on her mother’s face made the hurt inside her melt away slightly. Her conviction that Aemond would forgive her for her intrusion, that he would bring her back into his life and his arms made her hopeful.

Her mother was never wrong and she prayed she wouldn’t start now.

She clutched onto Helaena’s waist as they flew on Dreamfyre back to King’s Landing. No matter how thrilling it was to ride a dragon, no matter that she felt as light as a feather, that she could touch the clouds and feel as though she was in a magical, untouchable realm, it felt wrong.

Her first ride shouldn’t have belonged to Helaena, it shouldn’t have been with Dreamfyre. It wasn’t what she promised.

As they dismounted, Helaena’s hand held hers and stayed, holding tightly as they made their way from the dragonpit to the Keep, as if knowing her friend needed the comfort.

As they parted, Helaena promised she’d spend the day with her tomorrow, knowing she needed the distraction from Aemond.

She smiled, though it wasn’t as bright as usual, and with a wave, they parted. She stepped into her chambers and sighed heavily, mourning what her time in King’s Landing would hold.

She moved to her bed, content to hide under the covers for the rest of the day, but she stopped, noticing a bundle of flowers on her desk. She frowned, she certainly hadn’t put them there before she left.

She stepped closer, her fingers gently tracing along the soft petals. They were perfectly bloomed and freshly plucked, most likely just placed on her desk mere minutes before she arrived.

It suddenly struck her.

They were marigolds.

She remembered the flower Aemond had tucked behind her ear, the ones he would bring her on occasion simply because he knew she was fond of them.

Her heart began to race, her stomach flipping at the merest notion that it could’ve been from her best friend. She picked up the bundle, inhaling their fresh scent with a small smile.

She noticed the slip of parchment below them, the simple words in familiar handwriting brought tears to her eyes.

I am deeply, truly sorry.

I didn’t mean a word of what I said

Please forgive me

- Your Aemond

Her breath hitched, her chest feeling tight with sorrow.

The words he had screamed at her that day hurt her deeply, yet the thought of not having Aemond by her side, not having him as her friend, was unfathomable.

She spent the remainder of the day in her chambers, picking sparsely at the food her father had sent to her, knowing she wanted her solitude. By the next morning, having thought of nothing but Aemond all night, she was determined to see the end of their rift.

She dressed quickly and stepped out of her chambers, determined to march her way straight to Aemond, but she was stopped by her guard.

“The Prince has requested your presence in the gardens.”

The crease in her brow that signaled her determination smoothed out, leaving nothing but hopeful nervousness as she quickly made her way through the halls of the Keep. She ignored the looks of disdain from the ladies of the court as she raced past them, ignoring the whispers of her undignified behavior.

They were the last things on her mind.

Her heart was racing within her chest as she approached the gardens. She walked the familiar path, one she had taken countless times, to get to their usual meeting spot. Her feet came to an abrupt stop as she turned the last corner and saw him sitting on their bench, the one they always congregated to over the months together.

Nervous butterflies fluttered within her as she approached him.

She called out to him softly, cursing herself for how her voice shook in hopeful anticipation.

Aemond turned to face her and she was shocked to see the eyepatch across his face, covering the angry looking wound she had seen that morning in his chambers.

Her heart ached at the sight of the red scar that peeked out from the patch. It looked painful and the reminder of what he had gone through, what his own nephew had inflicted on him made her want to cry.

He spoke her name in greeting, giving her a small, weak smile. He winced slightly, the pull of his cheeks causing his scar to flair with pain.

Her chest tightened at the sight of him. He seemed smaller, as if he sat hunched over, trying hard not to take up too much space in the world.

“I’m sorry.” She blurted out before he could speak. He looked up at her incredulously, his stomach twisting at the despair he saw on her face. “I shouldn’t have just barged into your chambers. I knew you wanted privacy and I ignored your wishes and I’m sorry. I never meant-”

Aemond spoke her name breathlessly, stopping her rambling apology. He had never seen her so frantic before, it was unnerving to him, nothing at all like the lively girl he was used to. And it was his fault.

“You don’t have to apologize.” He told her softly. He looked down at his hands that fidgeted in his lap, shame overcoming him as he thought back to that day, when he had yelled at her so callously. He had replayed that moment over and over again in his head for days and it was torturous each time.

He couldn’t get the sight of her tears out of his head. To know he was the cause was his greatest shame.

“I’m sorry.” He spoke earnestly, looking her in the eyes intently, hoping she would believe him. “I never should have spoken to you that way. I’m so sorry I made you cry. I never will again, I promise.”

She let out a long breath, his words stirring something inside her she couldn’t recognize.

He frowned deeply at her lack of reaction, shuffling over and patted the space next to him on the bench, motioning for her to take a seat beside him.

She moved slowly, hesitantly taking her seat next to him.

“I’ve never seen you that angry before.” She spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper as she recalled that dreadful day.

Aemond sighed and bowed his head.

“I…” He started but soon found he had no words, no excuses for how he had treated her. Nothing would ever make it ok, never to her. “I hated to see you look at me like that.” Was the only thing he could think to say.

“Like what?”

“Like you were horrified of me.”

“I was horrified.” She said and he felt his insides turn to stone, his throat tightening with emotion. “But not of you. Never of you.” She added quickly, causing him to look over at her, his eye wide and shining with unshed tears.

“But-”

“Aemond, the thought of what happened to you, the thought of you in pain… it hurts me.”

The vice around his heart lifted instantly. His mind was spinning with the insinuation of her words.

“You… you’re not-”

She reached out, taking his hand in hers, causing words to fail him.

“I could never be afraid of you. I could never feel disgusted by you, I could never think any less of you, or whatever other horrible thing you think I feel for you now. No scar will change how I care for you.”

The weight that had been suffocating him for weeks now seemed to lift just the slightest, allowing him to feel as though he could finally take a breath.

He let out a shaking breath and tightened his hand in hers. She smiled softly and leaned in closer to his side, letting her head fall to his shoulder, letting him revel in her closeness.

He hated the stares he got from the ladies at court, he hated the winces, the horrified gasps as he passed them. He hated the worried looks he received, as if he was seconds away from collapsing like a weak mannered child.

But none of it mattered.

She still cared for him, she was still by his side, her hand in his.

Even the burning fury he held for his nephew seemed dim in the wake of the pure delight he felt in her presence.

“But, if you ever raise your voice to me like that again I will smack you.”

Her threat, that held no anger in the slightest, made him laugh and duck his head against hers as his body shook with each breath of laughter.

His first laugh since the incident.

From then, they were closer than ever. One was seldom seen without the other at their side.

The Ladies at court through the two of them were just about the most darling thing they had ever seen. Yet, not everyone was rooting for the threads of young love to flourish.

Alicent watched her son in the training yard with a frown. Her second son, so dutiful and so smart, was becoming distracted. Her eyes never strayed from him as he neglected his own lessons to play around with his friend, watching with a scowl as the two of them laughed together, as if there was no care in the world.

The sight of the young girl in the training yard was enough to leave her appalled, but her son’s willingness to indulge in such unseemly behavior was worrying.

“We cannot let this go any further.” Her father spoke from beside her.

“I can’t very well tell him he cannot be her friend. It would devastate him.”

“Let them be friends, but make it clear that is all it will ever be. Aemond can’t get any ideas about marrying this girl.”

Alicent chewed on her lower lip anxiously. The thought of tearing her son away from such happiness turned her stomach, but the thought of him marrying a girl so unpredictable was just as unfortunate.

“Would it really be so bad? We could gain leverage with her father.”

“Ixtal is a neutral house. They have never taken a stand in any war, that won’t change now. We cannot risk Aemond allying with a house that could not give us leverage for Aegon’s claim.” Otto hissed angrily.

Alicent wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes falling back to her son, taking in the sight of his smile while she still could. She doubted it would be a common sight once he was forced away from the Island girl.

But they all had a duty to perform.

Her arm was looped through his as he guided her past the dragon pit.

“Where are we going?” She asked, looking over her shoulder at the structure that housed the mighty Targaryen dragons they had just passed.

“Vhagar doesn’t stay there. She doesn’t fit.” Aemond explained, a slightly smug smirk crossing his features as he subtly boasted about his newly claimed dragon.

Her smile twitched slightly, her nerves suddenly overtaking her. She’d been hesitant when Aemond offered to introduce her to his mount, but the reminder of the great beast’s sheer size had the beginnings of fear creeping through her veins.

Noticing the subtle shift in her expression, Aemond tightened his grip on her arm.

“I would never put you in danger.” He assured her. “Vhagar is bonded to me, she can feel what I feel for you and she would never hurt you.”

“If I could hear that directly from Vhagar I might be able to breathe properly.”

Aemond snickered and led her forward excitedly.

Soon, they arrived at the crest of the hill, Vhagar’s enormous form coming into view. A shuddering breath escaped her when she came face to face with the historic dragon that fought in wars long before her time.

She could barely comprehend such a beast of her size existed among them, that the sweet boy beside her commanded her or even willingly approached her.

“Relax.” Aemond told her softly, moving out of her hold so his hand could take hers, intertwining their fingers.

The pair of them stepped towards the sleeping giant. She watched, mystified, as Aemond spoke a few words of Valaryian, the dragon's eyes sleepily opening, her large head lifting towards them.

She felt her body freeze, the blood in her veins running cold as the mighty dragon looked past her rider, her curious gaze landing on her. A low rumble shook the ground, Vhagar’s protest to the stranger before her.

Aemond soothed his dragon, placing an affectionate hand on her snout as he spoke soft commands.

She doubted a few measly words would suddenly convince Vhagar that she wasn’t a tasty snack, but she could only watch, her eyes widening as the dragon became disinterested by her presence, laying her head back down on the warm grass she had been slumbering on.

Aemond looked over his shoulder at her prone form several feet back and smiled, motioning her to come closer.

She shook her head adamantly, her feet frozen in place.

He spoke her name, holding his hand out to her.

She looked to his hand and then to his dragon and back again, contemplating the risk to her life.

“Do you trust me?” Aemond asked and her tense shoulders sagged. She had no reason to doubt her best friend. With one look in his eye, she knew he would never let any harm come to her.

She took slow steps forward, her fear not allowing her to move any quicker.

She reached out and took Aemond’s hand in hers as soon as she was close enough, holding on tightly.

“It’s alright.” He assured her.

He guided her hand toward Vhagar, watching the girl beside him closely, gaging every expression that crossed her face in a matter of seconds. From fear, to doubt, to disbelief and suddenly to awe.

A shaky laugh left her lips as her hand softly rested on the rough scales of Vhagar’s side. Pure delight was etched across her face as she pet the mighty beast as if she were nothing more than a house cat. Aemond saw how excited she got when one of the many stray cats that roamed Flea Bottom ventured their way into the Keep.

The excited smile she wore now as she pet his dragon was the same one he saw when she would cradle those strays.

The thought made him laugh and he leaned in close to her, letting his head rest against hers.

Seeing her now, fearless by his mount’s side, only confirmed what he already knew.

She was meant to be with dragons. Meant to be with him.

I will hopefully have the next chapter out within the next couple of days! And yes, every chapter is going to be long, I have no control. Hope you liked it xx

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon fic

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aleskie · 3 months ago

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CRASHED THE WEDDING | Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Max has always been good at winning races. But he's never been good at fighting for what matters most. When he receives an invitation to your wedding years after he makes a decision that ended your relationship for good, he's forced to confront everything he's been too afraid to face. His feelings. Your history. Everything that could have been if he'd only had the courage to reach for the stars.

Warnings: None. It's just a lil angsty at some points, but it's a happy ending!!!

The invitation feels like lead in Max’s hands, heavy and cold, a stark reminder of what could have been.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Y/N L/N and Vincent Astor.

He reads the words over and over, letting them blur in front of him, as though if he stared hard enough, they might shift, might reshape themselves into something less painful, something he could dismiss as a mistake. But no—this is real, a reality he’d rather ignore but can't.

The phone rings, a muffled vibration in his pocket, and he glances at it, prepared to let it go to voicemail. But then he sees his sister’s name, and he hesitates before answering.

“Did you get the invitation?” she asks, her voice tentative, soft, as if trying to cushion a blow she knows he’s already felt.

“Yeah,” he replies, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, "Got it this morning. You?"

“Just now.” Her voice dips, caught somewhere between sympathy and a kind of shared grief. Through the line, he can hear the background chaos of her home: his nephews yelling, the clatter of something being dropped, laughter spilling over. The sounds feel like another world, one he’s distant from—a place full of warmth and distraction, the kind of comfort he could have used right now.

He can't help but chuckle, a brief smile breaking through despite everything. “They sound wilder than usual today.”

“Oh, you know,” she says, her voice lightening, “They’re boys being boys. Always testing my patience.”

A pause lingers, stretching between them as both try to find words they don’t really want to say.

“Are you going?” she asks, pulling him back, “I mean, I am. So are Mom and Dad. They already booked their flights.”

Max pauses, absorbing that information, the weight of it settling alongside the invitation in his hands.

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair and rereads the invitation. Somewhere in his mind he thinks that it could have been his name next to yours on the invite. If things were different. If he’d had the courage to fight for you all those years ago. But he knows it’s too late for regrets. The past is locked away now, sealed off with the wedding invitation and all the decisions he can’t unmake.

“Well,” she says, her voice gentle, “For what it’s worth, I think she’d be happy to see you again. Despite everything.”

He closes his eyes, letting her words settle. Despite everything. Despite the years, despite the silence, despite his hesitations that had cost him so much. There’s a part of him that wants to see you, to step into the past just one more time. But then there’s another part—a larger, heavier part—that wants to let it all fade away, like an old, bittersweet dream.

“You think?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“I know,” she says, her voice steady now, as if willing him to believe, "Whatever happens, Max, just remember: this isn't the end of everything. Sometimes…sometimes it's just a chapter. It doesn't mean the whole story."

Her words sink in, lingering long after the call ends. Alone again, Max stares at the invitation, the names on it merging, blurring. Somewhere in that haze, he tries to find the courage to decide—whether to let the past lie or step forward and face it one last time.

Like most things in his life, Max first experiences you at the tracks.

He’s ten years old and has just won a race. His helmet’s still warm, and his heart is racing almost as much as it had on the course. But he knows it wasn’t perfect—he’d made a mistake, a sharp turn taken too quickly, nearly spinning him off the track. His dad is bound to mention it, and Max braces himself as he heads toward where the parents gather after races, moving slower than usual, almost savoring his last moments before the inevitable lecture.

But instead of the expected scolding, he sees his dad smiling, an expression rare enough that it stops Max in his tracks. Standing beside his dad is a tall, older man in a tailored jacket, hands resting in his pockets with a casual confidence that only seems to come with money.

“Max,” his dad says, almost proudly, “This is Joseph. An old sponsor of mine.”

The man laughs, a deep, booming sound, the kind of laugh that fills the air and puts everyone at ease. “Oh, Jos, let’s drop the formalities, shall we?” He turns his gaze to Max and crouches slightly, just enough to meet Max’s eyes. “Call me Joe. I’m a friend of your dad’s. He talks a lot about you.”

“Hi,” Max says, shy under the attention but also intrigued. Friends of his dad usually felt more intimidating than this; Joe seemed…different, like someone who liked people.

“Ah!” Joe’s eyes dart around, searching for something—or someone. “Y/N!” he calls, spotting a figure in the crowd. “Come meet Max!”

And then, Max sees you.

You’re a little taller than him, like most girls his age are, but there’s something about you that stands out. You’re dressed in a soft blue dress, hugging a worn lion plush tightly to your chest. There’s a small nervousness about you, like you don’t belong here but you’re trying to play along, and somehow, he feels an instant bond in that.

You step out from behind your dad’s leg and make eye contact with him, a hesitant smile spreading across your face. For a split second, Max forgets where he is, who he is, even the mistake he made on the track.

“Hello,” you say, your voice soft but clear, “I’m Y/N.”

He swallows, fighting down the nerves that seem to be scrambling for words. “Max,” he manages, his voice a little strangled, “I’m…Max.”

Your smile widens, and Max feels something shift in him, like a tiny door opening he hadn’t even known existed. At ten, he doesn’t have words for it, but later down the line, he’d call it love at first sight.

He’s thirteen when his dad brings him along to spend the summer in your family’s villa for the first time.

The car pulls up to the grand villa, white stone glistening against the lush greenery that surrounds the estate. Max peers out the window, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nerves twist in his stomach. He hasn’t seen you in years, not since that brief meeting at the racetrack. But he remembers your shy smile, the way you’d clung to that stuffed lion, your blue dress fluttering in the wind.

As he steps out of the car, your father, Joe, greets them warmly, his booming laughter and wide smile putting Max at ease. "Max, look at how you’ve grown! Gonna give us adults a run for our money soon, huh?" He claps Max on the shoulder and gestures toward the sprawling house, where Max can see the faintest silhouette of someone watching from an upstairs window.

“You remember Y/N, don’t you?” Joe says, a glint of humor in his eye as he leads them inside.

Max feels a flush of nerves, not wanting to seem too eager, but he nods. “Yeah, I think so,” he says, glancing around the grand entryway.

A few moments later, you’re there, standing at the top of the staircase, peering down with a curious look. You’ve changed, of course; he doesn’t recognize you at first. You’ve grown a little taller, but there’s something else—a quiet confidence in the way you look at him, assessing him with those bright, observant eyes.

You start down the staircase, and he swears the whole room goes silent, his nerves forgotten as he watches you approach.

“Hello, Max,” you say, offering a small, polite smile as if you’re not sure what to expect from him.

“Hey,” he replies, a little awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t look as out of place as he feels.

You hesitate, clutching a book in your hands, and then you smile, breaking the tension just slightly. “We have a pool out back. Do you like to swim?”

He nods. “Yeah, I mean, I’m not the best at it, but…yeah.”

“Cool,” you say simply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “It’s quiet here. It’ll be nice to have someone else around.”

For the next few days, he watches you from a distance, the way you flit through the villa, always a little elusive, always with a book or sketchpad in your hands. You spend most of your time on the terrace, drawing or reading, occasionally looking up to watch him with a look he can’t quite read. Sometimes, when he walks through the hallways or lounges on the patio, he catches glimpses of you moving through the house like a shadow.

It isn’t until one warm afternoon that he finally gathers the courage to approach you.

You’re sitting on the stone steps near the pool, knees drawn to your chest as you sketch something on your pad, completely focused. He clears his throat, hoping not to startle you. You look up, and he nods toward the sketchpad.

“Can I see what you’re drawing?” he asks.

You glance down at the sketch, then back at him, looking almost embarrassed. “It’s just…a bird,” you say with a small shrug, turning the pad to show him.

It’s beautiful—far more detailed than he expected. The wings are outstretched, frozen mid-flight, and he can almost feel the energy in each stroke.

“Wow,” he says, genuinely impressed, “It’s beautiful.”

You duck your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks,” you mumble, then shift slightly, “Do you draw?”

“Not really. I mean, I think art is cool, but…I’m not very good at it,” he admits.

“That’s okay,” you say, meeting his eyes for a brief, intense second before looking back at the sketch. “You don’t always have to be good at things.”

You say it like you think he needs to hear it. And maybe he does. He thinks that’s what draws him to you, the way you always seem to know what’s going on, silently observing before you make your move.

He realizes he doesn’t feel awkward around you, not really. You’re both quiet in your own ways, but somehow, it feels easy to just sit here, letting the afternoon sun sink lower as you both watch the light dance across the pool.

And in that silence, he senses the beginning of something—small, unspoken, something that makes him look forward to the rest of the summer.

The two of you spend the rest of the summer clinging to each other, perhaps as a way of survival, being the only kids in the villa. But for Max, it becomes more than just a way to pass the time. It’s an opportunity to get closer to you—an unexpected chance to find something that feels real in a world of adults and privilege and things he doesn’t quite understand yet.

You take him to the woods behind the villa, leading him along winding trails and sharing your knowledge about the different plants and flowers you’ve learned to recognize. You talk his ear off about the flora in the area, your voice steady and confident as you explain the different species, and Max listens, captivated by the way you can make something as simple as a flower seem so important.

In return, he tells you about all his pets, the quirky fish in the aquarium, the lazy cat that never gets off the windowsill, the hyperactive dog that chews through shoes like it’s a hobby. He imagines the woods would be a terrible place for them, but you both debate how likely they'd be to survive out there. Your laughter echoes through the trees, a sound so pure and light that Max can’t help but treasure it.

You hang out by the pool, your sketchpad never far from your side. Max watches you draw, completely entranced by the way your hands move over the page, capturing the world with such precision. Sometimes you ask him to strike poses for your drawings, telling him it’ll help with practice, though Max suspects you just find the weirdest poses you can think of just to make him laugh. And laugh he does, usually awkwardly, but always in a way that makes the air feel warmer, easier.

You take him to the lake one afternoon, teaching him about the different fish that swim beneath the surface. He listens intently, trying his best to absorb everything you say, but when it’s his turn to share, he struggles to find a topic. So, he tells you about the different ways his mom cooks fish—nothing impressive, but it’s something, at least. You laugh. Though it’s not in a way that makes fun of him. It’s a sound so carefree and beautiful that Max can’t help but feel like he’s won something, though he doesn’t quite know what.

At night, when the villa is quiet and the world seems still, you sneak into his room, moving with the same grace and elusiveness that you always carry during the day, and you take him to a small, hidden room with access to the roof, and together you sit on the cool stone, gazing up at the stars.

“The stars are nice,” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the glittering sea above. “They make everything seem so small.”

Max isn’t really watching the stars. He’s watching you, captivated by the way your face glows under the moonlight, by the way your words drift into the night like they belong to the stars themselves. He doesn’t understand why it’s so easy to look at you, and yet so hard to understand what you’re thinking.

“I think I want to be an astronomer when I grow up,” you say suddenly, your eyes shifting to meet his, “I wanna write about the stars—where they come from, why they’re there in the sky.”

Max nods, but his words feel clumsy and out of place. He doesn’t know much about stars, and even less about what you’ve just said, but he doesn’t need to.

“That sounds cool,” he says, his voice a little quieter than he meant it to be, “You can even draw the planets…put your art skills to use.”

In the silence that follows, Max can’t help but feel the weight of it—the space between you both, the gap that somehow always feels wider than it is. He’s not sure what he’s meant to do with the way his chest tightens when you’re near, or the way his thoughts scatter when you speak. You might just be the first person that’s been able to shut him up.

He still can’t read you, still can’t quite decipher what’s going on behind your eyes. But God, he wants to.

He wants to know you more than this summer will allow him to. He wants to know the things you keep hidden, the dreams you have that you don’t speak aloud. For a moment, he lets himself imagine a future where he gets to be a part of that, where he’s not just watching you from the sidelines.

But for now, he’s content to sit there beside you, under the vast, endless sky.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” you ask him, your voice casual but laced with curiosity.

Max doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll drive in Formula One,” he says, his words certain, as if the path ahead is already paved for him.

You look at him, unimpressed, and raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you want, or what your dad wants?”

The question hits him like a punch to the gut. It’s blunt, and Max is stunned by the simplicity of it. No one’s ever put it to him like that before. Everyone else has always seen the potential, the future that’s been laid out for him. But you—you—see him. And it’s more than a little disorienting.

He thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s what I know.”

You nod, but your gaze is soft. “It doesn’t have to be,” you say, your smile gentle, reassuring, “We have so much time. You’ll figure it out.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, but your words settle in him, like a seed planted deep in the soil, waiting to take root.

After a beat, you look at him with a spark of mischief in your eyes. “But I’ll be there when you make it. I’ll try to make it to every race, so you have to do really well. You have to win everything.”

He can’t help but smile at how sure you are, how unshakable in your belief that his future is something worth rooting for. He likes that you’re not just thinking about the races, but about him, about his future. The idea that he’s a part of yours is something he hasn’t quite let himself acknowledge, but it feels like something real, something tangible.

Without thinking, he extends his pinky toward you. “I’ll win everything. I promise.”

Your smile widens, something brighter, something more pure than he’s ever seen, and you link your pinky with his. It’s a small gesture, but to Max, it feels monumental. The promise is a weightless thing, a thread tying the two of you together.

It’s the first of many promises he’ll make, but it’s the only one he hasn’t broken.

That summer gifts him with three things: time spent with you, your friendship, and—most importantly—your phone number.

The summer feels endless, stretching out like a road that Max is more than happy to walk with you. In the few short weeks you've spent together, you've become a constant in his life—more dependable than any of the things that came before. You make the dull moments feel full of possibility, even when nothing is happening. It’s as if you have this quiet magic, turning ordinary moments into something extraordinary just by being there.

He doesn’t want to leave.

No, he doesn’t want to leave you.

One afternoon, the day before he's supposed to leave, you both find yourselves by the lake again, the air still and warm, the water rippling lazily in the breeze. You’ve spent hours there, talking about everything and nothing, and somehow, you always circle back to the future—this elusive thing that neither of you can fully grasp, not at thirteen, not when everything still feels so wide open.

You’re sitting side by side at the dock, your legs dangling over the edge, your feet brushing the water as you look out over the lake. The sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, painting the water with strokes of gold. It’s the perfect end to a perfect summer, and it makes the thought of leaving feel unbearable.

Then, without warning, you turn to him and ask for his phone. Max hands it over, confused, but you take it in stride, tapping a few digits into it with quick fingers.

“Here,” you say, handing it back to him with a grin. “Now we can talk all the time.”

Max takes the phone, feeling a sudden rush of excitement, mixed with something else—something deeper, something that makes his heart beat a little faster as he saves your number. He hovers his thumb over the screen, unsure of what to say. It’s just a phone number. Just a few digits on a screen. But somehow, it feels monumental. Like crossing a line that’s only been drawn in the sand until now.

You nudge him gently, a playful look in your eyes. “Go ahead,” you tease. “Send me a text. I promise I won’t bite.”

He smiles at that, feeling a little shy suddenly. After all, it’s just a message, just a casual note between friends. But it feels like a step forward. A bridge between the two of you, no longer just the endless days of summer, but something more—something that could last.

Max types out his first message, his fingers a little hesitant as he starts the sentence.

Maxhey, it’s max. thanks for the cool summer :D

He presses send, his heart racing slightly as the words leave his phone.

Your response comes almost too quickly to be real, even though you’re right next to him. It’s as if the message was waiting on the other side of the screen, just waiting for him to type those first words.

Y/N Of course! Thank you for spending it with me :DDD It would have been soooo boring without you!

Max feels a grin tug at his lips, the warmth of your words filling the space between you both, and he realizes—this is just the beginning. Even though summer is ending, and everything about this place feels like it’s about to slip away, something has shifted. He holds the phone in his hand, knowing that this connection, this friendship, is something that will stay with him far beyond the villa, beyond the lake, beyond the months to come.

It’s just a few digits. But to Max, it’s everything.

The messages come and go at first, fleeting moments scattered throughout the day, each one a brief connection that feels more significant than it should. You send him pictures of the sketches you’re working on, and he responds with a blurry shot of his dinner, laughing at how terrible it looks. You talk about your families, about the little things happening at home, and slowly, those texts begin to fill in the spaces where the silence used to be.

He starts texting you late at night, when he should be resting before the race just a few hours away. He knows you’re asleep, but he likes the thought of you waking up to his messages, likes knowing that he’ll be the first thing you see when you check your phone in the morning. He likes imagining that you’ll think of him, even if just for a moment, before your day really begins. And he looks forward to your replies—there’s something about the way you respond that makes him feel seen

One night, a message from you makes him smile as soon as he reads it.

Y/N I think I’ll be asking for a telescope for my birthday. It’ll be perfect for next summer! We can see the stars from sooooooooo close!!!

Max grins at the thought, picturing you sitting on the roof with a telescope between you, both of you gazing up at the stars just like you did that one night in the summer. His grin widens at the mention of next summer, at the idea that you want him with you again. The thought feels natural, almost inevitable. It feels...real.

Max it’ll be great! we can bring snacks on the roof and you can tell me about the different stars !

Sometimes, your message threads are full of lighthearted memes, just silly things to make each other laugh. Other times, they’re more thoughtful, more serious.

Y/N Isn’t it kind of sad how the stars are just, like, out of reach? Like, they seem so close, but they’re so out of reach.

Max it’s still nice to know they’re out there. like, you look at them and you know you’re not alone ://

Neither of you reply immediately. But then, every now and then, your schedules collide, and you end up talking for hours. It doesn’t matter that the messages come at odd hours, or that the conversation takes unexpected turns—sometimes, the silence between them feels like its own conversation, a shared understanding that doesn’t need words. It feels like a memory waiting to be made, like everything that hasn’t been said yet, but will be, under the summer skies.

Somewhere along the way, Max realizes something without even noticing when it happened: your texts are no longer just words on a screen. They’ve become something more—pieces of something real, something tangible, something he can’t quite explain. They’ve become a thread that ties you to him, a connection that stretches beyond the distance.

And in those moments when he stops to think about it, he starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, the stars aren’t as far out of reach as he once thought.

The invitation sits on the bedside table like a weight, an anchor keeping him in place as Max paces the room. His empty suitcase lies open on the bed, a quiet reminder of the decision he still hasn’t made. Should he go? Should he leave you be? Why would you invite him? Why would you want him there on what’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life?

Why don’t you hate him?

Maybe that’s the real question he can’t stop circling back to. Why don’t you hate him enough to leave him out of this entirely? After everything?

There’s a small, dangerous part of him that thinks—maybe, just maybe—you still feel the same. He shuts that thought down immediately. You aren’t the same people you were back then. You’re older now, and wiser, maybe, though it doesn’t feel like it when his heart still races at the thought of you. The two of you aren’t nineteen anymore—but God, he wishes you were. He wishes he could go back, that he could do it all differently. That he could be braver.

He would’ve changed everything.

He would’ve given up everything—every championship, every trophy, every podium—to have you by his side. He’d settle for second place every year if it meant you’d have stayed. If it meant you were his and not—

He stops the thought before it can finish, dragging a hand through his hair as his eyes drift back to the invitation. It’s taunting him. A reminder of what he lost and what he’s still too afraid to face.

Max opens the closet, rifling through his clothes without any real focus. If he decides to go, what would he even bring? He wasn’t in a rush—there were still a few days left to RSVP—but the indecision gnawed at him. His usual jeans and t-shirts clearly wouldn’t cut it, so he shifts to the back of the closet, to the suits he rarely wears. His fingers pause on a familiar one—the classic black tuxedo you’d helped him pick out all those years ago. The memory flashes fast and sharp: your laughter as you adjusted his tie, the warmth of your hands smoothing the lapels, the way you’d looked at him like he was someone worth looking at.

He pulls his hand back like the fabric’s burned him.

There are other options. Safer ones. Ones that don’t feel so tied to you. But even those feel wrong somehow, like they don’t belong in a moment where you’re promising forever to someone else.

He thinks about calling his sister, half ready to ask for advice, but he stops himself. He knows exactly how that conversation would go. She’d convince him to go. She’d tell him it’s the right thing, the mature thing—and maybe it is. But he’s not ready.

He’s not ready to see you again.

Not if it means watching you end up in the arms of someone else.

He digs deep, pulling out every combination he can think of—shoes and watches included—before something catches his eye. A box, tucked away in the farthest corner of the closet. The design is intricate but worn, the edges faded like it’s been handled a thousand times and then forgotten. And it has been. He put it there for a reason, pushed it out of sight so it would stay out of mind.

But it calls to him now, quiet and insistent, pulling him closer until his hands are brushing against the lid and—before he can stop himself—he’s opening it.

The first thing he sees is you.

Not literally, but it may as well be. The box is filled with pieces of you, pieces of everything you’d given him over the years.

There are the little trinkets you brought back from your family trips—strange, whimsical things that you’d pressed into his hands with a grin, telling him they reminded you of him. He remembers the first time, the utter confusion he felt staring at a tiny wooden monkey carving. You’d laughed at his expression, and even though he didn’t get it, his heart had raced at the thought of you thinking of him.

He sets the monkey aside carefully, and there’s more. The crafts you made during those long, quiet days at the villa: a woven bookmark, a beaded bracelet, a tiny frame with delicate pressed flowers. He traces a finger over the petals, softened by time but still intact. He wonders if you kept the ones he made you—though his hadn’t been perfect like yours. His hands were clumsy with thread and beads, and his art never quite captured what he wanted them to. But they’d had his feelings in them, even if he never said it out loud.

And then there are your drawings.

Every single one you’d ever given him, carefully kept and hidden away like the fragile, precious things they are. Birds in flight. Trees bending in the wind. The stars you loved so much. Him. You.

He thinks his favorite is the one of him sitting on the villa’s roof, peering through your telescope with a look of quiet wonder on his face. Or maybe it’s the sketch of the night sky, dots and swirls of ink creating something so vast and beautiful it almost feels alive. Or maybe it’s the self-portrait you gave him, the one that captures you in a way no photograph ever could—the softness of your expression, the hint of a smile, the light in your eyes.

He remembers the day you gave it to him.

It was right before his first race in Formula 3. You’d slipped it into his hand when no one was looking, your fingers lingering just a little too long.

“So you don’t forget what I look like when you travel,” you’d said, trying for lightness but not quite managing it.

“Why would I forget?” he asked, genuinely confused. He could never forget you. He would never forget you. You were forever etched into him, someone as familiar as his own heartbeat.

“What if you get busy and we stop being friends?” Your voice was soft, your eyes darting everywhere but him. You’d sounded so small, so uncertain—and it hit him then, the fear in your words, the possibility that you’d already started to feel the distance that hadn’t yet formed.

“I could never stop being friends with you,” he said, the words sure and immediate. “You’re my best friend.”

And the smile you gave him…God, it’s still ingrained in his mind. It haunts him.

Because now, years later, he knows he’s the reason you stopped smiling at him.

He grips the paper a little too tightly, slightly smudging the ink. He lets out a dry chuckle.

He keeps ruining you.

Even now—years later, miles away—he still manages to leave marks on the things you gave him. Still leaving evidence of his carelessness. Of the way he could never quite hold on to you without hurting you in the process.

The drawing shakes in his hands, and he forces himself to set it down, smoothing the corner like it’ll erase the damage he’s done. It doesn’t, of course. It never does.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The invitation stares at him from the bedside table, pristine and elegant, with your name in curling script next to someone else’s.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

It shouldn’t feel like the air’s been knocked out of him every time his eyes catch on those words. But it does. God, it does.

Why did you invite him? Why did you want him there? Why are you putting yourself through the pain of having him there?

Maybe it’s pity. You’d invited everyone else in his family, after all. It would have been strange to leave him behind.

Maybe you’re offering an olive branch—a final act of kindness before you leave him behind for good.

Or maybe—and this is the thought he’s afraid of, the one he keeps buried—maybe some small part of you still wants him. Maybe you’re hoping he’ll show up. Maybe you’re hoping he’ll…

No. He can’t let himself think like that.

He stands up abruptly, crossing the room before he can talk himself out of it. The invitation is cool and smooth between his fingers. He flips it open again, scanning the details he already knows by heart. The date. The venue. Your name.

His chest tightens.

He shouldn’t go.

He shouldn’t put himself through this—shouldn’t sit in the crowd and watch you promise forever to someone else. Shouldn’t watch you smile at someone the way you used to smile at him.

But then his eyes drift back to the open box on the bed. To the life you built together, piece by fragile piece. To the promises you made when you were too young to know how easily promises could break.

And suddenly, the idea of staying away feels so much worse.

He closes his eyes and breathes. He thinks about the way you looked that first summer, standing by the lake with the sun painting gold into your hair. He thinks about the sound of your laugh in the dark, your hand warm in his as you made him pinky swear on dreams you both believed you had endless time to chase.

He thinks about your voice over the phone after his first big win, giddy and proud, as if the victory belonged to both of you.

He thinks about all the things he never said.

Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it always was. But if there’s one thing he owes you—if there’s one thing he’s sure of—it’s that he can’t let you go without showing up one last time.

Even if it breaks him.

He sets the invitation down and reaches for his phone. The screen glows in the dim light, and his finger hovers over his sister’s name.

He takes a breath and presses call.

“I need help finding something to wear,” he says when she picks up. His voice is rough, but steady. “I’m going to the wedding.”

Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something blue.

You’d chosen everything but your something blue.

The old necklace your fiancé had given you on your first anniversary, warm with memory and love. The new pair of shoes his mother had gifted you, delicate and perfect, still pristine in their box. A borrowed pair of earrings from your grandmother, their vintage shine whispering stories of the past. And…

You stare at your jewelry box. The golds and silvers and gems shimmer in the light, casting reflections that dance across your room—bright, elegant, easy choices. But your eyes settle on something far more understated. A slightly faded blue bracelet, its woven threads fraying just a little at the edges.

You hadn’t seen it in so long. You’d buried it deep in the box for a reason.

Because it hurt.

It hurt to see it and remember the boy who’d tied it around your wrist with a grin, so proud of the clumsy thing he’d made for you. It hurt to think of simpler times—of long summers at the villa, of lazy afternoons by the pool sketching him while he complained about the weird poses you made him do. Of midnight adventures on the roof, staring at the stars like you could reach out and touch them if you just wanted it badly enough.

You wanted to be an astronomer then. He’d wanted to race in Formula One.

Only one of you got what you wanted.

Your fingers brush against the bracelet, lifting it carefully as if it might crumble in your hands. The blue has faded a little over the years, but the knots are still tight—sturdy, despite everything. Despite time.

You wonder if he even remembers giving it to you.

You wonder if he kept the things you gave him, too. The pressed flowers, the sketches, the tiny trinkets you picked up from family trips because they reminded you of him.

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to push the memories back into their quiet corner. But they come rushing in anyway—the way they always do when you think of him. You remember the way his eyes lit up when you talked about the stars, the way his voice softened when he promised you’d always be friends. You remember the way he used to text you before his races, even when you were countries apart—how it felt like you were still right there beside him.

You remember the day he stopped.

The bracelet trembles between your fingers. You shouldn’t wear it. You know that. It doesn’t belong in this new life you’re building. It doesn’t belong in the future you’re about to step into, with a man who loves you and sees you.

A man who chose you. A man who you know will keep on choosing you.

But still, you hold it close to your heart. Because there’s a small part of you—one you never quite managed to silence—that never stopped wondering. Never stopped hoping.

And maybe, just maybe, wearing it will feel like keeping a piece of the past with you. Even if it stays hidden beneath the sleeve of your dress.

Just like the feelings that still linger.

You close your eyes, the bracelet pressed tightly to your chest, and let yourself remember the day he gave it to you.

“I got news the other day,” he’d said with a grin, his brows furrowed in concentration as he fiddled with tiny beads, his fingers struggling to string them together. The thread kept slipping, the beads kept rolling away, but he didn’t seem to care. “I think you’ll be proud of me.”

“I’m always proud of you,” you said, popping a blueberry into your mouth as you lounged on the picnic blanket you’d set up together. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting golden streaks across his face, and you watched him with a quiet kind of fondness you never quite managed to hide.

“This time it’s different. Better.”

You tilted your head, curiosity blooming in your chest.

“We got a call yesterday.” His smile broke wide and boyish—so full of joy that it was almost blinding. “They want me in Formula One.”

For a second, the words didn’t quite register. And then—

“Oh, Maxie!” You barely let him finish before you launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a tight, breathless hug. “I’m so happy for you! This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

You didn’t even think—didn’t hesitate—before pressing a quick, excited kiss to his cheek. It felt natural, instinctive, the kind of thing that happened when your heart was too full and there were no words big enough to hold your happiness for him.

But when you pulled back, both of you froze.

Your breath hitched. His eyes widened. And for one terrifying second, you thought maybe you’d ruined everything—that you’d crossed some invisible line you couldn’t step back from.

“I—” You opened your mouth, scrambling for an explanation, an apology—something to take the moment back before he decided he didn’t want to be near you anymore, before he decided you were too much, too—

He kissed your cheek.

It was light and quick—barely there—but it said everything you needed to hear.

The air shifted, the space between you suddenly too small and too charged, and he reached for your hand, his fingers warm and sure around yours. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, thick with everything you were too scared to say out loud.

With his free hand, he kept working on the bracelet, the tiny beads slipping but eventually falling into place. When he finally tied it around your wrist, the knots were clumsy but tight, and the beads—small and delicate—shimmered a pale, translucent blue. The color reminded you of his eyes.

“I’m going to be busy,” he said, his voice soft but certain. “But I will always make time for you. I promise.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and you saw the truth of it in his face. In the way his hand tightened around yours. In the way his eyes softened like you were the most important thing in the world.

“You’re…everything.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest.

“Everything?” you whispered.

“I’m not good with words,” he admitted, his voice rough and a little uncertain. But then his hands found your face—gentle and steady—and the way he held you felt like a vow. “But that’s what you are to me. I want to give you everything. Everything I can give.”

Your eyes burned, and you placed your hands over his. “You’re enough.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek before he pulled back to fiddle with the bracelet again. “I’ll get you a better one soon,” he promised. “So keep this safe until then.”

You looked down at the simple, imperfect thing wrapped around your wrist, your heart so full it ached.

“This will always be my favorite, though,” you said.

And you meant it.

You still mean it.

Even after all these years. Even when he broke every promise he gave to you. Even when he stopped choosing you. Even when you stopped being his everything.

Maybe that’s why you invited him. Because a selfish, mean part of you wants him to see how happy you are—wants him to sit there and watch you promise forever to someone else. Or maybe it’s because you want to see him—because you want to ask how he’s been, want to hear his voice again, want to look into his eyes one more time and see if they still soften when they land on you.

You wonder if they’re still as intense as you remember. If they still light up with that quiet warmth, that gentle steadiness that always made you feel safe. But you push those thoughts away because they don’t matter anymore.

You’re getting married soon.

You like your fiancé. You like your life now.

You’ve finally—finally—healed from him.

You don’t love him anymore. You don’t love him anymore. You don’t love him anymore.

…Right?

Max Verstappen is eighteen years old and high off of winning his first Formula One race when he kisses you for the first time.

A real kiss this time. Not the chaste pecks on the cheek he’d been giving you thus far. No, this time Max Verstappen had taken you to a private hallway at the Red Bull garage, cupped your face, and put his lips on yours.

Logically, he was sure it was just a few seconds. But when you kissed him back—soft and certain, like you’d been waiting for this just as long as he had—it felt like a forever that was finally in his reach. His heart pounded, not from the race this time, but from you. Always you.

Your lip gloss is slightly smudged when you pull away—strawberry-flavored, he realizes, as he runs his tongue over his lips. Your eyes are wide, your breaths deep, and he thinks, in that moment, that you are the most beautiful thing in the universe.

The universe—something he learned to love, to appreciate, because you loved it. Because you taught him the names of constellations on long summer nights, because you whispered stories about galaxies and planets as if they were fairy tales meant just for him.

Because you had learned to love and appreciate his world of racing, even when it took him away from you. Because, to him, you were like the stars—distant at times, maybe, but always there. Constant. Something that would never leave.

He exhales shakily, resting his forehead against your shoulder, letting himself sink into the warmth of you. “I always want you with me,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath, as if saying it too loudly might make it less true. “I love you.”

Your arms wrap around him, holding him tighter, anchoring him in place. Your voice is soft but certain, filled with all the things he’s been aching to hear.

“I love you too.”

Max Verstappen is nineteen when he has his first serious talk with your father. Joe has always been kind to him—always treated him like part of the family. Max liked that about him, how welcoming he was. But, most of all, he could relate to him when it came to you, when it came to loving you and cherishing you. He knew exactly what it felt like.

He remembers Joe being happy—ecstatic, even—when you’d told him the two of you were finally together.

“It’s about time!” Joe had laughed, giving Max a firm pat on the back. “I was wondering when you two were gonna realize it.”

Max remembered his cheeks flushing, his smile sheepish at the thought of everyone recognizing your feelings for each other long before the two of you had.

But the tone now was different. The mood was different.

They were sitting at a table by the pool, admiring the view, talking about life. Joe gave great advice and even better observations—kept everything real and blunt. It was something Max appreciated and realized you’d inherited as well.

“Max, my boy,” Joe let out a slow breath. “Please take care of her.”

Max looked at him. Really looked at him. And he saw something in Joe’s expression that wasn’t there before—a plea, a quiet desperation begging to be heard.

“She’s my baby girl.” Joe’s voice softened, but the weight of his words made Max’s chest ache.

“I’ll take care of her,” Max promised without hesitation.

“Can you?” Joe asked, his eyes steady and serious. He ran a hand through his graying hair. “You love her, Max. I can see that much. But sometimes that isn’t enough.”

“What do you—”

“I mean…” Joe interrupted gently, searching for the right words. “I mean that reaching your dreams at this age is an incredible feat. You worked hard, you took great care of your ambitions, and now you’re reaping the benefits. But, Max…what about the people left behind? What about Y/N who watches from the sidelines? How do you take care of her? How do you keep the balance?”

The air grew thick with tension, with questions Max didn’t know how to answer. The silence stretched between them.

“She’d never say anything,” Joe said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “She would never ask you to choose her over your life’s work.”

“But?” Max’s throat tightened.

“But you’re never there anymore.” Joe met his gaze, unflinching. “You rarely visit. You wait for her to come to you. You miss her events. Your phone calls are cut short. I’ve been told texting has gotten rarer. I—” Joe stopped himself, taking a long, steadying breath. “I want it to be you, Max. Because I know you. I know how much you love her. But I don’t want to keep asking the stars for you to just…be there for her.”

“I…” Max takes a breath, his voice quieter than before. “What do I do? I don’t know how to be better... how to make things better for her.”

Joe watches him for a long moment, his face soft with understanding. When he finally speaks, his words are gentle but steady. “That’s something you need to think about. I’m sure you’ll find a way. But Max… the question isn’t just how to make things better. It’s if you’re willing to.”

Max feels the weight of those words settle over him, heavy and suffocating. He wants to protest—to say, of course, he’s willing. But the truth sticks in his throat because there’s doubt creeping in, and he hates himself for it.

He just nods, even though his mind is spinning. He still doesn’t know what to do. But…he does wonder…does he even deserve you? Can he give you everything you want? Everything you deserve? He’s not sure anymore.

Max Verstappen is nineteen when he realizes he can no longer be enough for you.

“I think I want a summer wedding,” you tell him one day.

You’re lounging in his hotel room, binging on room service with the sound of a movie playing in the background. The sun’s setting outside, casting a warm, golden light over the room, and for a second, Max lets himself imagine it—imagine you in white, your hand in his, laughter in the air. He lets himself imagine the perfect proposal—at night, under the stars, or at a planetarium standing underneath the universe. He wonders what kind of ring you’d like, what kind of venues you’d look at, what kind of cake you’d choose.

The thought fills him with joy—it does. But there’s a certain tightness in his chest too, one he can’t quite explain.

“Summer’s nice,” he says, trying to keep his voice light.

“It is,” you agree, picking at the fries between you. “Warm, but not too warm. And the nights are perfect for stargazing.”

There it is again—stars. Your first love. The thing you’ve dreamed about since you were kids. And he wonders when the last time was that you even got to look at them. When the last time was that you weren’t stuck in a hotel room or an airport lounge, waiting for him.

“What about you?” you ask suddenly, eyes on him. “What kind of wedding do you want?”

He freezes. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about it—not because he doesn’t want it with you, he does—but because every day is a blur of circuits and races and media appearances. His life is fast-paced, and sometimes it feels like the only time he gets to slow down is when you’re there. But even then…even then, you’re always the one making time for him.

“I…” He hesitates, and the silence stretches just a little too long. Your smile falters, just a little.

“That’s okay,” you say softly, brushing it off like you always do. “We’ve got time.”

But do you? The question hangs heavy in his mind.

Later that night, when you’re asleep next to him, your hand resting against his chest, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what you see when you look at him. Does he still feel like your everything? Or is he just an anchor, keeping you tied to a life you never asked for?

He thinks about your father’s words. About the quiet way you always say, “It’s okay,” when plans fall through. About how the stars you used to love so much feel farther away than ever.

And for the first time, the thought crosses his mind: maybe loving you isn’t enough. Maybe the best thing he can do for you…is let you go.

Max Verstappen is nineteen when he loses you for good.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, your voice trembling as tears well up in your eyes. The words barely come out, strangled and thin, and the ache in your chest tightens when you see the way he looks at you—like you’re already slipping through his fingers. “What did I do, Max?”

You’d come to see him at a race, though you weren’t staying for the actual race, just qualifying. You had school after all. And now here you are, in his hotel room just hours before your flight home, feeling the ground crumble beneath you.

“You didn’t do anything,” he says, his voice low and strained, chest tight with the weight of what he’s about to do. “You were perfect.”

“So, why?” The word cracks in the middle, and you can’t stop the way your hands start to shake.

“Because I can’t give you what you need.” His voice rises just a little, frustration and heartbreak bleeding through. He looks away when he says it, like he can’t bear to meet your eyes.

“You don’t get to tell me what I need, Max.” The desperation creeps in, your breath catching on the words. “I just need you. That’s enough for me.”

“But it shouldn’t be!” The words burst out of him, his hand raking through his hair, his face contorted with anguish. “You need someone who’s there for you. Someone you can count on to celebrate you, to show up for you. You deserve someone who will at least do the bare minimum—call you back, text you—who remembers your birthday without it being a last-minute text or a bouquet of flowers arriving days late.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, his voice gathering momentum.

“You need someone who isn’t me. Because I can’t be that for you.” His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s like the floor drops out beneath you.

“I just need you, Maxie.” The nickname slips out, soft and broken, and the tears start falling before you can stop them. You scrub at your face, trying to hold yourself together. “You’re busy, I get it. But I can make time for us. I’ll call more, visit more. I’ll—”

“Baby.” The word is so gentle it breaks you further. He steps forward, his thumb brushing the tears from your cheeks. “That’s my point. You sacrifice yourself for this. And it’s not worth it.”

“It’s everything!” Your voice rises, sharp and pleading. “You’re everything! You said I was your everything!”

The sight of you like this—sobbing and shattered—makes him want to take it all back. Every single word.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why don’t you want me anymore?” Your voice wavers, heavy with heartbreak.

He still wants you. He’ll always want you. But wanting you isn’t enough when it keeps hurting you.

“You promised me, Maxie,” you whisper, your voice breaking under the weight of it. “You promised you’d make time. You promised you’d always be with me. You promised to stay.” The sob builds in your chest, raw and ragged. “So fucking stay.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. It’s all he can manage to say. It’s all he can think of saying.

In the silence that follows, you swallow your tears and move to grab your bags.

“Baby—”

“Don’t.” You glare at him, the fire in your eyes cutting through the pain. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.” You take a deep breath, turning to face him fully. Your face is flushed, and he can see the marks left by the tears. “When I walk out that door, we’re over. For good. No second chances. You don’t get to call me. You don’t get to text. If you see me on the street, you don’t have any fucking right to talk to me.”

He stands frozen, the weight of your words sinking in, but before he can even think of how to respond, you’re moving again—zipping up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“Don’t do this,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

But you don’t even look at him when you say it.

“You already did.”

The door closes behind you with a final, hollow click.

And as the silence of the empty room wraps around him, the regret comes fast and hard. It knocks the breath out of him, leaves his chest aching like he’s just been hit. He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and for the first time in a long time, Max Verstappen breaks.

He reaches for his phone before he even knows what he’s doing—his thumb hovering over your name. But he remembers your words, the sharp edge of them, and his hand falls away.

He’s made his choice.

And now he has to live with it.

Weddings are supposed to be the best day of your life, something special to cherish and keep in your heart. Weddings are also notorious for the stress they bring, for the storm that comes before the perfection of the day. You expected to crash out, to crumble under the weight of it all. But you didn’t. Instead, all you felt was… nothing. A hollow, quiet nothingness that settled deep inside your chest.

It was your wedding day. And you felt nothing.

You wanted to say that the sight of yourself in the mirror showed the image of a glowing woman, excited for her big day. And in some ways, it did. Your make-up was flawless, the dress fit perfectly, the accessories were dainty and meaningful. Every decision you’d carefully made and poured over in the year you’d spent planning this event had come together exactly how you wanted it.

So why did everything feel so empty? Why did you look so… distant? So detached?

The woman in the mirror looked like you, but there was something missing. The spark. The light you used to have when you dreamed of days like this. You tilted your head, studying the reflection—searching for something, anything—but you came up empty. And the longer you stared, the tighter your throat felt, the harder it was to breathe.

A soft knock on the door pulls you from your spiraling thoughts.

“Wow,” a familiar voice says, warm and full of love. Your father peeks his head inside, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. “I know we chose the dress together, but seeing it in this setting makes it even more wonderful.” He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “You look beautiful, my darling.”

You smile—or at least, you try to. “Thanks, Dad.”

He takes a slow step closer, his eyes softening as they take you in. “I can’t believe my little girl is already getting married,” he says, his voice quiet and nostalgic. “Are you ready?”

You force another smile, one you’d perfected over the years of pretending that things were fine, that you were fine, that nothing bothered you. “Almost. Just need a moment.”

But your father knows you too well. He always has. His head tilts, his brows knit together as he studies you—just like he always did when something was off. “Is everything alright?”

You want to say yes, to brush it off and blame the nerves, the pressure, the overwhelming nature of the day. But the words won’t come. They stay stuck in your throat, heavy and unspoken, because you know the truth.

And the truth is scarier than any storm.

“I just…”

There’s so much you want to say. So much you want to admit—not just to him, but to yourself. But the truths you ache to speak sit heavy in your chest, tangled up with fear and doubt, and you’re not sure you’re ready to set them free.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his voice warm and steady, “Whatever you decide, I’m with you. If you aren’t sure—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupt, but your voice wavers, cracking under the weight of the lie. “I like what we’ve built together.”

And you do. You really do. You’ve enjoyed the life you’ve created with Vincent—your fiancé, your safe place. He’s kind and patient, steady in a way you’d once thought you needed after Max broke your heart in a way you still haven’t fully recovered from. Vincent has been yours, wholly and without hesitation. And you’ve tried to be his.

But when you think of forever…

The ache in your chest flares, and your fingers brush against the faded blue bracelet hidden beneath the delicate lace sleeve of your dress. It was reckless, sentimental—stupid, even—to wear it today. But when you’d reached for your “something blue,” nothing else had felt right. Nothing else had felt like…him.

Your heart twists, the ache deepening.

“Talk to me, hun,” your father urges, his voice gentle as he guides you to the couch in your changing area. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper, your eyes glassy with unshed tears, “But I know I have to.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I need to stop not seeing things through,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “For once in my life, I need to finish something I start. I need to prove I can.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know that’s not always true.” His hand finds yours, warm and familiar, and he brushes away a tear that’s slipped free. “You don’t have to torture yourself for the sake of accomplishing something.”

“But I’ve let so many things slip away,” you confess, the words pouring out before you can stop them. “I wanted to be an astronomer—remember that? I worked so hard, I was on that path, and then I just…let it go.”

“And look at what you’ve made for yourself,” he counters gently, his smile soft and proud. “You’re a corporate force to be reckoned with. It may not be what you always expected, but you’ve built a life of success and grace. That’s not a failure at all.”

He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “We need to let go of things that hurt us, things that give us pain.” He takes your hand in his. “If we can do that, then we’re free. Then we can heal. Be happy. Love without fear. That’s what we all deserve, bub.”

You just nod. It feels like you’ll start bawling if you say anything. So you don’t, choosing to bask in the comforting silence instead. But he understands. Your dad always did. He always knew how to sit with your silence without trying to fix it, without pushing you to speak before you were ready. And for that, you were grateful.

“Is he here?” you ask after a moment, your voice soft, barely above a whisper.

“He’s here.” He nods, knowing exactly who you’re talking about.

The air shifts, heavier now, pressing down on you with the weight of things unsaid and years you could never quite get back. You take a deep breath, trying to ignore the way your heart races, how your palms grow damp, how your throat dries up. You shouldn’t want him here. But you do. God help you, you do.

“Do you want to see him?”

“I—” The word sticks in your throat as your mind spins. You think about what’s waiting for you outside—the vows, the promises, the life you’ve built with someone steady and kind. But then there’s him. Somewhere in the crowd, a ghost you’ve never quite been able to shake, a part of you that still aches in his absence. He taught you how to fall, and how to break into pieces. And now he’s here. At your wedding. And you don’t know what to make of it.

But you want to figure it out.

“Can you… Can you bring him here?”

Your dad studies you for a beat, the corners of his eyes softening. “You really wanna see him?”

“It’s time to let go, dad.”

He nods slowly, squeezing your hand. “Alright, bub. I’ll go get him.”

Max Verstappen is twenty-seven when he sees you again.

He arrives at the venue with his family, his mom and dad reuniting for the event, awkward as it is. His sister brings her husband, the two of them playing middleman for the parents. They find seats somewhere in the middle, though Max opts for one near the exit. Just in case everything gets to be too much to handle.

The air is thick with celebration, but it feels suffocating to him. Every smile, every laugh, every perfectly placed decoration makes his stomach twist. He shouldn’t be here. But he couldn’t stay away either. Not when it was you.

He sits quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself. The familiar ache he thought he’d buried long ago starts to creep back in. He can hear the hum of conversation around him, the soft music floating through the space, but it all feels distant—like he’s watching the world through glass.

“Max?”

The voice startles him, familiar and warm, and when he looks up, Joe is standing there. He looks just as Max remembers him—steady and kind, smiling gently, like he was still part of the family even after everything. Like Max hadn’t broken his daughter despite Joe’s words of caution all those years ago.

Max stands quickly, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. He feels suddenly unsteady, like the ground beneath him is shifting.

Joe studies him for a long moment, and Max braces himself, half-expecting him to tell him to leave—to save them all the trouble. To spare you from whatever pain his presence might stir. But instead, Joe reaches out and pats Max on the shoulder. Firm and determined.

“She wants to see you,” he says, his voice gentle but his eyes filled with something Max can’t quite place. Hope, maybe. Or worry. Or both.

Max freezes, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“She asked for you,” Joe repeats, his voice soft but sure. “Do you…do you want to see her?”

Every instinct in his body screams yes. But fear—sharp and cold—holds him still. “I…I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Joe says, watching him, patient and knowing, “But she asked for you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He nods, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “Okay.”

Joe gestures for him to follow, and Max’s legs feel unsteady as they walk through the venue. Every step brings him closer to you, and with each one, the memories flood back—the laughter, the fights, the promises, the love. The heartbreak. The feel of your hand in his. The sound of your voice calling his name.

By the time they stop in front of a door, his palms are damp, his heart racing.

Joe turns to him, his voice soft and steady. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in there,” he says, “But whatever it is—just know that everything will fall into place.”

Max nods, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

Joe knocks gently on the door, his voice warm and calm. “Bub? He’s here.”

The door opens slowly, and Joe gives him a reassuring pat on the back before stepping away, leaving Max standing there with his heart in his throat. The soft click of the door shutting behind him feels deafening, and then—

There you are.

There’s a familiarity in the way the sight of you knocks the air out of his lungs—a feeling he hadn’t realized he missed until this very moment. You stand there in your wedding dress, the delicate lace brushing against your skin, embroidered flowers cascading down the train like something out of a dream. The soft glow of the room casts a gentle light on you, making you look ethereal.

But there are changes, too—subtle, quiet things that hit him just as hard. The tiredness around your eyes, the way your shoulders hold a weight they never used to, the reserved grace in the way you carry yourself. And yet, despite all of it, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Just as beautiful as the day he lost you.

And the vulnerability of standing here, of seeing you like this when you’re about to belong to someone else—it hurts. It hurts in a way he isn’t sure he’ll ever recover from.

“Hi,” you say, your voice soft and tentative. It’s the first word you’ve said to him in years.

“Hey,” he manages, his voice rougher than he means for it to be.

And then there’s silence. The kind of silence that isn’t empty—it's heavy and full of everything unsaid, everything they’ve both carried for so long. The weight of it settles between them, and neither one seems to know how to break it.

He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and maybe you look at him the same way—like you’re seeing a ghost. But neither of you moves, and the silence stretches on, thick and aching.

“You look beautiful,” he says after a beat.

You smile and turn slightly—as much as you can with a heavy dress anyway. “You think so?”

“I mean, you’re right in front of me.” He smiles, taking a tentative step forward. “I only said what I saw.”

Your eyes soften, but there’s a guardedness there too. You let the silence stretch between you, the weight of unspoken things filling the space. “Thanks for coming,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter.

His breath hitches. “You sent me the invite.” He looks you in the eyes for the first time in years. “Why?”

You break the contact and stare at the ground, the lace of your dress brushing against the floor. “I don’t know,” you whisper. But that’s not entirely true. You know why—you just aren’t sure you’re ready to say it.

Max watches you, the way your fingers twist together, the way your shoulders tense like you’re holding something back. And he can’t help himself.

“Is it because you wanted me to see this?” he asks, his voice soft but steady. “To see how happy you are without me?”

You blink up at him, startled. “No. That’s…that’s not just it.”

“Then what is it?” he presses, his voice low and urgent as he takes a step closer. The space between you feels too small, too charged. “Because I know why I’m here. We both know why I’m here.”

“Don’t,” your voice shakes, and it’s barely above a whisper. “Don’t say anything else.”

But he can’t stop. He never could when it came to you.

“Y/N, tell me I’m not wrong. Tell me you want me here. Tell me you miss me too. Despite everything. Despite how I hurt you.” His voice trembles, the pleas spilling out faster than he can contain them. “Y/N, all you need to do is say the word and—”

“I never pushed through with astronomy,” you interrupt, your words sudden and sharp.

He freezes, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

“I switched majors. Went into corporate after graduation.” Your voice is calmer now, but there’s a weight behind every word, like they’re stones sinking to the bottom of your chest. “I wasn’t like you…I never became what I wanted to be.”

You take a step closer, your eyes never leaving his. “It wasn’t fun anymore. After what happened. I had no one to talk about it to. No one to watch the stars with. They didn’t seem as beautiful anymore.”

He inhales sharply, and the sound feels like a knife twisting in the air between you. God, he ruined it all for you.

“So, I wanted you to hurt,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I wanted to make you see me happy without you. You deserve that much.”

And he does. He knows he does.

“I needed you, Max.” The words come out raw, almost broken. “All I ever needed was you. And you left. You left after you promised me you wouldn’t, after you promised to give me all you could. You left after you made me fall in love with you!”

Tears stream down your face, and before you can pull away, his hands reach for you—gentle and familiar—as his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks. He’s careful, so careful, like touching you too harshly might shatter you completely. And God, he hates that he caused this. Hates that even now, he’s still making you cry.

“You know what the worst part is?” your voice cracks.

He shakes his head, his throat too tight to speak.

“You ruined me for everyone else.” You let out a bitter, broken laugh. “You left after you made sure I could never feel the same kind of love for anyone else. And now I’m here marrying someone who makes me feel absolutely nothing.”

“Why then?” The word comes out like a breath, like he already knows the answer but can’t bring himself to accept it. “Why do this? Why marry him?”

“Because he’s nice. Safe.”

“That’s it?” Max’s voice rises, his frustration breaking through the surface. “You’re marrying him because he’s nice?”

“He chose me, Max.”

“Y/N, I could do that too!” The words are loud and desperate and aching.

“But you didn’t!” You pull away from him, and the loss of your warmth feels immediate and brutal. “That’s the point, Max, you didn’t!”

Your voice breaks, and you bring your hands to your head like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “And I’m so, so tired of not being someone’s first choice. My mom left, my dad had work, you chose your career. And, God, I just want to be someone’s first.”

Max takes a step closer, his voice soft but urgent, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you. “I wasn’t good enough for you, Y/N. I didn’t deserve you anymore. Not after I kept on hurting you.”

His fingers brush against yours before he takes your hand fully, his grip warm and familiar. “I was afraid that you’d wake up one day and realize that you wanted someone better than me, someone who could actually be around. I didn’t want it to be too late for you. I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You never held me back. I never needed anyone better,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the emotion that’s been building since the moment you saw him again. “I only ever wanted you.”

The weight of your words settles over him, and his thumb moves in soft circles over your knuckles. The touch is tentative, careful—like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You never do.

And then his eyes catch something. A sliver of color peeking out from beneath the delicate lace of your sleeve. His breath catches as he lifts your wrist, his fingers brushing against the worn, faded blue of a familiar bracelet.

“You kept this?” His voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes locked onto the reminder of a love he thought he’d lost.

“I kept everything.” Your voice is soft, but there’s a quiet kind of fierceness in it. A truth you’ve never let go of.

A beat. “So did I.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Every drawing, every bookmark, every bracelet. I still have it all.”

The room feels smaller, the space between you shrinking with every second. He inches closer, his breath warm against your skin.

“Max,” you breathe, and there’s a tremble in your voice—a plea, a warning, a hope.

“I miss you,” he admits, his voice breaking. “I miss you every day. Every single day since I made you leave.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, soft and reverent. “If I could go back, I would. I’d fix every mistake I made. I’d risk every championship just to have you again.”

His hand moves to your face, cupping your cheek with the gentleness of someone terrified of breaking what’s already so fragile. His thumb grazes your skin, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“I can’t go back,” he says, his voice rough with regret. “But I can tell you I miss you. And that I still want you. And I never stopped lov—”

“Max, please.” You rest your forehead against his shoulder, your body trembling. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. Don’t say it unless you’ll stay. I don’t think I can handle you leaving a second time. So, please.”

“Y/N.” He tilts your chin up, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you want to tell me. And I’ll tell you what I want to say. No regrets for either of us.”

Your breath shudders, and your eyes dart away before finally settling on his. “You hurt me, Max.”

“I did.” His voice is steady, but there’s a crack in it, the guilt bleeding through.

“I didn’t need perfect. I wanted you. I wanted us. And you walked away. You took that away from me.”

“I know,” he whispers, his forehead pressing softly against yours. “I’m so sorry.”

“And now I don’t know what to do.” Your voice breaks again, and the tears spill over once more.

He presses a kiss to your cheek—soft, tender, full of all the things he never got to say. “I love you,” he breathes against your skin, the words a gentle confession. “I love you.” Another kiss, this time to your forehead. “I never stopped loving you. I don’t think I can.”

“Max…” Your voice shakes, and there’s fear and hope and longing all wrapped into his name.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t marry him. Come with me.”

Your heart pounds so hard it hurts, but for the first time in a long, long time—you feel something.

“Where do we go, Maxie?”

“Anywhere you want.”

Hope.

EPILOGUE

Max Verstappen is twenty-nine when the two of you elope.

It’s nothing extravagant—just the two of you, a quiet courthouse, and rings that fit just right. You wear a simple white dress, the fabric light and flowing around you like a second skin, and he’s in a crisp button-down and slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at the easy intimacy of the day. And yet, despite the simplicity, it feels like the most perfect thing in the world. Because the only thing that matters is the way he looks at you when he says his vows—like you’re his whole world. Like you always have been.

The words come softly but with certainty, and his hands tremble just slightly as he slides the ring onto your finger. You squeeze his hand in reassurance, and the emotion in his eyes nearly undoes you. You exchange quiet promises and soft kisses, and when it’s done, when the judge finally pronounces you husband and wife, Max doesn’t hesitate. He lifts you off your feet and spins you around, his laughter ringing out into the afternoon air, joyful and unrestrained. And for the first time in a long time, you feel weightless.

The photographer you hired captures it all—the laughter, the stolen glances, the way his hands never stray far from yours. Outside the courthouse, the two of you pose in front of the steps, your head resting on his shoulder and his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Each photo feels alive, like a memory in the making, every smile a testament to the love you fought so hard to find your way back to.

Max is thirty when you tell him he’s going to be a father.

You hadn’t planned it—not now, not yet. But when the two little lines appear on the test, you can’t stop the tears from falling. You sit there on the cold bathroom floor, the weight of the moment pressing down on you until you can hardly breathe. It’s fear and joy and disbelief all tangled up inside you, and you don’t know how to move, how to think—how to tell him.

You wait until late that evening, when the two of you are curled up on the couch, the soft hum of the TV filling the room with a comfortable stillness. Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. Your hands tremble as you reach for the tiny pair of baby shoes you bought that afternoon—the only thing you could think to get, a physical thing to make this real.

“Max,” you whisper, your voice uncertain. He turns to you, his brows knitting together when he sees the tears in your eyes. “I have something for you.”

You hold out the little shoes, and for a moment, he just stares at them. His eyes go wide, his breath catches—and then the realization dawns. “Are you—?” His voice breaks, and when you nod, his face lights up with a joy so pure it steals your breath away.

He’s holding you before you know it, his arms wrapping around you tight, his laughter soft and disbelieving. “We’re having a baby,” he whispers against your hair, the words thick with emotion. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “We’re having a baby.”

You nod, tears falling, and he kisses you—again and again—like he can’t get enough of this moment, like he’s afraid it’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. “I love you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you so much. And I love them already. So much.”

And just like that, the fear fades. Because you know—no matter what comes next, he’ll be right by your side facing it with you.

Max is thirty-one when he tells you he’s retiring from Formula One.

It’s after the baby’s born, when he’s holding your daughter in his arms, her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his. There’s a softness in his eyes, a peace you hadn’t seen in him before—like the weight he’d been carrying for years had finally been set down.

You’re standing next to him on the terrace, the cool night air brushing against your skin, as he rocks your baby to sleep. His voice is low and soothing as he tells her about the stars above, pointing out constellations and weaving stories about the shapes they form.

He tells her about Andromeda and Orion, about how the light she sees traveled for thousands of years just to reach her eyes. He promises her that one day, when she’s older, he’ll take her to watch the stars properly. That they’ll lie on a blanket in the grass and map out the night sky together.

You just hug him from behind and bask in his scent, appreciating the calm and quiet the night brings—the three of you under an endless expanse of stars. The same stars that you used to watch together all those summers ago at the villa wishing for something you never thought you’d ever have.

“I’m done,” he says quietly after a moment.

You blink at him. “What?”

“I’m retiring,” he repeats, his voice steady. “I want to be here. For you. For her. I missed too much before. I don’t want to miss a second more.”

The words take a moment to settle, and your heart twists—not with fear, but with love, with gratitude for the man who once walked away and now refuses to leave.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” you say, your voice soft. “You’re still at the peak of your career and—”

“You didn’t regret it, did you?” he asks gently, his eyes finding yours. “Leaving with me that day?”

You move closer, placing a hand on his arm. “I would never.”

“I won’t regret this either.”

And just like that, the ache you didn’t even realize you were still carrying eases. Because he’s here. He stayed. He chose you. And every day since, he’s kept choosing you.

Above you, the stars twinkle—bright and infinite, like they’re bearing witness to the life you’ve built, to the love you’ve found again.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing a kiss against his temple.

He smiles, looking down at the life you made together. “I love you more.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fic #max verstappen #mv1 #mv33 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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auroralwriting · 1 month ago

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𝓊𝓈.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: does he regret the secret of you?

warnings: no warnings for this story

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

gracie abrams songfic challenge

You meet Finnick by the shore, always.

The sun's barely peeking over the horizon, the waves hush against the sand, and the air still smells like salt and promise. It’s early enough that the rest of the district is asleep or pretending to be, which gives you these precious minutes alone, just you and Finnick. Just the two of you, before the world wakes up and remembers who he is.

You’re sitting on the rocks, legs pulled up to your chest, when he comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. A comforting feeling, something you only trusted him to do.

“You’re late,” you tease.

“I brought breakfast.” He holds up a paper bag with two flaky pastries, slightly squished from his run over. “Peace offering?”

You turn your head slightly so your nose brushes his. “Depends. Did you get the sweet one?”

He kisses your cheek. “Always.”

You take the bag and tug him down beside you. The world is still golden and quiet and yours.

Everyone in the district knows Finnick Odair. Of course they do. He’s the Capitol’s golden boy, the youngest victor in history, a name whispered with awe and fear and a tinge of envy. But you know him differently. You know him when he’s not trying to be charming, when he forgets the way he’s supposed to carry himself like a weapon. You know him when he’s barefoot and laughing, when he cries in your arms, when he dreams out loud about a future that might never come. When you’re swimming in the sea and running barefoot down the stony pathways of four.

And somehow, against all odds, you’re his. In secret. Not because you’re ashamed. Because it’s safer that way.

If the Capitol knew—if Snow knew—he would destroy you just to remind Finnick who he belonged to. So instead, your love lives in the spaces between. Glances across the square. Notes tucked into fishing nets. A second pair of footsteps behind the cliffs. And mornings like this one, where time bends just enough to make room for you both.

“You’re staring,” Finnick says, and when you look over, he’s grinning at you with one brow raised.

“Can’t help it,” you say, leaning into him. “You’re prettier in the morning light.”

He laughs, the sound warm and real. “You’re the only person alive who says that to me like it means something.”

You thread your fingers through his, fitting together with practiced ease. “That’s ‘cause when I say it, it does.”

The waves crash louder, a seagull swoops above, and Finnick watches you like you’re the only constant in a life full of chaos. “You ever think about running away?” he asks quietly, like he’s not supposed to even speak the thought out loud.

“All the time,” you reply. “But I don’t think we’d make it past the district border.”

He nods. “I know. I just… I think about it more now. About you and me and a little boat and no one knowing our names.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “I like the sound of that.”

He turns to face you, suddenly serious. “If I ever get the chance to go, I’ll take it. And I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he says. “I don’t want this life forever. I don’t want to keep pretending. I want us.”

Your heart pounds so loud you’re scared he’ll hear it. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “Then I’ll wait for you. I’ll always wait.”

The months go by like pages turning too fast.

Your love is all little things. Late-night walks on the pier. Pressed flowers in your pockets. Hidden kisses behind nets and market stalls. He braids tiny shells into your hair and says you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and you tell him he talks too much, but you kiss him like you believe it.

And then.. everything changed.

When they announced the Quarter Quell, your heart dropped before his name was even drawn. You knew. You knew Snow would never let him go. Not after all he’d endured. Not when Finnick’s smile was still the Capitol’s favorite currency.

You had braced yourself for goodbye. But instead, miraculously, inexplicably, they came for you. District 13.

President Coin said it was for your safety. Someone had told them of Finnick Odair's secret lover and how he needed her--you. But you weren’t stupid. You knew the truth: it was to keep him tethered. To keep him sane. To remind him what he was still fighting for.

Finnick didn’t know you’d been brought to District 13, not at first. You were underground, in hiding, protected and silenced and surrounded by strangers in gray. But when he stumbled out of the hovercraft after being rescued from the arena, bleeding and trembling and half-alive, they let him see you.

They didn’t expect him to fall to his knees when he did.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you were a ghost, hands trembling as they hovered inches from your face. Like he was scared you’d disappear again. That he’d imagined you like he had so many nights in the Capitol, when loneliness felt like it would kill him before Snow ever could.

You took his hands and pressed them to your cheeks, kneeling in front of him slowly, like he was some wounded animal. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here.”

He sobbed into your neck. And from that moment on, you didn’t hide anymore.

In District 13, you sleep in the same bed. It’s not like before, no ocean breeze or tangled nets or kisses by moonlight, but it’s real. It’s a borrowed bunk in a metal room, and still, somehow, it feels like a palace. Because it’s yours. Because he’s yours.

He wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. You don’t ask what he’s dreaming of. You already know. So you curl around him, press your lips to the side of his neck, and hold him until his shaking stops.

He always says the same thing: “You’re my only safe place.”

Sometimes, he says it with tears still drying on his cheeks. Sometimes, it’s whispered against your shoulder like a prayer. And you believe him. Because you feel the same way.

In District 13, people glance sideways at you in the beginning. You don’t care. Let them stare. Let them wonder if you’re scared out of your minds. Let them wonder who had possibly caught Finnick Odair's attention. It didn't matter, because it was finally real to you.

But there’s nothing fake about the way Finnick pulls you into him during the middle of strategy meetings, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s bored out of his mind but perfectly content as long as you’re there. There’s nothing fabricated about the way he holds your hand in the cafeteria line, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You could be grabbing bread and water and he’s still brushing his thumb over your knuckles like you’re made of something divine.

You catch people smiling sometimes. Not the cold, calculating kind. The soft kind. The kind that says: oh, this is real.

He kisses you in the hallways. He steals kisses like he used to, quick and sly, like you’re both teenagers again, but now it’s in full view. You’ll be talking to Gale or Katniss, and Finnick will just walk by, press a kiss to the side of your mouth like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and keep walking like it didn’t leave you flushed and dazed.

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him once, when he does it in front of a crowded room.

“You love it,” he grins, hands already slipping around your waist.

“I do,” you admit, letting him press his forehead to yours. “God help me.”

He kisses you like the world has already been saved.

When the war ends, and the world opens back up, Finnick refuses to go anywhere without you. It’s not a protective thing, it’s a need thing. A love thing.

You rebuild a life together near the coast, in a village that smells like freedom. You sleep tangled up like driftwood, limbs always brushing. You wake up to his lips on your cheek, his voice murmuring some half-sung melody he’s writing in his head. And when you leave the house, together, always together, people don’t bat an eye when he threads your fingers together like it's second nature.

Because it is.

You go to markets and he picks out your favorite fruit without asking. You read on the beach and he lies with his head in your lap, humming under his breath. You take walks along the shoreline, and he insists on skipping rocks even though he’s absolutely terrible at it. He’ll pretend to pout until you kiss him. It works every time.

He kisses you so often it becomes a rhythm. A punctuation. A language.

And he loves being yours publicly. After years of being forced to wear a mask in the Capitol, after years of fake smiles and someone else’s hands, you are his truth. You are the thing he never had to fake.

He tells people stories about you, often unsolicited.

“She makes the best tea,” he says to a wide-eyed kid in town. “Once she brewed a cup that knocked me out for eight hours straight. Slept like a baby. Woke up drooling on her shoulder.”

He grins at you like you hung the stars.

You roll your eyes. “It was chamomile, Finnick.”

He shrugs. “Magic.”

Sometimes you find yourselves just watching each other.

You’ll glance across the room and find his eyes already on you. Like he’s always checking, just to make sure this is still real. You’re sitting on the dock one evening, feet in the water, his arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders.

“Remember how we used to hide behind that net stall?” he murmurs, pointing down the shoreline.

You smile. “We got caught so many times.”

He laughs, tipping his head back. “That one time your braid got tangled in the ropes—”

“—and you tried to play it off like we were just admiring the craftsmanship.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offended. “It was a fine net.”

You laugh until your sides hurt. And then you lean into him, quiet, hearts beating in sync. “We don’t have to hide anymore,” you say softly.

He kisses the side of your head. “We never will again.”

“Do you regret it? The secret of us?” You asked.

Finnick shook his head, “I never regret any of our moments together.”

You’re the kind of couple people talk about in stories now. Not because of the war. Not because of the Capitol. But because of how good your love is. How whole. How loud and soft and lasting. They see the way Finnick looks at you like you’re his whole world. The way he tucks flowers behind your ear and doesn’t care who’s watching. The way you press kisses to the corner of his mouth every time you say goodbye—even if it’s only for a five-minute errand.

They say love in Panem never lasts. But you and Finnick? You’re the exception. You’re always touching. Always close. Always choosing each other. Not just in secret. Not just in private. But in every room. Every day. Every lifetime you’re lucky enough to share. And gods, are you lucky.

#auroral writing #auroralwriting #finnick fanfic #finnick odair #hunger games finnick #thg finnick #finnick oneshot #finnick odair x you #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #sam claflin x reader #sam claflin fanfiction #sam claflin #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games fanfiction

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firelxdykatara · 4 months ago

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The thing that always hits me about season 5 is like... Buffy is just so fucking tired.

It comes on gradually, and of course season 6 is widely known for Buffy's depression arc, but the seeds are well and truly planted in the season before it because I think season 5 is when it truly starts to hit her that... she was never supposed to live this long.

Because throughout history, Slayers have been incredibly short-lived. They make it to adulthood if they're very lucky, and at the age of 23 Buffy is officially the longest-lived Slayer in history. At 20, she had already well surpassed the average, and she's really starting to feel it. It's no coincidence that this is the season when she starts giving up on the life of the normal girl she'd been so doggedly clinging to, refusing to give up just because she's the Slayer, since season 1. She drops out of college, her mom dies, Riley leaves (and she didn't even love him but he was something normal and good and she couldn't help but cling to him even when she knew she shouldn't and no thanks to Xander's terrible fucking advice but ANYWAY), she has nothing but being the Slayer and taking care of her sister--who isn't truly her sister but finding that out doesn't matter because she is in all the ways that count.

And she's tired. Because she's just one girl, one woman, with the weight of the world on her shoulders--and every other Slayer in history was eventually crushed by it, killed by the very darkness they were destined to fight (and die fighting), most of them never even making it this far. So she's standing there, hearing Dawn tell her that she has to let her go, to let her sacrifice herself to save the world because it's what she was created for, it's the only way- and she remembers.

Death is your gift.

And on the face of it, yeah, her death is the gift she gives to her sister to ensure she lives, and to her friends and the world to ensure they are not consumed. But also? Death is her gift. And it's not just realization dawning on her face in the rising sun--it's relief.

Because finally, finally, she can just let go.

She doesn't have to fight anymore. She doesn't have to suffer, or lose anyone else, or lose more pieces of herself. She can just stop. She can just rest.

Because the universe calls for one single champion, one teenage girl in all the world to fight all the powers of darkness and evil. And at the end of it all, the world offers her nothing in return except this--true and final peace. Death is her gift, and she rushes to meet it and she thinks finally, finally, she can just stop fighting. Stop everything. The world will be ok without her, there's always someone else to take up the mantle. She doesn't have to be the one everyone else is counting on. And she's so exhausted and so ready.

And then she wakes up in her own coffin. And all that suffering she thought she'd finally been allowed to escape crashes down on her a hundred fold, and of course she would stagger under its weight. But I think deep down some part of her blamed herself even for that. Because she'd been so ready to give up, stop fighting, end her own torment and then... her friends needed her back so badly that they ripped her from the only sliver of true peace she'd known since her Calling, and how could she say they were wrong for it when she feels so very wrong to her core for being so ready to let go in the first place?

Idk where I'm going with this, just feeling a lot of emotions about Buffy Fucking Summers today I guess.

#buffy summers #btvs #btvs s5 #buffy meta #long post

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strawberry-bubblef · 2 months ago

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Hi,

I got this fun idea for a twst request and I was hoping you could fulfill it (You don't have to if you don't want to)

Idk how many characters your limit is, but i was wondering if you could write for the overblot boys with a reader who knew the great seven? (Whether it be, the reader is immortal and helped them with their schemes or if you decide something else)

And if it's not too complicated, could they all be platonic except for Idia? (If that's too much, you can make it just Idia or make them all platonic, I don't wanna seem too demanding)

OB with a reader who knows the great seven

Synopsis: You have lived through centuries, once an ally, confidant, and accomplice to the Great Seven in their rise to power. Time has left you a relic of an era long past,until you awaken in Night Raven College, where the shadows of history stir once more.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle Rosehearts had always admired the Queen of Hearts. Her laws, her discipline, her unwavering authority,all things he strove to embody. He had read every record available, memorized every rule, and dedicated himself to upholding her legacy. But you? You had known her.

It was something that left him utterly speechless when he first learned the truth.

You were an enigma wrapped in the guise of an ordinary student at Night Raven College, but in reality, you had walked through history, stood beside the Great Seven, and witnessed their reigns firsthand. To someone like Riddle, who built his entire life around the teachings of one of them, your very existence was nothing short of astonishing.

His first instinct was skepticism. Surely, you were exaggerating or simply playing a joke on him. But then, you spoke.

"The Queen of Hearts had a habit of twirling her scepter when she was deep in thought," you mused one day, as the two of you studied in the Heartslabyul garden. "She used to hum a certain melody under her breath when she was pleased with something, though I doubt any record of that survived."

Riddle nearly knocked over his teacup. "That… that can't be,how could you possibly know that?"

You gave him a knowing smile, one that sent a shiver down his spine. "Because I was there."

The weight of that realization crashed down on him like a tidal wave. You weren’t lying. You weren’t mistaken. You had seen the Queen of Hearts with your own eyes, heard her voice, stood in her court.

For the first time in his life, Riddle was at a loss for words.

From that moment on, his fascination with you only grew. He wanted to know everything,what the Queen was like beyond the strict laws and formal depictions, what kind of ruler she had been when she wasn't delivering orders.

"Did she ever smile?" he asked hesitantly one evening, his voice quieter than usual.

You chuckled. "Of course she did. She wasn’t just a ruler,she was a person, Riddle. No one is defined solely by their laws."

That sentiment struck something deep within him. He had spent so long striving for perfection, for absolute adherence to the rules, that he had never stopped to consider the person behind them. But you… you had seen the Queen as a living being, not just a figure in history.

It changed something in him.

Your bond deepened over time, shifting from awe to companionship. Riddle found himself more at ease in your presence than he was with most people. He still respected you immensely, of course,how could he not? But there was something else, something softer.

He valued your opinions, sought your guidance. When he struggled with doubt, he turned to you.

And one day, as you walked together beneath the rose-covered arches of Heartslabyul, he hesitated before speaking.

"Would you say that… you were proud of her?" he asked carefully. "The Queen of Hearts?"

You considered his words for a long moment. "She had her faults, just like anyone else. But she was strong, determined, and she left behind a legacy that shaped the world. Yes, I think I was proud of her."

Riddle exhaled, something in his chest loosening at your words.

"And you?" you asked, tilting your head curiously. "Do you think she'd be proud of you?"

His breath caught in his throat. He had spent years chasing an ideal, trying to be the perfect Heartslabyul student, the perfect rule enforcer. But would the Queen of Hearts herself have approved of him?

He looked at you, and for once, he didn’t feel the pressure to be perfect.

"I… I hope so," he admitted.

You smiled, and it was warm, reassuring. "I think she would be."

And for the first time in a long while, Riddle allowed himself to believe it.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona had always admired the King of Beasts. It was a well-known fact. The stories of his strength, his cunning, his ability to take what he wanted with no hesitation,all of it resonated with him. He knew them by heart, had grown up with them as a source of inspiration and, in some ways, justification. After all, if the greatest ruler in history had operated by his own rules, why shouldn’t he?

So when he first heard about you,the acolyte of the Great Seven, the one who had actually stood beside the legends themselves,he had his doubts. He wasn’t the type to fawn over old figures, no matter how influential they were. But there was no denying that you carried a presence, a confidence that made it clear you hadn’t just studied history,you had lived it.

And the fact that you had worked alongside the King of Beasts himself? Well. That was something worth paying attention to.

He never asked you about it outright, at least not at first. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. Leona wasn’t one to pry, and he wasn’t about to beg for details like some starry-eyed cub. But when you did speak about it,offhanded comments, casual recollections,he listened. More than that, he committed every word to memory.

“You sound just like him sometimes,” you mused one evening, after Leona had dismissed someone’s attempt to bother him with a single, sharp look.

Leona snorted. “What, ‘cause I don’t have time for nonsense?”

“That, and because you think ahead,” you replied. “Most people assume he was all brawn, but he knew how to plan, how to manipulate the battlefield before the fight even started. He saw the bigger picture.”

Leona’s ears twitched. That wasn’t something most people focused on. The stories always talked about the raw power, the victories, the intimidation. But strategy? That was something only someone who had been there would know to appreciate.

“You’re kinda good at it you know?”

Leona didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drift across the savanna-like fields outside, the golden light of the setting sun making the world look like something out of an old memory.

“…You think he’d respect me?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.

You tilted your head. “The King of Beasts?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled through his nose. “Or would he think I was just some lazy second-born?”

A slow smile spread across your lips. “He’d recognize you, Leona.”

Leona’s tail flicked. “Hah. Bold assumption.”

“He respected strength,” you said simply. “And he knew that strength wasn’t just about brute force. He’d see the way you think, the way you analyze people, the way you play the long game even when you pretend you don’t care. He’d see himself in you.”

Leona turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t say anything, but there was something different in his expression,something thoughtful, something… lighter.

“…Heh. Guess that means you see it too, huh?”

You chuckled. “I’ve always seen it.”

Leona huffed, shaking his head. “You and your big words.”

But he didn’t argue. And later, as he lay stretched out beneath the stars, he found himself thinking about your words more than he cared to admit.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul Ashengrotto had spent years studying the legends of the Great Seven, drawing inspiration from their cunning, their power, and their undeniable influence. But never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that he would one day meet someone who had actually known them.

You.

The acolyte of the Great Seven, a living relic of history, standing right before him. And not just some distant figure lost in the annals of time,you were real, tangible, and, to his absolute shock, quite fond of him.

Azul prided himself on keeping his composure in negotiations, but even he had to admit that this revelation nearly made him drop his pen.

“You… were close to the Sea Witch?” he asked, voice carefully controlled, though his fingers twitched slightly where they rested atop his contract book.

“Close?” You hummed, tilting your head in thought. “I suppose you could say that. I learned from her, advised her at times. She was a remarkable woman.”

Azul’s grip tightened. “Remarkable indeed.”

To say that Azul revered the Sea Witch would be an understatement. He had spent years modeling his business strategies after her, refining his persuasive tactics to mirror her legendary deals. And here you were, someone who had witnessed her genius firsthand.

“What was she like?” The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. He was usually so calculated in his speech, but the opportunity to learn more about his idol was too tempting to ignore.

You chuckled, the sound warm, nostalgic. “Clever, naturally. A force to be reckoned with. But she was also pragmatic. She knew how to get what she wanted without wasting time. And despite what the stories say, she valued loyalty.”

Azul’s eyes gleamed. “Loyalty…?”

You nodded. “She never gave something for nothing, but those who proved their worth? She took care of them. Not out of kindness, but because she knew the value of strong allies.”

Azul absorbed every word, committing them to memory. He had spent years honing his skills, but hearing confirmation from someone who had been there? It made everything feel… validated.

Then you leaned in slightly, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “But between you and me? You’re already quite the businessman yourself.”

Azul froze, his mind stuttering over itself.

The praise shouldn’t have affected him so much. He had received compliments before, flattery from clients and students alike. But this was different. This was coming from someone who had seen the rise of the Great Seven, who had stood beside the Sea Witch herself.

And you thought he was impressive?

A slow, self-satisfied smile curled his lips. “Well,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses, “I do try.”

You laughed, and Azul felt a strange warmth settle in his chest. He had always sought validation, always yearned to prove himself. And now, hearing it from you, it felt… right.

Maybe, just maybe, he was on the right path after all.

Azul's reaction to meeting you is absolutely priceless. You’re someone who actually knew the Sea Witch, the very legend he admires most, and your praise holds more weight than anything he's ever heard before. The way you validate his ambitions and skills?

It’s the ultimate boost to his confidence.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had always lived under the shadow of another,always serving, always being overlooked. But you? You had once stood at the side of the Sorcerer of the Sands himself. If anyone understood the burden of duty, the weight of loyalty, it was you.

The moment Jamil found out who you were, his mind reeled. The legends, the history,the Sorcerer of the Sands was a figure he both admired and resented. And you? You had actually known him. Not just as a distant, untouchable icon, but as a real person.

"So, was he as powerful as they say?" Jamil asked one evening, voice measured, carefully neutral. "Or is it all exaggerated?"

You hummed, leaning back. "He was powerful, yes. But more than that, he was clever. He knew how to manipulate, how to turn the tides in his favor."

Jamil's fingers twitched. "And you? You helped him?"

You smiled knowingly. "Of course. I was his acolyte, after all. But power isn't everything, Jamil. Even the greatest sorcerers can fall."

That hit closer to home than he cared to admit.

Yet, despite the enormity of your past, you never looked down on him. You saw him. The real him. Not just as Kalim's servant, not just as someone who had overblotted, but as Jamil Viper,someone with potential, someone worthy of his own ambitions.

He found himself drawn to you, not just because of your history, but because you understood. You had lived through more than he could fathom, yet you still walked forward, unbound by the weight of the past. It was a future he wanted for himself.

One night, as the desert wind howled outside Scarabia’s halls, Jamil found himself speaking words he never thought he would.

"Do you think...someone like me could ever be free?"

You looked at him, gaze steady. "Of course. It’s just a matter of making the right moves."

Jamil exhaled, something unspoken passing between you.

For the first time in a long time, he believed it might actually be possible.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always held the Beautiful Queen in the highest regard. She was the pinnacle of elegance, refinement, and ambition an emblem of the perfection he constantly strove for. He had studied every detail of her legend, every calculated move that led her to power, every stroke of her infamous beauty. But he never expected to meet someone who had actually known her.

And yet, there you were, standing before him, ageless and composed, your presence both regal and effortless. You, who had walked beside the Beautiful Queen herself. You, who had been her acolyte, had seen her rise and fall with your own eyes.

At first, he was skeptical. Many admired the Great Seven, but few could claim to have known them personally. But as you spoke,of courtly intrigue, of the Queen’s dedication to her craft, of the sharp mind behind her legendary beauty,he knew you weren’t lying. Every detail you provided matched what he had read, and then some. You spoke of nuances only someone who had been there could know. It was astonishing.

“You knew her,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Truly knew her.”

You smiled softly. “I did. And I see a piece of her in you.”

Vil felt a shiver run down his spine. It was a compliment of the highest order. He had spent his life striving to be as captivating, as powerful, as poised as the Beautiful Queen. To hear it from someone who had been by her side… it felt surreal.

He was full of questions. What perfumes did she favor? What was her personal beauty regimen? Did she ever feel insecure, even at the peak of her rule? Was there ever a moment where she faltered? He wanted to know everything, every secret, every unspoken detail.

But what truly fascinated him was your perspective. “You must have been close to her,” he mused, watching you carefully. “Did you ever fear her?”

You considered the question, tilting your head slightly. “Fear? No. I respected her. She was cunning, but she was not cruel without cause. She understood the weight of power and the cost of beauty. She taught me that to be admired, one must be feared just enough.”

Vil’s lips curled into a slow smile. “And do you follow that lesson still?”

“I do,” you admitted. “But I’ve learned that admiration without understanding is shallow. The Queen was feared for her beauty, but few understood the burden of it. You, however, understand that weight. That’s why you are not just beautiful,you are formidable.”

His breath caught. Flattery was nothing new to him, but your words held the weight of history, of someone who had seen legends rise and fall. To be acknowledged by you was no small thing.

From that moment on, Vil held you in the highest regard. He valued your opinion on everything,his performances, his fashion choices, his approach to leadership. You weren’t just another admirer, you were someone who had witnessed true greatness and found him worthy of the same heights.

And in return, he ensured that you were treated with the dignity you deserved. If anyone dared to question your wisdom, they faced his scathing tongue. If anyone disrespected you, he reminded them, with icy precision, that you were not just anyone.

You were legacy. You were history.

And in his eyes, you were nothing short of magnificent.

Idia Shroud

For someone who spent most of his time locked away in his room, Idia knew a surprising amount about the Great Seven. Not just the basic history everyone learned in school,he knew the strategies they used, the choices that led to their victories, the little details that only the most obsessive researchers could piece together.

So when he found out that you, his s/o, had actually known them? Had worked alongside them? Had been there for everything?

Yeah. That was a full system crash moment.

"You're—you’re serious? You're not messing with me? You actually met them?" Idia’s voice was higher-pitched than usual, his hair sparking wildly.

You nodded, amused by his reaction. "I didn’t just meet them, Idia. I was their acolyte. I worked beside them. I saw them rise to power."

Idia made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a strangled squeak. He scrambled to grab his tablet, typing furiously. "Okay, okay, hold up,I need details. All of them. What were they actually like? Did they really do all those things the history books say? "

You told him about the Queen of Hearts’ unwavering sense of order, the King of Beasts’ cunning, the Sea Witch’s unmatched charisma. You spoke of the Sorcerer of the Sands' intellect, the Fairest Queen’s beauty and ambition, the king of the under wicked humor, and the thorn fairy unmatched power.

Idia hung onto every word like he was absorbing the lore of his favorite RPG. "Wait, wait,so the Lord of the underworld was actually as sarcastic as the stories say? And the Sea Witch? A total manipulator, right?"

You grinned. "You have no idea."

Idia let out an excited wheeze, nearly vibrating. "This is insane. My partner is literally the ultimate lore drop. This is like finding a hidden character in a game that suddenly reveals the entire backstory of the world!"

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Glad to know I’m just a walking DLC to you."

"No, no, you’re, like, the main storyline! The secret boss fight with a tragic yet incredible backstory! The one that players theorize about for years!"

You shook your head, but you couldn’t help the fond smile on your lips.

Later, as he finally calmed down, he looked at you, quieter now, more thoughtful. "You know… that must’ve been lonely. Living through all that, watching history play out firsthand."

You hesitated. "…Sometimes. But I had them. And now, I have you."

His hair turned pink. "Ugh, you can’t just say things like that. It’s super effective, okay? My HP is dropping."

You chuckled, leaning closer. "Then I guess I’ll have to revive you."

Idia sputtered, turning bright red. "G-great, now I’m dealing with status effects. I didn’t sign up for a romance route!"

You only laughed, watching as he melted into a flustered mess.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus had lived for centuries, his lifespan stretching far beyond that of most beings. Yet, for all his years, he had never encountered someone quite like you,someone who had not only witnessed history but had actively shaped it. You weren’t just a bystander to the stories of the Great Seven; you had stood beside them, walked through the rise and fall of their reigns, seen their triumphs and their downfalls with your own eyes.

It fascinated him.

Dragons hoarded treasures, and Malleus had spent his long life collecting knowledge, legends, and history. But you,your memories were worth more than any artifact. You weren’t just a piece of history; you were history.

“I have read countless accounts of the Great Seven,” he mused one evening, his emerald eyes glowing in the dim candlelight of the Diasomnia dorm. “Yet none compare to hearing the truth from you.”

You laughed softly. “You say that now, but if I start rambling about how the Queen of Hearts once lost a game of croquet to a commoner, you might change your mind.”

Malleus’ lips curled into a rare smile. “On the contrary, I find such tales far more valuable than the embellished versions written in books.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. “Tell me more. What were they truly like?”

So you told him,of the Queen of Hearts' temper, the King of Beasts' boundless charisma, the Sea Witch’s cunning. You painted them as they truly were, not just as rulers but as people with flaws and ambitions, regrets and victories. Malleus listened, utterly captivated, hanging onto your every word.

Yet, even with all his fascination, there was something deeper beneath it,something warm, something fond.

“I envy you,” he admitted one night, voice low and contemplative. “To have known such figures personally, to have stood beside them in their prime… It must have been extraordinary.”

You tilted your head. “It was. But it was also lonely.”

His expression shifted, as if he understood all too well. “Ah.”

A quiet stretched between you, comfortable yet laced with unspoken words. Malleus had spent much of his life set apart from others, and though he was feared and respected, few truly knew him. You, however, did. And you, more than anyone, knew what it was like to outlive those around you.

“You are not alone,” Malleus said at last, his voice carrying a quiet promise. “You need not carry their stories by yourself. If you wish, I will remember them with you.”

Something in your chest tightened at that,at the sincerity in his voice, at the way his glowing gaze held yours as if offering you something precious.

You smiled. “I’d like that, Malleus.”

His eyes softened, and for the first time in a long while, you felt truly understood.

English is not my first language

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderlands headcanon #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #OB student #OB x reader #riddle rosehearts #Leona Kingscholar #Azul Ashengrotto #jamil viper #Vil Schoenheit #Idia Shroud #Idia Shroud x reader #malleus draconia #platonic twst

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