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buckysm · 4 months ago

Text

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★ part one, part two

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ word count 8.4k+ (this was going to be 5k but then i ended up writing about 2.5k worth of smut... so!! beware)

ᯓ★a/n: this is weeks late, life happens, shit happens we get back up to write bucky barnes faniction. {para @dove4444 te amo, perdon por la espera <33333} (minor grammar edits on mar 11)

ᯓ★ summary: Tensions rise when a ‘friendship’ builds that leave both of you wanting more. Everyone can see how his eyes never leave you. If only you could get your head out of your ass and see for yourself.

ᯓ★ series warnings/ tags/ tropes: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, separation, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut, Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication Soft Bucky Barnes, Mentions of torture off screen ------[PART TWO WARNINGS: unhealthy coping strategies, miscommunication, smut, dry humping, cursing in other languages (Spanish and Russian), dacryphilia, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, p in v unprotected sex]

You needed time to heal after— two days of bed rest, stitches, and recovery from a heavily sprained ankle. And unfortunately for Bucky, that meant no clandestine meetings at quarter past two in the morning.

He tried his best to keep away. After the initial reunion, he handed you into the infirmary and avoided everyone like the plague. They avoided him right back; he couldn’t blame them. He felt as if a storm cloud enveloped him without you, knew he had murder in his eyes. It cost him to hand you up to the doctors, a pang in his heart at having you taken from him once again. He told himself it wasn’t like that, and you would be back in his line of sight before he knew it. His subconscious disagreed, so he trained for hours until he passed out on a mat, warring voices in his head quieting down with exhaustion that pulled at his body and made gravity stronger. Phantom hands yanking him down into oblivion mid-workout. He toed the line of danger training without a spotter, but once the black started to spot his vision and his dry throat burned with rage —he was a super soldier, neglecting hydration helped him pass out faster— he knew to go to the mat so when he did pass out, at least he wouldn’t injure himself.

One of those days, he came to the Black Widow frowning from above him.

He grumbled an intentionally incoherent sentence, not feeling like interacting. The redhead’s brows furrowed further. Unimpressed with his antics.

“Get a grip, Barnes, this self-pity schtick has to go. Here.”

He felt more than saw the weight of a water bottle against his stomach. Almost snarled before remembering himself. It was a bit embarrassing. He sat up and grabbed at the water with resentment in what was meant to be one fluid movement but came out clumsy and sluggish. His head pounded, his vision clouded. Embarrassing. Begrudgingly, he unscrewed the water bottle and finished it in slow, measured drinks under Black Widow’s judging gaze.

Said redhead dropped to a crouch, eye level with him, frown unfurling, and even he could see the concern in her eyes and the unpleased twist of her lips.

“Barnes, look. I long ago forgave you for the scar you gave me, and I know that you hold yourself guilty for— don’t give me that look. You know you do. Anyway, the others wanted to stage an intervention— No, before you start, let me finish! They care about you. —No. I know that face. I’m going to ignore all your passive-aggressive expressions now, you petulant child— I know you don’t like to think much about what happened during— well, yes, I know you remember. Haven’t you ever stopped to think why the fifty-sixth floor stayed destroyed? Huh? Yeah! Thought you didn’t. I know you pay close attention to Tony, so I know you know he is prideful and a perfectionist. He wouldn’t leave a floor wrecked just because. And before you get angry. No, he didn’t tell anyone why he let it be. And I know for a fact that he turned off the cameras. I couldn’t find any trace of the feed for the floor, and I am Black Widow — it didn’t take me long to figure out he had forgiven you no matter how much he teases you. Yes, he was hurt, but he ultimately understood that it wasn’t a choice, and he cares in his own asshole way. He— We care about you, Barnes. And I know things have been awkward with Steve— since you tried to kill him and all--, but if you don’t see that he cherishes you, then you have been lying to yourself. And she cares, too! Did you know she has been accepting visitors? She’s about to be discharged to her own room tomorrow morning. She didn’t need to stay in the infirmary, but Tony worries, and I know you do too. So there is no reason to stay away from your friend— no rational reason. And it pains me to see hope bloom in her eyes once the door opens and how she tries to cover up its shatter when it’s not you. You two understand each other. You are best friends. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. We live together. She wears her heart on her sleeve. You just have to learn to read her tells. She will never outright say what she means to say. She will veil her true feelings with insults and sarcasm. Now take a shower and go to her, you big fucking idiot. You reek.” She sprang up in one smooth motion, leaving him with a fond stern look and scolded, all of which reminded him of his sister.

That was the longest she had ever spoken in front of him, even putting every interaction together. He didn’t have time to unpack everything, though. Bucky was left reeling, jaw clenched to prevent it from slacking open in shock. His breaths came in faster and faster. He missed you so much. He couldn’t stop thinking about having you in his arms, wanting you back there forever. But Black Widow was right. He reeked.

His thoughts ran a mile a second, his body going through the motions without instruction. He went to his bathroom, showered, and did his night routine on autopilot.

It was late… you were most definitely sleeping. His every thought is hyper-focused on you. On the fact that you weren’t there, your absence was a heavy and loud presence in his heart.

Bucky stared at his bed, bones weary and freshly showered. He would lie to himself if he said he contemplated sleeping there and visiting you tomorrow. He needed you now— needed you always— But his need for you felt more pronounced at that moment. His body was tired, but it yearned to hold you more than it did sleep. He needed his nightly dose of you. And even then, that wouldn’t be enough; he needed you close, needed you in ways that had him blushing and running himself a cold shower. He shook his head, trying to lose memories of him jerking himself off at breakneck speed, to find some sort of release of the lustful torture he found himself in just by thinking about you— never mind breathing in your scent.

He threw himself on his bed. He tried to keep away, but truly, he did. But between the lands of consciousness and unconsciousness, he saw you. Screaming for him, crying out as you were tortured. He couldn’t take it. His heart pounded as he ran his fingers aggressively through his hair.

He knew you deserved all that was good in the world, and that excluded him — but that didn’t calm down the tension in his body palpable through his teeth. Bucky tried to breathe in and think rationally, but his limbs moved on their own accord as if deciding for him.

His mind was a passenger to his body as he was pulled by an invisible string holding his heart hostage, tethered to you, throughout the building to your door.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You couldn’t sleep, or rather, you had been knocked out for a while, sleeping on and off, drifting between the blurred line of realistic nightmare and nonsensical reality, dozed in a wide array of medicine, and found yourself squirming at two a.m. in the morning.

You were unable to move much. Your leg was elevated to aid your heavy sprain.

Your eyes were heavy, blinking slowly in the darkness. You were so uncomfortable and had to sit with one big fact. Squirmed with it. You wanted to see him. You distracted yourself from any other thoughts, from processing whatever the fuck happened in the warehouse, the new drops in the bucket of blood and death, with memories of his arms around yours. You had relished in life-giving away beneath your hands, just as they had relished in breaking your bones. You glared at your palms as if they would give you an answer to why you didn’t feel guilty. You had to kill your way out. No one was coming to save you. He would’ve. You could see it in his eyes. He was about to fight Captain America to get to you. You shivered, not knowing how to take it. He had been so relieved, and so had you.

Your inhale was shaky. You tried to think of him, but— your greatest fears had come true those long hours before you escaped. Half unconscious with pain, you thought you were back in Hydra. When you screamed in pain from the torture, you thought those nights with him had all been a nice dream. That the beautiful man with the sad blue eyes had been a hallucination. The cruel eyes from not too long ago blurred into those of your past, of older memories from Hydra. A variety of eyes, twin flames, mirrored each other with sadistic pleasure and glee. There was a twist in your gut that didn’t let you give up and told you there was a man with soulful eyes and a gorgeous smile waiting for you. Pure grit brought you back online, moving your body in ways you hadn’t since your Hydra days. Killed so many. You were scared that you didn’t care. Bucky was real, had hugged you so tight—

But an anxious, paranoid part of you still thought so. You hadn’t seen him in days, and the rational part of you knew he was real, but a dark and needy side of you needed him here to believe it. A heavy sensation of being trapped grew in your body; your limbs, heavy and achy, impeded you from moving much. Frustration built in your chest, rising and rising. Your breaths came out fast and shallow. You didn’t know how to manage it, needed to move, needed him.

A knock at the door dragged you from your haze. Hope failed to bloom in your chest. Too often, it had grown only for someone who wasn’t Jamie to enter the hospital room.

You couldn’t see through your distress. It was late, and you didn’t want to be bothered— not by anyone who wasn’t him. You slid a hand under your pillow, fingers curling around the grip of your knife.

You knew those soft footsteps, familiar with them even in their uncertainty— you were dreaming. “Doll?” Oh, how you missed him.

You placed the knife on the bedside. “Jamie?” You weren’t able to keep the excitement and relief from your voice.

“I had a nightmare. I had to check for myself. I’ll let you sleep.” His voice was gruff, worried. Worried.

Yes, you were, in fact, dreaming a pain medication-induced nice dream. Your Jamie was proud. He would never— this was your dream where you could do whatever you wanted, and you wanted him around you. “Come here. There’s enough room for the both of us.”

Dream Jamie didn’t hesitate. The bed shifted with his weight. You flinched when you felt cold metal against you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I can move—”

You giggled softly. The dark haze dissipates from your mind by his presence. “It’s alright, Jamie. You’re so cold. Get under the covers with me.” You yawned. Now that you weren’t in distress, your subconscious pulled you towards sleep—deeper sleep since you were already in the sandman’s territory.

There was an awkward shuffle as he got inside the covers.

You curled around the cold metal arm as best as you could with restricted movement. You yawned again. “G’night, Jamie. Try to get some sleep. We’re safe here; nothing can hurt us in my dream. I’m so glad to have you in my arms. I missed you so much. So happy you’re real and here, even if it is a dream, Jamie.” Your words murmured. You rubbed your face into his cotton shirt. The pounding of his heart lulled you to sleep.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You thought you were dreaming! Did you dream of him often? It didn’t matter. He would ponder this new revelation later; now, he would focus on your soft, pliant body against him and tiredness overtaking him.

Bucky’s consciousness came to him in phases, each more forceful than the last, crashing into him in waves. The first sensation he became aware of was warmth. His body relaxed against it. It was familiar, as he had dreamt of it. The next thing he noticed was that the warmth was tangible, had a soft give to it— he could feel it. He rolled his neck against foreign pillows… His eyes flew open, muscles tensing slightly with alarm.

Your soft sleeping body cocooned his left side. It enveloped his usually cold metal arm— which was at that moment the same temperature as your body. He so badly wanted to give in again. Burrow into your warm, soft skin. He barely had time to overthink it. His groggy mind almost reached consciousness before a soft murmur from your lips brought his thoughts to heel.

“Shhh, go back to sleep, s’early Jamie, sleep.” You didn’t seem to care about him not being a product of REM. You curled up tighter around him. Your smile bigger than last night, cheek pressed against his metal arm. And never had he felt any semblance of gratefulness toward Stark. But the new arm sent feedback to his brain. A weapon of destruction cradled and enveloped softly by your body. Somehow, you trusted him. He felt less like a weapon with no agency and more like a person. He liked touching you with his metal arm. He knew that it was tainted, but your touch made it pure. Bucky acknowledged that he would’ve never gotten you here with him without that still-wrecked floor. Unwanted tears prickled in his eyes. Would he ever live up to this forgiveness?

He didn’t want to think anymore, so he followed the laced command in your sweet, sleepy voice, urging him back to dreamland and succumbing to his dreams.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The air around the two of you shifted after the one-person intervention. And yes, of course, the team noticed, but they chose to say nothing. They were glad that Natasha had gone in to talk to him by herself. Although she never did retell what happened, it seemed to work. And while they liked to tease Bucky— some billionaire philanthropists more than others— they were happy for him; he seemed a little calmer than before. Settled into himself.

While he never directly came out and touched you in front of them. He started orbiting you blatantly. Taking a seat next to you during the rare shared meals. Glaring at anyone who dared take his spot next to you on the couch. Walking into a room and making his way to you.

Two particular instances engraved themselves into the team members' minds who were lucky enough to behold it.

The first event took place in the morning. It started like any other. You chit-chatted with Steve and Nat as you made two breakfast bagels. They might’ve thought you had woken up hungry that day were it not for the two cups of coffee you set in front of the plate holding the two halved bagels.

Tony tinkered with a toaster in the background, his eyes looking up slowly when Bucky walked in, fingers not stopping their ministrations on the machinery.

And the team had been so wrong. Yes, Bucky had a strong disposition, but the way he always stared at you so intently was. It should have been obvious. It was like their eyes opened after the mission had gone wrong. The man was so obviously besotted with you.

It couldn’t be clearer as the usual dark storm cloud over him dissolved when his eyes found you. He strode toward you with one track mind.

You spoke to him before your gaze found his as if sensing his presence. “Hey there, I just made you my favorite breakfast. Grab our plate. Here’s your coffee. Dark and joyless like you.” You turned to look at him with barely veiled glee.

Steve’s brows furrowed slightly, concerned. He used to make those kinds of jokes with his Bucky, but he didn’t know how this Bucky would react.

Tony’s eyes furrowed with concern—

Bucky huffed and pursed his lips. But his eyes. They were accustomed to his eyes being perpetually set in a glare.

His gaze was soft, voice softer, “Doll… You know me so well.”

Your grin was dazzling, and you were the only one who missed the way his stare lingered a bit too long on your lips.

DOLL??? Oh, you guys were clearly fucking. Natasha smiled, amused, and raised an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve gaped at Bucky, lost and forlorn. He had spent so long tiptoeing around the man who used to be his best friend.

Bucky didn’t seem to care that there were other people in the kitchen; the man who didn’t show up for breakfast was long gone. You curled your fingers around the handle of the two coffee cups, concluding the chit-chat. He grabbed the plate with his metal fingers. Then, so slyly as if with half a mind, he reached out his right arm toward you, near your hips. His fingers slid inside the loop of your jeans and yanked you toward him.

You let out a surprised yelp and laughed. “Jamie! Careful. The coffee will spill!” You didn’t seem the least put off by his actions.

They had no clue when it started, but somehow, in a few months, you had gotten through the broken and hurting Winter Soldier and got to Jamie.

Jamie. Bucky never let Steve call him that. It was bittersweet. Your chattering voice faded as he dragged you out of the kitchen. It was then that he came to a conclusion. Bucky was a different man, and he wanted to get to know this version of him.

And they felt guilty. They had given a half-ass try to get to him, put off by his glower. You weren’t perturbed by his grumpiness or his mood swings. Letting him be silent whenever he got too in his head. Chatting to him about whatever until you eventually drew out a small smile perceptible in his usually clouded expression.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You had found yourself in the proud position of Bucky’s friend, closest and best — you did sleep in the same bed—yet you still felt like screaming in frustration. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t unhappy per se. You had him in your arms every night…Your cheek pressed against his warm, sturdy chest. The only thing between keeping your skin from his was a thin, flimsy shirt. And maybe it was wrong for you to, but you longed for more, to touch without restraint. Had feelings with more-than-friends connotations. Not that you had many real friends before you were recruited here. So, while you knew there was a difference between platonic and romantic love. You tried fooling yourself into thinking it was platonic. But you wouldn’t go and kill around 15 people for just about anyone, and it hurt. You wanted him to see you the same way you did him. Rare nights were you holding him instead of the more common inverse.

You’d scrape your fingernails softly through his scalp. Hope would make your heart full, inflating it with every hum of pleasure he let out in his sleep. But then he’d wake up shy and closed off, cheeks red with what you perceived as embarrassment and your heart would collapse once again, hope seeping out and leaving acid in its wake.

But he’d do certain things that would make your heart race, exhilarated and frustrated, leaving you reeling and confused.

Your feelings grew despite your protests, so you kept them locked in nice and tight, hidden even from yourself, for as long as possible.

You were full to the brim with tension, and one particular instance made you lose it, the container breaking with pressure and spilling all over the place.

It went like so. It was early afternoon, and sunlight spilled from the high windows of the tower, casting a warm glow on the room.

Natasha was telling you about these two guys; they invited her and you to a double date. You were certain in your decision not to go. The man you’d be paired up with was the same one who frequented the bar with the team; he had brown eyes and a sleazy smile. Nothing like your Jamie.

You were doubling down on your decision when he walked in.

“Hello, Doll, Nat.” His greeting was gruff, but a few months ago, you would’ve thought him possessed.

Natasha’s eyes glinted with mischief and calculation. She gave you a feral grin before turning around, her expression slipping easily into neutrality. “Bucky, it’s so good that you’re here. You can help me convince her to go out with me.”

Jamie cocked his head, expression unreadable. “Sounds fun, Doll; you need a girl’s night.”

This was it! The perfect opportunity to gauge his reaction to you going out with someone else! “It’s a double date with the guys from communication.” You deliberately omitted the part where you didn’t want to go, wanting to push a grand reaction. —It never came.

You saw his full body tense for a moment, and for a second, your heart soared… only to crash instantly when he gave you a terse smile. His voice was disappointingly steady, “Why don’t you want to go?”

You knew your body was overreacting, knew you were blowing it out of proportion, but your heart shriveled nonetheless. You tried still, but you couldn’t swallow down the frustration. Try as you did. “I like my men a little bit older…” Your mouth answered for you, giving him a cheeky grin.

He turned his full attention toward you, and your body viscerally recoiled from the look in his eyes. An angry and resentful glint in his eyes. So familiar—how he used to stare at you before the first meeting at two a.m.

“You should go.” His words were final, a command.

You didn’t understand, and you almost sobbed then. You prided yourself in being able to count the number of times you had cried on one hand. A chasm was growing between you, distance expanding with every word. He didn’t want you that way. Pinche ilusa! How could he ever want you that way? You snarled instead of crying, “Alright, I will, but don’t expect me here at two in the morning.”

His smile was bitter and mean. “I won’t.”

Your returning smile was filled with spite. Anger bubbling in your throat, you saw red. “Pinche pendejo, deveras.” (Such a fucking prick) It hurt to smile. You didn’t even want to think about the last time you used your Spanish. But his hardened eyes and clenched jaw brought out your most impulsive sides.

Beside you, Nat and Bucky tensed. You lifted your downward gaze toward them. Their heads were cocked to the side, assessing… You’d never slipped into your native tongue.

You took a deep breath before speaking, “I’m going to get ready, Nat! See you at eight!” Smiled at them both before prancing to the elevator, assuming a mask of joy, heart sunken in.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The elevator doors closed in front of you, taking you from him. The Winter Soldier’s gaze lingered on the spot where you’d disappeared, his eyes burning with a mix of longing and frustration before snapping toward his adversary.

The soldier was full of rage. Flowers had bloomed through the cracks in his stone heart only to wilt because of her.

The redheaded sensed the obvious danger and spoke in a language the soldier didn’t understand. He understood her disappointment with him, which displeased the soldier.

“говорить демон.” The soldier growled, beckoning the demon to speak, try to save herself.

She had been a friend…The redheaded demon responded in his language. “You were taking too long, and I couldn’t take any more of her sulking… So speak up or forever hold your peace, soldier. You don’t get to wallow in self-pity and watch life passing you by, cursing time for moving on and not standing still. You can’t unwind the clock, soldier. You can only go forward… So decide carefully before it’s too late.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe, bereft of oxygen. What had he done? Had the soldier really come back because of you? The threat of losing you?

He somehow found himself in his room. He didn’t quite remember how he got there. His brain was a haze of frustration and defeat.

His room felt wrong, empty, and cold. He didn’t even approach his bed, knowing how that whole schtick would go. So Bucky paced and paced, his mind running around in circles.

And what was that whole thing about liking older men? How was he supposed to take it?

He knew he had fucked up. But he wasn’t about to go crash your date… So he went to his training room. Came back to the land of the living hours later, an unknown familiar face framed by gold hair staring down at him. Warmth pressed against his mouth, and he drank greedily.

“… can’t keep hurting yourself like this, Buck.”

Bucky groaned in response and in acknowledgment. Looked at his friend’s concerned eyes. His chest ached with nostalgia, love, regret… everything. “That’s my line, punk.” His voice came out unsteady.

The ground moved underneath him, yanked by his metal arm toward Steve into a tight hug. Bucky’s arms hovered uncertainly for a moment, and he could feel Steve’s large body shake against him. So he hugged his friend back. He had been neglecting Steve.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, Stevie, it’s alright.” His voice was fond. He was yanked once again. Twin grips on his shoulders shook him with more force than merited.

“No, you stupid idiot! It’s not alright…” Steve looked like he wanted to say more for a moment, but he knew how Bucky was, so he kept in his spiel and sighed dramatically. “Come on, get some food in your poor body.”

Steve tried to help Bucky walk, which ended up with Captain America being whacked upside down. The blonde turned to Bucky with a fake offense, instead deciding to drag him to the kitchen by force. Oh, how things changed…

Steve had changed…he managed to beat Bucky in a stare-down. Even in his forties after the serum, that only happened once in a blue moon. So Bucky found himself eating a sandwich and a big glass of electrolytes with resentment. His leg bounced with vigor.

He kept his eyes on his plate, avoiding Steve’s too-observant eyes, eyes that had known him since childhood.

As soon as the last bite had been swallowed, Bucky looked up. Only to regret it instantly. Steve had a resolved expression. A glint in his eyes that told him to run. So he did. He was not ready for whatever conversation he wanted to have.

“Where’s Banner?” He pushed off the table in a harsh, sudden movement.

Steve’s face fell, confused and hurt. “Huh?”

“I need a cigarette.”

He got furrowed brows and a cocked head in response.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

A few blocks away, your leg bounced anxiously. Unbeknownst to you, mirroring the person who caused your stress.

You sat across from Nat, your date an uncomfortable breath away. The tension between you was palpable as you struggled to make small talk with him. Thigh pressed to bouncing thigh. You wanted to turn pleading eyes to Nat. And for what? You had come here out of your own volition. Fuck. You needed a smoke. You tried to convince yourself you wanted to be here. If he didn’t want you, you deserved someone who did.

A meaty hand slid against your bare skin. Ala mierda… Yeah, no… Abort.

“Calm down, baby… you are all… amped up… how about we go outside and—”

“That’s a good idea.”

You got a sleazy grin and a flash of eerily perfect teeth. His were charmingly imperfect; he wouldn’t call you baby. He would call you doll….

“I am going outside by myself. I need a smoke. Besides— I left my lighter at home.”

“I-”

“No, thank you. Sorry, Nat.” You flashed your not-so-sorry gaze toward her.

She was amused. “Go! by all means. I’ll get the check.” She moved her hand, shooing you off.

A grip on your arm stopped you. “Don’t tell me it’s because of that creepy guy with murder in his eyes.”

You shivered, giddy with pleasure. It was too obvious of a response for it to fly over your date’s head.

“It is! He stares at you like you hurt him. Like he wants to tie you up in his bed and never let you leave!”

Your wicked grin was enough for him to let you go with a huff of disgust. You didn’t care, kissing Nat’s cheek. “Goodbye, you evil woman.”

She spanked your ass, sending you off. You turned one last time toward her, grinning. Your smiles reflect glee and mirth.

You walked around the city for a while. Savoring being able to do so without recrimination.

You weren’t delusional; you should’ve known better. Yet you were so blinded by self-doubt that you closed your eyes.

Bucky wasn’t loud with his emotions, ever. He swallowed them whole, drowned in them. He was too prideful and scared of being hurt, even if he wanted you. Countless sleepless nights and nights where it was avoided deliberately to see each other told of a man who was interested in you in some capacity.

You weren’t dumb. You just chose to ignore the evidence. Turning a blind eye to the staggering difference in how he spoke to you versus anyone else. He gave you preferential treatment. You cuddled every night for fucks sake! And you doubted that he cared for you? He couldn’t sleep without you, and vice versa!

You checked your phone. 2:03 A.M. What were you stalling for?

You smiled all the way back to the tower.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The third time the elevator doors pinged, Bucky’s hope had worn out. Expecting Steve or Natasha. The latter had come from the double date alone. “I told you to leave me alone to— what had you called it?— wallow in self-pity and the consequences of my actions or whatever.” He raised a shaking hand, knuckles cracked and bleeding— he was embarrassed to admit he had succumbed to his baser needs and punched a wall out of frustration— taking a drag of a cigarette. It tasted radioactive… but it smelled like you. He coughed softly.

An achingly familiar laugh startled him from his stupor. He swerved around with wide eyes. A kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar… “What are you doing here? If you’re here to tell me about — I don’t want to hear it.” He grumbled. Yes, you were friends, but he really, really didn’t want to hear about you sleeping or even breathing in near another man. He took another drag of your cigarette. Filled his lungs with smoke, his blood with chemicals. Okay, yes. He got it now.

“You big, stupid man.” The candor of your voice dripped with irritation. You stomped toward him, heels clacking against the floor, and snatched the smoke from him in harsh movements.

He grunted in response, out of his depth, and turned his gaze toward the skyline. He was aware of your every movement. You took two drags and stomped a perfectly good half of a cigarette with your heel.

He turned to glare at you, giving you a once-over. Fucking helllll….. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bucky needed to dump cold water on himself ASAP. He was reminded of the many, many long showers he had jerked off in before joining you in bed. They were always futile, super soldier refractory period, and your soft skin, and— you were wearing a mini skirt and a top that accentuated your tits. Bucky mentally clutched his 100-year-old pearls. His breath hitched. Eyes catching on thighs— THIGHS. And boobs—BOOBS!Before meeting your pleased predatory gaze.

You took one step toward him. He took one step back.

“I’m going to ask you something. Please answer me honestly— Why don’t you want to hear about my date?”

“Why are you here and not with your date?” he ground out his non-answer.

“Why are your knuckles bleeding? Why are you smoking my cigarette?”

“Why are you here and not with your date?” He repeated, body tense, ready to pounce, touch, taste. You looked so beautiful. The soft night lights illuminate your tinted lips and glittery eyelids, bringing the color out of your iris.

“Well, I found myself seated next to him and thinking: Jamie wouldn’t say that— but you weren’t there. And he wasn’t you.”

When you advanced toward him this time, his feet stayed planted. You took your time advancing toward him. And you were taller now, easier to reach with those long heels. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed up against him.

His arousal grew to unavoidable levels. Pushing against your hip. “Fuck, doll. You can’t— I’m wrong for you, all messed up and angry. And from the forties…” His fingers clenched and unclenched on his sides. He was lacking in excuses to touch you. His limbs itched to hold you. Dig into you.

“Well, I hate to repeat myself, but I see I have to. I’ve told you I like my men a little bit older… And maybe I’m a bit messed up, too. Because seeing you all fucked up and angry…. Well, I wasn’t upset.”

“I can’t sleep without you. I dream of you, I—”

You smiled with glee, “I know; Natasha was all too pleased to explain to me the mechanics of ‘morning wood.’”

Bucky groaned in response. Letting his hands, metal and otherwise, slide against your hips. It was nothing like cuddling; his intentions were impure. They had always been, but he had not felt any past guilt over his arousal. Unashamed in his guilt, he felt no need to neglect his urges — unless you told him otherwise.

He could tell you had some snarky response in the makings. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that cocky grin off your face. You were gravely mistaken if you thought he would be taking the subservient route. At least right now, he needed to be in control, and you needed to trust him. Needed you.

Your eyes glinted with snark, your mouth opening to tease. His hand coasted up your back to your nape, his fingers gliding into your hair to pull you toward him. Your eyes widened in surprise, pupils blown out. Good, you thought too much; he needed to make your brain shut up.

He held his breath as he leaned in, humming with satisfaction once your lips pressed against his. Your lips, so soft against his. He needed more. He gripped your hip, conscious of the strength in his metal arm. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you, but he did want to leave a mark. You gasped in pleasure. Your hands yanked on his hair, and he groaned against your lips.

He set his sights on a wall three paces away, pushing against you. So malleable under him, succumbing so easily to his ministrations, like putty under his hands. His blood sang with the escalating volume of your noises. With each step he took forward, you met with a step back. You gasped as your back met the wall.

“Jamie... please,” your voice was so whiny, so desperate, it made his cock hurt with arousal. Blood rushed in his ears; he needed more, needed you begging. Undone.

He yanked on the base of your hair with one hand, exposing your neck for him. He was oh so happy to kiss and lick your skin. You whined and shifted against him... sensitive. His other hand slid down your skirt until it met your skin. Groaning against your neck, he slid his hand up, finally reaching your perfect ass. He couldn’t feel any underwear... Fuck... he might’ve been from the forties, but he had internet access, and he could call a spade a spade, or in this case, a thong a thong. He yanked on the flimsy thing so it snapped back against your skin.

You whimpered and panted, eyes closed in bliss. He could feel your hips shift as if chasing after stimulation. And who was he to deny you?

He placed both hands just below your ass, lifting you up and pulling them apart, a silent command you gladly followed with a whine and a curse word in Spanish.

You locked your legs around his waist; his erection pressed against your warmth, and his soft cotton pants were doing nothing to help his desperation. He gave up on holding himself back when your lips met his once again, your hips jerking against him.

It was the best thing he had ever felt since... ever. His fingers spread on either side of your ass, your back supported by the wall. He was beyond words, and so were you.

His cotton pants were soaked with your arousal, hiding nothing. He could feel everything: your pussy open for his cock to grind on, and your underwear had twisted to the side. He lost all ability to think, his conscious motor skills deciding to go offline, the only movement he could do was jerking his hips. His lips opened to pant like a dog. It was your turn to kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated, as he ground against you.

He had half a mind to be aware of his strength, but each time he tested the waters, pressing harder against you, you moaned louder. So it wasn’t long before he realized you could take all of him.

His body trembled with built-up tension. It felt like nothing he had ever experienced. His hands flexed and tightened on your ass, pressing you harder against him, making the friction so much sweeter. He chased the pleasure with a one-track mind, couldn’t think of anything but your scent, skin, taste – for years, he had felt numb, and you brought him back to life. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to feel such exquisite pleasure; it was you who had his hips jerking, dry humping like teenagers. He didn’t care.

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails scratching his skin; you had long ago stopped kissing him, opting instead for panting against his neck.

Pleasure built and built, mind-numbing. You were saying something... begging for him... He threw his head back and groaned as his pleasure crested, stars exploding behind his eyes; he couldn’t see...

His hips jerked with aftershocks, breaths harsh against your neck; his pants were soiled with his come and your arousal. Your legs slackened, dropping to the floor. Most of your body weight rested on the wall, the rest supported by his hands. He had two functioning brain cells, both reminding him of his selfishness.

You didn’t look displeased with him; your skirt was bunched up at the hips, and your top in disarray. Your eye makeup was a mess, and he loved that. Your panties were slid to the far side, showing off your glistening cunt.

His knees hit the floor before he even realized what he was doing. He felt your thighs shake against his skin as he leaned in to look closer. Your clit was swollen and dark. He leaned in to kiss, to suck. Fingers pressed against his face, pushing him away.

“S’ too sensitive,” your voice wavered.

Bucky furrowed his brows, looking up inquisitively at you.

“Came. Twice,” you clarified, tone shaky with satisfaction. Your gaze followed his movements as he stood up to cradle your face, tilting your head to kiss you softly. He sucked on your teeth before stopping the kiss.

“Huh, didn’t notice. You felt too good. I went crazy. Too bad, though, I want to feel you come on my face and on my cock.”

You smiled, satisfied, a cat who finally got the cream. “Sure, later,” you muttered against him.

“Whenever you want, doll face,” he smiled down at you. You looked fucked all the way to next week, and he hadn’t even dicked you down yet. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

You hummed, wrapping your arms around him in a silent request; he obliged happily, carrying you bridal-style to his room.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie was so soft, so careful with you. Your head was hazy with the aftermath of pleasure. No orgasm in your past could hold a flame to the explosive bliss from the earlier encounter.

Your head was hazy as he led you to his bathroom, your mind too fucked out for processing his room. You complied with whichever way he tugged your limbs, sliding off your rumpled clothes until the only thing on your body were your high heels.

He knelt in front of you, his touch tender as if apologizing for moments ago when he ground on you without thought. His cool metal fingers skated up your calf, reaching up to support your knee as his other hand worked on the latch of your heels. He pressed a kiss to each ankle before standing up in front of you.

You blinked slowly, your eyes trained on him. He was still clothed. Why was he still clothed? Your gaze caught on the wet patch on his pants, outlining his half-hard dick. Praise super-soldier metabolism.

You planted your feet on the white marble floor, your arms stretching toward him, fingers curling into his shirt and yanking. “Off.”

He grinned softly – you would never, ever get enough of his smiles – before sliding his shirt off in one swift movement.

Your breath caught in your throat—fuck, he was beautiful.

“Beautiful Jamie,” you said, taking a step closer. You slid one hand up his chest, using the other to trace fingers along scar tissue. He was so… captivating, so utterly himself, that you felt like you were the only person in the world who got to see him like this. “Only for me, only I get to see you like this.” You turned to throw him a challenging glare.

“Doll, I wouldn’t have it any other way, and I don’t share either. Call me old-fashioned –”

“If I see you with another woman, James, I swear to God, I will break my killing streak. And all three of us will end up in a –” Rage had barely simmered from the image before he had yanked on your hips to pull you into another kiss.

“Easy there, Doll, there’s no one else,” his voice was so satisfied, an assured tinge to his candor, in a way you knew it only got for you. You were so fucking stupid for not noticing.

“Good,” you yanked on his pants. “So... super-soldier dick... how long can you go? I bet we can get Jamie Junior tired.”

He laughed loudly, the sound enough for you to shiver with pleasure. “Doll, I don’t think you could keep up with me; you’d pass out. You don’t understand how long I can go if it’s with you.”

“Well, surely you can keep count if I’m passed out... set a record.”

His laugh was disbelieving. “I don’t want to fuck you when you’re unconscious; I want you awake and making those sweet, delicious sounds.”

“Another time, then – take off your pants.”

“As you wish.”

You tried, you really did, to focus on cleaning yourself once you’d gotten inside the shower. But you didn’t fight the urge to slide your fingers into his scalp and help him wash his hair. Forcing him into a crouch to aid your reach and resting his face on your shoulder.

His touch was gentle, a silent decision to wash each other. He went first. You pressed your fingers, massaging the soap against his skin, fingers traveling lower, your eyes fixed on his cock. He was beautiful. Your fingers reached his hips; he was fully hard at that point, leaking. You couldn’t stop yourself; you had planned on teasing him, but his cock was too pretty, red and wet with pre-come. Your soap-slicked hands circled his cock... and damn, the groan that fell from his lips was unlike anything – the groans before had been rough, taking. This one was desperate, needing.

You took him in both hands, dragging your thumb against his leaking tip. He threw his head back and groaned, fingers digging into the skating over your waist.

You dragged your touch up and down his length, your eyes studying his every movement: his clenched jaw and tightened face. He was holding his sounds back; that wouldn’t do. You tightened your grip and fastened your pace – only to have his tight grip on your wrist halt your movements. His gaze was heavy on yours. “The next time I’m coming, I’m doing it inside you.”

Tension filled the air as he had his turn and took his time cleaning you. He was so clinical it was driving you insane. But you could tell he was restraining himself. His movements rushed; he had an end goal in mind.

You dried off quickly, and showering would prove futile with what you had in mind. The night was young; it was barely 3 A.M.

The anticipation was thick in each deep breath you took. As soon as you had crossed the doorway to his bedroom, you couldn’t restrain yourself. You turned toward him, but he beat you to the first move, yanking on your arm and throwing you over his shoulder; you laughed as he spanked your ass.

Your body was airborne the next moment before your back bounced softly on his bed.

You leaned on your shoulders, breasts heaving with each breath, thighs open.

“Do you know how much I’ve wanted you, how long... I thought I was going to go crazy with how much I needed you,” he said, crawling on top of you. Kissing you once chastely, your breath hitching. You were out of your depth; this was a completely new situation, and you loved every second. His featherlight kisses peppered over your jaw, below your ear, along your neck – your body twisted and turned – over your collarbone, down... “You’re so beautiful, doll— I had to restrain myself. You deserve worship.” His gruff voice was all the warning you got before he latched on to a nipple and sucked, cool metal fingers rolling your neglected nipple between his fingers, awakening erogenous zones that made their debut with a bang.

“Ala puta, mierda..." This bliss was unlike anything. Your hips jerked, your cunt pounded with need. Warm fingers slid your pussy open, circling your clit. You could feel every nerve sing with pleasure. Your toes curled, the balls of your feet pressing down against the bed.

He slid one finger into your cunt, and your whole body jerked in response. “Ala madre – ala madreeee!" Your head lolled, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You couldn’t form coherent thought; your brain decided to go offline.

Pleasure built and built, still sensitive from the past two orgasms. Just when you found yourself at the precipice, you were left bereft of pleasure, cut off from his touch. You looked at him with betrayal.

“No need for that, Dollface— you’ll come soon. I want it to be on my cock— give me a second I’m going to get a condo –”

“NO!” You wanted to feel him, and you wanted him inside you now.

“All right, Doll, and while I would love to put a baby inside you, I’m not sure I’m ready to share you yet –”

“I’m on birth control! I’m clean; I haven’t – in years.” Your voice was desperate. He smiled slowly at the neediness in your tone.

He shut you up with a kiss, fingers digging into the soft of your thighs, holding you open for him.

You felt yourself lose clarity, tears streaming down your face. You needed his cock inside you now.

You didn’t have to wait long; soon enough, he pressed his tip inside you. He was big... You babbled and pleaded for more to no avail. His fingers traced your skin, grounding you, as he slid in inch by delicious inch until he was fully sheathed. Your body writhed under him with pleasure. It was a tight fit, bordering on a little bit painful. The slight pinch only made the feelings more heightened as your cunt pulsed around him.

You tried to beg him to “move,” but none of the languages in your repertoire seemed to be available. So you were left a whining mess. He got the message. Felt his cock slide out of you only to slam into you so hard you saw stars. You could feel the exact moment he lost control and went feral and pussy-drunk. His thrusts were severe and hard, thrusting himself until your pelvises slammed together, the sound of your skin meeting his echoing through the room.

You were crying out, nails searching for pleasure on his back.

It didn’t take long for your pleasure to peak; it ebbed and rose in waves. You weren’t sure where your orgasm ended, and another one began. Had started to come down only to have him pinch your clit and –

It was so good; you took everything he gave you greedily, you had been fulfilled a while ago, and your needs were met ages ago. You were there for him to fuck however many times he wanted— drenched with your arousal and his come. His hips would stutter, and you’d feel a rush of his come, warm and drenching you. He’d slow down for a few moments, making you think it was over, hips sputtering softly inside you. He’d kiss your skin softly in apology and harden inside you again.

He made good on his promise. Once you were close to passing out, he stopped.

Your full body shook as he cleaned you with warm towels, your mind unresponsive as he moved your limbs softly to slide on one of his hoodies and boxer briefs.

You were halfway to dreamland when he wrapped his arms around you, the room reeking of sex.

“… doll... Mine... Love... Love you...” His voice was soft and barely processed as you fell asleep in his arms.

Did process enough for you to reply a sleepy, “Love you more.”

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments (they fuel me), and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading love ya hope you enjoyed 🫶🏻!!!!

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pitlanepeach · 19 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, death-anxiety (no actual death), Lando being an amazing husband.

Notes — Get the tissues ready. Check out the R.S Pinterest board post-chapter for some visuals!

2024 (Monaco)

Oscar sat cross-legged on the sofa, unwrapping a granola bar. Amelia lowered herself onto the chair opposite him with her notebook.

"What would you do if a child started to projectile vomit in a moving vehicle?" She asked, pen ready.

He blinked. "Sorry—what?"

"Answer the question."

"...Pull over. Make sure they're, like, breathing. Crack a window to get rid of the smell."

Amelia nodded. "Okay." She jotted something down.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"No concern of yours. Do you know how to sterilise a baby bottle?"

"Uh... no?"

"Do you know how to swaddle a newborn?"

"No, but I could YouTube it?"

She scribbled again, then looked up. "If Lando and I died tragically in a freak accident, would you be able and willing to raise our child?"

He choked. "What the hell?"

"Answer the question."

He coughed. "I—yeah? I mean, if that happened, yeah, I'd step up."

Amelia tapped her pen. "You'd need to cut back on the amount of time you spend on the panel court."

Oscar muttered, "I'd just take the baby with me."

—

Max Fewtrell sipped his flat white while Amelia stared at him, all beady eyed and completely unreadable.

"Do you own a fire extinguisher?" She asked flatly.

"...Good morning to you too?"

"Max."

"Yes. I think. Maybe? I don't know. Why?"

"Do you have a last will and testament?"

He stared at her. "Jesus, Amelia, are you going to have me killed?"

"This is all hypothetical, of course."

"What is happening right now?"

"Final question," she said. "Do you think you could emotionally support a child through the grief of losing both parents in a tragic accident?"

"...Oh my god."

Amelia didn't blink. "You're being considered for the position."

"For what?"

"Okay. I have enough information. Goodbye."

She left him sitting with his untouched croissant, both confused and mildly alarmed.

—

They walked side by side, Amelia waddling more than walking at this point. Fernando glanced down at her notepad.

"You are writing notes about me?"

"I'm evaluating your parental fitness."

"Why?"

"You might be a candidate to become the guardian of my daughter. In the event that Lando and I both die."

He blinked. "That is very grim."

"Statistically unreasonable," she said. "For me, anyway. Lando not so much." She sighed, chewing on her lip.

Fernando rubbed his jaw. "What is the criteria I must meet?"

"Emotional regulation. Moral compass. Childproofing competency. Capability of enduring a preschool dance recital."

He made a considering expression. "That last one might be a difficulty."

"You're top three so far." She told him.

"...I do not know if that is flattering or mildly scary."

"I trust you not to let her become a Red Bull junior driver; should she decide to start karting."

He nodded sagely. "Yes. Very good."

—

Amelia leaned across the table. "I have a few questions."

Max didn't look up from his phone. They were drinking milkshakes at a local coffee shop on the harbour. "Sure."

"If you had to raise a child you didn't birth, what would be your discipline strategy?"

"...Sorry?"

"Say me and Lando die. Hypothetically, if you got custody of our daughter, would you leave her at a petrol station if she disappointed you?"

He finally looked up. "Why would I get custody?!"

"I'm evaluating every available options."

"For a child that isn't even born yet?"

"She already exists. She's just... inside."

Max stared at her. "Zusje, you and Lando are not going to die."

She frowned at him. "You can't know that for sure."

He sighed. "Fine. I guess... No. I would not leave her at a petrol station, or stab any of her mechanics with a fork. But I would teach her how to drive early. Enter her into karting at three. Make sure she is ahead of everybody else."

Amelia jotted that down. "Noted."

"Am I seriously being considered?"

"You have the lowest risk of emotional instability during a crisis." She informed him.

He blinked. "Oh. Really?" He asked. "I feel like I'm a bit... hot-headed."

She shrugged. "Never with me, though. So I think you'd be the same with my little girl."

He stared at her for a beat and then smiled. "Yeah, Amelia. I think I would be too."

—

Amelia had kicked off her shoes the second she stepped into the apartment, now she was curled on the couch, laptop perched on her bump, tongue between her teeth as she typed furiously.

Lando came in behind her, fresh from a shower and still towelling off his hair. "Hey, babe. You hungry or—" He paused. Squinted. "What's the spreadsheet for?"

"Um," she said, not looking up. "It's colour-coded." She said, instead of answering the question.

"Of course it is." He padded over, still shirtless, and peered over her shoulder. "Fewtrell?"

"Yes."

"...And Oscar? Alonso? Verstappen?"

"Mmhmm."

He leaned closer, confused. "What is this?"

"Um."

"...Amelia," he said slowly, his voice pitching higher with suspicion. "What is this?"

She tapped something in the cell next to 'Max Verstappen – discipline style' and replied casually, "I'm compiling an assessment list for potential legal guardians in the case of our untimely deaths."

Lando froze. "I'm sorry— what?"

She finally looked up, frowning. "You're speaking very loudly."

"Because you're interviewing our friends to be our child's guardians in case we die?"

"Yes. Obviously. We'd need someone capable, emotionally regulated, ethically sound."

He blinked. Hard. "What about our parents? Or, like, one of my siblings? You know... our actual family."

She made a face. "Okay, I see your point." She said, completely sincere. "But I'd feel more comfortable having a list of at least five people who would be capable of stepping in."

Lando ran a hand through his hair. "Babe, you asked Oscar if he'd raise our daughter and didn't even think to mention this to me?"

"I was testing him under spontaneous stress," she said matter-of-factly. "He passed."

"Oh my god." Lando dropped onto the couch beside her, one hand dragging down his face. "Baby, we are not going to die, okay? God, maybe we should go to therapy about this."

"You already have therapy," she reminded him. "On Tuesday."

"I meant extra therapy. For both of us."

She turned the laptop toward him. "Do you want to see the rankings?"

"I—No! Wait—yes. Who's top?"

"Right now... Fernando."

He pulled a face. "Fernando?"

"He's extremely competent. Low emotional volatility. Has a very secure apartment and a predictable routine. He is also old, wise, and very rich. He would be able to hire wonderful childminders."

"...That's fair."

"Oscar is second."

"Obviously." He said.

"Max — Verstappen — third."

Lando tilted his head. "Seriously?"

"He would make sure she was loved. She'd grow up with discipline and money. Also, he has very cute cats."

Lando laughed, despite himself. "That's not... wrong."

"I ruled out Daniel because I texted him and he said that he would 'just vibe it.'"

Lando winced. "Yeah, okay, that's fair grounds for dismissal."

"Fewtrell's somewhere in the middle," she added, with a conflicted sigh. "I know we love him, and P, but he's still young and not settled down properly."

"I mean..." Lando shook his head, half-exasperated, half in love. "Babe. I love you so much, but this is mental."

"It's preparation. Contingency is kindness."

He stared at her — tan skin aglow from the laptop screen, expression painfully earnest. "You're... god, you're terrifying and brilliant."

She frowned. "I'm not terrifying."

"You kinda are."

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked, earnestly.

Lando's face softened completely. "No. I want you to keep being exactly you. I just also want to have a say in our daughter's future, you know, if we're both exploded in a tragic yacht fire."

She nodded. "Okay. That's fine."

He pulled the laptop from her lap, setting it on the table, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Can I be honest?"

"Always."

"I get scared sometimes too. About what will happen if something goes wrong. I think about all of the worst-case scenarios. But I know that I can't let myself obsess over 'what if's', or else I'll forget to enjoy the life I do have." He told her softly.

"Maybe that's a good idea," she muttered, but softened when he slid his arms around her and tugged her gently into his lap, belly and all.

They sat like that for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, his hands resting protectively over the curve of her bump.

"You know," Lando murmured, "no one could ever really replace you. No matter how good they are at bottle sterilising."

Amelia blinked hard. "I know."

"And if anything ever happened to me... she'd still have you. And that would be more than enough."

She buried her nose against his collarbone. "Don't say that."

"Okay. But it's true." He said into her hair.

She sniffled. "Our parents would do it, wouldn't they? They'd work together and make sure that she's raised the way we were. With love and care and attention."

"Yeah, baby. I think our family is the best idea." He told her honestly. "But you can still use your spreadsheet to choose Godparents, maybe?" He suggested.

She scrunched her nose. "I'm an atheist."

"Me too. I still have Godparents. They're just like... glorified Aunts and Uncles."

"Oh." She mumbled. "We'll have to have a long discussion about that."

He chuckled into her hair. "Okay, baby. Whatever you want."

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the bed, half in her pyjamas, a stack of papers pushed off to the side. Her phone was pressed to her ear, the lights dimmed low. The baby kicked once — firm — beneath her ribs. She didn't react.

"Hi, Mum," she said when Tracey picked up.

"Hi, love. Everything okay?"

"No." Amelia didn't bother softening it. "I mean — not catastrophically. But I need to talk about something and I don't want you to tell me I'm overthinking."

"I never would," Tracey said gently. "Go on."

A beat passed. Then another. Amelia closed her eyes.

"If something happens to me. Or me and Lando. What happens to my baby?"

There was a pause on the other end. Not long. But present.

"Darling..."

"I've been making a list," Amelia went on. "Of potential guardians. Interviewing people. Assessing them. I've made a spreadsheet."

"I'm not surprised," Tracey said softly.

"I thought about putting Oscar first, but he doesn't know how to sterilise a bottle. Fernando is high scoring but he's not got much experience for kids. Max F would probably fill her bottles with Monster Energy."

Tracey laughed, despite herself. "What about us?"

"I assumed you'd all be willing to help. But I need a legal designation. If we die, someone has to be named. Officially."

"Sweetheart... I understand. I do." Tracey's voice was steady, but warm. "But it's also so unlikely."

"I know it's unlikely." Amelia's voice was sharp, strained. "But I can't bank on unlikely. That's not how I work. That's not safe."

There was silence again. Amelia's fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh.

"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I don't want her to be scared. Or confused. Or be stuck with someone who doesn't understand her. Especially if she's—like me."

"She'll be loved," Tracey said immediately. "No matter what she's like. Because she'll be yours and Lando's little girl. And because you'll have taught her how to explain herself. Just like you've done your whole life."

Amelia blinked hard. "You think she'll be alright?"

"I know she will be. And not just because you've planned ten steps ahead. But because she'll grow up with people who see her. Who will do whatever it takes to understand her. Just like we did with you."

There was quiet on the line. The baby kicked again, softer this time. Amelia exhaled.

"I don't want to need the plan," she said, very quietly. "But I need to have the plan."

"And that's okay," Tracey said. "You make the plan. You have it in place that me and your dad, or Lando's mum and his dad, will be named legal guardians. But then, when you're ready, let it sit. You don't need to carry it every minute."

"I don't know how not to."

"Then I'll carry a little bit of it for you. So will your dad. So will Lando. That's what family's for."

A long pause.

"Thanks, Mum."

"I love you."

Amelia wiped her cheek. "Yeah. I know."

—

Amelia lay on her side, half curled around a pillow, hoodie bunched over the top of her belly. Lando was pressed close behind her, one hand splayed gently across the curve of her bump.

"She's awake," he murmured, grinning against her shoulder. "I felt her boot me in in the hand just now."

"She likes to kick when I'm horizontal," Amelia said, with a sigh. "She's very inconsiderate."

Lando chuckled and flattened his palm more purposefully, thumb brushing small circles near her belly button. "You think she knows it's me?"

"She reacts to your voice. She kicks harder for Oscar at the moment, though."

"That's rude." He leaned down, speaking directly to her stomach. "You know I'm the one who's gonna be changing your dirty, stinky nappies, right?"

The baby gave a solid thump.

Lando pulled back, eyes wide. "Did you feel that? She literally just responded to me."

"Of course I felt it," Amelia muttered.

Lando laughed again and shifted so he could look at her properly, brushing a few stray hairs away from her forehead. "Okay, okay. What if I..." He pressed a kiss to her belly, then whispered, "You're the coolest little bean in the universe."

Another kick.

"She's gonna be so spoiled," Amelia said. "You're already hyping her up."

"She should be hyped up. Look at her genes."

Amelia laughed. "Lando."

Lando turned to her with a mischievous glint. "What do you think happens if I play a recording of a V10 engine?"

"She might decide to come earth-side early." She said.

Lando snorted.

Amelia shifted onto her back, guiding Lando's hand as the baby rolled again, this time slower, like she was listening.

"She's so real," Amelia said, quieter now. "Still doesn't feel like it all the time. But she is. Real."

"I know," he said. "I think about it every day. That we're... gonna be parents. That I get to do this with you."

Amelia didn't look at him, but her fingers curled gently around his. "You're really good with me."

"Yeah, well," he murmured, resting his forehead gently against hers. "I kind of love you."

She turned her head a little, and he kissed her softly — slow and familiar, the kind that didn't lead anywhere except safety.

Their hands stayed linked over the baby as she shifted again beneath their skin.

"Do you think she'll be scared the first time we bring her into the paddock?" Lando asked.

"No. She'll be too tiny to be scared, I think. And by the time she's old enough, it'll just be... normal for her," Amelia muttered. "But we've got to get her paddock credentials sorted as soon as she's born."

He grinned. "We'll start with a tiny little VIP badge to clip to her baby grow. And some ear defenders."

"Smart," Amelia said. "We'll both have plenty of loud men to block out."

They fell asleep like that, legs tangled, baby between them, and the next morning came soft and golden through the curtains; the first light falling directly across Amelia's stomach, as if even the sun was trying to say hello.

—

It was already warm under the canopy, even though the Monaco sun hadn't fully crested the hills yet. The McLaren paddock buzzed—orange polos everywhere, cameras drifting past on gimbals, mechanics laughing over first-cup coffees that smelled like dark chocolate and fuel.

Amelia stood at the edge of it all, arms folded over her bump, dark sunglasses perched on her nose, clipboard hugged tight against her chest. She'd already rewritten a run-plan line item; now she was waiting—still—for Oscar.

He finally jogged up, bag slung over one shoulder. "You look like an army-recruitment officer," he puffed.

"You wouldn't last a day in the army," she replied, eyes still on her iPad. "You're always late."

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "And I'm only seven minutes late!"

"Seven minutes and you dropped croissant flakes all over the sim consoles last night. They ended up in the throttle pedal housing. I had to get on my hands and knees with the little handheld hoover. Do you know how difficult it is for me to bend over right now?"

"I was hungry. I needed energy!"

She raised one eyebrow. "Energy bars exist and they don't shed pastry all over the priceless simulator equipment."

He pursed his lips, sighed an apology, then nodded toward the interior of the motorhome. "Sorry. Fine. Come on. Tom's waiting."

—

The briefing room smelled of whiteboard marker and fresh rubber. Tom Stallard—clipboard in hand, headset looped around his neck—looked up as they entered. He offered Amelia a polite nod and Oscar a wry smile.

"Morning," Tom said, voice calm, measured. "Figured we could run through hand-over minutiae before first practice?"

Amelia slipped into the chair beside him, dropping her own clipboard with a soft thud. "Good idea. At least one of you is prepared today."

"Hey!" Oscar protested.

Tom chuckled. "I'm fairly prepared, I guess."

"That's good," Amelia muttered, tapping notes on her iPad.

She flicked the screen toward Tom. A colour-coded chart lit up; Oscar's preferred comms phrasing, ideal brake-migration tweaks per track, panic phrases to watch for. Oscar-Handling 101, the header read in dead-serious Helvetica.

Tom scanned it, impressed. "This is on-top of the big folder you've already put together for me?"

"Contingency is kindness," Amelia replied. "I'm not leaving him undefended while I'm off having a baby."

Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "She's terrified you'll let me eat in the sim room."

Tom grinned. "Contraband food noted."

Amelia pointed at the final column. "He also says 'copy, copy' when he's flustered. Means he hasn't copied. Repeat the instruction."

Oscar's ears went pink. "Well you didn't have to put that in writing."

"It's an operational fact," she said simply.

Tom set the chart aside. "We'll be okay, Amelia. I've shadowed enough of your sessions to know how you translate his feedback. Not as well as you can — but enough."

She exhaled—one of those slow, controlled breaths. God, she felt like her organs were running out of room. "I know. My brain just... insists on double-checking." Her hand rested instinctively on her belly. "Can't exactly be on the pit wall at forty weeks."

Oscar's expression softened. "You'll still be in my ear sometimes, right? From home?"

"As a 'consultant'," Tom said, quoting with his fingers. "Team's already approved remote link-ups when needed."

Amelia nodded. "I'll ping in for data dives. But Tom's your primary. Listen to him. Trust him."

"Understood," Oscar said, suddenly earnest. "And... thanks—for all this. For everything. I knew you'd be — all Amelia about this. But you didn't have to be. And I really appreciate it."

She blinked behind the sunglasses, uncomfortable with sentiment. "Just keep running at the top of the field. Keep pushing yourself. Maybe win a race." She told him.

Tom pushed his chair back, easy and steady. "Right. Track walk in ten."

Oscar slapped the table once in mock salute. "Yes, sir."

He turned to Amelia as they headed for the door. "No more croissants in the sims," he promised.

She handed him a protein bar out of her bag. "Here. This is better. More stable energy, less saturated fats."

He grinned, unwrapping it. "Aw. You still love me even after crumb-gate."

"Crumb-gate," she echoed, her mouth twitched upward.

Tom watched the exchange with quiet amusement. As they stepped onto the sun-lit pit lane, he leaned toward her. "He'll be fine, Amelia."

She adjusted her headset, gaze following Oscar's retreating figure. "I know. So will I." A small pause. "But I still hate it when he's late."

Tom laughed. "I'll keep him on military time."

—

The Monte Carlo sun had a way of making everything feel cinematic. White yachts bobbed on sapphire water, the harbour glinting just beyond the paddock gates. Amelia stood by the McLaren motorhome in a clean papaya polo, sunglasses tucked into her collar, bump unmistakable beneath the fabric.

It was Media Day, and the buzz was palpable.

She adjusted her earpiece as the Sky Sports producer counted them in, the familiar voice of Natalie Pinkham coming through her headphones with a bright, practiced warmth.

"We are here in beautiful Monaco with a very special guest — Amelia Norris, McLaren's lead performance engineer and, of course, Oscar Piastri's race engineer. Amelia, welcome."

Amelia gave a nod, her voice calm, direct. "Thanks. It's really hot, isn't it?"

Natalie laughed. "That it is. Listen, you've had a phenomenal season — McLaren's surge in performance, Oscar's consistency, and Lando finally breaking through for his first win. You've had your fingerprints on all of it."

Amelia tilted her head slightly, weighing the praise before answering. "It's been a team effort. Good car, amazing drivers. We've been smart with upgrades."

"And you've done all this," Natalie gestured gently to Amelia's belly, "while also expecting your first child with Lando. How exciting for you both!"

A soft smile played at Amelia's lips. "Yes. She's a very involved team member. Likes to kick during data meetings."

That got a warm laugh from the crew and nearby media.

Natalie's voice softened. "And I believe you have a bit of news for us today?"

Amelia nodded once. "Yes. This weekend will be my last before I step back for maternity leave. Tom Stallard will be taking over race engineering for Oscar post-Monaco until further notice."

A small wave of murmurs rippled through the surrounding press. Natalie smiled at her. "So this is your last race weekend for a while?"

Amelia shrugged, still poised. "For a few months, yes. I'll still be consulting remotely. But I won't be on the pit wall again until later in the season."

Natalie leaned in a little. "How does it feel, stepping away at a time like this? With McLaren doing so well, and you being so integral?"

There was a pause. Amelia's eyes flicked briefly down the paddock — where Lando was laughing with mechanics, Oscar leaning against the wall with a coffee, talking to a camera crew.

Then she answered.

"It's... complicated," she said. "I like control. I like knowing things. And there's a lot about becoming a parent I can't forecast. But the team is solid. Oscar's going to be in good hands. And our daughter—" her hand instinctively brushed her belly, "—deserves my full attention for a while."

There was a beat of quiet. Then Natalie smiled, warm and real. "Well, on behalf of everyone watching — thank you so much, Amelia. For all you've contributed to the sport over the past five years. And congratulations to you and Lando on this wonderful addition to your family."

Amelia nodded again, just once. "Thank you."

The interview wrapped, and as the camera cut away, Amelia stepped back, peeling off her earpiece. She was halfway through unpinning her mic when she felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders.

Lando pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "You were brilliant," he murmured.

"I told people I'm going on leave," she said quietly, like she needed to repeat it aloud. "I made it real."

"It is real." He looked down at her bump, then back at her. "But don't worry. You're still the boss. Just... remotely."

Amelia leaned into him, the smell of sunscreen and motor oil clinging to his polo. "You think people will forget me while I'm gone?"

"Not possible," he said immediately.

She gave a small, short laugh, and he kissed her temple again.

They stood there for a moment; in the glitz and the hum of Monaco, wrapped in their own quiet kind of gravity.

—

The hospitality deck was quieter than usual at lunch time, tucked just above the paddock chaos. A few guests chatted softly over sparkling water and pasta, the harbour glittering in the background. Amelia sat at a small table in the shade, half-finished salad in front of her, sunglasses pushed into her hair.

Her dad slid into the seat across from her with a grunt and then a beaming grin. "You're hiding up here."

Amelia stabbed a tomato with her fork. "I'm taking a scheduled break."

"That's what you're calling it now?"

She gave him a dry look. "Better than 'aggressively avoiding small talk with a million people who all want to ask me the same questions.'"

Zak chuckled and took a sip of his iced tea. "Hey, I didn't say it was a bad thing!"

They ate quietly for a few minutes. She glanced at her iPad once or twice, fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for her stylus.

Then her dad leaned forward, voice a little softer. "Your mom called."

Amelia didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"Told me to keep an eye on you. That you're getting anxious over silly things." He said. "She wants you at home. She doesn't think you should be working this weekend."

"I know what I'm doing." She said back, not sharply, just matter-of-fact. "I'm flying to England on Tuesday and then I'm going to start nesting."

"Fine, fine." He said. He was staring at her. "You did an interview this morning?"

"Yeah. It felt strange." She hesitated. "Like I had to tell them that I was handing over part of my identity and pretend that I was fine with it."

Zak nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "You don't need to pretend, kiddo. You're just doing something new. Hard to do both at once sometimes."

Amelia chewed slowly, then asked, "Did it feel like that when you stopped racing?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Yeah. I didn't admit it for a while, but yeah. It was hard. You build yourself around something that has a finish line, and suddenly it's not there anymore. It's just... your life."

Amelia's hand drifted to her bump without thinking. "What if I'm not good at the other thing?"

"You said the same thing when we put you into the advanced classes at school."

"I was eight."

"And you were wrong then, too."

She looked at him.

He gave her a small smile. "You're not just good at this job because you're smart. You're good because you care. And that's not going to change no matter how long of a break that you take."

Amelia stared down at her plate, silent for a moment. "I don't want to hand over Oscar."

Her dad leaned back in his chair, his tone more casual now. "You picked Stallard yourself. You trust him."

"I do." She took a breath. "But I know how Oscar works better than anyone else. How his brain ticks under pressure. And I've done everything for so long — pre-sessions, cooldowns, briefings. It's not just the job. It's him."

He nodded. "That's why you've been so good together. But you're also about to be someone's mum, Amelia. And that little girl is going to need all of that same care. All of that weirdly brilliant attention to detail."

Amelia huffed a laugh. "She's already demanding. She hates when I eat citrus. Just wants cake and tiramisu flavoured things all the time."

"She's got taste." He said. Then he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers."You're not disappearing, Amelia. Nobody is going to forget about you. You're going to have a baby, and you'll fall so deeply in love with her that everything else will fade into the background. But eventually, you'll be ready to come back. Your mom will travel with you, and you'll take over from Tom again, and everything will be just fine."

She blinked. Slowly. Then, she whispers, "Thanks, Dad. That really helps."

He squeezed her fingers. "You'll be back before you know it. And when you are—this place will still be yours. Trust me. You've made more of an impact than you will ever realise."

—

The restaurant clung to the cliffside above the marina, lit by soft lanterns and the shimmer of city lights below. The terrace buzzed with the gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of multiple F1 teams converging for one of those rare, off-track evenings.

It was still work, in a way — team bonding, sponsor optics, face time. But for now, it was pasta and mocktails and the smell of grilled sea bass drifting on the evening breeze.

Amelia sat wedged between Oscar and Lando, her hands cradling a chilled glass of pomegranate soda. Her feet were up on a second chair, legs aching just enough to warrant it. Lando kept refilling her glass every time she looked away. Oscar had already stolen her feta-stuffed olives.

When the main course wound down, she spotted Charles stepping out from a conversation with someone in red team gear. He looked relaxed — or as relaxed as Charles ever did in Monaco. Still sharp-edged around the eyes.

She tapped Lando's arm. "I'm going to say hi to Charles."

"You're not about to give him trade secrets, are you?"

She didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

Charles noticed her before she even reached him and smiled with something between fondness and humour. "You need a breather from the orange table?"

"I'm trying to be neutral and approachable," Amelia told him.

"You're failing," he replied, but his grin softened the jab. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot. Heavy. Slightly betrayed by my spine." She paused. "You?"

Charles tilted his head. "Nervous."

She nodded. "Understandable."

"It's Monaco."

"I know." She looked up at him for a beat longer. "The thing is, I want my boys to beat you. That's my priority and it always will be. But —" She bit her lip and leaned on the balcony. "But I want you to finish this race. Properly."

He laughed under his breath. "So do I."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice and leaned in, "So, maybe, if on your second quali lap, you just leave a little extra margin at the exit of Mirabeau. And maybe you should adjust your ride height a few inches. And your throttle pedal could, maybe, could be adjusted to the left; specifically for Monaco."

Charles stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me," she said with a faint smile. "Good luck, Charles. I hope you make your home crowd proud."

He smiled wider. "If anyone found out that you—"

"All my father would ever do is frown and me and proceed to tell me that I'm soft for you. Which I am." She smiled at him. "You've been such a wonderful friend to me, Charles. A good neighbour. You always listen to me when I speak, even if what I am saying makes no sense to you."

Charles looked at her, suddenly quiet. "Merci, Amelia. Thank you."

Amelia pursed her lips. "I'm not saying that those changes will make you win. But... They will give you a better chance at a front-row start. And we know how important that is here."

They stood like that a moment — Monaco locals by way of wildly different paths — then Charles glanced back toward the Ferrari table. "Tell your husband that I will be trying to poach you when you return from maternity leave," he said.

"Hm." She hummed. "You and Lewis next year — what a fun idea."

He blinked at her, a bit of hope clinging to the edges of his expression. "Really?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "No."

He huffed out an amused breath and started to turn away, then paused and added, sincerely, "Good luck, Amelia."

"Right back at you," she said, then added, "Leave the barriers alone this year, yes?"

"I'll do my best," Charles said with a wink, and disappeared back into the red sea.

When Amelia returned to the McLaren table, Lando leaned in with a faux-casual, "So, how's your favourite Ferrari boy?"

"He's nervous," Amelia said, sitting again with a sigh. "I hope I gave him some hope. That's the most powerful tool a driver can have." She tilted her head. "Well, that and me."

Oscar smirked and raised his drink. "To questionable loyalty."

"To Monaco miracles," she corrected, and clinked his glass.

—

Later, long after the dinner had wound down and the drivers WhatsApp group had gone feral with memes and selfies, Amelia lay submerged in warm water, her back nestled against Lando's chest. The bathroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from the small lamp over the sink and the soft glow of the candles. Lavender and eucalyptus swirled in the steam.

Lando's chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his fingers tracing aimless lines over the curve of her belly just visible above the surface. The baby gave the occasional gentle kick, more thump than flutter these days.

"She's very awake," Lando murmured, thumb brushing over one of the movements.

"She likes water," Amelia said, closing her eyes. "She always calms down when I'm in the shower. But she loves a bath."

"Maybe she'll be a mermaid."

"Or a diver. Or an aero specialist. Hydrodynamics and aerodynamics aren't that different."

Lando laughed into her shoulder. "That's such an engineer answer."

"You asked."

A comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted only by the lapping of the water and the distant hum of the city outside.

"Have you thought more about names?" He asked softly.

She opened one eye. "You're not letting that go, are you?"

"You said we'd make a shortlist this week."

"Technically, you said that. I just nodded."

"Close enough."

Amelia tilted her head back against his shoulder, thoughtful. "I like Ada."

"Yeah?" He asked thoughtfully.

"It's clean. It has weight. Ada Lovelace was one of the first computer programmers."

"Shocker."

"What — that I want to name our child after a female computing and mathematical pioneer?"

"Sarcasm, baby." He mumbled against her shoulder.

She frowned. "Sorry. Missed it. My brains all misty recently."

Lando gave her a little squeeze, then said, a bit more seriously, "I like Ada. But I also kind of like names that sound like movement. Like... I don't know. Skye. Or Elia. Something with flow."

"Skye Norris?" Amelia mused.

"Eh. It's a good jumping off point," he said.

They lapsed into silence again, his hands slow and steady against her belly, her fingers lazily drawing shapes in the water.

"I'm a bit scared," she said quietly. "To be honest."

Lando didn't move. "Of what?"

"Of getting it wrong," she whispered. "The name, the parenting, all of it. I'm good at engineering because it follows rules. But babies — she'll be her own person, Lando. With thoughts and emotions. And I don't know how to... prepare for that."

He was quiet a moment. Then he said, softly, "Me either."

Amelia blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight.

"But if we mess up—" Lando continued, nudging her temple with his nose, "we'll apologise. Own up to it. And then we'll try again. That's all anyone can do."

She exhaled. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because you overthink everything."

"That's rich coming from you."

He smiled. "Yeah, well. We're both anxious perfectionists with trust issues. Our daughter is doomed."

Amelia laughed — a real one this time. "Shut up."

Lando kissed the side of her head. "She'll have us on her side, though. Always."

Amelia reached down, took one of his hands, and pressed it firmly to the curve of her belly.

Their daughter kicked again, right on cue.

"Maybe Ada Skye," she said after a long pause.

Lando hummed. "Can I suggest something else?"

"Of course." She said quietly.

"What about Rosella?"

"After Rosella Manfrinato?" Amelia asked, voice full of curiosity.

"Yeah. First female engineer to ever work for Ferrari." He said.

She nodded. "Yeah. I know." She pursed her lips in thought. "Ada Rosella Norris." She whispered, trying to get a feel of the name.

"It's strong." Lando said.

"Full of power." Amelia agreed quietly.

Lando grinned against her temple. "Our little rocket scientist."

"Our little engineer," Amelia said, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let's not teach her about ERS until she's at least four."

"Three and a half," Amelia negotiated.

Lando laughed.

Amelia thought it sounded like home.

—

The apartment was silent now.

Water drained from the tub long ago, and Amelia was curled beneath the covers in their bed, one hand resting unconsciously on her bump, her breaths slow and even. Moonlight slid in through the curtains, tracing soft silver lines across her cheekbones. Lando stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her — still, peaceful, warm — before stepping back out into the living room and quietly closing the door behind him.

He crossed to the balcony, tugged on a hoodie, and pulled out his phone.

It took three rings before his dad answered.

"Lando? Everything alright?" His dad sounded like he'd just woken up — it was late, and Lando had forgotten the slight time difference.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry if I woke you up," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I needed to tell someone."

A beat of silence.

Then, with a hint of caution, because he knew his son, asked, "Tell me what?"

"I did it," Lando said. "I bought it. The land."

"What land?" Adam asked.

"The land, dad. Where we got married."

"You mean the—? Jesus, mate."

"Yeah. The field. With the oak tree. The one Amelia didn't stop talking about for a month straight last year." Lando sat down slowly on one of the balcony chairs, heart thudding. "But, like, I didn't just buy it, you know? I've been working with some people — architects, contractors. Builders. Decorators. It's happening. Happened, I guess. The house. Her house. She doesn't know yet."

Adam was quiet, but Lando could hear the smile in his voice when he finally said, "You're building it."

Lando nodded, even though his dad couldn't see him. "Built. Almost. Just, like, a few more pieces of furniture to get delivered. But yeah, dad. It's a real home. Just in time for the first few months with the baby. Maybe longer. It's all eco-efficient and airy — her office, a nursery, a bathtub big enough for the both of us, just like here. And the nursery..." He let out a breathless laugh. "Dad, I had it copied from her Pinterest board. Down to the wall art. She doesn't even know I have her Pinterest boards."

Adam chuckled softly. "Of course you do, son."

"It's got these soft pinks and greys. Planet mobiles, wood textures, soft-glow lamps. She pinned a photo of a reading nook by a window and I'm getting them to build one, exactly like it. I want it to feel like she's known it forever."

"She's going to love it," Adam said, gentle now.

Lando's throat tightened. "I just— When we found out that she was pregnant, I knew that she'd want to have the baby in England, you know? And I know she's more than happy to stay with her mum for a while but — I wanted her to have something that's hers. Ours."

"She already has that in you."

Lando looked out over the dark water, letting that settle. "I know. But, when I can't be there... I just want her to know," he said quietly, "you know? Be surrounded by it. A reminder that I'd give her the whole world. That she doesn't even have to ask."

"She knows, son."

"I'm going to bring her there," Lando said. "Next week. I'm hoping everything will be finished. I was hoping maybe you'd be able to go and check it out, maybe you and mum? Make sure everything's alright?"

His dad didn't say anything right away. "Of course we will, mate. Whatever you need. God, I'm proud of you, Lando. You've become the kind of man I always hoped you'd be."

Lando swallowed, hard. "Thanks, Dad."

"Now go and get some sleep. You've got a race weekend to finish — and a very clever wife to keep from figuring all this out."

Lando laughed, soft and careful, so he wouldn't wake Amelia. "Yeah. That's been the hardest part. But — I genuinely think I've managed to hide it."

They said their goodnights, and Lando stayed on the balcony for a few more minutes, watching the moonlight ripple across the water.

Then he slipped back into the bedroom and under the covers beside her.

Amelia shifted slightly in her sleep, turning toward him. He curled around her carefully, hand resting on the curve of her belly.

In four days, he thought, she'll open the big front-door and find everything waiting for her.

Everything she'd dreamed of — and more.

—

The sky was a crisp summer blue above the city, the harbour shimmering below. The McLaren garage was alive for the most important session of the weekend—controlled chaos, comms lines tight, eyes on telemetry, hands on buttons.

Amelia stood, headset on, bump cradled behind her clipboard. The engineers around her knew to give her room; she paced with deliberate, rhythmic movements when she was thinking, and thinking was all she was doing now.

Q3.

Tight margins. Traffic chaos. Purple sectors lighting up the screen like fireworks.

"Alright, Oscar," she said into the mic, her tone flat but alert. "Track's evolving fast. Leclerc's just gone purple in Sector 1."

"Copy."

He didn't sound nervous. Just wired in.

Her eyes flicked to the screen. Telemetry humming in real time. Every time she ran data analysis through her mind, Oscar's confidence had grown sharper, cleaner. The car was under him. And he was really, genuinely starting to believe in it.

"Go now. Push out of Rascasse. Clear air."

Silence. Then the rhythm of apex and throttle and millisecond corrections filled her ears like music.

Lando, on another screen, was midway through his final flyer. "He's purple in S2," someone said behind her, low.

"Copy that," Amelia replied. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just watched Oscar's delta fall green, then purple—

Then time stopped.

P2.

Right behind Leclerc. Less than a tenth off.

The garage burst into motion, restrained joy quickly overtaken by calculation. Strategy talk. Track position.

Amelia blinked hard and gave her mic one last click. "That's front row, Oscar. Hell of a lap."

"I left half a tenth at the hairpin."

"I'm aware," she deadpanned. "You also just out-qualified Verstappen and Hamilton in Monaco."

His laugh crackled over the radio as he pulled into Parc Ferme. "Holy shit."

Amelia turned in her seat and locked eyes with Lando just as he pulled his gloves off. "P4," he mouthed to her, not too disappointed—energised.

"Nice recovery after that wall tap in FP3," she called across the garage.

"I didn't touch the wall."

"You kissed it, then. Should I be jealous?"

He grinned.

A Sky Sports camera panned briefly to them. Amelia didn't flinch—just shifted her clipboard against her stomach again. Someone behind her passed her a small stool, and this time she accepted, sitting with a quiet exhale.

The top three were headed to press. She watched as Oscar removed his helmet, curls flattened, grinning wide, exchanging a look with her from across the paddock before getting swept toward the media pen.

"You nervous?" One of the junior engineers asked her as they unplugged telemetry cables.

"A little," Amelia said. "But we're front row in Monaco. There are worse problems to have."

And deep in her chest, beneath the clinical logic and mechanical heartbeat of the job, she felt it — a soft, surging pride. Her best friend, on the front row. Her husband, on the second. Her team, alive with momentum.

Their daughter kicked once, firm and sharp against her ribs.

"Yeah," Amelia whispered, rubbing her belly. "Let's make the last one good, baby girl."

—

The paddock was swarming. Engineers debriefed at speed, mechanics wheeled tyres past camera crews, and over it all came the distant call of the sea.

Amelia stood from the stool someone had given her earlier, brushing her hands over the front of her dress. She'd barely moved when she caught a flash of red.

Charles.

Helmet off, suit tied at the waist, damp curls sticking to his temples. He was deep in conversation with someone from Ferrari, nodding tightly — the thrill and heavy burden of taking pole position in Monaco sitting heavy on his shoulders, even under the roaring crowd.

Then his eyes caught hers.

For half a second, she thought maybe he'd just glance and move on. He was always polite, always kind, but this was a big moment for him. He had enough on his plate.

Instead, he paused. Just a beat.

Then — a smile, genuine and boyish.

And a quiet, grateful thumbs-up. Directed at her.

Amelia blinked, then returned the gesture with a small lift of her clipboard. A quiet acknowledgment.

She'd bent a few informal, off-the-record, definitely-against-McLaren-policy rules the night before at dinner. Just a few aerodynamic notes. Not enough to sabotage Lando and Oscar's chances. Just enough to give a driver she quietly admired the best shot he could get on home soil.

And now he was on pole.

Lando stepped up beside her, having just finished media, brushing his knuckles against hers without a word. He was still flushed from the car, hair wild and eyes bright. "Was that Charles just—?"

"Yeah," she said.

Lando gave her a suspicious look. "Is this about what you two were whispering about last night?"

"Nope." She lied.

"You gave him tips, didn't you?"

Amelia stayed perfectly still. "Prove it."

Lando opened his mouth — and then just laughed. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I wrong, though?" She asked mildly. "Oscar's still on the front row. You're in a great launch position. We've got a better long-run setup. I just want Charles to get through the damn first lap this year."

Lando shook his head with affectionate disbelief, still grinning. "Corporate espionage." He accused.

"I know," Amelia said. "How terrible." She joked.

He cupped her chin and tugged her to close the gap between this, kissing her chastely. "Come on. Let's go home."

—

The narrow streets of Monte Carlo felt quieter in the early morning. Calm before the storm. A million yachts bobbed in the harbour, a gull wheeled overhead, and the team trucks hummed with activity behind closed paddock gates.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, headset around her neck. The weight of the day — and everything it represented — settled into her bones.

Final race.

Final pre-race briefing.

At least for now.

Her eyes stung behind her sunglasses, but she didn't blink too much. If she started crying, she wasn't sure she'd stop. And she didn't want anyone — especially not Lando or Oscar — trying to hug her about it.

Not today.

"Morning," Oscar said behind her, nudging her arm gently.

She sniffed a laugh, turning around. "Morning. I have notes and spreadsheets for you."

He grinned. "Nerd."

She looked over at him — sweatpants, t-shirt, hair still wet from a quick hotel shower, eyes clearer than usual. "You ready for this?" She asked, voice quieter.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Think so."

"Good. You're going to get him at the start."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Leclerc?"

She didn't answer, just tapped her temple, then pointed at his heart. "Use both."

Oscar's grin turned boyish, proud. But then his eyes dropped to her belly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Then slower, "I'm fine. It's just... I feel like I'm abandoning you."

He didn't try to give her a speech. Just nodded, understanding threading his features. "It's just for now," he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just for now."

Lando found her a few minutes later, sneaking up behind her and sliding a cool bottle of water into her hand. "Hydration for my queen and my princess," he said, lightly.

She took it with a small smile. "You're annoying."

"You're emotional."

"I'm pregnant."

"Yes. I know," he teased, and she elbowed him. Then he pressed his forehead against hers. Just a moment of stillness in the bustle. "We'll do you proud," he said.

"You always do."

"And when you come back, our little girl in tow..."

"I'll be even smarter, and more terrifying."

"Exactly," he said, grinning. Then, a little softer, "You okay?"

She hesitated. Then nodded. "I'm okay. I'm... not not emotional. But I'm okay."

"Do you want me to find you a crying room?"

"Lando."

"I'm just saying. I'm sure there's an empty space around here somewhere."

Despite herself, she laughed. Then, very softly, rested her forehead to his chest, breathing in the smell of fuel and soap and Monaco air.

She didn't cry.

But her throat ached from not doing it.

And when she finally stepped back into the garage to take her place at the pit wall, clipboard in hand and headset secured, the world narrowed in a way she loved — to data, to pace deltas, to strategy windows.

To racing.

Her last Sunday. For now.

And her boys, Oscar and Lando, were about to make it count.

—

The buzz in the pit lane was razor-thin, and under her headset, Amelia could hear her own breathing.

The lights blinked red.

"Five." Four. "Three."

Oscar's telemetry spiked as his revs climbed.

Two. "One." Out.

The cars launched.

"Good launch," Amelia called into Oscar's ear. "Mode five. Hold your line into turn one."

He did — perfectly. Charles swept clean into Sainte Devote, Oscar tucked in behind, and Lando angled sharp around the outside of Hamilton to defend P4. But into Massenet, there was a twitch.

"Contact," came the warning from race control.

Amelia's eyes flicked to the feed — a Ferrari nudged too close. Carlos.

"Oscar. Status?" She asked tightly.

"I think I touched Sainz," Oscar said quickly, voice calm but clipped. "He turned in — we tapped."

She scanned his data; pressures stable.

"Copy. No damage on our end. Carlos has a puncture," came in from strategy.

"Maintain pace," she said. "You're still P2."

Then...chaos.

A screech; gut-churning and metallic — tore through the live feed. The monitor lit up with a yellow. Then double yellow. Then red.

"Red flag. Red flag. Slow the cars and return to the pit lane," came the immediate order from Race Control.

Amelia's stomach dropped. Another monitor showed Perez's Red Bull obliterated at Mirabeau, tangled with both Haas cars. Carbon fibre everywhere. A front wing clinging to a wall.

Amelia's hand tightened instinctively over her bump.

"Is that... all three of them?" Will asked, incredulous.

"What happened?" Oscar asked on the comms.

"Big collision. Perez, both Haas. There's debris everywhere through sector two. They've thrown the red flag so mode seven please, and come straight through to line up in the pit lane."

He exhaled. "Jesus."

"You're clean," she told him. "You did well to defend against Sainz and keep it as clean as possible. Keep your head in it, ducky."

Oscar didn't respond.

She exhaled, slow and controlled.

She glanced down at her bump and pressed her palm lightly against the curve.

Five minutes later, when all of the cars were lined up in the pit-lane and most of the drivers had climbed out, Lando found her.

"You alright?" His voice came quietly from behind. He'd handed of his helmet to one of the engineers in his garage.

"Yeah. I'm fine," she said. "Just didn't want my last one for a while to start like this."

He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "Still a long way to go."

She nodded once. "Yeah."

"Want to go and find some capri suns?" He asked.

She glanced at Will, who nodded as if to say 'Might as well, not like anything's happening here.' So she got up, took Lando's hand, and let him guide her toward the mini fridge in the back of his garage.

—

The paddock was a knot of tension. Mechanics hovered. Engineers tapped frantically on keyboards. Drivers paced.

Amelia stood in the garage, headphones looped around her neck, one hand resting on her lower back. Oscar leaned against the pit wall barrier, helmet off, sipping from a water bottle.

"Fronts are still stable," she said quietly, scanning the screen. "You were holding well into sector three before the red flag."

He nodded. "Do we go back to the grid, or rolling start?"

"Standing restart," Tom said, appearing beside her with a tablet.

Oscar took a deep breath. "Copy."

Amelia's voice dropped, so only he could hear: "Eyes forward. Don't chase Charles — let him cook his tyres. Lando's breathing down your neck, but he won't dive you into Turn One. You've got space to think."

Oscar gave her a crooked smile. "You gonna miss bossing me around?"

"Immensely," she said.

Back on the grid, the tension returned like a rubber band pulled taut. Cameras swiveled. Engines revved. Amelia's screens lit up again — tyre temps, ERS levels, delta charts. She exhaled slowly.

Lights out — again.

Charles launched clean. Oscar slipped ever so slightly — enough to give Carlos and Lando a sniff. But he held P2 into Turn One, Lando defending hard from Hamilton, who wasn't giving up without a fight.

By Lap 36, the order held steady: Charles, Oscar, Lando. No one risking the undercut — it was Monaco, after all. Strategy would come down to patience, tyre life, and sheer mistake-free laps.

Amelia's voice was calm in Oscar's ear: "Keep him honest. Don't push yet — wait for the window. If Charles blinks, we leapfrog him. Otherwise, you're the threat."

Behind them, Lando was making time. Slowly, surgically. Amelia's chest swelled with pride.

She didn't even flinch when he came over the radio to Will, his own engineer. "Tyres still feel good. Let me know if Oscar drops."

Oscar stayed tight. Impressive, really. This wasn't his circuit — but he'd driven like it was.

Then the inevitable: Charles crossed the finish line in P1. Oscar brought it home in P2, and Carlos crossed in P3. Lando missed out on the podium by a hundredth of a second.

Amelia unmuted. "Box, box. That was clinical. Well done."

Oscar whooped through the radio. "Thanks, Amelia. That was unreal. Thanks for—everything."

She smiled, actually smiled, throat tight. "Gonna miss you, ducky. Drive fast as hell for me, alright?"

"Copy that." He said.

Andrea reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "Good job."

"Thanks." She said quietly.

—

She waited by Parc Ferme for Lando to finish being weighed.

He ran straight to her.

"You're done," he said, breathless, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm done," she echoed, burying her face in his shoulder. "For now."

He kissed her. "I love you so much, Amelia Norris."

"Yeah," she mumbled, blushing. Because she knew for a fact that there was a thousand cameras pointed right at them. "I love you too."

—

Amelia stood near the edge of the pit lane, half-shielded by the shadow of the McLaren garage. Her headset was off. Her hair was tied back. She looked tired — tired, but finally still.

A rustle of footsteps approached behind her, softer than the usual thud of boots or trainers. She turned, and Charles was there.

In a fresh pair of sweats. His face was flushed, hair damp from his dive into the water, but the light in his eyes was quieter now — grounded.

"Amelia," he said gently.

She blinked, then straightened a little.

Charles stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug.

It was warm. Steady. Just tight enough.

Not rushed or awkward, but full-bodied and honest.

"Merci," he said into her hair, voice low and thick. "Merci pour tout."

Amelia hesitated, stunned for a breath, then carefully hugged him back, fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"You made it stick," she said. "Finally."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glinting. "I think maybe... I needed you to tell me that you believed I could."

Amelia's throat tightened. "I didn't do much," she said, voice soft.

Charles shook his head. "You never give yourself enough credit."

She snorted. "That's not true. I know that I'm excellent. I'm just not... sentimental."

His grin spread, warm and crooked. "Just this once." He gave her one more squeeze, then stepped back, nodding toward her bump with quiet reverence. "She's going to be very proud of her mother. One day."

Amelia's smile was small but real. "I hope so."

Charles gave her a parting wink before melting back into the paddock's glow.

—

The restaurant overlooked the water. It wasn't flashy — just candlelight, open windows, and long tables pulled together to fit the team. Plates were passed around. Bottles of wine, soft drinks, sparkling water.

Oscar sat beside Amelia, nudging her knee under the table every so often like he couldn't help himself. Across from them, Lando had changed into a casual shirt, hair still slightly damp from the post-race champagne photo. He kept glancing over at her, soft-eyed and full of pride.

Zak stood and tapped the side of his glass, raising his voice just enough to call the room to attention.

"Right. I think we all know what today meant," he said, smiling faintly. "Charles took the win, but Oscar gave us a hell of a podium and Lando brought it home clean and sharp. Great points for the team." He looked toward Amelia. "But more than that — today was Amelia's last race before maternity leave."

The team clapped — loud and long. There were whistles. Shouts of "legend!" and "go on, mama!" from the mechanics.

Amelia flushed, shifting in her seat.

"She's not just Oscar's engineer," Zak went on. "She's part of why this team found its footing again. You've felt it. I've felt it. She redefined what we thought we could do. And I know — I know — she's going to come back stronger."

Oscar leaned in and whispered, "I'm not ready for Baby Norris to be smarter than me by age four."

"Don't put that pressure on her," Amelia said. "Give her until she's five, at least."

That earned a echo of amused snickers.

Then Tom raised a glass. "To Amelia," he said, smiling. "And to Lando. Congratulations."

Amelia's eyes prickled. She wasn't good at this part. The centre-of-attention part. But she looked around — at the sea of orange and grease-stained fingernails and sunburnt faces. And she felt it. All of it.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the candles burned lower, someone passed her a small envelope. Inside: a card, signed by every team member. Tucked behind it — a folded drawing. A sketch of the McLaren garage. Tiny details included. A crib nestled between the tool chests (which was not going to happen). Her in a headset, baby in a sling. A caption underneath: "When you come back, we'll be waiting with open arms."

She stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into her bag without a word.

Lando wrapped an arm around her as they left, walking her slowly through the cobbled street, his voice low.

"That was a lot. You doing okay?"

"I'm more than okay," she murmured, leaning into him. "I'm just... trying to remember it all. Every second."

"It'll all be here when come back," he said. "But for now — we've got a baby to get ready for."

She exhaled.

And then she smiled.

—

They were back in England by the Tuesday.

Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat, her iPad on her lap. For once, she wasn't reading sim telemetry or reviewing Oscar's feedback — that was Tom's job now.

She was just... reading. A romance novel. She'd renewed her kindle unlimited subscription for the first time in almost three years.

When the car veered off the familiar road toward a narrow lane nestled between fields, she furrowed her brow.

"This isn't the way to my mums," she said.

"I know," Lando replied, his tone light but unreadable.

"Are we visiting someone?"

"You'll see."

She frowned at him but he just reached over and squeezed her leg.

They pulled up a gravel path flanked by hedges still brushing off their spring blossoms. At the end of it: a gate. New. Black metal. The kind that hummed softly as it opened automatically.

Immediately, she knew where there were.

Could see the blur of the old Manor House in the distance, hidden by the rolling green hills.

Amelia turned to him, heart thudding, eyebrows slowly drawing together. "Lando?"

He glanced at her. Smiled. "Just trust me."

The driveway opened into a wide clearing. Green everywhere. Hills rolling in the distance. And in the centre of it: a house.

A new house.

But not just a new house.

It was...

God.

Holy shit.

It was her house.

Amelia stared at it. White stone, deep-set windows, pale wood accents, red brick roof. A big front-door with a place to kick off muddy boots. Like a conglomeration of the millions of pictures that she'd shown him on sleepy nights.

She was quiet for a long time.

"I don't understand," she whispered wetly.

He got out of the car, came around to open her door. Helped her out gently, hand on her back, then on her belly.

"You told me," he said, "that you felt safest where things didn't echo too much. Where the air didn't feel tight. That you wanted your daughter's first memories to be somewhere soft. This is going to be that place, baby."

She stared up at the house again. "When?"

"When you got pregnant." He scratched his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I— Well, I'd already bought the land. Bought it the first time you sent me the listing. But I only started talking to architects after we found out you were pregnant. Designers. Pietra sent me your Pinterest, by the way. I had to bribe her."

Amelia made a shocked sound somewhere between a breath and a laugh.

"Come inside." He whispered.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar and fresh paint. Light poured through tall windows. There were shelves already filled with books — her books, she realised, when she looked closer. All of the books she'd left at her mom's house in Woking because it would have been ridiculous to ship them all to Monaco. A kitchen with an enormous window overlooking acres upon acres of green, a table big enough for noisy breakfasts and quiet late-night sandwiches. A fireplace in the living room. A crocheted blanket already draped across the back of the couch, ("my nan made it for us," Lando murmured), and Amelia felt like crying.

And then — the nursery.

Creamy white walls. A crib. The exact mobile she'd dreamed of. Tasteful art hung on the walls, pink accents. Calm. Serene. An armchair in the corner. A side table with a lamp that looked like the one from her childhood bedroom — it was, she realised, upon closer look. A window overlooking the hills. Blackout curtains. A chest of drawers packed to the brim with an array of different sizes of nappies and a million packets of wet wipes and a closet that was full to the brim with the suitcases worth of baby clothes that she'd been buying and having delivered to her mom's house for the past seven months.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. "You remembered everything."

"You deserve everything."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't even know how to..." She trailed off, too full to finish.

Lando stepped closer and placed her hand against his chest. "You don't need to say anything."

"But I—"

"This is for you, baby. All of it. Forever."

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Welcome home, baby."

NEXT CHAPTER

487 notes · View notes

writeriguess · 21 days ago

Note

Will you write for shikamaru x fem reader? Maybe him not acting like he’s interested in his wife anymore but really it’s just stress but she slowly makes herself distant and stops taking care of herself when he finally notices

Clouds Between Us

The days had grown longer. Not in time, but in weight. Every hour seemed to drag behind it a thousand worries, each one clinging to Shikamaru like the scent of smoke after a fire. And you felt it—slowly, painfully, deeply.

It started small.

“Dinner’s ready,” you said one night, placing his plate on the table with a soft clink. He didn’t look up from his scrolls.

“Just leave it. I’ll eat later,” he muttered.

Later came and went. You threw the food out the next morning.

At first, you understood. He was the Hokage’s advisor—his responsibilities had doubled, maybe tripled. Konoha needed him. But so did you. And he didn’t even seem to notice you were fading into the background.

You stopped wearing your favorite perfume. He never commented on it anymore anyway. You stopped doing your hair the way he liked it, that half-up twist he once said reminded him of wind in the grass. You stopped kissing him goodnight.

Weeks passed.

You sat on the porch one evening, arms wrapped around your knees, watching the sun lower itself over the village rooftops. You heard him come home—late again. He mumbled something that sounded like “I’m back,” then his footsteps carried him to the study.

No kiss. No touch. Not even a glance.

You didn’t follow.

You started sleeping earlier. Alone. He stayed in the other room, burning his candle down to the stub. When he did climb into bed, you were already pretending to be asleep.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

But how do you tell someone who looks so exhausted, so buried under duty, “Hey, I think I’m disappearing and you don’t even care?”

Instead, you disappeared silently.

You stopped cooking dinner. He didn’t notice. You skipped lunch. He didn’t ask. You didn’t say good morning. He barely looked up.

Until one night—your body finally gave in.

You fainted.

It happened fast. You were standing in the hallway, maybe on your way to grab water, and the next thing you knew, you were on the floor, cheek pressed against the wood, too weak to lift yourself.

“(Y/N)?”

His voice cut through the haze. Footsteps. Then hands—his hands—gripping your arms, turning you over.

“Hey. Hey, what the hell—what happened?!”

You blinked up at him, vision blurry. “I… I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” he snapped, panic dripping from every word. “You’re burning up.”

You didn’t argue when he picked you up. You were too tired.

He set you on the bed, covered you with blankets, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he stayed. Sat beside you. Watched you.

“I didn’t even notice,” he whispered, brushing hair from your forehead. “What the hell is wrong with me…”

You turned your head away.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you said, voice hoarse. “You always looked so… done. I didn’t want to be one more thing weighing you down.”

Silence.

Shikamaru stared at you like you were speaking a language he’d forgotten.

“You think you’re a burden?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying.

“I thought giving you space was helping,” he said. “I thought if I just got through this rough patch, everything would go back to normal. I didn’t think—damn it, I didn’t think it was hurting you this bad.”

You let the silence speak for you.

“I haven’t been sleeping either,” he admitted, voice low. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s just missions, reports, strategy… and I kept thinking, ‘She’s fine. She’s strong. She understands.’ But that wasn’t fair, was it?”

“No,” you whispered.

He turned to face you fully, eyes glassy with regret.

“You stopped looking at me,” you said quietly. “Like I wasn’t even here anymore.”

Shikamaru closed his eyes, like your words physically struck him. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You felt his hand slide into yours.

“I didn’t mean to pull away. I just thought… if I could fix everything else first, I’d come back to you whole. But I was wrong. I should’ve come to you messy. Tired. Stressed. All of it. You’re not some checkpoint at the end. You’re the only constant I’ve ever had.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands. His thumb was stroking your knuckles now, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“I missed you,” you murmured, voice trembling. “And I started missing myself too.”

His breath hitched. “That’s on me. And I’m not gonna let it stay like this.”

You didn’t know what to say. The hurt was still there, lingering like smoke after a long-forgotten fire.

But so was he.

He pressed his forehead to the back of your hand.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “Whatever it takes.”

And maybe you believed him.

Because for the first time in weeks, he saw you. And he wasn’t looking away.

#naruto x reader #naruto x you #naruto x y/n #shikamaru x reader #shikamaru x you #shikamaru x y/n

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imagine-it-was-us · 4 months ago

Text

foreign language || Charles Leclerc

Inspiration: Nothing but thieves "Foreign language"

Author's note: My favorite part about writing these is entertaining different conflicts and perspectives of it. Especially when I cannot sleep and I challenge my husband with the ideas and everything turns into one big debate event. Props to him for helping with this one and still putting up with me 🤍

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warnings: none. I'm not that type of girlie.

Summary: For years, they’ve built something quiet, something real – hidden away from the cameras, the headlines, the insatiable curiosity of the world. But secrecy comes at a cost, and the weight of it is starting to press down on them both. When a rare moment of peace forces them to confront the choices they’ve made, they find themselves standing at a crossroads.

Word count: 2.6k+

The warmth of the sun was pressing gently against his skin, the faint sound of waves rolling onto the shore blending into the rhythmic hum of the world around him. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, matching the pace of the woman resting against him. He had her tucked into his side, her body draped across his like she belonged there. And she did. That much, he was sure of.

What he wasn’t sure of – what he sometimes struggled to wrap his head around – was how different their lives were. How different they had always been.

Right now, though, none of that mattered.

For a brief moment in time, they were untouchable. Not because of security teams or carefully placed PR statements, but because nobody here cared. People passed them by, offering little more than a glance, completely indifferent to the fact that one of the most recognizable faces in motorsport was lying on their beach, holding a woman whose name the public didn’t even know.

He exhaled slowly, a deep, satisfied sigh that came from someplace buried so deep inside him, he almost didn’t recognize it.

She shifted slightly against him, her voice smooth and unbothered as she asked:

“What’s the matter?”

She didn’t open her eyes, still basking in the sun, soaking in the kind of peace that came naturally to her but had to be constructed for him – pieced together through strategic social media posts and a carefully orchestrated timeline that placed him halfway across the continent.

“All is good,” he murmured, and even that was an admission, because he hadn’t known it was possible to feel this light. “I’m just enjoying this.”

And he was. But at the same time, he wasn’t.

Because he’d had to fight for this. For a single week of anonymity, he had to pull off a logistical stunt that rivaled the complexities of an F1 strategy call. Max had helped, of course – posing in a few group shots with him, editing time stamps, planting just enough digital breadcrumbs to keep the illusion alive. Meanwhile, he had snuck into a tiny, overlooked country in Eastern Europe, where cameras didn’t follow him, and fans didn’t chase him down the street.

And still, it wasn’t just the effort that sat heavy on his chest. It was the mere fact that this was necessary at all.

His life wasn’t built for peace. His life was a series of carefully calculated moves, a world where nothing went unnoticed, where one wrong word could create a week’s worth of headlines. He’d grown up in it, adapted to it. And while he wouldn’t say he chose it, it was the only way he knew how to exist.

Until he met her.

She had been the first person to show him something different.

He could still remember the first time he saw her, the way she barely even looked at him when she handed him his coffee. It was such a simple thing, but it stunned him. He wasn’t used to that. To being invisible. To being just another person in line.

And yet, he kept coming back, chasing something he didn’t even have a name for at the time. The quiet confidence, the way she moved through life without the need for validation or the weight of expectations. It was the absence of noise that made him lean in closer.

Eventually, he got through to her, broke down the walls she so carefully built. And as their connection grew, he expected that she would eventually step into his world. That she would want to. Yet, she never did.

Even now, nearly five years later, she remained tucked away in the spaces between his public life, choosing to exist in the shadows rather than the spotlight. And for all the love they shared, for all the ways they had built a life together, sometimes it frustrated him.

Of course, the people who mattered knew. Their families, their closest friends – those who had stood beside them long before the world ever cared about his name. The ones who saw beyond the headlines and the interviews, who understood that what they had was real, even if the world never got to witness it.

And those same people had become their quiet accomplices, helping them navigate this delicate, invisible dance. His family never slipped up in interviews, never let a misplaced word expose what he worked so hard to keep private. His friends, too, had learned to deflect, to keep her name away from questioning eyes. Even his team, the ones who spent nearly every waking moment with him – had learned the unspoken rule: she was his, but she wasn’t theirs to claim.

And yet, for all the secrecy, for all the careful maneuvering… their love had never felt hidden to the people who truly mattered. It was just protected.

But protection and freedom weren’t the same thing. And that was the battle he fought within himself, over and over again. Not because he wanted to parade her around like some kind of trophy. He simply was not that type of guy. But because hiding this part of his life had become suffocating. The weight of secrecy pressed on him in every interview, every event, every casual question about his personal life that forced him to bite his tongue or dance around the truth.

His fingers absently brushed over the sand beside him, the warmth of the sun clashing with the cool unease creeping up his spine.

“You’re still thinking about making this public now, don’t you?”

Her voice was calm, steady, like she already knew the answer. And of course, she did, cause this discussion would sometimes interrupt their daily program. Her eyes, open now, studied him intently, reading the silent tug-of-war happening inside his head.

His gaze flickered downward, landing on the delicate gold band on her ring finger. Minimalistic, understated. Just like the love they had built – real, solid, but never loud.

“You know I am,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, but certain. “But I would never push you into something you’re not ready for.”

She rolled onto her stomach, propping herself up just enough to study him more closely. Sunlight hit her skin, casting a glow across her features, but her expression remained unreadable. Thoughtful. Considering. This discussion wasn’t new. The conversation had snuck its way into their quiet moments before. It was never a demand, never a plea, just a lingering thought between them, waiting for a resolution.

And yet, every time it came up, she felt the same pull in opposite directions. She wanted to give him everything. But she also wanted to keep this one thing just for herself. Once it was out there, it wasn’t just theirs anymore. It would belong to the headlines, the speculations, the nameless voices picking apart every detail. It wasn’t the attention itself that scared her – it was the slow erosion of their bubble, the way something so intimate could turn into a conversation for the world to dissect.

But it had never been about her safety, not really. It had always been about his. He was the one whose life had been carefully curated, whose every move was subject to scrutiny. She was the ghost between the lines, the one thing he had kept untouched by the madness. And that had worked—because it had been on her terms. Now, though? Now he wanted something different.

If the rules of their world had to shift, then why should she be the only one adjusting? If he wanted to entertain the idea of change, then so would she.

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Charles, quit F1.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. He knew better. He knew she would explain.

“It will take people a couple of years to forget you, don’t get me wrong,” she continued, her voice measured, unhurried. “You’ll be questioned endlessly about it, that’s for a fact. Every interview, every headline, it’ll be about why you left, if you’ll ever come back. But eventually, the headlines will die down.”

Her fingers idly traced patterns into the sand between them.

“There will be younger and quicker people on the grid who will outshine you. Drivers who will set new records, who will take over the narrative, who will become the new obsession. Once you step out of it, there will be less and less interest in you every day. And just like that… eventually, no one will truly care.”

The words settled between them, heavy yet spoken with complete neutrality. No expectation. No malice. Just the truth.

And it hit him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Because she was right.

He had spent so many years believing that the world’s attention on him was unavoidable. That being watched, analyzed, followed was just part of him, an inescapable reality. But was it?

He had watched legends retire before. He had seen the frenzy that followed, the endless speculation, the “will he, won’t he” debates that flooded every media outlet. But then always someone new came along. And slowly, those names, those faces, the ones that once seemed untouchable… they faded.

He had seen it happen. He had never considered it happening to him.

And yet, she had laid it out so plainly. The alternative. A life where no one waited at hotel lobbies or airports. Where his words weren’t dissected, his expressions weren’t analyzed. Where he could just be.

The moment the words left her mouth, he felt the immediate instinct to deflect. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it, but there was something deeply unsettling about confronting the possibility head-on.

“No, I couldn’t,” he said, shaking his head slightly, as if the idea alone was too absurd to entertain for long. “I like what I’m doing. Even though it tends to be bizarre.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t push. She just looked at him with that same knowing expression, the one that told him she understood more than he ever had to say out loud.

“I know and that is why I would never force you to,” she said simply. Then, with a small smile, she added, “But I know what I’m doing, too.”

She shifted slightly, resting her chin on her folded arms as she continued. “I like admiring you and supporting you from afar. I love being in the crowd, looking at you, and knowing that the people around me couldn’t care less. That’s a kind of freedom I cherish. And I love my work too. You know, I studied hard for it. Being a cybersecurity specialist means I have to be the hardest person to track.”

She glanced down at her hand, twisting the ring slightly between her fingers, still getting used to the new title attached to it.

“I’m Charles Leclerc’s wife.” There was no bitterness in the way she said it, only quiet amusement. “My firewalls are already attacked as it is. I don’t want any more eyes on me.”

Her voice remained calm, steady. This wasn’t an argument. It wasn’t an attempt to change his mind or to make him choose. It was just perspective. The same way he had given her his.

He nodded, exhaling slowly, fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

“I understand it.”

She smiled softly, as if she already knew he would say that. But there was still more to say.

“And still,” she continued, “it’s my freedom on the chopping block each time. Not your career.”

There was no accusation in her voice, no resentment. Just truth. A truth he had never been able to fully grasp – not because he didn’t want to, but because he had never lived it.

He knew what it meant to be scrutinized, to have his every move dissected and analyzed. But she knew what it meant to fight for the right not to be seen. To be invisible by choice, because her work depended on it.

And that was the core of it, wasn’t it? They weren’t on opposite sides.

They were just speaking different languages. And he loved hearing her talk.

“I know that we’ve been so tired of this walking around on our tiptoes lately. And I know that you hate lying,” she murmured, exhaling slowly, eyes closing again as if to fully absorb the warmth of the sun against her skin. “So don’t.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Don’t hide the ring,” she continued. “Don’t deny the questions. Just… don’t entertain the idea.”

His lips twitched, barely holding back a smirk.

“First couple of months will be hell,” she admitted, voice carrying the weight of reality, but there was no hesitation in it. “And I’ll probably have to keep my distance just a little bit more. But just like with the ending of a career – once you stop talking about it, once you stop feeding into it… eventually, they’ll care less and less.” Her voice trailed off, as if the thought itself was settling into place even as she said it.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the waves, the faint chatter of distant voices, the occasional gust of wind brushing against them.

He turned his head toward her, watching the way her lips remained slightly parted, the way her fingers absentmindedly traced the curve of her ring. Their ring.

He let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head back against the sand. “That might be the most diplomatic way you’ve ever told me I told you so.”

Throughout their relationship, she has told him multiple times that public attention fades when there’s nothing to feed it. She’s seen it happen, and she has lived her life accordingly, staying under the radar by not engaging with the spotlight in any way. Meanwhile, he has spent years under scrutiny, believing that any revelation about his private life would spiral into endless speculation, making it impossible to protect what they have.

She cracked one eye open, just enough to catch the teasing glint in his. “I’m just saying, if you’re so desperate to stop lying, you might as well try telling the watered-down version of the truth for once.”

He hummed, rolling onto his side so he could prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at her with an amused smile. “And this is you giving me permission?”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t open her eyes. “I’m just giving you an option.”

For a second, he just looked at her, as if trying to make sure he had heard her right.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t an Instagram post or a joint red-carpet appearance. But to him, it was bigger than that. It was a permission. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, she trusted the world enough to know a piece of their truth.

The relief was instant, but more than that – it was joy. She wasn’t giving him everything. But she was giving him this. And for now, that was enough.

“I have to say,” he chuckled, a grin tugging at his lips, “I wasn’t expecting this kind of progress today.”

“Giving someone the right to claim your last name comes with its own advantages, but don’t get used to it.”

He laughed, light and easy, pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of her head before lying back down. The sun was warm, the air still, and for the first time in a long time, something inside of him felt lighter.

Maybe they weren’t speaking the same language just yet.

But at least now, they were meeting in the middle.

masterlist✨

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ild-rllrcstr · 17 days ago

Text

The Second Seat part 3

Lando Norris X You (female driver) / slight angst / 2.9K

part 1 / part 2 / part 4 / part 5

Summary You worked your way up to Formula One, contracted with McLaren, defying all odds. You play the team game: humble, strategic, and willing to follow orders, even if it means sacrificing podiums so Lando Norris can be the world champion. Every lap you sacrifice, every time you hold back, the world starts to doubt your talent. Lando sees it all. So he makes a choice: to give you the race, the recognition you deserve, and maybe his heart. You came for the drive, but you stayed for something more.

Warnings swearing A/N I realised the link for part two was not attached properly for some reason, but it's now properly fixed! I almost cried writing some paragraphs in this part, just so you guys are ready. Also, I did see the requests, I'm still planning this story and see if I finish this first or cut in some requests but I promise it won’t take long!

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After Monaco, something changed. The dynamic between you and Lando shifted. Cold, quiet distance. The last real conversation you had was on Charles' yacht that night in Monaco.

Since then, it was like you existed in parallel, orbiting the same team in different spheres. You showed up to meetings, sat across from each other in the McLaren briefing room, occasionally exchanged professional nods in the garage, but the easy banter, the occasional teasing, the warmth, it was gone.

Everyone noticed, and they tried not to act weird about it. Since the little Eureka moment enlightened by Lewis, it was also frustrating for the others to watch you two, but it was no one’s place to interfere. They don’t know how to.

Lando stopped expressing his frustration, just hitting the throttle harder, hoping to gain more advantage so you don’t have to be in more unfair situation anymore. But his bottled-up frustration was not helping much.

The media feasted on the tension. Rumours spread, questioning your ability, your place in McLaren, your results. Headlines swirled with loaded language: “McLaren’s Strategy: Sacrificing One for the Other?” “Rookie Dragging Down Constructors’ Fight?”

You said nothing. You just kept showing up.

Lando kept winning. With each race, his championship lead stretched further. He was leaving everyone behind, Max, Lewis, Oscar, all of them chasing his shadow. On paper, it looked like a dream season for McLaren. In reality, everyone knew it was a one-man show.

And you? You were stuck in P8 in the driver standings. Good spot for a rookie by historical standards, but in the fight for the Constructors’ title, you were dead weight. The math didn’t lie. The team had made their choice: this year wasn’t about the team. It was about getting Lando his championship.

You spent all summer as a moving roadblock for Lando, holding up competitors, defending track position with worn tyres just long enough to buy Lando clean air or a perfect pit window. Over and over again. The tactics that once felt strategic started to feel like sabotage. It was a quiet humiliation. One lap at a time.

It not only frustrated you but also Lando. He was winning, but he couldn’t celebrate the way he used to. There were no cheeky grins in the cooldown room, no energetic podium leaps. The media said he finally matured, but he was just drained, emotionally, and guilty, even.

The worst scenario came at Silverstone. You dreamt about this race ever since you drove, and it was equally important for McLaren to shine at home.

But the strategy calls came again. You stayed out longer than made sense, blocking a charging Racing Bulls train. Your tires were gone by Lap 40. Lando took the win, you dropped out of the points completely, P11. Your worst finish all season.

The crowd roared. Papaya flags flew. The pit wall exploded with cheers, all for Lando.

You slipped out before the cameras came. No press. No interviews. Just the back paddock tunnel and the hum of post-race chaos echoing somewhere behind you.

There were no pats on the back in the garage afterwards. Just nods.

“Nice job out there.” Someone mumbled as you came out of the cockpit.

You didn’t respond. Nice job, it must be a joke. Because what part of it was a nice job?

On the screen, Lando stood on the top step of the podium to a sea of British and papaya flags… while you sat in the driver’s room with your helmet off, staring blankly at the data. Nothing was going inside your brain, you know all the numbers by heart, it seems useless to look further anymore.

You weren’t angry. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. And somewhere deep in your gut, you realised something painful:

You hadn’t been racing for yourself in weeks. You were just... managing the traffic.

You saw Lando in the debrief. He gave you a long look. No words. No fake smiles. You saw the flicker of devastation in his eyes, matching yours hidden deeper.

You saw each other's frustration. But neither of you knew how to fix it.

A little part of you started to feel like perhaps Lando was right.

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Two months later, September’s Monza was still blazing with the Italian heat. The goal was still Lando’s championship. For you, the more you are to the end of the season, you more you’re making peace with yourself and accepting the frustrating situation. You get in the car, get instructions, and execute. Like a robot, not expecting much.

30 laps in, Lando was fighting with Lewis for P1. Both overlapped the slower cars by 1 lap and were going through the traffic area. The competition that was happening between Esteben and Nico was only making them harder to overtake. An unforeseen contact between the two slower cars caused Nico to slip, slamming off Lando’s right wing, also spinning Lando off the track. The day was wrapped for Lando and Nico. Here comes the safety car.

“Y/N, box now, after the safety car, switching to Plan A, start pushing.”

Standing P6 holding the traffic, you were oblivious of what was happening on the other side of the track. The announcement from your engineer was unexpected. You boxed, and when you came out, you saw the papaya car on the side of the track as you passed by. Lando saw you pass, the adrenaline within him started to pump, he realised something and was more thrilled than he should be at the situation.

“Is he alright?” you asked your engineer, more worried than you sounded.

“Right wing’s slammed off, but he’s all good.”

Shook off the thought, that’s when you realise it was the opportunity you were waiting for all along. You were P6, Lando’s off, with the gap reduced by the safety car, you have all the chance to do something here.

You breathed, pacing your breath for the rhythm you needed, each lap with the safety car, you adjusted, you were feeling your car, it was there on your side, both of you were ready to show what you had long been hiding all season.

Lando got back to the paddock, insisting on sitting through the rest of the race before heading for a medical check and the media zone. He didn’t even take a glance at his right-wingless car. His eyes were fixed on the screen, on you. The whole team was, with their breath tightly held. He went next to your engineer to check the more detailed data, and both of your engineers were on the same screen now.

By lap 43, you’ve overtaken Kimi and Charles, standing at P4 with 10 more laps to go.

The crowd was buzzing with excitement, broadcasts were fixating on the small gap between you and George in front. Charles was not far behind.

Lap 51,

Lap 52,

Lap 53.

You were fast. You were smart. And most importantly, you were free for once. It was purely you. You got the perfect last turn you’ve been practising forever on the sim, full throttle, and you ran through the finish line.

You continued the track after passing the line, slowing down, you’ve got nothing in your head, it was filled with dopamine. For once, in a long time. You felt like yourself, noises were completely out of your ears, until you heard screaming from the radio.

“P3! Y/N! P3! You fucking did it! Fuck yes! I told you she can do it! That was a fucking brilliant race. I told you to stop putting her on that stupid Plan C.” That voice, it was not your engineer, it was Lando on the other side of the radio.

“What?” You still couldn’t comprehend what you heard until you were pulled to the Parc fermé with a P3 plate in front of your car.

Cameras swarmed to your side, flashing, even stealing the spotlight from Lewis’ P1 and Max’s P2. You slowly climbed out of the car, still couldn’t believe it was real. The media were bombarding you with questions, and you stood still in your car, dumbfounded. You didn't even know how to react.

Lewis realised you’re in shock and lent you a hand to pull you out of the car. He gave you a big pat on the back, and you saw the crease at the end of his eyes through the helmet. He’s not just happy for his win, he was also happy for you. Max came to congratulate you, even though he was not happy about not being able to surpass Lewis. The papaya team of engineers and mechanics in front of you are roaring with cheers, this time not because of Lando, but you.

Someone helped you out of your helmet, you pulled off the balaclava and looked around, panting from the excitement. Among the papayas, you spot one white. Lando looked at you with the biggest smile you’ve seen on him in months. He stood there and then looked at you, and your eyes focused on his. For a second, the noises were gone. The cameras, the crowd, all gone. It was just the two of you, a small, fulfilling moment for the two of you.

“I told you.” Lando mouthed silently with his finger pointed at himself, then at you.

Suddenly, your eyes blurred, and warm tears were sliding down your cheeks, but you also had a smile on, this time a real one, not the good actress smile.

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In the cool room, you still couldn’t stop crying, Lewis asked the staff to give you some time in the washroom to freshen up a bit.

“That was well earned, Y/N, great great job, be very proud of yourself. You’ve been patient, and it’s time you reap what you’ve sown.” Lewis warmly smiled at you as you calmed down and came out of the washroom.

“Those were amazing takeovers, that last turn was clean and fast like you’re on a straight line.” Max was impressed watching the replay on the screen, and you know that was rich coming from him.

Standing on the podium got your eyes tickled with tears again. You held your trophy, hands shaking. You clutched the trophy tighter, the metal grounding you in a moment that felt too big to hold.

The champagne stung your eyes, but not as much as the tears.

As the anthem played, you stared out over the crowd, not just at the fans of McLaren, but at the girls in the grandstand who were holding signs up for you. The ones who saw you. The ones who now knew they didn’t have to ask for permission.

Tears slipped down your cheek again before you could stop them. And for once, you didn’t try to hold it anymore.

The press room was buzzing. Flashes everywhere. The journalists were excited, the questions came in fast, but for the first time, they weren’t tinged with doubts about you.

“Y/N, this is your first podium in Formula 1. You’ve spent most of the season supporting your teammate. What does today mean to you?”

You took a breath.

“It means… everything.” You paused, breathing in. “I’ve always said I was grateful for the opportunity, I am and will always be grateful, but I won’t lie and say it’s been easy. Today… it felt like the team trusted me from the entry of that safety car. I wasn’t just there to support someone else’s win. I was given the race and freedom. And that’s all I’ve been patiently waiting for.”

Lewis, sitting beside you, nodded quietly. “She drove like a lion today. It was beautiful to watch.”

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The debrief ended, and engineers scattered, screens shutting down, everyone’s ready for the small break before Azerbaijan in two weeks.

You were in the hospitality waiting room, showered, and packed. You were in your casual sundress, sitting on the couch, holding your trophy on your knees, staring at it and your own reflection on it. You were still processing the moment.

“It’s been five minutes that you’re staring at it, it’s not going anywhere, you know.” Lando was leaning on the wall, not far away from you. He’s watched you for a while, but you clearly didn’t notice him. He looked tired, but he had that boyish smile on him.

“I was waiting to see if they’ll take it back or something.” You smiled and mumbled, focusing back on the trophy.

“They won’t,” he approached. “No one will ever again, over my dead body.” You looked up at him. Behind the tireless, his eyes were full of pride and emotions that were overwhelming. Then it was watering.

“Why are you crying?” you burst out in disbelief. You knew he was emotional, but not in this way.

“I didn’t get my podium, that’s why,” he joked and smiled even though he was still crying.

And then your eye ached, and you started to cry again.

“Not fair, it took me so long to stop crying! And then here we go again!” You both laughed at how ridiculous the state of both of you was.

When Lando was wiping his tears, you approached and pulled him into a hug around his neck. He froze, not expecting it.

“Thank you, Lando. Thank you for believing me when no one else did. I knew you were trying to lead better so they don’t have to put me in Plan C, and I’m sorry for being so stubborn. Thank you so much for trying to stand up for me.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist tightly, sniffing.

“I fucking told you. If this is how you’re going to finally fight, I’mma DNF all the races until the end of the season. Lewis is still large behind.”

“We know you won’t, we know you still want that championship.”

“ I do.” Lando rolled his eyes, smiling.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

Later that night, you found yourself getting a call from reception again for Mr. Norris’ request to visit.

“Why do you always make the call? You know my room number.” You opened the door, looking at him weirdly.

“I thought it’s more polite and it gives you a heads-up.” He’s already changed and freshened up.

“You still have… exactly 30 minutes before we have to leave,” he continued, looking at his phone for the information, bad memory.

“For what?” You asked, pretending again, not knowing.

“Sir Hamilton put me on a mission to ensure you show up at the party. I’m on duty tonight,” he joked.

You shut yourself in the toilet for a good 30 minutes, coming out readied. But when Lando saw you, knocking the air out of him. He was not mentally prepared. You were in your mini sundress rather than the usual maxi ones. Lando wondered how many of those you have. Since Monaco, even though he was frustrated with you, those dresses you were wearing were doing something to him. Tonight it was refreshing, different, but he still liked it. The hotel light was thankfully not too bright lit so you didn’t notice the slight flush on his cheeks.

Shit Lando, you’re flushing like a 12 year-old. He told himself, calming himself down all the way to the villa outside Monza.

It was the first time you entered a room with all the familiar faces, some engineers, some mechanics, some friends and families, but there was no competitiveness in the air.

Lando walked in beside you, beaming like he had taken P1. He was the first one to grab drinks and pull you into the middle of a small circle, already laughing and telling stories. George, Pierre, Alex, Charles, Max, Everyone looked up as you entered.

“Oh shit, it’s McLaren’s rising queen,” Max teased with a grin, “Do we need to bow?”

“Careful,” George added lightly, “She might overtake you next.” There was no beef, no matter what happened on the track in the afternoon. Everyone laughed.

You stood a little awkwardly, unsure how to react, until Lewis walked in from the kitchen and immediately hugged you and left an arm slung around your shoulder.

“There she is.” His smile was wide, his eyes twinkling. “No one here deserves this night more.”

Charles and Pierre smirked, quickly glanced from you, Lewis, to Lando. The two whispered on the side. Lando’s eyes never left you, his grip tightened on his drink.

The music picked up. Glasses clinked. Few drinks in, Lando had a drink in one hand and was already dancing terribly, unbothered by the rhythm, pulling everyone into it.

He came to where you were sitting next to Lewis and grabbed your hand. “Come on. You’re coming with me to the dance floor.”

“I can’t dance.” You said shyly, but did not resist the pull by him.

“You just outdrove half the grid and got that trophy. You can do anything.”

You laughed, finally letting yourself be dragged in. Lewis smirked, seeing both of you from behind. He exchanged a knowing nod with Charles.

For the first time since the start of the season, you weren’t holding your breath. You weren’t calculating tyre strategy in your head, or checking who was watching. You were just there. Laughing, dancing, celebrating. With your peers, as one of them.

Lando didn’t leave your side the whole night. Every time someone congratulated you, he nodded like he’d known it all along.

At one point, Charles passed by, raising a brow to Lando looking at you with the stupidest smile on him. You were too busy talking to the others.

“Mate, I thought you DNFed today.”

Lando just raised his glass, a bit tipsy. “I did.”

“But you look like you won today,” Charles smirked.

“Didn’t I?” Lando looked at Charles quickly, his eye lingered back at you.

Charles laughed and shook his head, heading to confirm the little gossip with Pierre.

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#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #lando fanfic #lando imagine #lando x you #lando x reader #lando norris #lando x y/n

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moonsaver · 1 year ago

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You're certain your professor hates you.

Dr. Ratio was by no means someone who would go easy on you. His unmatchable merit meant almost unreachable standards of discipline and wit, and that extended a rigorous course with a passing percentage of 3%

You and the very few classmates you've had all were aware about what was to come once you signed up for his classes. Continuous, strict teaching, constant supervision, problems so hard it took days to solve. The worst exams were the open book ones – they lasted days.

At some point, your classmates decided to study together as a strategy. All of you would collectively study like maniacs and it did end up with gratifying results.

At least, for everyone else. Except you.

No matter what you did, your grades plummeted more and more from the previous exams. And Dr. Ratio was no shy of calling you out on it, telling you with a looming stature to meet him after class, the strain in his voice already enough for your blood to run cold.

Somehow, however, everytime after class when you sat down with Dr. Ratio, he seemed agitated, but nothing more. Of course, he didn't go easy on you when it came to pointing out every detail of a mistake on your paper, and that was the worst part you had to tolerate. Afterwards.. he was alright. The condescending tone in his voice as he instructed you to read the reference materials wasn't exactly tolerable, but it was better than being called an idiot, a buffoon, a failure in every language he possibly knew.

Although, what would annoy you even more was your study sessions were confined more and more to his office hours. After a few more failing grades, he would extend the amount of time you'd have to sit across him in the suffocatingly silent, sterile room with only an expanse of books that you occasionally interacted with, and a few necessities.

Every time your hand stopped scribbling, or your eyes stopped scanning the text, he would tap the table with a finger, and ask, "done already?" And you'd immediately continue, replying with a meek, "no". Sometimes if you took a while longer to answer out of hesitance, his sharp gaze would snap to you, looking up from one of his thick books, his reading glasses perched lower so that his eyes peeked out from above the lens. That would be enough to snap you from your trance, and get back to writing frantically.

But the arrangement was fine. Until he started getting uncomfortably closer.

Sometimes, he decides watching your eyebrows furrow in frustration is much more entertaining of a pastime during his break to rest his eyes. His office chair creaks a bit as he leans forward, his elbows perched on the desk, resting his chin on intertwined fingers. This was arguably more intimidating to you – his gaze was unimaginably heavy. And you're sure he's aware of it too – his eyes watch the obvious trembling of the pen in your hands, and the tensing of your jaw, as the realisation he's observing you thoroughly flashes in your eyes.

If you weren't so exhausted after taking your leave,you would have at least had the energy to think he was.. enjoying your discomfort.

And things only got worse from there. Sometimes he decides getting up from his chair and looming intimidatingly from behind you is better. At times, he leans down, too close for comfort, his breathing hitting the shell of your ears as you feel his eyes scan your work, and you. Sometimes, a waft of his scent hits your nose. You're sure he can smell yours, too.

In this position, it only gets worse. His arm sometimes rests across your back and his hand hangs firmly on your shoulder, his other hand pointing out a mistake you've made, and moves your writing hand to the exact spot. His condescending voice practically reverberates through you, his warm breath mixing with the cool air around your ear, making you flinch if you're caught off guard. You can only hope his observant gaze didn't see it.

Unfortunately, as helpful as the after-class lessons are, it seems it's not successful enough to get you to pass his course.

At some point, you're in his office almost late in the evening, the entire vicinity is devoid of people, echoes of usually quiet machinery are heard in the hallway. You sit across from him, head hanging from shame, and dread. He sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair, folding his legs.

He'll have to try.. other methods.

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certaimromance · 2 months ago

Text

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child II.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

part one | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Returning to work after such a long absence is never easy, but trying to understand your boss without failing is even worse.

Words: 3,3k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime and the reader's old shoulder injury. angst WITH open ending. hotch being a father figure. the reader having bad thoughts and the team not being a good team with her. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Helloo Tall Child lovers, I hope you like this and that it will be a sequel according to your expectations. I'm sorry for the delay, but the complexity of this relationship made my job difficult, as I never thought of writing more with this reader in the first place, and I was very surprised that you liked it so much.

So I'm pleased to tell you that I've made an exclusive list with this reader because I'd love to explore more of this through other seasons and situations not necessarily canon, feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader!

Six weeks later.

The air in the BAU was colder than you remembered, not just in temperature but in feeling; it was a sterile, impersonal chill that clung to your skin like mist. Every echoing footstep in the polished corridors seemed louder, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. It wasn’t just the recycled air hissing through the vents or the fluorescent lighting that buzzed too harshly overhead. No, this cold ran deeper. It had taken root inside you during those long, suffocating weeks locked away in your apartment, when the silence had pressed in on all sides and the world had narrowed to four walls and the weight of your own thoughts. This was the cold of absence. Of isolation. Of walking back into a life that had kept moving without you.

You stood at the entrance, your badge clipped to your belt, your go-bag slung over one shoulder. From the outside, it looked like you were fine. Recovered. Rested. As focused and willing to work as ever. But on the inside, you were still picking up pieces.

The place hadn’t changed, but you hadn’t expected it to. Reid��s desk was just as you remembered: clean, almost painfully so, every file color-coded and aligned with obsessive precision. The chessboard still sat in its usual spot off to the side, pieces mid-game, like he was still chasing the perfect strategy that might finally let him beat Gideon. Across the bullpen, the computer screens all flickered in perfect rhythm, except for Morgan’s, which pulsed in shades of bright pink. You didn’t need to see her to know Garcia was up to something again, probably testing out some new system or just trying to annoy him in that way only she could pull off. The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the background, steady and familiar, its bitter scent weaving through the air like it never left.

And then, your gaze landed on the far wall: Hotch’s office. The door was closed. Blinds drawn. The same as always, and yet now it felt heavier somehow. Imposing. Like, just the sight of it pulled your shoulders tighter. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t there. Wishing you could walk in without that cold knot twisting in your stomach.

Damn, you weren’t supposed to be afraid of him now.

A few heads turned when you stepped in. The room didn’t go silent, but it shifted. You felt it, eyes lingering just a second too long, hushed words dying mid-sentence. And then JJ was there, walking toward you with that soft, careful smile people wore around broken things like you.

“Hey,” she said gently, arms opening without hesitation.

You let her pull you into a hug. Her perfume was the same as always. So floral and grounding. You closed your eyes for a second, just enough to feel the safety in it. But it passed quickly.

“You look better,” she added softly. You didn’t say thank you.

She said better, not good.

Morgan and Elle came next, their footsteps steady, familiar, grounding in a way that almost made your throat tighten. “There’s the prodigal agent,” one of them said with a crooked smile—maybe him, maybe her—you weren’t paying close enough attention to tell. Your focus was locked on their faces, not their voices. Their smiles were genuine, warm even, but just behind them, something else flickered. Worry. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. It was there in the brief glance they exchanged when they thought you wouldn’t notice, in the way Elle’s arms crossed just a little too tightly over her chest, in how Morgan’s usual swagger was tempered by something quieter.

But Reid was the hardest to face. He hovered, hesitating, unsure if he should say something or just let it go. In the end, he gave you a small, tentative smile and an awkward “Hi,” as if six weeks hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t been the reason your stomach still twisted with guilt every time you closed your eyes.

You nodded and whispered, “Hey.” That was all you could manage.

But then came the moment you had been both dreading and aching for so long it had carved itself into the rhythm of your days. The soft creak of the door swinging open sliced through the low hum of conversation like a knife. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The measured, deliberate sound of his polished shoes crossing the bullpen floor was unmistakable, as familiar as it was unsettling. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have, like the room itself tensed in his presence.

And there he was. Aaron Hotchner. As composed and unreadable as ever, every inch of him radiated quiet authority. His presence hit like a pressure drop in the atmosphere, pressing down on your chest and making the space around you feel impossibly large and impossibly small all at once. Like suddenly, you didn’t know where to stand. Like suddenly, you weren’t sure if you even belonged in that space anymore. Like suddenly, you were a child who had been punished for bad behavior.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times.

None of them felt like this.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stood there, just a few feet away, arms folded, that familiar, unreadable expression settling over his face like a mask. The same one that used to make your pulse quicken, that used to leave you guessing, second-guessing yourself.

But not this time.

This time, you didn’t flinch. You met his stare head-on, feeling the weight of his gaze like a hand around your throat—but you refused to shrink. Not again. You’d spent too long folding yourself into smaller and smaller shapes, twisting and bleeding just to fit into the narrow mold of what he expected, of what he trusted. And for what? For this? For distance and doubt? No more. That part of you—the desperate part—was dead and buried. Or if it wasn’t yet, you were damn sure going to kill it. You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your chest like a second heartbeat, daring him to look at you and still pretend you were invisible.

“I’m back,” you said, voice low but steady. “Just like the paperwork says.”

Your boss studied you for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze flicking to your shoulder—the one that still bore the memory of your injury, the phantom weight of everything you’d lost—before settling back into that cold, distant mask of his. That unreadable expression he wore so well, the one that used to make you feel safe because it meant he was in control. Now, it just made you feel small. Disposable.

And for a moment—just one cruel, flickering moment—you almost believed that he’d step forward. That he’d close the distance. That he’d reach out and gently touch your shoulder, like he used to when things were too heavy, too hard. You almost believed he would look you in the eye, say your name like it meant something, and tell you he was sorry. Sorry for the silence. Sorry for the coldness. Sorry for the suspension. Sorry for treating you like a child.

You almost believed he would say he trusted you. That he still saw you, still believed in you, even if it was a little. That he understood why you did what you did. That you weren’t broken. That he didn’t think of you as a liability or a ticking clock counting down to another failure.

You almost believed he would tell you it was going to be okay.

But it didn’t happen.

He just looked away. Not with malice. Not with cruelty. But with distance. Like someone turning from a photograph that had faded in time. And you felt the sting of it—quiet, precise, brutal. Not just the rejection of your role, but the absence of something far deeper.

It wasn’t the pain of being forgotten.

It was the pain of never being seen.

“We’re glad to have you back,” he said, his voice the same steady, measured cadence it had always been.

But it wasn’t the words that stung; it was the way they landed. Clinical. Safe. Like a statement recited for formality’s sake rather than spoken from any real feeling.

Not I’m glad.

We’re glad.

That single word change twisted like a knife in your chest.

“Right,” you said, the word escaping before you could hold it back. Your eyes burned with something you refused to let spill over. “Glad to be back, I guess.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.

There was a long silence between you two. He studied you, just like before, but this time it felt colder. Like he was looking for something you didn’t have anymore.

You couldn’t stand it. You turned away quickly, your body betraying you as your chest tightened and your breath quickened. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

The case came in shortly after: a triple homicide in Maryland. The kind of case that had all the hallmarks of a nightmare: brutal, violent, unsolved. You didn’t think you were ready for fieldwork. In fact, you didn’t think you could even look at another case without feeling like an imposter, like a stranger in your own skin. The idea of diving back into it, back into the chaos, felt overwhelming. But you didn’t have a choice. There were no other options. And Aaron was too careful now to give you the responsibility of leading your partner again. Not after everything that had happened.

“Morgan leads. JJ, handle media. Reid, consult with the coroner. Elle, talk to the families.”

And then, without a single glance in your direction, he turned to you and said, “You’ll assist.”

No lead. No profile. No responsibility. Just…observe.

Support.

The word echoed in your head, bruising you in places you hadn’t even realized were tender. Support. As if that was all you were good for now. The sharp ache of betrayal twisted inside your chest, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it show. You didn’t argue. Not out loud. But it burned. Every cell in your body screamed in protest, but you held it in, forced it back down where no one could see.

On the jet, the silence between you and Hotch was like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. You sat across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes glued to the window as the world outside blurred by. But you could feel him. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, though he didn’t meet your gaze directly. He kept glancing at your shoulder, the one that still bore the ugly scar of your injury. His eyes flicked there so many times, and each time they quickly darted away, as if caught between something you couldn’t tell.

And it wasn't just him. The whole team had noticed it, the little looks they gave you when they thought you weren't looking, the way their conversations were interrupted when you walked into a room, and they automatically faked their best smile at you. You could feel the tension in the air, like they were all waiting for you to sink or swim, to show you still had something to give.

In the field, you did your job. You fell into the motions like muscle memory: keeping your voice calm, your observations sharp, and your hands steady. You kept your face neutral, even when the case began to grind you down, piece by piece. But every decision Hotch or Gideon made went through Morgan. Every suggestion you made was quietly nodded at but never acted upon. You could almost hear the quiet hum of judgment in the air every time you tried to assert yourself. You were invisible.

It was like walking through fog. You were there, but no one could see you. No one really saw you.

You were present but unseen. You were nothing more than a shadow, drifting through the motions.

And, of course, back at the hotel it was the same. You kept to yourself, retreated into the quiet of your room, away from their pitying stares. The team trickled in, chatting amongst themselves, but you didn’t join them. They didn’t expect you to. Instead, you made a lie about being tired and about having a headache, and you hid behind it.

So you sat on your bed instead, the room dimly lit by the glow of a muted TV. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the electronics and the occasional shuffle of your own restless thoughts. The takeout boxes sat untouched on the desk, still sealed in their flimsy plastic containers. Your service weapon rested next to your badge on the nightstand, a weightless echo of a dream that no longer seemed to matter.

The knock came at 10:43 p.m.

You hesitated, fingers frozen over the blanket, eyes flicking to the door. Part of you considered ignoring it, pretending you didn’t hear, pretending the world outside wasn’t so close. But something in your gut told you who it was.

With a sigh that felt too heavy for such a small sound, you stood up and moved toward the door, your movements stiff and reluctant. You opened it, and there he was: your lovely boss. Standing there, holding a white takeout bag with the same purposeful, composed demeanor he always had.

“I figured you didn’t eat,” he said, his voice soft, as if offering something much bigger than just food. His hand extended toward you, the scent of it wafting up with the slight steam still rising from the dish. “Chicken teriyaki. No onions.”

Your heart clenched, hard and sudden. Of course he remembered.

He always remembered.

It was the smallest things, the details he’d tucked away in his mind, that made your chest tighten like this, like a dam about to crack. You took the food from his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and stepped aside to let him in, but he didn’t move.

He just stood there, his posture stiff, his eyes avoiding yours in that way that felt both respectful and…uncomfortably distant.

It felt less like your boss checking in and more like a parent standing awkwardly outside a teenager’s door, unsure if they were about to be let in or shut out.

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, voice almost a whisper, as if you were apologizing for the inconvenience. You weren’t sure why it came out that way, it wasn’t him you were apologizing to. Not really.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, careful, as though he were trying to measure every word. He stood there for a long moment, looking at you but not really seeing you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the ground.

Then he shifted slightly, glancing at the takeout bag in his hand. “There’s also a dessert, but you should eat the real food first.”

His words felt like they were layered with more than just concern for your well-being. It was the way he said it, like he was directing you, guiding you—not as a colleague, not as a boss, but as someone who felt responsible for making sure you didn’t fall apart.

And then, you knew it.

You weren’t a grown adult in his eyes right now. You were someone he had to take care of, like a child who didn’t know how to care for themselves anymore.

“You still don’t trust me,” you said finally, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a sharp edge, not a challenge.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to yours, then dropped again—quick, involuntary. Like the words hurt to hear, even if he’d been expecting them.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s not true.”

“Then why am I stuck on the sidelines?” you asked, and this time the question came harsher, more bitter than you intended. You didn’t mean to sound wounded, but the words carried it anyway. “Why am I the one just…watching? Observing, while everyone else is doing the job I’ve trained my whole damn life to do?”

His silence came fast and thick, and it stretched too long, long enough to confirm what you already suspected. The answer, when it came, landed like a blow.

“Because I need to know you’re okay,” he said, quiet but firm. “Before I put someone else’s life in your hands again.”

Ouch.

You flinched. Not dramatically, just enough for him to see it. Just enough for you to feel it ripple through your spine like heat. The air in the room shifted, charged and sharp, like an old scab torn open.

“I thought you said this wasn’t personal,” you said, hating the way your voice cracked around the edges.

“It’s not,” Hotch said, voice tight.

You stared at him. Really stared. The lines around his eyes are deeper now. The tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, was like this conversation was another weight he didn’t know how to carry.

“Sure feels personal.”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it passed too fast to name. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t try to spin it.

Instead, he said quietly, “You scared me that day.”

You froze.

He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking past you, somewhere far away. Like he was remembering it. The day it all went sideways. The weight of the call he had to make to the ambulance. The fallout. The blood and your tears.

“You scared all of us,” he added, softer now. “But me the most.”

The confession hit harder than you expected. Not because he was admitting fear, but because he still couldn’t look at you when he said it. Because even after all this time, all this effort, it still felt like he hadn’t let go of that fear.

“I know I made mistakes,” you said, your voice quieter now. Controlled. Trying to be steady, even as your throat tightened. “I know I lost control. I know I…crossed lines.”

You stopped. Breathed. Tried to gather the rest of it.

“But I’m not—” You hesitated. The word was right there. Lodged between your teeth.

Not broken.

You weren’t even sure you believed it anymore.

Hotch finally looked at you, really looked, and when he spoke, it was softer than before. “I know. That’s why I approved your return.”

You searched his face, looking for judgment or disappointment. But what you saw instead surprised you.

Tiredness. Not just the kind that came from stress or long nights of cases but the kind that came from caring too much and not knowing how to show it without screwing everything up.

It disarmed you.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you murmured, almost ashamed. “About Reid. About your kid. Or you.”

He nodded, just once. Small. Measured.

“I know,” he said. “But it still touched a nerve.”

That landed harder than any reprimand. No raised voice. No lecture. Just the simple truth of it, that what you said had stuck to him like shrapnel.

The silence that followed was quieter now, less tense, less heavy. Something between you was shifting. Mending, maybe.

“I’m not broken,” you said suddenly, with more force than you expected. The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I’ve been hurt. I’ve been…off. But I’m not broken.”

Hotch looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I never said you were.”

“You acted like it.”

He sighed, eyes dropping again. “Maybe I was afraid.”

Your brow furrowed. “Of what?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “That if I pushed you harder, I’d be the one who broke you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t think you were weak,” he added. “I just didn’t want to watch you fall apart.”

Your chest ached.

“I already did,” you said.

“I know.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said finally, without looking at you. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Just in case you needed to follow.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch angst #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotch x you #thomas gibson #father figure!hotch x bau!reader

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ahqkas · 10 months ago

Note

hey i have a request! can you do theo/mattheo with a dyslexic reader? like how they would help you and how they would help your mind clear🔥. thanks if you do, if you don’t no biggie!

NOTES! hi ml i hope it’s what you were looking for && thank u for the request 🫶🏻

THEODORE was always observant, noticing things about you that others often overlooked. when you first confided in him about your dyslexia, it wasn’t because he asked directly, but rather because he’d noticed how you hesitated whenever you had to read aloud in class, or how your notes were sometimes a jumble of letters and words that didn’t quite fit together.

“it’s not that i can’t read,” you’d explained one evening in the library, your voice low, barely above a whisper. “it just . . . gets all mixed up sometimes. it’s like my brain sees the letters, but they don’t always make sense.”

he didn’t respond immediately, which at first made you anxious, but when you finally gathered the courage to look at him, you found no judgment in his eyes — only understanding. theo was silent for a moment, processing what you’d shared. then, he nodded slowly, as if he’d just pieced together a part of the puzzle that was you.

“how can i help?” he asked simply, his voice gentle, as though he were afraid of overwhelming you.

from that day on, theo made it his mission to support you in ways that felt natural and unforced. when it came to reading, he never pushed you to do it aloud, but instead, offered to read to you, his voice calm and steady, making the words on the page come alive. whenever you wanted to try reading something yourself, he would sit beside you, patient and attentive, ready to help if you stumbled over a word or lost your place.

he even started writing notes in simpler, clearer handwriting, knowing that the usual cursive or fast scrawl many students used could be harder for you to decipher. his notes were always clean and organized, with extra spaces between lines to make it easier for your eyes to follow.

theo also helped you find strategies to cope with the difficulties. he suggested using colored overlays for your textbooks, something he’d read about somewhere. at first, you were skeptical, but when you tried it, the colors helped the letters stay in place, making it easier for your brain to process the information. he never made a big deal about it, just handed you the overlays one day without a word, and when you thanked him later, he just shrugged and smiled as if it was nothing.

when studying felt overwhelming, he’d suggest taking a break, pulling out a book of poetry or short stories that he knew you liked. he would read to you in that soft, calming tone of his, the words flowing easily from his lips, allowing you to focus on the rhythm and sound of the language rather than the struggle of reading it yourself.

MATTHEO knew you were bright, your mind sharp as a blade, but he also saw the frustration lining your eyes whenever you were handed a text-heavy assignment. you’d never mentioned it to him personally, preferring to deal with it on your own.

you sat in the quiet corner of the library and the weight of your frustration was palpable. the words on the page were a blur, a tangled mess of letters that refused to cooperate no matter how hard you tried. the more you stared, the more your mind seemed to rebel.

your boyfriend, sitting across from you, noticed the tension in your shoulders and the way your fingers gripped the edge of the table. he’d been watching you for a while, recognizing the signs of your struggle. without a word, he reached over and gently covered your hand with his, his touch warm and grounding.

"you’re doing it again," he said softly, his voice cutting through the fog in your mind.

you looked up at him, your eyes tired and defeated. "doing what?"

"trying to force it," he replied, his thumb tracing a small circle on the back of your hand. "you're not giving yourself a chance to breathe."

you sighed, pulling your hand away to rub your temples. "it just feels like i should be able to do this, you know? like, everyone else can read without it being such a hassle."

"everyone else isn't you," mattheo pointed out, his tone calm but firm. "and that’s not a bad thing."

"i know," you muttered, glancing down at the book in front of you. "but it doesn't make it any less frustrating."

he leaned back in his chair, studying you with those intense, thoughtful eyes of his. "what if we try something different?" he suggested. "take it one step at a time, like we’ve been doing."

you met his gaze, searching for any hint of pity or condescension, but found none. all you saw was his steady resolve, his quiet determination to help you however he could.

"i just feel like i’m wasting your time," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "like, you shouldn’t have to —"

"hey," mattheo interrupted, his voice gentle but insistent. "you’re not wasting my time. if anything, i’m glad i can be here for you. we’re in this together, remember?"

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sweetromanova · 17 days ago

Text

More To Lose🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: You thought your life with Steve Rogers was what love looked like. But love isn’t quiet disappointment or fading into the background. It’s soft hands when you’re breaking. It’s someone who sees you, even when you don’t see yourself. And just maybe, it’s Natasha Romanoff, waiting for you to see her too.

Warnings: implied/referenced IVF, emotional neglect, divorce, post-partum depression themes, hurt comfort, angst.

A/N: hiii, it’s been like five years since i’ve posted any kind of writing and i’ve never shared any of my marvel x natasha romanoff stuff (i have so many random fics in my drafts) so please be kind!🤍

Chapters: Two, Three, Four, Five, Epilogue

Chapter One

You had never been invisible.

You knew how to command a room when you needed to. You knew the power of silence, of letting people underestimate you until it was too late. Fluent in five languages, head of communications and diplomatic strategy for the Avengers’ and had personally shut down four international conflicts that would have declared wars before they even reached TMZ.

You made your living turning chaos into strategy.

You weren’t one of the Avengers, not technically anyway but you were the person they listened to when the stakes were too high to guess. While Captain America and Iron Man debated field ethics in the conference room, while Wanda’s eyes glowed red as Clint’s phone floated in the air just out of reach, while Natasha Romanoff sat in silence and watched the rest of the world spin, you was often the one feeding quiet intel into comms, smoothing over diplomatic flare-ups or feeding misinformation to the right parties with a well curated smile.

Tony once described your job like a joke. “S.H.I.E.L.D. without the stick up their ass.”

You’d replied. “Billionaire without the emotional growth.”

He’d snorted his coffee and called you in on nearly every operation after that. Everything that he sat at the table for, there was a seat waiting next to him for you.

You didn’t fly, punch through wars, bend reality or strangle people with your thighs but you were never invisible.

Not until you fell in love with Steve Rogers.

⋆⋆⋆

It started slow. Almost soft.

He met you after a failed mission in Berlin. You were there to run interference with the German Government. He was there to apologise for smashing through a military checkpoint.

You remember how he looked. Too tall, too perfect, his presence so strong but mind completely unaware of how much space he took up in the world. You remember him blinking at you and saying. “You’re the intel liaison?”

And without making eye contact, still scrolling through satellite data, you had replied. “Disappointed?”

His grin had been annoyingly boyish. “Just surprised. Thought you’d be taller.”

“And I thought you’d be punctual.”

Tony had laughed from the corner. Even Hill managed to crack a smile behind her paperwork.

Once you lifted his head and met his amused eyes, Steve smiled too.

⋆⋆⋆

You didn’t expect it to be more than a brief flirtation.

A conversation at an event, a few lingering glances, maybe a drink after. He asked you to dinner and you pretended it wasn’t a date. Told yourself it was just two people sharing a meal outside of the Tower walls.

But he picked a place with candles, cloth napkins and a view of the East River at dusk. He wore a suit that fit too well for someone who claimed to hate dressing up. Over the bread basket, he confessed that he hadn’t been this nervous for a meal since the ’40s.

You talked about history and politics. He let you challenge him. You told him his optimism was old-fashioned and dangerous. He just smiled and said. “It got me this far.”

He told you stories about Brooklyn that made you ache for a time you’d never lived through, for sidewalks that no longer existed and people long since gone. He spoke with a reverence that made you listen harder, as if hearing the names might summon them back.

He mentioned Peggy Carter in passing at first, a flicker in his voice like a skipped heartbeat. And Bucky. God, he talked about Bucky like the man still held his heart in one hand and never gave it back. You could hear the grief of missed years behind the fondness, the loyalty behind the loss. It should have scared you off but it didn’t.

It made you curious. It made you careful.

He kissed you in the rain a month later. It wasn’t a movie moment like you wanted. It was too cold, your shoes were soaked and his umbrella flipped inside out with the wind. But then his hand slid behind your neck, fingers warm and grounding and you leaned in like you’d been waiting years.

Maybe he had been.

It was easy, at first. Quiet. Stable in a way that felt like standing on solid ground after a lifetime of storms. He didn’t ask you to fix anything. He just made room for you. In the space he hadn’t realised was empty until you walked in.

You felt safe. Loved, maybe.

And slowly, you started to understand. Loving Steve Rogers meant walking alongside a man whose heart lived in three different centuries, but who somehow, was still learning how to hold yours in the present.

⋆⋆⋆

He asked you to move into the Tower six months in. Not in so many words but just a toothbrush at his sink, a drawer, a closet then suddenly all of your favourite mugs in the wrong cabinets.

Wanda became your confidante. Sam made you laugh when things got tense. Natasha didn’t say much, but she watched you like she understood more than she let on.

You weren’t part of the team but you weren’t outside it either.

Until the day you walked into the lab and found Steve already talking to Tony, Bruce, and Helen Cho. They were discussing DNA sequencing. You had almost carried on walking, wanting to mind your business about a conversation that had nothing to do with you. Until it did.

Your egg. Steve’s DNA.

You stood frozen in the doorway while they explained how IVF could work for him, for you. How it could be made safe, stable, viable, even with his serum-altered biology.

Steve looked so excited. “I wanted it to be a surprise!” He exclaimed, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

It was a surprise, of course. “You already spoke to them?”

All four pairs of eyes suddenly seemed a lot more interested in anything but you. “Well I- I just wanted to know if it was possible before we got excited.”

“He thought you’d be happy.” Tony added, helping Steve out of the hole he’s dug.

“I did.” Steve said. “I thought I was doing this for us.” Tony winced, Bruce continued to fiddle with his tablet and Dr Cho was re-reading the notes scribbled on her tablet. Everybody was waiting so you finally smiled even though your stomach was sinking.

Because he wasn’t trying to be cruel, not really. He was trying to build a life with you. He just forgot to ask you first.

“I was just surprised.” You croaked. “I’m happy.”

⋆⋆⋆

IVF was brutal.

You never told him how bad it got. You downplayed the nausea, skipped over the dizziness, laughed off the mood swings. You didn’t mention the way you threw up from the hormone shifts or how you passed out in the medbay once because your blood sugar bottomed out and no one found you for twenty minutes.

He was with you for the first few appointments. He sat beside you, stiff with worry, his thumb brushing across your knuckles like he could will the bruises away before they formed. He asked questions. He read every pamphlet. He made you tea.

But then missions started calling. Bucky needed him. The world needed him.

So you gave yourself the last three weeks of injections alone. Most nights, it was in the shared bathroom next to the Avenger’s Common Room. You waited until everybody was in the middle of dinner when it was quiet, when the halls stopped humming with movement and they all socialised with the people they felt most comfortable with. You’d set the tiny syringe on the edge of the sink and steel yourself in the mirror. sleeves pushed up, jaw tight, stomach already blooming with pinprick bruises in yellow and purple.

You did it quickly. No hesitation. You couldn’t afford to hesitate anymore.

However the sting was sharp tonight, sharper than usual and something about it cracked your composure. Maybe it was the silence or the way your body felt like it belonged to science now, not to you.

You let out a breath that was almost a sob. And then another.

You pressed a fist to your mouth, trying to silence it. Eyes squeezed shut. Just a moment. Just a crack in the armour.

You wiped your face before standing. You looked in the mirror and whispered to yourself. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But when you turned, she was there, watching as usual. Natasha.

She stepped into the bathroom, soft as breath, her gaze landing on yours. Then drifting just briefly to the redness around your eyes. The streaks down your cheeks that you hadn’t quite managed to erase.

She didn’t comment. Just offered a quiet “Hey.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t walked in on you falling apart.

You nodded quickly and stepped aside to let her in. You didn’t look back.

You moved to the sink, hands shaking slightly as you ran them under warm water. You focused on the sound, the water heating up to burn the tender skin of your fingers, the smell of the institutional soap. Anything but the knot in your throat.

Behind you, Natasha made no further mention of what she’d seen. She offered you silence like a kindness.

You wanted to thank her for it. But your voice would’ve cracked.

⋆⋆⋆

When the test came back positive, you told him at breakfast.

You slid the test across the kitchen table next to his coffee like it was nothing. Like your heart wasn’t pounding out of your chest.

He stared at it for a beat too long, eyes scanning then widening. Suddenly, he dropped his fork with a clatter, scooped you into his arms, and spun you around the kitchen while you laughed through tears.

It was the happiest you’d seen him in weeks. Maybe months.

He buried his face in your shoulder for a moment, just a second of stillness before he pulled back, breathless and eyes bright.

“You know…” He said, his voice thick with something he didn’t name. “Peggy used to talk about wanting kids. Back then. It was always a someday thing. I never got that far.”

He paused, smiling at you like you were the future he never thought he’d live to see.

“I think she’d be happy for me. For us.”

You nodded, throat tight.

He kissed you, your forehead first, then your lips, brief but tender. He set you down, a smile playing at his mouth, and reached for his phone to call Bucky. To share the news. To congratulate him on becoming an uncle.

You don’t remember being congratulated.

⋆⋆⋆

Margot was born early, by C-section. Steve almost missed it. He came running into the operating room just as they laid you down. He kissed your forehead, whispered how proud he was, how brave you were.

You were so tired that you couldn’t speak.

When the nurse asked for her name, Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Margaret.” He said, softly.

Your body stiffened. Still open on the table. Still bleeding.

“Huh?”

“I want to name her Margaret.” You wanted to fight it, you’d offered names up to him for months now and he hadn’t liked any. Maybe you should have guessed all along, of course it was going to be about her.

“Margot.” You said, not offered. “With an ‘o’.”

He looked at you, surprised but nodded. “It’s perfect. Different but still her.”

You closed your eyes suddenly wishing the anaesthesia would wear off, you’d prefer to feel the pain of your stomach being laid open on the table than to hear this.

You just needed something that was yours but even your own baby lived in the shadow of what once was.

⋆⋆⋆

Everyone came to see her. Sam. Bruce. Wanda. Bucky. Pepper. Even Tony, with a ridiculous stuffed tiger bigger than the baby. Steve carried Margot like she was made of glass, parading her through the Tower like a medal.

You followed behind him, one arm braced against the wall, stitches pulling with every step.

Your hair was unwashed. Your body shivering in pain. Your vision blurred at the edges.

No one noticed… except Natasha.

She slipped away from the group without a word. She came to your side, delicately took your elbow and eased you down on to the couch before you collapsed.

“You look like hell.” She murmured, quietly. “Like a truck hit you.”

You tried to laugh. “Try a super soldier and his super child.”

“Congratulations Mama.” She didn’t smile but her gaze softened. “Water?”

You nodded, letting your eyes slip closed briefly. “Please.”

She brought it and sat beside you, her hand coming to fall over yours. Her presence reassuring and comforting. She let everyone else fawn over the baby while she focused only on you.

“You’re the first person to say congratulations to me.” You whispered, your fingers twitching under hers.

Nat’s head tilted. “You’re the one who did the hard part.”

That was the first time you wanted to cry in front of someone.

⋆⋆⋆

Steve was a good father. That wasn’t the problem.

He changed diapers, he held her for hours, sang her lullabies from the 1930’s you’d never heard before. However when she slept, he slipped away.

To the gym. To conference rooms. To Bucky.

They trained together late into the night. Planned missions even when they weren’t needed. You heard them laughing through closed doors, soft and low sounds that made you feel like an outsider in your own life.

He talked about Peggy when he thought you were asleep. Or just when he thought you weren’t listening.

“Peggy would’ve known what to do.” He murmured once, holding Margot against his chest. You lay still beside him, breath caught in your throat. “She always knew what to do…”

And slowly, a truth settled over you like fog. You were living with a man whose heart still lived in two places, both unreachable.

⋆⋆⋆

You started disappearing.

You stopped wearing makeup. Stopped combing your hair. You forgot how to flirt, how to tease. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed without faking it.

Yelena dropped Fanny off before a mission and said. “She’s your dog now.”

You didn’t argue. It had become a tradition. Yelena’s fake lack of care for the pet she loved so much. Your fake lack of awareness that Fanny was the only companion you really had to confide in.

Walking her became the only thing that got you out of the Tower. It was never easy. The stroller was heavy and the path was uneven. You stumbled more than once and cursed under your breath more time than you could count.

One morning when Margot wouldn’t nap, Fanny was pulling on the leash, barking and you just felt your knees give out.

Natasha appeared without a word. She took the leash and took the stroller. Fanny immediately came to a halt, watching the redhead like she was the alpha in the pack. Still not acknowledging her presence, she simply walked beside you like it was routine.

“You don’t have to do this.” You murmured, eyes wet.

“No I don’t.” She glanced over. “But I want too.”

⋆⋆⋆

She started showing up more after that.

Not always with words. Sometimes it was just a meal left outside your door when you hadn’t made it to dinner. Sometimes folded laundry that she’d picked up for you or some of Margot’s clothes that seemingly made it’s way round the compound. A silent nod before a meeting, your favourite coffee order waiting in your usual spot.

One night, you broke down at 2am. Margot wouldn’t stop crying. Dr Cho claimed she was colic, nothing to do but wait it out. You’d been pacing the compound floors for hours, feeding her, rocking her. Your shirt was soaked, your body ached but then she appeared.

Natasha took Margot from your arms, held her like she’d done it a hundred times and whispered something in Russian that calmed her instantly.

You slid down the wall and cried into your hands.

Natasha didn’t say a word. She just sat beside you. Solid and still.

⋆⋆⋆

Steve never once noticed.

Not when you started sleeping on the edge of the bed. Not when you flinched beneath his touch. Not when you said “I’m fine” like it was muscle memory.

He was always chasing something. Bucky? Peace? The past?

But no one ever chased you.

Except her.

Natasha noticed, without making it known. She saw the distance growing between you before you ever admitted it to yourself. She saw it the day the silver locket appeared around Steve’s neck, small, worn and familiar. She didn’t ask about it but she noticed the way your eyes locked onto it like gravity. One side held Peggy, timeless, beautiful, unchanging. The other held Bucky, holding your daughter just hours after she was born, cradling her like she was the most delicate thing in the world.

Not you. Not the woman who carried her. Just the memory and the man he never stopped chasing.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She never did. But she looked at you like she knew, like she saw the fracture lines forming before the break.

And for a moment, you felt real again.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t invisible.

121 notes · View notes

spicy30 · 6 months ago

Text

Modernness of 1400s 008

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

(Repost with extra things added at the end)

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (Smut towards the end)

Not proofread

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon

WC: 13.7k

You smiled faintly as you sat on the bed sipping your lemon tea, watching Jacaerys read the paper in his hands. But the smile quickly faded as his expression darkened, his displeasure palpable.

“You would dare insinuate such a thing about me?” His voice was sharp, laced with anger.

Well, it made sense. No one liked being called a bastard or having uncomfortable truths thrust in their face.

“Your tongue could be cut off for this if anyone were to see it,” he said, crumpling the paper in his fist. His glare cut through you like a blade. “Daemon cut off the head of the last man who dared speak this of my siblings and I.”

You held out your hand, silently asking for the paper back, but he ignored your gesture. Instead, he turned and tossed it into the fire. You sighed, leaning back on the bed, watching the parchment curl and blacken as the flames consumed it.

“I am no bastard,” Jacaerys declared, his voice heavy with conviction. “I will be King of Seven Kingdoms one day.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sighed as the door slammed shut behind Jacaerys, his anger reverberating through the walls like an echo of a storm. You’d expected resistance, perhaps some pushback—but not this. He wasn’t just upset; he was wounded, his pride cut to the quick by what he’d read.

“Well, that went well,” you muttered under your breath, glancing at the fire where the crumpled paper now curled and blackened in the flames.

You hadn’t meant to offend him, but it was clear your words had struck too close to home. Perhaps you’d miscalculated, underestimated how deeply the whispers of bastardy weighed on him. You had hoped to appeal to his pragmatic side—to make him see the value in your endeavor, in the power of investing in the commons. Instead, you’d touched a nerve, and now your plans to roll into making headlines were as ashes as the paper he had burned.

Lying back on the bed, you stared at the ceiling, frustration bubbling under your skin. This was a crucial step to it all. Not only would this plan elevate your standing but his as well and after a while once you’ve made enough money from your Miswak business then you’d release the first newspaper. The idea of starting a newspaper had seemed brilliant—a way to not only disseminate knowledge but to secure your own position, perhaps even sway public opinion. But without the proper momentum, it was little more than a pipe dream.

You frowned, replaying the conversation in your mind. Jacaerys’ reaction wasn’t just anger—it was fear. Fear of losing legitimacy, of being reduced to the whispers that haunted his lineage. Perhaps there was another way to approach him, a way to channel that fear into something productive.

Or maybe you needed to reconsider your approach entirely.

With a groan, you sat up and reached for another scrap of parchment. If one plan had burned to ashes, you’d simply write another.

As you dipped the quill into the ink, your mind raced, crafting a new strategy to salvage your ambitions. You would make this happen, whether Jacaerys liked it or not. You had the power to not only dispel the whispers of his supposed bastardy but to elevate him in the eyes of the public. All he needed to do was play the part—charity work, good deeds, the sort of gestures that swayed hearts and silenced doubts. It wasn’t as if you had outright called him a bastard. You had merely hinted at the fact that many questioned his parentage.

The quill hovered over the blank parchment as hesitation crept in. Perhaps appealing to his pride had been the wrong approach. Jacaerys carried the weight of his mother’s legacy and the crown’s fragile legitimacy on his shoulders. Reminding him of those vulnerabilities had backfired spectacularly.

You leaned back, sighing softly. Rhaenyra was far beyond your reach—her image, tarnished as it was in the eyes of many, would take years to repair. Years you weren’t sure you had. But Jacaerys? With him, there was time.

Your connection with Jacaerys, tenuous yet genuine, was the strongest bond you had in this foreign and unforgiving world. By chance—or perhaps fate—he was the only one who truly knew where you had come from. That trust, fragile as it was, couldn’t be squandered. Not if he was destined to sit the Iron Throne.

You sighed again, setting the quill down without writing a single word. Instead, you rubbed your temples, trying to soothe the tension that had built there. Every idea, every alliance, felt like a gamble with stakes higher than you’d ever faced. But that was the game, wasn’t it? Survival, ambition, power—they demanded risks, demanded precision.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” you called, your voice steady despite the weariness that weighed on you.

The door creaked open, revealing a servant carrying a tray with a small meal and a goblet of wine.

“Prince Aemond sends his regards,” the servant announced, setting the tray down on the table. “He hopes you will be well enough to join him in Aegon’s Garden later this evening.”

You blinked, surprised by the invitation. You hadn’t seen Aemond since waking—what had it been? An hour ago? Maybe more. Time blurred when you were preoccupied with conserving energy and dealing with Jacaerys.

“Thank you,” you replied, glancing at the tray but feeling no appetite. “You may take the meal. I’m not hungry. Bring me a bowl instead, and the drink I requested earlier—with mint leaves, please.”

The servant hesitated for a moment, bowing before gathering the untouched tray.

As the door closed behind them, you stared at the flickering flames of the hearth. Aemond’s invitation hung in your mind. Why now? Was he scheming, as he so often did, or was this genuine concern? With Aemond, it was always hard to tell. But whatever his motive, you couldn’t afford to ignore the opportunity. Every move counted, and every player in this game could be a piece—or a threat.

You looked over to the deep purple dress draped neatly over a chair for when you felt well enough to wear it.

A gift from Dragon Stone or that's what Jacaerys said anyways when he gave it to you.

You looked down, relishing the freshness you felt. You had been bathed in warm water, changed out of your nightgown into a fresh one, and now sat on the bed.

Yet, despite all this, it would not make up for the fact that your toothpaste and your toothbrush were still in King’s Landing. It was fine—you made do by swirling wine in your mouth as a makeshift rinse and chewing on mint leaves for freshness. For hydration, you had your electrolyte drink, but for now, the warm lemon tea in your hands was enough, its soothing tang chasing away the bitter taste lingering on your tongue.

You were feeling better. The weakness in your legs persisted, but other than that, you were fine—or close to it. Still, the bed felt uncomfortable beneath you. Your leg bounced restlessly, as though your body rebelled against stillness. There was a gnawing pressure on your chest, a nagging sense that you should be doing something. It felt akin to the dread of an overdue assignment or the guilt of idleness in the face of obligation. Simply lying there felt... wrong.

With a sigh, you picked up the quill again, determined to turn this restless energy into something productive. But before the tip could touch parchment, the door creaked open. Instinctively, you set the quill down as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. (Which, in all fairness, you had.)

It was the maid from before, carrying your requested items. You thanked her, dismissing her with a polite nod. Once the door clicked shut behind her, you set the quill and parchment aside, rising from the bed to stretch. Your legs protested slightly, sore but functional. Testing your balance, you took a few tentative steps before making your way to the table.

Grasping the wine goblet, you took a mouthful, swishing it around before spitting it into the bowl the maid had brought. The sharp tang of the wine lingered briefly before you repeated the process once more. Satisfied, you set the goblet down and reached for the one containing your electrolyte drink. The sweet, salty flavor slid down your throat, a welcome balm to your fatigue.

Once finished, you returned to the wine goblet, repeating your makeshift cleansing ritual until the vessel was empty. Finally, you sank back into the bed, cradling your warm lemon tea. Its soothing warmth eased the last remnants of discomfort as you chewed on the mint leaves, savoring their cool freshness.

You tested your voice, speaking softly to gauge its steadiness. It came out rough, but you felt refreshed enough. It would have to do. Your gaze shifted to the dress hanging on the chair, and you weighed your options—stay here in your room, feigning rest, or muster the strength to get moving again.

The decision wasn’t an easy one. Staying in bed meant avoiding any further strain on your still-recovering body, but it also meant stagnation—and you hated feeling idle. On the other hand, getting up and dressed meant facing the world, the people, and their expectations, all of which felt daunting in your current state.

You let out a small sigh, running your fingers through your hair. The pressure on your chest hadn’t lifted. If anything, it intensified with the thought of staying put. You didn’t have the luxury of time or inaction. You had plans to set in motion, alliances to strengthen, and a reputation to build.

Your hand lingered on the fabric of the purple dress as you finally stood, testing the weight of your legs beneath you. They trembled slightly, but held steady enough. “One step at a time,” you muttered to yourself, pulling the dress off the chair.

The rich fabric felt heavy in your hands, but it's regal hue gave you a small sense of determination. Dressing wasn’t quick—your movements were sluggish, and your limbs protested with every stretch and pull—but eventually, you managed to fasten the last clasp. You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. You looked pale, but presentable. That would have to suffice.

You walked to the door, resting your hand on the handle. For a moment, you hesitated. Would they see through you, sense your exhaustion beneath the polished exterior? Shaking the thought away, you straightened your spine. Let them. You would have to endure worse than this.

Pulling the door open, you stepped into the corridor. The faint sound of activity echoed through the halls, servants bustling about their duties. You paused for a moment, deciding your destination. Aegon’s Garden, as per Aemond’s invitation? Or perhaps you could seek out Jacaerys again, try a softer approach this time?

Your steps carried you forward before you’d fully decided, the chill of the stone floor beneath your feet grounding you as you made your way.

As you moved through the corridors, you noticed the occasional servant pause to glance your way. Their eyes darted toward your dress, your hair, the faint pallor in your cheeks. You met their gazes with a calm, steady expression, your head held high despite the weight pressing on your chest. You couldn’t afford to look weak, even if every step felt heavier than the last.

By the time you reached the courtyard that led to Aegon’s Garden, the chill of the air nipped at your skin. You hesitated, clutching the edge of your dress as a gust of wind teased at the fabric. The garden lay ahead, its labyrinthine pathways lined with flowers and in the center of it all an obelisk. You lifted a brow looking at it before humming and walking the path. Aemond’s figure was unmistakable, standing near a stone bench with his hands clasped behind his back. He was waiting for you.

You took a deep breath, straightening your posture as you approached. The sound of your footsteps on the stone path drew his attention, and he turned, his single eye sharp and calculating as it swept over you. He said nothing at first, his gaze lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“You look better,” Aemond finally said, his tone neutral, though there was a faint trace of amusement in his voice. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

The wind nipped at your skin, making you shiver as you crossed your arms. "Yeah, me neither," you muttered, shaking your head. "You didn’t think to meet somewhere inside?”

“I like the wind,” Aemond replied, his tone laced with a small jest. His lips twitched as if holding back a smirk. You rolled your eyes and sat down on the cold stone bench, wincing slightly as the chill seeped through your dress.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment. You let your gaze wander across the garden, there were large columns all around and grand statues of Dragons. It looked so familiar yet so different. You couldn’t place it but you swear you had seen something like this before.

“I saw my nephew leaving your room,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice was calm, measured. “He looked… irate.”

You turned to him, your mind scrambling for a response. What could you say that wouldn’t give too much away? After a brief pause, you shrugged. “A petty argument.”

That was technically true. Of course, the matter had been far more than petty, but Aemond didn’t need to know the intricacies of your interactions with Jacaerys.

“About?” he pressed, his curiosity sharp, probing.

You tilted your head, giving him a side-eye. “Curious, are we? You know, curiosity killed the cat.”

Aemond’s brow arched slightly, and he gave a faint scoff. “Your sayings need refinement if you ever intend to pass yourself off as a scholar.”

“Oh, alright then,” you retorted with mock indignation, turning your body to face him fully, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “How about this one: ‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’” Nothing like a good bit of Shakespeare, even if he wasn’t considered a philosopher.

Aemond coughed, but you weren’t fooled. The cough was covering a laugh, and you couldn’t help but grin at his reaction.

“No? It doesn’t work?” you teased, leaning forward just slightly.

He met your gaze, one brow raised in that familiar, almost condescending way of his. “It’s not the worst,” he admitted, though his tone was begrudging.

You laughed softly, the sound light and unguarded. “Well, then. Best to write it down before it’s lost to time. I’ll even autograph it for you. That way, when I’m hailed as the greatest scholar this world has ever seen, you can boast to your future children that you have an original work of mine.”

Aemond’s lips twitched again, this time leaning closer to a smile. “Ambitious, aren’t we?”

“Always,” you quipped, lifting your chin slightly. “But then, isn’t ambition what makes life interesting?”

Aemond’s eye gleamed with something unreadable, a mixture of intrigue and quiet approval. “I thought you said danger made life interesting, which is it?”

You turned away from him tapping your lip. “Both.” He breathed out a small laugh.

Once more, a quiet silence settled over you both, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. You glanced at Aemond, only to find him lost in thought, his eye fixed on the distance.

Suddenly, a daunting realization struck you, and your eyes widened in horror. “Oh my goodness!” you gasped, covering your mouth with your hand.

Aemond turned his attention to you, a faint crease forming between his brows. “What is it?” he asked, his tone cautious but curious.

You let your hand drop, shaking your head as a disbelieving smile tugged at your lips. “You know what I just remembered?”

He hummed lightly, a sign he was listening, though he gave no indication of guessing.

As if this day couldn’t get any worse. You let out a short, humorless laugh before looking at him. “Your mother is supposed to take me to the Sept today to meet a septon.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, an amused glint in his eye. “Has my mother roped you into the Faith? I must admit, I did not take you for one to be swayed so easily.”

“This… this is just perfect.” You threw your hands up in mock celebration, the gesture stiff and exasperated. “Mistake after mistake. God, what is she going to think of me? She already turned her shoulder to me when those rumors went around.”

Aemond chuckled softly, the sound low and dry as he leaned back on the bench, resting one arm along the backrest. “They’re not rumors if it really happened,” he said, his tone laced with mild amusement.

Your jaw dropped, and you turned toward him, pointing an accusatory finger. “Excuse me? That is not the point here! And in any case you’re not helping. Goodness gracious, what is she going to think when I arrive back at King's Landing with the very son she thinks I slept with!?”

“We did.” Aemond offered no help.

“Stop!” You stood abruptly, brushing past Aemond. Your cheeks burned, but you ignored the heat, pushing it down as best you could.

“To King’s Landing, then?” you asked, turning to face him with a composed expression. “If you would be so kind.”

Aemond gave a small nod and rose to join you. The two of you walked through the halls of Dragonstone, the air heavy with the scent of stone and sea. The architecture here was starkly different from that of the Red Keep. It captivated you—the use of arches, intricate and advanced, drew your attention most. While the Red Keep was impressive, Dragonstone’s arches were a feat of engineering you hadn’t seen before.

Columns stood tall, carved into the forms of dragons and other mythical beings. Every corner seemed alive with artistic expression: mosaics depicting Valyrian legends, frescoes painted in rich hues, and relief carvings that told stories you could only guess at.

“Who made this place?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence as your gaze swept over the intricate designs.

“It was a Valyrian stronghold long before House Targaryen settled here,” Aemond replied evenly, his eyes following yours. “It has stood for centuries. The name of its creator has been lost to time.”

You hummed thoughtfully, running your fingers lightly over the edge of a carved column. “I see. That explains it.”

Aemond glanced at you, curiosity flickering in his expression. “Explain what?”

“I’ve never seen architecture like this in King’s Landing,” you said, your voice tinged with admiration. “The Red Keep has its carvings, sure, but nothing close to this scale or intricacy. It reminds me of…” You trailed off, your mind reaching for the right words.

Roman architecture came to mind—grandeur mixed with purpose. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

As you turned a corner, your gaze caught on a large sphinx adorning the entrance to what could only be the Great Hall. Its imposing presence made you stop in your tracks.

“The Gift of the Nile…” you murmured to yourself, a small smile tugging at your lips before you turned to Aemond. “Can we go to Old Valyria?”

He lifted a brow, clearly surprised by your request.

“I’d like to see more architecture like this,” you explained, gesturing to the intricate carvings. “And maybe—just maybe—they had advanced systems, like waterworks, that could help me…” You stopped yourself, not wanting to sound too eager.

Aemond’s response was immediate. “No.”

Your face fell. “Oh. Why not?”

“It’s forbidden,” he said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Why?”

“The death of Princess Aerea Targaryen,” he replied.

“Who’s that?” you asked, genuinely intrigued.

Aemond stopped walking, his expression darkening slightly as he considered his next words. “Aerea was a Targaryen princess who claimed Balerion the Black Dread and flew to Old Valyria. When she returned, she was…” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “She brought something back with her. Something that killed her in the most gruesome way imaginable.”

You frowned, your mind racing with questions. “What did she bring back?”

“No one knows for certain,” Aemond said, his tone sharper now. “But whatever it was, it was enough to deem Old Valyria cursed. No one who ventures there returns and by law, anyone who attempts will be executed.”

You bit your lip, looking back at the sphinx and the grandeur around you. If Old Valyria held answers, it was clear those answers would remain just out of reach.

Afterwards you walked in silence with him. It was a shame they didn’t build a water system inside Dragon Stone, but then you’d suppose you wouldn't have to create one. You tried not to feel too dejected, but it was a shame. What a marvel it would be to see the place or origins for Dragons and the place with this kind of architecture.

As both you and Aemond walked a door opened and out came the younger brother…Lu—something. You were horrible with names, and then an even younger brother followed. This one is unfamiliar to you.

“Nephews.” Aemond greeted curtly. It was clear he did not hold fond feelings for them, if the first night you saw them together wasn’t enough to confirm then this sure is. Aemond did not hold back the crude look in his eye, not even for the little one.

“Uncle.” The oldest one responded, holding his little brother behind him.

If it wasn’t for the situation you’d be smiling at the act. How cute.

“My Lady.” The older brother nodded in your direction and you smiled back.

“My Prince?” Was that the proper title to use?

“Lucerys.” He quickly added.

“No I knew that, I was just wondering if that’s the proper title.” Had to make a quick save. It was rude to not remember people. You smiled and looked down at the little boy. “And who is this?” You bent down to his level looking at him.

He—no Lucerys— gave a flat smile. “My younger brother Joffrey.”

You looked towards Joffrey. “How cute. Hello.”

The young boy only gave you a look before looking up towards his big brother. You breathed out a smile before standing up straight once more.

“I presume you leave back to King’s Landing?” Lucerys questioned you and your eyes looked back towards him. You’d call him preceptive but it doesn’t take a genius to know you and Aemond were leaving.

You nodded. “Yes, thank you for the hospitality and the dress. It was very kind of you.”

“T’was the courtesy of my older brother. DragonStone welcomes you.” Lucerys responded. It was very diplomatic in the way he spoke. It was strange seeing a boy of his age speak so formally. You felt as if your own vocabulary wasn’t enough.

“Oh, yes, Prince Jacaerys. He is very kind. Where is he, may I ask? I’d like to bid him a farewell before I leave. It will be quite some time before I see him or you again.” If things went the way you predicted, you wouldn’t see them until Rhaenrya’s coronation, which you hoped was a ways away.

“He is in the middle of a lesson with our Maester.” A shame. You needed to apologize but if you pressed you were sure to lift some brows. In any case you needed to return to King’s Landing. A nervous feeling settled in your stomach imagining Alicent’s reaction.

“I see. Well please give him my regards and many thanks for the dress.” You nodded and left with Aemond. The walk down the stairs was silent like most of your moments with Aemond. You looked out to the sea and relished the breeze even if it did chill you. Realistically this would be the last time you’d be on Dragonstone. God you wanted to live here, even if you did get sick here. The fresh air was worth it.

After another thirty minutes of you trying to get onto Vhagar both you and Aemond were flying back to King’s Landing. The ride was silent. You felt awkward just sitting there hanging onto him.

“Tell me how you claimed Vhagar?” If there was one thing all men loved, it was to talk about themselves. Aemond seemed particularly prideful about his house and of course his dragon. Though what you really wanted to ask was what happened to his eye, but of course because you were raised with manners you didn’t ask.

You felt him inhale deeply before exhaling. “I was ten. I went to the funeral of my aunt Laena.” You pursed your lips. Now where had you heard that name? Goodness, you really needed to start trying to learn people’s names.

“Aegon and my nephews made jests about how I did not have a dragon. They went as far as to find a pig and give it wings.” You exhaled slowly trying not to laugh. When pigs fly is a common saying. They basically told him he'll get a dragon when pigs fly. That was funny. Though you supposed it evened out. Aemond now rides the largest dragon. “When my aunt passed I took the opportunity and claimed her. I flew her that night and nearly fell off.” You looked towards the side imagining flying a dragon by yourself.

No way. You would definitely fall off.

“My cousins, Baela and Rhaena felt robbed. Rhaena to date still has no dragon and wanted to claim her mother’s dragon.” Oh. It was in the conversation you had with Jacaerys. Laena was their mother. You lifted a brow, not that he could see it, but essentially he stole an heirloom.

If that happened to you, you’d fight with him. Not even a full year of your mother passing and you stole my dragon!? Yeah, you’re just asking for a beating.

“I fought off my cousins and nephews. I lost my eye that night.” Woah! Two for one. The tale of how he claimed Vhagar and how he lost his eye. Nice. “Lucerys cut me across my face and now I lack an eye.”

Well now it made sense. His curtness towards Lucerys and the little one…Joffrey? Well in all honesty you would’ve done the same. Maybe not cut out the man’s eye, but definitely would’ve given him a good beating.

“All because you claimed Vhagar?” Somewhat justified in your eyes, but right now in the air, you need to cater to this man as much as possible. You had no idea what he was thinking half the time.

Aemond nodded and you hummed.

“Would you have done it?” He questioned and thought about it.

“Truthfully?” Aemond nodded and you looked off to the white fluffy clouds. “Yeah. I probably wouldn’t have taken your eye, that was excessive, but you would’ve had your arse handed to you, because what do you mean you stole my mother’s dragon? I would've been mad as hell.” You shrugged, hugging him tighter as Vhagar shifted.

“A dragon chooses their rider. Vhagar chose me.” You felt Aemond tense under you. Clearly this was something that still affected him today.

“Well yeah, but I mean, the week of the funeral. Way harsh, no?” You looked over his shoulder to look at him, occasionally closing your eyes as his hair blew into them.

“I saw an opportunity and I took it.” Aemond looked over before looking forward again.

“Well you can’t argue with that I guess.” He did have a point. You suppose if you were desperate enough to prove yourself, you’d take any opportunity you’d have.

As King's Landing came into full view, you leaned forward with a hopeful glance at Aemond.

“Can you drop me off directly at the Keep? I’d really rather not go through the streets.”

“No.”

“Wha-!?” You gawked at him, incredulous. “What if I catch some horrible disease and die? That’d be my blood on your hands!”

“How tragic,” he replied dryly, not even sparing you a glance.

You huffed, and leaned to look at him over his shoulder. “Fine. Then can you at least take the blame for this? The queen might actually call for my head.”

“No.”

You gave a sigh of frustration. “You’re insufferable.” Your grip around his waist loosened. “What if just kill myself right now? Drop me off Vhagar.”

Aemond’s head snapped toward you, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “Because I refused to fly you straight to the Red Keep and shield you from my mother’s wrath when it was you who got sick, begged me to take you to Dragonstone, and then decided to swim in the sea, catching a fever and prolonging our stay?”

“Yes,” you replied simply, fighting back a grin as you teasingly loosened your hold, feigning a dramatic gesture of letting go.

Aemond sighed, his eyes narrowing in a mix of annoyance and begrudging amusement. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly, unable to hide the victorious smile that spread across your face.

Vhagar landed gracefully atop Aegon’s Hill, her massive claws gripping the stone with practiced ease. You slid off her saddle and onto the top wall of the Red Keep, your boots meeting the solid surface with a soft thud. The wind tugged at your hair and clothes, and you took a moment to steady yourself, glancing down at the sprawling city below.

“Grateful yet?” Aemond asked as he dismounted, his tone tinged with dry humor.

“Ecstatic,” you replied sarcastically, brushing nonexistent dust off your sleeves as you turned toward him. “Though I’m fairly certain your mother will find a reason to scold me for arriving this way.”

Aemond smirked, unbothered. “If my mother knew half the things you’d done recently, she’d have more than just scolding in mind.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your cloak. “Well, we’d better not keep her waiting. Lead the way, oh noble escort.”

Aemond arched a brow but said nothing, motioning for you to follow as he began descending the narrow stone staircase leading into the Keep.

The hallways inside the Red Keep were a stark contrast to the airy heights you’d just left. Shadows danced along the walls, illuminated by the flickering glow of torches. Servants scurried past, casting curious glances in your direction but keeping their heads low.

“You’d think by now they’d be used to seeing me, it's been like two months, near three,” you murmured, catching a maid’s startled gaze before she quickly looked away.

“They’re not accustomed to guests who arrive atop dragons and make a habit of disrupting court life,” Aemond quipped, his steps steady and purposeful.

You shot him a sidelong glance but chose not to respond, instead focusing on the task ahead. The weight of your pending audience with the Queen sat heavily in your chest, and you couldn’t shake the nagging worry about what awaited you.

As you approached the familiar double doors of the Queen’s private chambers, you paused, looking at Aemond. “Should I start with an apology or wait until she accuses me of something first?”

“Start with silence,” Aemond replied with a smirk, stepping forward to knock on the door. “That is what Aegon does.”

“I’m not Aegon. That's her son, and I don’t go around screwing anyone I see or from what I’ve heard.” You looked up towards Aemond who had a knowing look and a raised brow. “Okay it was one time and, by technicality, there was no ‘screwing’” You put air quotation marks around screwing. Did he know what those meant?

“My mother will not see it as such and neither will the Seven.” There was a mocking undertone and your top lip lifted in slight annoyance and disgust.

“Thanks for the reminder, Your Grace,” you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to add it to the list of things I’ll repent for in my nonexistent confession to the Seven.”

Aemond’s lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, you couldn’t tell. “You could try feigning humility. It might soften her glare.”

You folded your arms, leaning against the cool stone wall. “Humility doesn’t suit me. It does not befit the greatest scholar that ever was and ever will be.”

Before Aemond could respond, the door creaked open, revealing Ser Criston Cole standing guard just inside. His sharp gaze swept over you and then to Aemond before he gave a slight nod. “The Queen had looked for you for some time My Lady”

Ser Criston always looked at you as if he had some problem with you. Well if you had to take an oath of celibacy, you’d think you’d be a little grumpy too. Sex depravity is a horrid thing, especially once you’ve had it. You looked over Ser Criston with a small smile. A good looking man. No way he was a virgin. He had to miss the action. Probably the reason he was such a stick in the mud.

“Her grace is in her chambers. I’m sure she will be pleased to see you.” He spoke but it was clear his attention was on your companion.

“Lovely,” you muttered under your breath, straightening up and smoothing down your cloak as Aemond motioned for you to enter first.

Inside, Queen Alicent sat near a roaring fire, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression was calm but guarded, the same look she always wore when addressing someone she didn’t entirely trust—or perhaps someone who constantly tested her patience.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a small curtsy, inwardly cringing at how stiff it felt.

Alicent’s eyes flicked to Aemond briefly before settling on you. “You’ve been absent for some time,” she began, her tone measured. “I trust you have an explanation.”

You opened your mouth, but Aemond cut in smoothly, stepping to your side. “It was my doing, Mother. I took her to Dragonstone.”

Oh thank god.

Alicent’s brow arched ever so slightly as she looked between the two of you. “To Dragonstone? For what purpose?”

“Rest and recovery,” Aemond replied. “She fell ill during her stay and required quieter surroundings.”

You glanced at him, thanking him ten times over in your head. Alicent’s expression softened just enough to make you think she might buy it—or at least not press further.

“And are you well now?” Alicent asked, turning her focus back to you.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you replied swiftly, forcing a polite smile as you suppressed the nerves bubbling under your skin.

A tense silence hung in the room as Alicent gestured to the chairs by the fire. “Sit. We have much to discuss.” Her eyes shifted momentarily toward Aemond, her meaning clear. “Aemond, you may go now.”

You glanced at him, searching his face for any sign of resistance. Instead, Aemond offered a subtle sigh, his lips pressing into a thin line before he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The heavy thud of the door closing behind him seemed to echo in your chest.

As you took a seat by the fire, Alicent’s unwavering gaze pinned you in place. Her expression was stern, her composure sharp as a blade. Whatever this was about, it was clear you were in for more than a casual conversation.

“Your Grace,” you began, hoping your voice didn’t betray the apprehension building inside you.

“The results,” Alicent interrupted, her tone curt. “I want them. I have extended your time nearly double what was promised.”

The weight of her demand pressed on you like a stone, and despite yourself, you flinched slightly under her intense gaze. Your heart pounded as the tension in the room thickened.

“Of course,” you managed, your voice steady enough to sound convincing. “I finished them before I fell ill. Shall I fetch them?”

Alicent’s lips thinned, her expression a mixture of patience and scrutiny. “Yes. And make it swift. I will not wait any longer.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” you murmured, standing from your seat with a small bow. You moved toward the door with measured steps, conscious of Alicent’s sharp eyes following your every movement.

As soon as you stepped out and the door clicked shut behind you, you allowed yourself a small, shaky breath while you placed your hand over your chest feeling your heartbeat. The tension in the room had been stifling, and you felt as though you’d been holding your breath the entire time.

“I’m gonna have a heart attack.” You murmured to yourself. From the corner of your eye you saw Ser Criston Cole. He was looking at you from the corner of his eye. You stood up straight and for a brief and awkward moment you were both left there looking at each other, before you cleared your throat and excused yourself.

Your mind raced as you walked down the hall, your footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floors. The results. They were complete, yes, but presenting them to Alicent meant more than just handing over neatly written lines on parchment. The stakes were higher than ever. If anyone found out you lied on those reports, it was your head.

Of course there was also the possibility that she wouldn’t like what you had to say and it would be your head either way.

Oh god. You were going to die. Not even King Viserys would save you, even if you were keeping him alive, if he found out you were testing the validity of his grandchildren, he would probably have you burned alive or something.

Worse! What if he sentenced you to one of those horrible medieval torture decvices you’ve heard so much about. Death by boiling would be crazy.

Not to mention Alicent already wasn’t happy. She had extended your time, yes, but it was not an act of kindness—it was a test of patience. A queen’s patience was not something to trifle with, and you knew you were on thin ice.

You felt like crying, you were so scared. You had so much to live for! You can’t die!

You reached your chambers, your heart still thudding with a mix of anxiety and determination. As you entered, your eyes immediately found the bundle of parchment resting on your desk. The hours you’d poured into writing and revising the report played through your mind like a film reel. Every decision you’d made—every word choice, every phrasing—suddenly felt like it could make or break you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up the papers, your thoughts spiraling. What if she found you were lying? What if she dismissed your work entirely, calling it unfit or, worse, a waste of her time?

No. You shook your head, taking a steadying breath. This wasn’t the time for self-doubt. You had poured everything into this, and you knew the work was good. It had to be.

You straightened the papers, smoothing them with the flat of your hand before pressing them to your chest. As you turned back toward the door, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your reflection looked pale, tired, but resolute.

With a final deep breath, you stepped back into the hall and began the walk to the queen’s chamber. This time, your steps were steadier, your grip on the papers firm. You were scared, so damn scared because this could actually be your last day here, or anywhere! However, you knew this was necessary. You cannot be the best there ever was if you take no risks. If this was a test, you would meet it head-on. You had no other choice.

As you reached the door and suddenly you froze. You clasped your hands and looked up. “Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please. Please let me come out of this alive.” You shut your eyes trying to pray harder. “If I’m still alive by the time this is over, I swear anything I ever accomplish will be in the name of humanity…” You paused thinking. “And not just for myself.”

You opened your eyes exhaling before you looked over to see Ser Criston Cole giving you a very judgmental look. You gave a half-hearted smile like she didn’t just witness you begging for your life to be spared. Finally summoning all your courage you knocked on the door and put on a soft smile. A sense of resolve settled over you. Whatever awaited you inside, you would face it with as much poise as you could muster. When Alicent’s voice called for you to enter, you pushed the door open, papers in hand, and met her gaze with a calm, composed expression.

Suddenly you felt dread come over you as Otto turned to face you. You bowed begging in your head. “Lord hand.”

Otto’s sharp eyes scrutinized you like a hawk appraising its prey. You stood there, trying not to wilt under the weight of his presence, your fingers tightening slightly around the parchments as if they were a lifeline.

“Lady—” he paused, clearly searching for your name, or perhaps choosing not to use it, “I trust the results you carry are worth the extended time granted by Her Grace.”

“Of course, Lord Hand,” you replied, keeping your voice steady despite the rising dread clawing at your chest. “I assure you, the work has been thorough.”

Alicent, seated gracefully by the fire, gestured toward the chairs. “Sit,” she commanded.

You hesitated only a moment before obeying, lowering yourself carefully into the seat. Otto remained standing, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the room, while Alicent’s measured gaze never left your face.

“I hope you understand,” Alicent began, her tone cool but laced with an edge, “that this task was not a mere courtesy. The truth, no matter how unpleasant, is paramount.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand completely.”

Otto stepped closer, his boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. “Then let us waste no more time. Present your findings.”

Your hands trembled ever so slightly as you extended the parchments, and you cursed yourself for showing even a flicker of weakness. Alicent took them without a word, her expression inscrutable as she began to read.

The silence that followed was excruciating. You fought to keep your breathing even, your mind racing through every possible scenario. Would Alicent be relieved? Angry? Would Otto see through the careful lies woven into your report and call you out on them?

Your thoughts spiraled further into paranoia. What if they both knew? What if this entire meeting was a trap, and guards were waiting just outside the door for Otto’s command to drag you to the dungeons?

Had you not been fearing for your life, you might have noticed the confusion flickering across Alicent and Otto’s faces. Had you been calmer, you might have realized they had little choice but to accept your results. Had you been thinking clearly, you would have understood that the greatest danger was simply that they might not like your findings—something you already suspected.

“Explain your findings thoroughly,” Otto demanded, his voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

Your mind stuttered to a halt. “I’m sorry?”

“Explain,” he repeated, his tone cool and precise, “how exactly you arrived at this conclusion. Elaborate on your methodology and the mechanics of the equation you used to ensure the accuracy of your results.”

“Oh, right. Well…” Your mind scrambled for composure, and you began to speak quickly, the words spilling out as if sheer volume could mask your nerves. “A Punnett square operates as a combinatorial matrix designed to elucidate the probabilistic genotypic and phenotypic outcomes of sexual reproduction by modeling the allelic interplay of parental gametes. This construct, named after the eminent geneticist Reginald Punnett, serves as a heuristic device for demystifying the stochastic distribution of hereditary units, otherwise known as alleles.”

You barely paused for breath before diving deeper. “This, of course, extends from Gregor Mendel’s foundational principles of inheritance. Mendelian genetics provides the framework by which—”

“Enough.” Otto’s interruption was calm but firm, and you instantly snapped your mouth shut, cheeks burning as you realized you had started rambling.

Alicent’s eyes narrowed slightly, and you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. “You are confident in these results?” she asked quietly, but there was an edge to her tone that made your stomach twist.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you replied, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “The methodology is sound, and I am certain of the outcome.”

You hoped they wouldn’t notice how tightly you clutched the edges of the parchment or how your knuckles had turned white. You had no choice but to double down and hope for the best.

Both Alicent and Otto looked towards each other, a thousand words exchanged between the both of them in a single look. “The Citadel hosts the best scholars in Westeros. I’d like to have your work transferred. This of course could be a grand opportunity for you. No other woman has been granted such a thing. A word from the Hand and Queen and of course from the head of House Hightower, the Citadel would make an exception.”

They wanted to check your work. You were in a dilemma. There was a chance that you were being offered could boost you forward. Make a name for yourself now…but risk throwing away everything else, or stand your ground and trust your play in the long run would pay off.

“I can’t. It’s not possible.” You chose to stick to your guns. Hopefully it would yield its proper reward. “Forgive me but…your technology is not advanced enough. For any more accurate findings, testing blood for example…the technology does not exist yet.”

“Yet you can definitively say that these results are accurate.”

“With all due respect, Lord Hand. I have extensive schooling in this matter.” Debatable, but you certainly had way more than they did. “You do not possess the mathematical formulas, or as I said, blood testing. The phenotypic possibilities alone took me days to narrow. I have checked my work and…” You inhaled standing up straight and puffing your chest out a bit. You wanted to echo confidence, even if you didn’t feel it.

Fake it till you make it.

“Regardless of what you want to hear, the children of Crown Princess Rhaenrya fathered by her lawful husband; Laenor Valyeron, are legitimate. I wish I could give you the results you want, and rest assured the deed my Queen, Alicent has done for me, I swear it to you, will never be forgotten. I am at your service, but you asked for the truth, and now I will deliver it.” Alicent looked towards you with a cold gaze echoing her father.

Gods, you were so dead.

Alicent let out a sigh, her expression unreadable, and waved you off with a dismissive gesture. You didn’t wait for her to change her mind, quickly making yourself scarce. As you stepped out, the weight of the ordeal seemed to hit you all at once. Your legs felt like they might give out beneath you, and you leaned against the closed door for support. Tilting your head back, you mouthed a silent “thank you” to whatever divine force had decided to spare you—for now.

You began the walk to your chambers, craving nothing more than some well-earned rest. Every step felt heavier, exhaustion threatening to drag you down. But just as your sanctuary came into view, a voice called your name.

So close… yet so far.

“King Viserys requests your presence,” the messenger announced, their tone formal but clipped.

You froze, your temper dangerously close to slipping. A wave of heat surged through you, your hand twitching involuntarily as frustration bubbled to the surface. “Now?”

“I would presume, my lady.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Fine. Send for Dyana. Tell her to see to my morning needs and prepare my chambers immediately, and a bath. I smell like a dragon.”

The messenger gave a respectful nod. “Of course.”

With another sigh, you turned on your heel, setting off toward the King’s chambers. Rest would have to wait.

The King's chambers were quieter than usual, the crackling fire in the hearth providing the only sound as you entered. King Viserys, looking markedly stronger than when you'd last seen him, was sitting upright in his chair, his once-diminished face now flushed with color. His eyes still held the weariness of his age, but there was a gleam of vitality in them that hadn’t been there before.

You bowed deeply, careful not to show any surprise at his improved state. “Your Grace.”

“Come closer, child,” he said warmly, his voice much steadier than you expected. He gestured to the chair beside him, and you moved to sit, noting how much more alert he seemed than he had in weeks.

Well he was well enough to walk around now, so it made it sense.

“Was your trip with my daughter successful?” he spoke, his gaze thoughtful. You gave a smile and nodded. “It was. I am simply waiting for the leaves to dry. It should be another three days till it is ready for recreational use.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the armrests of his chair. “Wonderfull, what benefits will it give?”

“Uhh well in moderation: pain management, stress relief, improved sleep, appetite stimulation, muscle relaxation and spasm relief among other things. How is the drink working for you? And the lavender of course.” You did your best to use fancy words for all the side-effects one may have while being high.

“The drink is wonderful, I feel rejuvenated and the lavender not only helps me sleep but helps me smell better as well. What is it that you use to scent yourself? You have such a distinct smell about you.” King Viserys’s eyes glinted with interest.

You smiled. “I use soaps from my native homeland and perfumes occasionally, but naturally because I have lived in such a…” You thought for a second trying to phrase it as gently as you could. “Different environment, I naturally smell very different from people here in King’s Landing or Westeros as a whole.”

“Very interesting…may I see them?” Viserys smiled slightly, a more genuine warmth in his gaze.

If only he knew that you had discovered the bastardy of his grandchildren and had you thought less, you would’ve exposed it.

“To smell, yes, to use…no. Your skin is very sensitive. I wouldn’t want to make it worse, but I can make something similar, gentler even. Until then I would suggest if your skin bothers you, take baths in warm water mixed with breast milk. It works wonders for the skin. No soap needed. Simply lay in it for five to ten minutes. Helps repair the skin.” You smiled. Goats milk soap is always easy to make, besides you would run out of soaps from your modern world (unfortunately) and need to find a replacement.

The King’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “Breast milk? What babes drink?” A small, incredulous smile played across his lips.

“Yes.” you replied, standing straighter. “The human body, particularly a woman’s body, is incredible. Did you know that when breast milk mixes with a baby’s saliva it can trigger changes in the milk composition based on the baby's current immune needs, essentially signaling to the mother's body to produce more specific antibodies to fight potential infections the baby might be facing. Also baths in breast milk does wonders for the skin. It is why maesters or doctors, where I come from, recommend you bathe your baby in breast milk at least one or two days a week.” You caught the flicker of confusion in his eyes and added,“It prevents babies from getting sick is what I’m saying. A woman’s body will change the way the milk is made to better fit the needs of the baby so it survives.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. “Really? Where did you learn this?”

“My home.” you said softly, your gaze drifting briefly to the window. “Our practice of medicine is far more advanced than anything here.”

“Would you ever be able to bring those practices here?” he asked, his tone laced with a genuine curiosity.

You hesitated, glancing down at your hands. “As advanced as they are from where I come from? No. I’m not educated enough to fully treat serious illnesses or perform surgery and things of the sort, but I am pretty good at basic things.”

His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable. “Could you go back and bring this knowledge?”

Your smile faltered, and you exhaled slowly. “Well if I went home, I would mostly never return, like ever.”

“Why?”

“Truth be told, I don’t know.” You shrugged with a flat smile on your face. “I was in an accident and when I awoke, I was here. I gave up trying to go home about a month ago.” You smiled sadly looking at the ground. “I do miss my family. My old life. I wish I had gotten to study more, earn a degree.”

Viserys watched you intently, his features softening. “Sit, please,” he said gently. “Tell me more. Quite a peculiar place you come from.”

You leaned back into the chair, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “What would you like to know?”

“Women, where you’re from—are they allowed education as you are?”

“Yes.” you replied, nodding. “It is a norm to be educated. It is an unsaid social norm and if you are not, people will look down on you. In fact in recent years, women are more educated than men, they earn higher wages and because of that they no longer need to depend on a man. It is thought that because for years money is all men brought to the table they did not develop enough and now women are demanding more from them and truth is, most men can’t because emotionally, they’re nothing more than children. Women do not want to be mothers to their husbands.”

“Really?” His voice carried a mix of fascination and skepticism. “How did this come to be?”

“Well…women gained rights,” you said simply. “Eventually after centuries of being oppressed and men believing they were the superior gender. It all came to a head and women demanded rights and equality. Women have all the same potential, maybe even more to do what men can do if given a fair chance. You’ve seen it with me, I have done the impossible, and I will continue to do so.” You straightened in your seat, determination gleaming in your eyes. “There have been hundreds of generations of women who have been put down and minimized that led to me. I must and I will amount to more. Their struggle and sacrifice for me, will not be in vain.”

The King’s expression softened further, and a faint smile curved his lips. “You have a very headstrong character. I only wish you had come sooner. My daughter, Rhaenrya, would’ve gotten along splendidly with you. She had a similar drive. Tell me…” His eyes dimmed, a shadow of grief passing over his face. “How are births handled where you are from? If the babe is stuck as an example.”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Well it depends, it can be maneuvered within the stomach so that the head faces the opening or if it requires more, then a c-section is promptly ordered.”

“A c-section?” he echoed, leaning forward slightly.

“A cesarean delivery,” you clarified. “It’s a surgical procedure where the baby is delivered through an incision in the mother’s abdomen and uterus. It’s done when a natural birth would endanger the mother or child.”

“Does it kill the mother?”

“Not usually,” you replied. “While there are risks, they’re minimal with proper care. Most mothers recover well and can even conceive again.”

“Do the women not bleed out?”

“Excessive bleeding can happen, but it’s rare for it to be fatal,” you reassured him.

Viserys sighed deeply, his gaze distant. “I truly wish you had come sooner.”

“Yeah…” You looked down, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”

He straightened in his chair, the melancholy lifting slightly. “Well, in any case, I’m sure you have things to attend to. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you.” You rose but paused near the door. “May I ask something of Your Grace?”

“Of course,” he said, motioning for you to continue.

“I’d like to propose a few ideas to the council—in, say, a fortnight?”

He smiled faintly. “I see no issue with it. I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you, my King.” You curtsied before leaving, already anticipating the comfort of your bed and the luxury of brushing your teeth properly once again.

You walked down the halls. Why the King had hopped for your early arrival, you couldn’t say. You felt bad for the old man, nearly stabbed him in the back and he didn’t even know it. Old people were so cute.

You stepped into your room seeing your set up. Sweet scents and a fan still working great.

Suddenly you turned and you nearly crashed into something. “Oh! Jump scare.” You murmured, turning away from him. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Your chambers?” He corrected.

“Right, grammar police here.” You rolled your eyes walking towards your setup Dyana had brought. Along with your bath. Hopefully Aemond was smart enough to sneak back in without anyone seeing. “What are you doing in my chamber, your grace?” You mocked his accent while tying your hair back.

“What did my mother want with you?” Aemond walked behind you before sitting on your bed.

Your face contorted before you pulled him off it. “Egh! Get off my bed! Go sit on a chair like a normal person. What’s wrong with you? You smell like Vhagar.”

“As do you.” Aemond countered looking down at you and you in turn raised a brow.

“Okay you don’t see me sitting on my bed now do you? Outside clothes never touch my bed, and they shouldn’t touch yours either. It’s unsanitary. Have some standards. A bed is a sacred space.” Aemond only gave a scoff.

“You are a dramatic woman.” Aemond spoke and you gave no answer. “What did my mother ask for?” Aemond sat on a chair watching you.

“Some plans she asked me to make a couple weeks ago.” You said dismissively turning and getting a small soap from your suitcase, Aemond’s watchful eye never leaving you.

“What plans?” He pressed looking at you as you washed your hands.

“Nothing too important that you need to worry about.” This man was too nosey for your liking. Always with the questions this one.

“Really? You seemed as if you were about to cry while praying to whatever gods it is you have before entering the room.” Aemond mocked it with that concerning smirk that never went away.

“Ugh, who told you that?” You turned and smiled, wetting your toothbrush while Aemond lifted a brow. “Ooh was it that delicious looking knight? Y’know if he just kept his mouth shut he would’ve been perfect.”

“Ser Criston has taken an oath of celibacy for life.” Aemond again watching you curious as to what you were doing.

“Men can never truly uphold something like that. I bet you I can get him to break it, if he hasn;t already. But it looks like he has a big mouth, so….” You humbled picking up your toothpaste, slapping a small glob on your toothbrush before wetting the brush again. “Where’s he from anyways, he’s totally my type. Maybe I can snag myself another one.” You began brushing and foam formed in your mouth while Aemond furrowed his brows in confusion ever so slightly.

“What is that?” He asked and you rolled your eyes.

You spit out some of the foam. “Can’t you read? It says Crest 3d white. Fluoride anticavity toothpaste. 100% whitening. It’s what keeps my teeth so white and my mouth clean. Duh.” You continue to brush your teeth and your tongue.

“Whitening?” He questioned standing up, picking up the toothpaste and smelling it. He pulled back a bit. Strong scent, too strong.

You spit out white foam again. “Y’know every time I go to the dentist they say I have perfect teeth, I have to keep up my streak.” Even if you are nevering going to see another dentist in your life.

Aemond simply looked at you before putting it down and picking up your mouth wash. You watched him read as you continued to brush before finally finishing. “You want to try it? It helps kill the bacteria that makes people's breath smell bad.” You smiled, some foam still in your mouth.

You uncapped it and rinsed your mouth with it before spitting it out. You turned to him and gave a toothy grin. “See? All clean now. Okay when you do it, don’t swallow it, you might get sick or something and it might burn a bit so…just beware.”

You gave him some and immediately you saw his face twist. You grinned and held in a laugh. “Relax! Wash it around your mouth, especially in the back.” You watched him try to keep it in before he spit it out.

He started coughing and you giggled. “A filthy mouth you have.” You clicked your tongue in disapproval. “Alright well, get out now, I’m going to change and then I’m going to bed.” you turned around letting down your hair tossing your hair tie on your desk.

Aemond said nothing and you raised a brow. Maybe he didn’t hear you. You turned around and suddenly he grabbed your face forcing your lips against his. His tongue swiftly entered your mouth before you pushed him off of you as you stood with wide eyes.

“It is fresher.” It was all he said before once more kissing you. You had no time to react. He pulled away. “You are sleeping for the rest of the day, no?”

“Well yeah, but I’ve had enough of royals for…like ever. I’m pretty sure your mother is actually trying to kill me and your grandfather.” You asked as your hands lay flat against his chest.

“Grandsire.” He corrected and you rolled your eyes.

“Right, sorry, you’re still the grammar police.” You spoke and he only hummed, pressing a small kiss to the side of your mouth. You still didn’t know what was happening or why he was acting like this but there was that pressing fear that Alicent will indeed kill you. You already squandered a chance for her to take you to the sept, so now it was on to a new plan to avoid Alicent wrath and that plan that did NOT involve you being intimate with Aemond.

“Stop.” You pushed him off you. “What are you doing? I’m not joking, your mother, the queen is actually out for my head and the hand will help her. I can’t do this. You are not worth my life. Listen, it was good the first time, but not ‘I will give up my life’ good.”

“Fret not, I will not allow it to happen.” He resumed kissing you and despite your earlier claims you did lean into them. What can you say? A freshly cleaned mouth and the man was a good kisser? It was game over.

“My knight in shining armor.” You scoffed at pulling away.

“A dragon knight. I ride the queen of dragons. I will handle my mother and grandsire.”

“That's not how the fairy tales go.” You smiled, raising a brow as he undid the laces of your dress.

“How do the fairy tales go then?” Aemond murmured into your skin as he kissed your neck.

You giggled and pushed yourself away but his grip kept you close. “Normally the dragon takes the Princess and the knight slays the dragon, saving the Princess and they live happily ever after.”

“What if the knight is the dragon?” He nipped your skin and you sucked in a breath.

“Are you calling yourself a dragon?” A laugh lifting his head towards you while you smile.

“I am a dragon. I carry the dragon’s blood.” He murmured as he kissed you once more, tearing off your dress leaving you in small clothes.

“So then what does that make me?” You questioned as his hands went to your hair and you began undressing him.

“The princess?” He spoke as he threw off his coat and shirt.

“I’m no Princess, I haven’t married a Prince and my father is no King. I am a scholar.” Aemond pushed you back onto the bed.

“A scholar should not need saving? Do you not need me?” He stood over you with a smug smirk.

“No. I don’t need you.” You propped yourself up on your elbows. “But having you is nice.” You dragged him down kissing him once more.

A smirk tugged on his lips, fighting with yours for dominance. Clearly, you were not one to submit. Though he supposes it should not come to a surprise, you always fought against everything else. This would be no different. However, Aemond was not but determined.

“Well, is my Scholar willing to enlighten me in more wisdom–,” You shivered at the cold metal around his fingers when they contacted your supple skin, hands caressing your sides, “-per the demonstration done last occasion?”

Your eyebrows narrowed, heat spreading on your nape at the unlocked memory, the one you've been registering over again in your head when you tried to sleep at night. A mistake. Well another was about to ensue. A bigger one.

Ready to spit something back but your lips were swept away, Aemond hungrily biting the flesh.

You pulled back, witnessing the hands that now tangled in the fabric that was your main piece of coverage.

A loud tear echoed, your eyes widening in horror, “Are you mad?! I just got this!”

Aemond rolled his eyes at the dramatic reaction. “Yes from my nephew, I’ll buy you a better one.” tongue wetting his lips at the sight of your chest.

It wasn't bare, no, your small clothes were lace. A pretty pink lace and in the middle was a small little rose sown on. Was this what the women from your land wore? Such skimpy tops? All Aemond knew was that it caught him like a fish to a hook, excited to peel it off your body like a fruit shell, the delicious part hidden beneath.

“Wait.” You pushed against him. “This is exactly what Imaan Hammam wore in the comeback show of Victoria Secret. Be very careful, this is like one of three sets I have.” You smiled looking down at your lacy small clothes. “I have the one Adriana Lima wore and the Candice Swanepoel one. Very expensive, so be careful!”

Who?

He ran his fingers across the material, it was soft. “You make me insane.” The grin that tugged on your face had the Targaryen cup your cheek, dragging the stare into your sight longer. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“...In a bad way, it makes me feel good.” Poetic. It appears you’re not the only Shakespeare here.

“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment or?” He shook his head, resuming with what he started, not a patch of skin was left untouched by his curiosity. Wet kisses and marks being planted on your neck.

“You talk too much.” He murmured against you.

“Isn't that what teachers do?” You laughed as he pulled the rest of your dress down to expose the other half of your set. How pretty, even matching with the little rose.

Aemond sat back, working his way with the strings of his trousers, loosening them to relieve the tent that formed by your charm, “You aren't teaching me anything?”

“I'll teach you the art of insertion,” you chuckled at your own joke but only one party was laughing.

“I know where to put it.” Aemond wasn’t stupid and you were not his first conquest, though judging by your demeanor, it wasn’t yours either. Though for the moment Aemond would rather not think of that.

“Right, do you want to learn or not?” You smiled looking up at him.

Aemond sat back on his hunches, observing with that cold eye of his, expression unreadable. “Do proceed.”

“No wait, I was just kidding." Raising an eyebrow, a thought struck you, wouldn't it be amusing?

“A jest,” a look of disbelief painted his expression.

“Harder? Faster? Deeper?” You giggled looking towards him.

He glared at your grimy ‘jest’, one hand wrapping around the bone of your ankle, satisfied by the small squeal that left your mouth as he pulled you halfway down the sheets, locating his hips between your thighs.

That seemed to shut you up, allowing Aemond to have his way with you. It was absurd, the way his body craved you so much. He wanted all of you, to see all of you, have everything to himself.

His jaw clenched, his hand glided over your stomach until it was right above the place you needed him most.

Your blood kept pumping, your heart skipped beats it shouldn't. Why were you reacting this way? His thumb hovered over the bundle of nerves that stood out, pressing with the large digit on it.

“Aemond, don't tease.” the drag of his name came so perfectly out of your pretty lips, lips that he devoured.

Silently, he noted the buck of your hips when he moved his fingers in slow circles around your clit that were covered by the soft lace of your small clothes covering you

His brain drilled in all the information, your heavy breathing, the line forming between your eyebrows and that pleading swirl in your eyes when you peered at him.

“Did you enjoy that?” You curtly bobbed your head, still not partaking in the fact that this indeed was happening with Aemond Targaryen. “More, please.” The light gesture was maddening your senses, it was there, simulating, but not enough.

“Wait, take it off. I can’t ruin this.” You breathed out, your cheeks flushed looking at him.

“I’m sure I can get you another.” Aemond was sure in this moment he would travel to the ends of the earth in this moment to get you what you needed. Anything just to your fucked out expression.

“You can’t. Just take it off” You whined and he obliged. Such a pretty thing it was. Though what it hid was prettier yet. In the light he could see you glistening. The prettiest underlings he had ever seen.

“Aemond, more.” You begged to reach him.

And more was given, Aemond pushed your hip down when it buckled at the reaction and it did send a shock through your veins, but was quickly discarded by the overtaking pleasure.

“God.” You breathed out. Your awareness heightened, fingers tugging at the sheets of your bed at the bliss that was raising every second.

Oh how you loved it, his thumb was replaced by his pointer and middle finger, flicking and toying with the pearl. Your thighs squeezed around Aemonds wrist but he caught one of your knees, pushing his wide open for more access.

They ran down your fold to collect the running slick, using it to fasten the pace. You couldn't control yourself anymore, there was a coil in your stomach and the constant spasms of your muscles that had you pushing your long nails into his bare chest, leaving red marks. Any deeper and his blood would spill.

Your toes curled but then Aemond removed his fingers, holding them up to watch your honey gleam at the cricketing fire that reflected on it. You watched carefully, it shouldn't have been so attractive but it was.

As you were lost in thought, Aemond took the chance to cautiously find a way for his fingers inside your heat, making sure you won't act impulsively by slamming your legs shut.

It didn't take long for your hole to swallow them then try to fight off the intruding, worse was when he curled them, almost knuckle deep inside of you.

And it didn't take too long for him to have an orgasm forced out of you, all Aemond did was continue to investigate your body, your sultry moans that probably had heads turning in the direction of your chambers.

Gossip. Murmurs. Scandals.

Aemond didn't care. Let them hear, let them whisper. He wants them to hear how good he makes you feel, best would be if his brother heard, then they'd know who you belonged to. A shame his nephew wasn’t here to listen to you.

Or even Ser Criston Cole.

Leaning down to peck your forehead, his spine curled and you felt all the bones and muscles in his upper back on the touch of your palm, broad shoulders, bones that flexibly shifted when he changed position.

Aemond was not able to restrain himself anymore, he was throbbing painfully, the orgasm he gave you didn't make it better. He wanted to be engulfed by your gummy insides.

“Don't be shy now, I'm wide open.” his eye widened, how shameless were you? Your hand seductively ran the curve from your chest to your navel, looking Aemond straight into the eye, no hesitation lingering behind yours.

You were over the previous view of this encounter. The desperate need to fulfill your sexual frustrations came into play, puppeteering you into doing things you probably would regret later.

His nostrils flared, exhaling lowly through his nose as his arousal lit up, exploding at your remarks, your body, your reactions, you. Just…you.

Why were you so special? It confused him. Everything was different about you and he wanted that difference in his life.

Your ankles crossed behind his back, playing the role of getting him closer this time, wearing a devious smile. “I expect more from the one-eyed Targaryen Prince.”

Your arms now around his nape, your noses touching as your breath lingered like a breeze on him, people in the twenty-twenties would've gone crazy at the non-existent distance.

“Will you take it?”

“I will.”

“I'll ruin you.” That…did something to you. You felt that cold wetness ooze out of your hole and it made you bite your tongue. “Can you?” You lifted a brow offering the challenge.

“I was always planning on doing so.” His hands ran up your back toying with the back of the small clothes you had.

“Then stop talking and move.” You helped him unclasp the back of your bra and it was thrown off to the side. He looked down towards you relishing the sight of you bare. His second time seeing you, yet it did not take away the illusion it had the first time.

“So demanding, have I made you desperate? Do you want me to fill you up?” Aemond egged you on, his lips finding their right on yours while he took off his garments.

Glancing down, you saw his hardened cock and it made you naturally beam into the kiss, the corners of your mouth curling up. “So big…”

Your hands were caged by one of Aemonds, pushing them above your head for a few minutes. He didn't need to pump his cock more than how hard it was already, only guiding the tip to the right place.

A sharp gasp escaped your throats, not just you but your partner for the night. His expression was like an open book, desperation, need, even guilt was written over it.

Slowly, inch by inch he was fully armored by the welcoming walls that swallowed him in with no further blockades. Groans fell from him like a melody, giving you the time to adjust to the gap your hole had to stretch into.

Your breathing was out of order, the sudden intrusion was too deep, or you felt it too deep. The stinging pain subsided into flowing ecstasy, the burn, the ache for further implications on you.

Your clit caught with the small, white hairs on the base when you bottomed out, his cock reaching greater lengths.

“Move!”

Clawings marked crescent shapes into his shoulders, throwing your head back when your command was heard. Aemond didn't waste time, he knew the spot you wanted him to strike.

Soon you arched off the bed and into his muscular arms, the male sculpting you to the best position. His teeth gnawed at one of your nipples as his pace started in motion, pulling back to steady himself with your round hips.

Aemonds thrusts were rough but somehow light at the same time, he knew how to keep that steady, slow pace. And for a fact, he knew that it angered you.

But he wanted to treasure this moment, to enjoy it to its fullest, commit every detail to memory. In that moment, you wondered if you could piss him off, make him angry, make Aemond Targaryen fuck you like he's angry at you.

Oh god.

“Yes, wow, you're going too fast, I won't come anytime soon.” The monotone sarcasm was played out perfectly, except for the shaggy breathes and moans that tagged along.

“Patience is a virtue of a scholar.” Your scoff never made it out, instead, you were caught off guard by Aemond slamming you down on his dick after leaving only his red angry tip inside, your insides stretched and squeezed, making a molding for him to shelter in.

Your clit pulsed, making you compress around him in the progress and it had Aemond licking his lip at the shock that electrified him, goosebumps sprawling on his pale skin.

The sloppy noises filled the corners of the dimmed chamber, your mixed moans, out of breath sighs and the skin slapping against each other.

Aemond’s herculean hips were rolling to make you gulp down more, more. More of his thrusts that are becoming hectic, more of his honey coated shaft and more of him.

He was hypnotized. If you didn't use witchcraft on him, then what have you done?

Your heat was melting on him, squelches reaching his ears as he didn't stop working your cunt on his cock, sliding out and back in. He took notice of how fast his end was about to twist and snap.

But he didn't stop, not faltering any second even when his vision was fading to black spots, his ears ringing loudly. As were yours, your expression was priceless, jaw slacked and your eyes lost.

The coil inside him tightened. The aggressive snap of his hips kept you on the high end, your pupils enlarging. Exhaustion hit like a weave at the beach but the bliss kept you up, like coffee on a sleepy morning.

Everytime you wanted to flutter your eyelashes shut, Aemond would thrust and have them wide open again, having your mouth form an o shape. “O-oh god!" Ae-Aemond!”

Even his name laced with the hum of your voice was a blessing, a godsend gift. You kept clutching onto him as if you'd lose it all if you let go, your knees were bent, your breathing…

It was hard to take in air, Aemonds body was too heavy for you, crushing you beneath his weight. He didn't care, not while he was rearranging you from the inside out and having you milk him to the last drop.

Your thigh jolted, flinched as your calf raised even higher in the air, strands sticking to your forehead from the sweat, Aemonds silver locks mixing with your own hair.

“Not yet. Hēnkirī” it wasn't a request or a demand, but rather a pleading. Even if you didn’t understand Valyrian, it was all he could say.

Tears brimmed at your lash line, how were you supposed to contain the fire that pooled in your lower stomach? It was getting larger and swallowing everything in its way.

Your smaller hands were trapped by the large, veiny hands that belonged to Aemond, his fingers locking within yours. “Avy jorrāelan”

You were too lost in the bubble of glory to even process his foreign words, too focused on the ecstasy that's about to burst.

And it did. Right when it was unexpected. “Pull out, Aemond!”

Your orgasm came crashing down on you, your vision going white and your hearing sense being completely useless for the few seconds that your jaw lacked the strength to keep shut in.

The Targaryen prince left your glazed hole with pre– now stroking himself to find his own release, all over your stomach when as done.

His finger scraped off some of the fluids, eyes heavy and half-lidded while waiting for you to calm down from the stimulation.

Finally catching your breath you looked down at yourself. “You had the entire bed, yet aimed for me?”

“You look better with it.” Aemond stood up rolling his shoulders while you lay still watching him.

“Well…better on me than in me I suppose.” You hummed, grabbing a rag and wiping yourself.

“You don’t want to bear a royal child? Have your womb be royal? Any woman would kill for my seed.” Aemond watched you wiping yourself before taking the rag away and tossing it away.

“No epidural, no children.” You murmured. “My bath is probably cold by now.” You looked over to the once steaming bath now releasing less steam. “You smell like Vhagar, you want to bathe with me?” You smiled sitting up trying to find the power to stand.

Aemond said nothing before wrapping his arms around you nipping at your skin. “You’re going to leave marks, stop.” You tried to push him away but couldn’t, instead his grip around you tightened.

As he continued to suck at your skin you simply looked out the window as you began contemplating your next steps. So much for keeping your distance from the one-eyed prince. You needed to go collect your dues from the Miswak business and check on your reduced children, but even so, you needed time to prepare your proposal that was due in a month. So much to do and so little time.

Note: Just a little extra added at the end (Special thanks) Also should anyone want to be a beta reader for me, pls!

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To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

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v6quewrlds · 8 months ago

Text

❝ fuksumn, t. higgins. ❞ ‎ ‎ ┉

‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀summary: competition keeps things interesting in your relationship. but when tee looks that good all the time, maybe losing isn't such a bad thing.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: WHERE ARE THE TEE FICS YALL, did i spend 45 mins looking for a tee pic for the header? yes. why? mind your business, i do in fact have another tee fic i'm working on bc someone gotta write for him and i guess it will be me 🙂‍↕️ day two of my no nut november series.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, established relationship, intentional use of aave in dialogue, "just the tip" trope, pretty tame otherwise.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: tee higgins x reader.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 2.9k.

"You know you not finna win that challenge," Tee teased, pausing his game to glance over at you. His fingers paused over the controller, a smug smirk playing on his lips.

You rolled your eyes, not looking up from the laptop in your lap. "Oh, really?" You replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "And what makes you so sure?"

Tee leaned in closer, his tall frame stretching over the couch's arm. "C'mon, babe," he said, his voice low and playful. "Look at us right now. You stressed out with that paper, and I'm just chillin' here. Ain't nobody hornier than you when you stressed."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Is that your strategy?" You looked at him, your eyes sparkling. "To make me so stressed that I can't help but beg for it?"

Tee shrugged, his grin widening. "It's just science, baby. Stress turns into other things, if you know what I mean."

You playfully pushed his face away in an attempt to hide the racing of your heart. You couldn't deny that the tension between you two was growing thicker by the minute.

"Alright, Mr. Science," you said, closing your laptop with a dramatic sigh. "Let's say I'm the one to crack first, what do you want from me?"

Tee's eyes lit up with mischief. "Oh, I'm thinking something sweet," he said, setting his controller aside. "Maybe I'll get you to bake me that apple pie you been promising me for weeks."

You rolled your eyes again, but this time with a playful smile. "A whole pie just because I can't keep my hands off you?" You scoffed. "Try again, Tee."

Tee sat up, his movements deliberate and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or maybe," he began, leaning in closer, "I could get you to wear that tiny ass dress I like so much."

You felt a shiver run down your spine, your cheeks flushing as you thought of the dress in question. It was a dark green dress that hugged your curves in all the right places, one that had driven Tee wild the last time you wore it. "What dress?" you said, playing coy. "The one that barely covers my ass?"

Tee nodded, his gaze lingering on your lips. "You know the one," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The one that makes me want to tear that ass up every time I see it on you. If I win, you gotta wear it without anything extra."

Your heart skipped a beat. The challenge was on, and you were already plotting your revenge. You leaned back into the couch cushions, crossing your arms over your chest. "Fine," you said, raising an eyebrow. "But if I win, you gotta clean the whole house. Spotless."

Tee laughed, the sound rich and warm. "You think that's gon’ be enough to make me crack?" He leaned closer, your bodies touching. "I'm telling you, I got more self-control than anyone you know."

Your eyes narrowed playfully. "Is that right?" you said, your voice a sultry whisper. "Let's see what you made of."

The days ticked by, and the flirty banter grew more intense. Every time you walked by Tee, you would brush your hand against his thigh, feeling the heat of his skin through his sweatpants. Tee would return the favor, placing a kiss to the edge of your jawline as he passed, making your skin tingle with anticipation. You both would catch each other's glances across the room, your eyes holding for a beat too long, before one of you would look away, trying not to crack first.

One evening, as you sat at the kitchen counter with your laptop, Tee came up behind you, his hands resting on the counter to close you in. He kissed your neck gently, his breath hot against your skin. You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as you typed. "You're playing dirty," you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Just a little taste, baby," Tee said, his teeth grazing your ear. "C'mon, don’t tell me you ‘ont want it."

Your resolve wavered. You could feel his solid form pressing against you, and it was getting increasingly harder to resist. You knew he was enjoying every second of this game, watching you squirm. "Tee, I'm tryna focus," you said, your voice betraying the desire coursing through your veins.

"Mm-hmm," Tee murmured, his kisses moving down your neck, sending a shiver through you. "But you know you want it." His voice was a soft caress, his breath a whisper.

Your grip tightened on your laptop, the heat from his body enveloping you. "I'm not gonna be the one to break," you insisted, your voice wavering. You could feel the warmth of his crotch against your backside, the evidence of his desire unmistakable.

"You sure about that?" Tee challenged, his hands sliding around to cup your breasts. He gently squeezed, his thumbs swirling over the soft nipples hidden underneath your shirt. You bit your lower lip to stifle a moan, your eyes squeezing shut. The sensation was almost too much to handle, your body begging for more.

"Tee..." you warned, your voice thick with need. You could feel the wetness pooling between your legs, your resolve slipping away like sand through your fingers. He knew exactly where to touch, and how to make your body sing.

Tee chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Come on, baby," he coaxed, his voice a sweet symphony of temptation. "Just a little bit. Let me fuck you right." He leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning across your face.

"Just the tip." You finally broke, your voice barely above a whisper. "Just to cool the tension."

Tee's smirk grew wider as he pulled back, his eyes gleaming with victory. "Is that right?" He stepped closer, his jeans tenting with his own need. "You want me to give you just a lil’ taste?"

You nodded, your eyes half-lidded with desire. "Just the tip," you repeated, your voice strained. "That's all."

Tee's hand trailed down your stomach, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your jeans. He slid them down just enough to expose the top of your panties. His own breathing grew heavier as he leaned in, his mouth so close to yours. "Just the tip, then," he whispered, his hot breath fanning your face.

With a swift motion, he pushed aside the material of your underwear and found your wetness with his fingertips. You gasped, your eyes snapping open to meet his. "This pussy's always so wet for me," he murmured with a hint of surprise in his voice. He slipped one finger inside, just a little, watching your reaction closely.

"No fair," you panted, your eyes fluttering shut again as Tee's finger slid in and out of you, teasing you with every stroke. You could feel the tension in your body coiling tighter with every passing second.

"Couch." You almost demanded, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back. Tee chuckled, the sound sending vibrations through your body as he stepped back, allowing you to get up. Your legs felt wobbly, but you managed to make your way over to the couch.

As you lay down, your heart racing, Tee followed, his movements more predatory than ever. He hovered above you, his eyes dark with desire, and you couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement. He slid off your jeans completely, leaving you in just your panties and shirt.

Your breath hitched as Tee slid in, just the tip as promised. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through your core. You bit your lip to keep from moaning too loudly, your eyes locked onto him as he began to move. The friction was maddening, so close to what you really wanted but not quite enough to satisfy.

"Tee," you whimpered, your body arching up to meet his.

He smirked down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of challenge and lust. "You sure about this?" He whispered, his voice thick with his own desire.

You hesitated, your eyes searching Tee's. The tension in the room was suffocating, the air heavy with need. You could feel your resolve slipping, the desire to give in to the challenge overwhelming. "A little more," you breathed, your voice barely audible.

Tee's smirk grew as he pushed in a little further, his movements deliberate and slow. Your eyes rolled back in your head, a soft moan escaping your lips. The feeling was a delicious temptation, but it was also torture, a sweet agony that made you want to scream. "That's it, baby," Tee murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "Take it."

Your nails dug into the couch cushions as Tee began to move faster, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was just shy of satisfying. You could feel your orgasm building, the pressure growing with every stroke. "Come on, baby," he coaxed, his voice a seductive purr. "You know you want more."

Your eyes remained locked as he slid in deeper, his thickness filling you just enough to make your toes curl. Your breath came in shallow gasps, your body begging for release. "Fuck," you groaned, your resolve crumbling. "Okay, okay... more."

With a grin of victory, Tee leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as he pushed all the way in, your moan muffled by his lips. You moved together, your bodies in perfect harmony, the challenge forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Your hands roamed underneath his shirt and up his back, your nails digging into his skin, urging him to go deeper, faster. Tee complied, his strokes becoming more intense, each one pushing you closer to the edge. Your kiss grew more frantic, your breaths mingling as your tongues danced together.

The room was filled with the sound of your muffled moans and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tight, your body writhing beneath him as he claimed you. You were both lost in the moment, the challenge nothing but a distant memory.

Tee's hand slipped under your shirt, his thumb brushing against your nipple, sending a shiver of pleasure through your body. You arched up, pushing your chest into his hand, your breath coming in ragged pants. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving to your neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

"Tee," you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair as he worked his magic. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending an electric shock to your core. "I'm gonna come, baby," you panted, your voice trembling.

"Not yet," he murmured, his voice thick with his own desire. He pulled out almost entirely, leaving just the tip of his dick teasing you.

Your eyes flew open, your pupils dilated with passion. "Tee, you can't do this to me," you pleaded, your voice a desperate whine.

He chuckled against your neck, the vibrations sending another tremor through you. "But I can," he said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. "And I will."

With every ounce of willpower you had, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, one of your hands curling around the right side of his jaw. "Please, baby," you begged, your voice a breathy whisper. "I can't take it. You win."

Tee's eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned in closer, his voice a low purr. "Are you giving in so soon?" He began to pull out completely, the tip of his dick slipping from your warmth.

Your eyes snapped open, your body taut with need. "Yes, Tee," you huffed, your pride wounded. "I'll wear that damn dress for you, just..."

You gasped as he slammed back into you, his dick filling you up completely. "Just don't stop," you whimpered, your voice a desperate plea as you fell back onto the couch.

Tee chuckled, the sound sending waves of pleasure through you. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a rough kiss as he began to move again, his strokes deep and deliberate. Your legs tightened around him, your hips rising to meet every thrust. The pressure in your core grew, the anticipation of release building like a crescendo.

Tee's hand found yours, your fingers lacing together as he picked up the pace. "You so beautiful when you get like this," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. The love in his gaze only added to the intensity of the moment. "All mine," he whispered, his voice a declaration.

You felt a wave of emotion wash over you, the love and desire in Tee's words fueling your own passion. "Yes, baby," you whispered back, your eyes filled with longing. "Always. All yours."

"Fuck, baby," you groaned, your nails digging into his back as you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. His rhythm was unrelenting, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Your eyes squeezed shut, your breath coming in short gasps as you tried to hold on, not wanting the feeling to end.

"Oh, you're so tight," Tee whispered in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. He could feel you tightening around him, your body begging for release. "You gon’ come for me, baby." His words were a promise, a demand, and a question all rolled into one.

"Gonna come all over this couch, baby girl," Tee murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. "Make a mess just for me." He swiveled his hips, hitting that spot deep inside you that had you panting and whimpering his name.

You could feel the orgasm building, a pressure that was almost painful in its intensity. "Tee, I can't," you gasped, your head shaking from side to side as another moan ripped through you. "Baby, it's too much."

"Nah, baby girl," Tee whispered, his eyes locked with yours. "You gotta take this dick, baby. Take it like the big girl I know you are." He leaned in closer, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "You wanted this dick so bad, now you gotta take it all."

Your bodies moved in perfect sync, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. Your breath hitched, your eyes rolling back as Tee's strokes grew more demanding. You could feel the orgasm approaching, no sense in stopping now. "Tee," you moaned out, your voice a desperate plea.

"Come for me, baby," he murmured, his own breathing growing more ragged. "Let it go." And with those words, you shattered, your body convulsing around Tee as you came, your moan echoing through the room. Tee groaned, the sight of your pleasure pushing him over the edge. He thrust into you one final time, his warmth flooding you as he reached his climax.

You both lay there, panting and tangled in each other's arms, the challenge a distant memory. Tee's chuckles rumbled against your skin as you swatted at him playfully. "You're so fucking evil," you accused, your voice filled with love and laughter.

"You love it," Tee countered, kissing your neck. "'Just the tip, Tee. Just a little more, Tee.'" He mimicked your earlier pleas, his voice teasing and full of laughter.

You couldn't help but laugh, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Shut up," you said, your voice muffled against his shoulder. "You just lucky you good at this."

Tee leaned back, grinning down at you. "Good?" He repeated. "Baby, I'm the fucking best, and you know it."

You couldn't argue with that. "Fine," you said, your voice a mix of defeat and satisfaction. "You win. But you still cleaning the house."

"You the one that lost, remember?" Tee chuckled, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He pulled out of you, a smug smile playing on his lips as he watched you struggle to sit up, your legs still weak.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face was genuine. "Whatever, you agreed to it," you said, though the protest lacked any real bite.

Tee leaned back, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He looked down at you, sprawled out on the couch, your lips swollen and your chest heaving. He couldn't resist the urge to lean down and kiss you again, his lips finding yours in a lazy, lingering press. "Mm, you taste so good," he murmured against your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered open, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "So do you," you whispered, your eyes searching his. The love in his gaze made your heart flutter.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns on Tee's back as you thought about the challenge. "You know," you began, your voice a lazy drawl, "I might have to make sure we never do that again."

Tee chuckled, his chest rumbling against yours. "Why's that?" He nibbled on your earlobe, making you squirm.

"Because you're too good at this," you said with a playful pout. "I'm never going to win anything against you."

Tee laughed, his deep chuckles sending a warm vibration through her. "Don't worry, baby," he said, his hand moving to cup your cheek. "I'll let you win at something."

You squinted your eyes as Tee fought back a laugh. "Nah, never mind," he gave in, retracting his hand and tickling your side. You squealed and giggled, trying to get away, but his grip was too firm, his touch too playful.

"Tee, stop!" you giggled, squirming under him. But your protests were weak, and your laughter only encouraged him more.

"Okay, okay," he said, his chuckles subsiding. "But you gotta admit, that was worth it." He leaned in, his mouth capturing yours in a sweet, tender kiss that made your heart swell.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you pulled away. "Maybe," you conceded, your voice light and playful. "But next time, I'm definitely winning."

"We'll see about that," Tee said, his eyes twinkling with a competitive glint.

#&. cassie writes.#&. nnn masterlist.#tee higgins #tee higgins x reader #tee higgins fanfic #tee higgins smut #tee higgins fic #tee higgins imagine #cincinnati bengals #bengals #black!fem!reader #x black fem reader #black!oc #black!reader #x black reader

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beggamoth · 1 month ago

Text

To Wed A Dragon. pt 2

summary | Viserys I Targaryen, being geopolitical genius he is, arranges a marriage between his dangerously serpentine second son Aemond and a wildling of pure First Men blood: the elusive Omega daughter Daemon left rotting in Runestone. It’s all bread and circuses and targcest.

pairing | alpha!!aemond targaryen x fem!!omega!!reader with implied social anxiety

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! not proofread. i wal half dead when i was writing it so. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. consists of aemond’s journals. also vague helaegons in this part.

wordcount | 3,3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

______________________________________________________________

1st Moon, 128 AC. Three days post-scenting. The wind was rattling the windows. I was in a mood for conquest

It is time to court her.

As per tradition, both Andal and Valyrian, and as demanded by decorum, I have begun the official pursuit of Lady [name] Royce, my betrothed, my mirror opposite, my current academic project disguised as a person. Courtship, according to both the maesters and my mother, must be gentle. Considerate. Intentional. Signs of attention should not be suffocating so that the future mate does not leap headfirst but leave enough room for them to have a misconception of having a choice in the matter.

They have clearly never courted a creature who looks like she might bolt at the sound of her own name.

ADVICE RECEIVED (Most of it Unasked For, and All of it Questionable):

Alicent, exasperated, very opinionated on the matter of courtship but barely experienced one of her own:

“Ask about her interests. Write her a short poem. Compliment her mind. She may appear shy, but she’ll highly appreciate your attention.”

Yes, Mother. I shall compose an ode to her inability to make small talk.

Criston Cole (eternally bitter and inexplicably proud of it):

“Be gallant. Provide gifts of use. Things that show you think of her needs.”

I considered giving her a ten foot pole or a thick veil so she’ll have more ways to avoid eye contact.

Aegon (for some reason shirtless, half-lying on a chaise, playing with Helaena’s hair):

“Just pin her to a wall and tell her she’s pretty. Worked for me.”

Yes, brother. And now you have enough bastard children for us to never worry about the end of the Targaryen line. Helaena (lying with her stomach on Aegon’s lap, reading a book upside down)

“Make a trail of honey cakes from her solar to yours. Can’t promise that she’ll be smitten, but you’ll have her attention.”

…All right. This one may be the most efficient I’ve received so far.

COURTSHIP STRATEGY, WEEK ONE:

Gift #1: A first edition on Old Vale legends. With vivid illustrations that saved their first colours.

She received it with the enthusiasm of a tree being shown fire. Mumbled “thank you” like it was putting a strain on her vocal cords.

Gift #2: A small potted herb known to soothe nerves.

She asked if it was “meant to imply something.” I said yes. She did not laugh. Neither did I.

Gift #3: A dragon figurine carved from obsidian.

She flinched when I handed it to her. Not because it frightened her—because she feared she might drop it. I told her it was just stone. She looked like I’d insulted its honor.

SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS (Results Inconclusive):

It'd been a surprisingly hot winter. The sky was painted in pale, anemic colours. The paths in godswood in the Red Keep were eroded by the rain and became wet as clay. The Weirwood tree was rustling above us. I sat beside her on sprawling white roots. Close. Not indecent, but enough that our sleeves brushed and I found myself in a vacuum of her scent - maple and that sweet thing whose name is unlikely to be found in any language. Anyway, it made the hairs on my scruff stand up.

Meanwhile, she began reciting trade routes aloud under her breath, as if invoking shipping lanes would exorcise my proximity.

I asked her about her favorite book.

She blinked once. Said:

“The one where everyone dies before the ending. No one talks in it.”

(She is either a genius or indeed mentally challenged. Possibly both.)

I offered to spar in the yard, half-joking. She responded:

“I’d rather be hit by a carriage.”

I liked that one, actually.

If some brave fool finds this journal and decides to laugh at my failed transgressions-- I dare him. Because criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.

Moreover, I do not consider it a failure.

At no point has she refused me. That is the linchpin in this operation. She has not said no. Has not run. Has not, to my knowledge, attempted escape via hidden passage or came to my mother begging to annul the engagement.

This is tacit permission.

I think she simply doesn’t know what to do with me. Most don’t. She is disoriented by my attention – like a little shivering rabbit pulled out of its hiding place by a fox who is in no hurry to eat it, for some reason.

(There’s something beautiful in that. In being someone else’s overwhelming.)

I believe it is working.

Not quickly. Not visibly. It would be the peak of naivety to expect her to throw herself at my neck and shower my face with kisses if I handed her a dandelion or a recite stanza of High Valyrian poetry in Common Tongue adaptation. Not at all.

But I see the signs:

She no longer looks mortified when I sit beside her.

She only stammers when spoken to directly, not peripherally.

And from what her maid said, she keeps the dragon statue I gave her on the mantelpiece. The most prominent place in the room.

A lesser man might interpret her discomfort as rejection.

But I am not lesser.

Her uncertainty is not refusal, but it is formation. A thing taking shape under pressure.

She will come to want me. Perhaps already does.

And if she doesn’t… well.

I am very good at making people think they do.

[margin sketch] Aemond’s drawing of the courtyard: himself in elegant posture, offering a gift. [name]: hiding behind a bush, labeled “Bush of Emotional Avoidance.” Caption: “Courtship: Going Very Well.” ____________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC, midday.

She did it.

She reciprocated. Or tried to.

And gods help me—I responded with all the consideration of a marble statue nodding at a crying child.

She wants to match me. I can see it. The hesitance isn’t fear now—it’s shame. Performance anxiety. Which, I must say, is fascinating to watch in real time.

Today, it happened.

THE CONTEXT:

It was the beginning of the year. It was warm, hot even. It was as if evil forces had tempted the spring to show an omen, and it had rushed into the Red Keep a few moons early to create a commotion.

I was in the library. Alone, ostensibly. I had no desire to go outside to look at the buds bursting prematurely. And then there she was, hovering near the fireplace like the ghost of Hamlet's father. No retinue. No buffer.

She was holding—gods help us all—a sachet.

Cloth. Stitched. Ridiculous.

One of those scent pouches maiden Omegas sometimes make when they’re still fresh from their moonblood and haven’t yet learned shame. But this one had effort. Clearly stuffed with herbs and—something richer beneath. Her. Not in full heat, but close enough that the scent had ripened into maple.

She held it out.

“I…” she began. “I thought… you might want this. It’s not strong. Just—something for when you’re away.”

The earnestness. The sheer catastrophe of it.

She was blushing so hard she looked sunburned. Her fingers, fresh from the needlework, were trembling slightly—likely from nerves, or effort, or from the sheer strain of doing something. Her scent was pulled taut like a bowstring.

And what did I do?

MY RESPONSE (EXACT QUOTE, HANDWRITING SHAKY FROM LINGERING SHAME):

“How quaint.”

HOW QUAINT.

I said it. I said it. With the tone of a lord admiring a child’s clay dragon with four legs and one wing.

I never meant to mock it. I was—impressed? Amused? Touched, in the way one is touched when a bird lands on your shoulder and doesn’t shit on you?

But the words came out wrong. Or perhaps perfectly in keeping with who I am: someone so used to asserting authority that sincerity baffles me.

HER REACTION:

She blinked. Her eyes veiled with tears

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she gave a nod that was meant to be a shrug but failed at both. Then she set the sachet gently on the table beside me—like an offering at a tombstone—and said:

“Sorry. That was stupid.”

She turned, fast. The movement snapped. Like she’d been hit.

I didn’t stop her. I should have. I did try, belatedly, to say something—anything—but she was already halfway down the corridor, walking too fast, head ducked low.

Her scent lingered.

But it had changed.

No longer maple and warmth.

Just something sharp.

Like embarrassment.

Like trying not to cry.

[three paragraphs heavily blotted. Next page, written hours later]

I am not sorry.

Let me be clear.

I am not sorry for what I said, only for the response it provoked. There is a difference.

Her attempt—sweet, strange—was admirable in the way fledgling efforts often are. But it was not what I’m accustomed to. I did not scorn her. I simply reacted as I would to a performance unfit for the stage it presumed.

Apparently, this was the wrong approach.

Apparently, she is the kind of girl who mistakes discomfort for failure.

Fine.

Let her learn through spectacle.

OPERATION: APOLOGY,

Mission Objective: Show Lady [name] that I valued her gesture.

Subtextual Objective: Reassert dominance. Assert control over the narrative. Burnish my image as both gallant and superior.

What would most men do?

A letter? Weak.

A verbal apology? Unmemorable.

A second gift? Uninspired.

What did I do?

THE GESTURE:

I commissioned a tapestry.

Not a small one. A full-wall Vale-work tapestry, stitched by three master weavers overnight, featuring:

Her sigil entwined with mine. A map of Runestone rendered in gold thread. A seven-pointed star replaced with a stylized dragon eye. Vhagar’s, for the ones who know.

A line of text beneath, in High Valyrian:

“She Who Is Seen Shall Be Feared Not.”

(Because subtlety is for cowards.)

It was unveiled—publicly—during midday meal, hung behind her designated seat in the dining hall, with an appropriate flourish of music and actual scented petals scattered by handmaidens trained in choreographed petal-distribution.

I may have stood as it was revealed. And may have said aloud:

“For Lady [name], my betrothed. That she never doubt her place beside me.”

HER REACTION:

To call it “poor” would be like calling dragonfire “warm.”

She froze.

No. Worse. She locked. Every joint seized up. Her expression did not contort—it vacated. Her eyes widened, but there was no expression or rational thought behind them, only raw animalistic panic trying to claw its way out.

She stood. Abruptly. No curtsy, no word. Her chair scraped violently against the stone floor, a sound that seemed to rupture the air.

And then—

She bolted.

Half-walked, half-fled. Past lords and ladies. Past Alicent’s gasp and Aegon’s snort and Criston’s narrowed eyes.

I watched her go.

MARGIN SKETCH:

A very large tapestry with dramatic flames and glowing embroidery. In front of it, a stick-figure of [name] drawn mid-sprint, labeled “fleeing the scene of emotional crime.”

POST-MORTEM:

Mother came to my chambers that evening. She was... not pleased.

“You terrified her, Aemond,” she said, hand clutching the seven pointed star on her chest like she was considering whacking me with it.

“It was a grand gesture, a part of the courtship,” I said.

“It was a spectacle,” she snapped. “That girl can barely speak above a whisper, and you turned her into a performance!”

We ended up in an argument that led us nowhere, except my mother snatched all the hair oils back in retaliation. Woman’s pettiness knows no bounds, indeed.

BUT.

I do not regret the gesture.

It was labourious. Artistic. It was precise. It elevated her. It told her: you matter enough to move me to grandeur.

If that frightens her, then let her learn to stand taller.

Let her understand that being desired by a dragon is not a gentle thing. ______________________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC

She is avoiding me.

Not subtly. Not in an attempt to play coy.

Systematically.

I have not seen her in three days, despite orchestrating half a dozen “accidental” routes through the Keep, the library, the godswood, the corridor that leads past the kitchens where she sometimes steals honeycakes, as Helaena had told me. She walked like a shadow among shadows and I would admire her art of folding herself like parchment if it didn't annoy the fuck out of me.

At first, I thought it was shyness. Shame. That I had overwhelmed her with my affections (true), and she needed time to recover (also true). So I gave her space.

Three days.

That was a mistake.

Because today, I heard something I was not meant to hear.

LOCATION: Alicent’s solar.

METHOD: Standing outside the partially open door under the pretense of inspecting the embroidery on a nearby tapestry.

WHAT I HEARD:

[name]. Speaking. In whole sentences.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said.

“I understand the arrangement was forged with intentions that—politically—seemed sound. But I do not feel safe. Not because he’s cruel. But because he’s so much. I’m not—I’m not strong enough to share a life with someone who ticks when my stitches are uneven and makes me look like a laughingstock to prove a point.”

I froze.

She wasn’t stammering.

She wasn’t whispering.

“I’m asking you—not out of disrespect, but fear—can you annul the engagement? Quietly? Please.”

My heart went very still.

ALICENT’S RESPONSE:

“[name]. Listen to me. This match came from the King’s own lips. He wanted Aemond to have something—someone—to anchor him. He believed your blood, your temperament, might calm him. Might balance him.”

“He said it would unite the family again. That you were a bridge.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t even know if he remembered which son he was talking about,” Alicent added, softly. “He may have meant Aegon. Or… gods, perhaps he thought Daeron was Aemond. But the decree was made. And it will not be unmade. You must—you must try. You won’t be the first woman and Omega in history to step over yourself for a man. If it will make you feel any better.”

Then silence.

Then—something even worse.

The sound of her crying quietly. The kind of crying where nothing moves except the breath.

And I stood there, behind the tapestry, like a complete fool, oblivious to the life of the Keep bustling around me. Enraged or embarrased – it is still hard to tell what I was supposed to feel.

______________________________________________________________

I met her in the inner yard the same day. She tried to walk past me with her head bowed, but I grabbed her forearm – firmer that I’ve expected from myself.

THE CONVERSATION (If One May Call It That):

Me: “So this is it? One little halt, and you’re sobbing on the knees of a Queen like a little girl? Do you really think that hiding like a rat will somehow make all the pressing matters less pressing?”

Her: “You’ve heard it.”

Her voice had heat in it. For once.

Her: “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”

Me: “Lady [Name]. I think I did everything exactly as expected. If it wasn’t what you wanted—why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Her: “Because I didn’t know how to say, ‘you scare me,’ without you taking it as a compliment.”

I opened my mouth. She interrupted me before a word fell from my lips.

Her: “You look at me like I’m a part of some grand scheme that exists only in your head. You don’t actually see me. You see—some version of a wife who makes you feel like a king. And that’s not me.”

Her: “You don’t talk to me. You talk at me. Like I’m a locked door you’re very proud to be kicking in.”

Her: “I tried, Prince Aemond. I made that stupid sachet, and you laughed at it. You probably didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t matter. You think you’re being kind when really you’re just—overpowering. All the time. And you always look at me like I’m supposed to be grateful.”

She laughed. Laughed, short and disbelieving, the kind of laugh people give when something breaks clean in the chest.

Her: “But I’m not. I’m not grateful, damnit! I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want to be married to the one person in the Seven Kingdoms who makes me feel like I’ve been handed a blade and told to hold it by the edge.”

“And gods help me,” she added, voice rising, cracking open, “I think I like you, and that makes it worse. Because you’re the worst man I could possibly be besotted with. And I hate it. I hate that you’re so convinced you’re always right.”

“And I hate that you’re not always wrong.”

THE MOMENT (Capital T, Capital M):

She turned around, her hair whipped in the air. With quick, jerky steps, she started walking away. I grabbed her shoulder.

Everything that followed it felt like some weird haze.

She pushed me. I clutched at her palm. She scratched me. I grabbed her chin.

It devolved into a childish brawl with the servants and courtiers looking on helplessly, because even in my weird state I would never have seriously hurt her, but I couldn't let her hurt me - just as I couldn't let her go. The mere thought of it made my teeth ache.

At one point, she sank her teeth into my palm. I hissed. And on inertia, I bit her shoulder, tearing through the fabric of her dress with my teeth.

We were breathing like animals. Both bleeding slightly. My fingers dug into her shoulders, bunching up thick woolen fabric I somehow managed to bite through. My mouth tasted like wool. Her mouth left a shallow mark on my palm.

Then it happened.

The scent broke.

All of it. Instinct.

I smelled her—maple and warmth, the damned sweet-throb of it—and it responded in me like a flare catching oil. My pulse kicked. My eye sharpened. My hands trembled like a boy’s.

It was a pulsing wave that starts low and rolls over the bones. A tightness in my spine. A need to punch a wall and then kneel in the Sept near the statue of Maiden until it wears off.

My body locked. My breath caught.

I released.

Not rut, not fully—but the prelude to it, sharp and possessive.

My scent wrapped around hers. She inhaled. Hers answered.

Permanent markers.

Teeth. Blood. All this and that..

Not enough to seal a mating bond—but enough to make it clear to any Alpha, Beta, or high-ranking bastard with a working nose:

She is no longer unclaimed.

We are scented.

Publicly. Permanently. Irreversibly.

Just scent and heat and the knowledge that if anyone touched her now I’d cut their fingers off.

Her face expressed absolute, abject horror.

She pulled away, slow, like she thought moving too fast would trigger an explosion. Her eyes were wet, wild.

“You—you ruined it.”

“You made it real.”

And then she ran. Again. But her scent clung to me like smoke on a burned house.

We were meant to suffer in symmetrical silence, not accidentally become half-mated in the middle of a shrubbery.

I cannot undo it.

And more than that—

I do not want to.

Now she’s mine. mine. mine.

[written with a lot of pressure on the quill, all letters of different sizes]

She can weep. She can beg. She can try to scrub me from her skin.

It’s too late.

We’ve begun.

And I intend to finish it.

MARGIN SKETCH: Aemond sitting in the dust, raising one hand in the air, face solemn. Labeled: "Silence, brain. Cock is thinking.”

#aemond one eye #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x you

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, negative self-talk, therapy, LandoLOG format, some time skips.

Notes — The championship tension is rising you guys. I’m literally on the beach in a bikini rn btw (not to brag :p)

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

Chapter Twenty-Two (Turkey — Saudi Arabia)

The flight to Istanbul was quiet.

Lando had fallen asleep somewhere over central Europe, curled against the window with his hoodie pulled up over his head. Amelia sat stiffly in her seat, notebook open on her lap, a pen twirling between her fingers. She wasn’t writing anything, though. She was thinking.

About him. About all of it.

Turkey could be a reset, if they let it. She’d witnessed McLaren spend the last week doing damage control after Sochi; shifting the narrative away from Lando’s heartbreak, framing the race as a learning experience instead of a failure.

He’d said all the right things publicly. But privately…

Privately, Lando was still carrying it like a fresh wound.

He hated himself for it. No—no, hated was too strong. Lando didn’t hate himself. Not exactly. But he turned all his sharpest knives inward when something went wrong. A relentless critic, a perfectionist with nowhere to put all that anger but his own reflection.

Amelia had seen it happen before, smaller instances, little mistakes. But Sochi had been the biggest yet. His shot at his first win, taken away by rain and a split-second decision that nobody should have been expected to make in the heat of that moment.

And, of course, he blamed himself for all of it.

She felt a little nauseous as she watched him sleep, peaceful for the first time in days. She let the pen fall to her notebook and turned her head, staring out at the endless stretch of clouds.

Maybe she should have seen this coming. Maybe she should have pushed harder, weeks ago, months ago. Every driver had their pressure points. Their ways of coping. Max raged. Daniel laughed. Fernando withdrew.

But Lando? Lando just punished himself. Quietly. Slowly.

She thought about how he’d been that night in Italy. How he’d tried to smile when she called it a perfect drive. How he’d apologised to her — her, like she was the one who’d lost something — and how it had taken everything in her not to cry when he’d finally let her hold him, sagging against her like he had no energy left to even stand.

It wasn’t sustainable. She knew that. He couldn’t keep treating himself like this.

And maybe it wasn’t her place — he had a sports psychologist, didn’t he? Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be her responsibility as his girlfriend. But… she loved him. And if she couldn’t stop the rain, or change the strategy calls, or rewrite the outcome of Sochi, maybe she could at least help him carry the consequences of it.

She thumbed her phone open, scrolled to her calendar. Her therapist offered virtual sessions and she’d been meaning to book a new one anyway. It would be a bit messy, timing-wise, with the media schedule and free practice, but—

“Whatcha doing, baby?” His voice was rough with sleep. Amelia jumped slightly, and turned to find Lando blinking blearily at her, his hair a mess under the hood.

“Nothing,” she said instinctively, then sighed. “Booking something.”

He leaned over to see her phone, squinting slightly at the brightness. “Therapy?”

She nodded, slipping the phone back into her lap. “Yeah.”

He was silent for a second, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You alright?”

It was such a Lando thing to ask — genuine concern, even half-asleep, even after everything.

She smiled a little sadly. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s for you.”

He froze, hand half-raised toward his coffee. Slowly, he looked over at her, brow furrowed. “Me?”

“Yes.” She affirmed.

His mouth opened, then shut. He flopped back against the headrest, pulling his hood tighter over his head like he could hide from the conversation.

Amelia didn’t let him. “Lando,” she sighed. “I’m not going to… force you into It or anything. I know you have your own therapist and stuff, but—” She paused, searching for the words. “I think the way that you handle your bad days is really unhealthy.”

Lando just stared at the seat in front of him, jaw tight.

“Obviously, you’re allowed to be upset,” she continued, with a nod. “And you’re allowed to be mad. But you punish yourself for things that are out of your control. That’s not healthy. And according to my therapist, it’s not normal.”

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

“I’m not saying you’re broken. Or that you need fixing. You’re—" she paused again, voice softening. "You’re you. And I love you. Exactly as you are.”

That got his attention. He turned his head slightly, just enough that she could see the faint, startled look in his eyes.

“But loving you also means wanting you to stop hurting yourself every time something goes wrong," she finished.

Silence stretched between them.

Amelia forced herself to sit back, giving him space to think, even if every instinct screamed at her to fill the silence.

After what felt like forever, Lando let out a slow breath. “I don’t need therapy.”

Yeah. She expected that. She didn’t flinch.

“Maybe,” she said. “But you should go anyway.”

He looked at her again, properly this time, and whatever snarky retort he’d been planning died in his throat. He saw it on her face, how serious she was. How scared, even, in that quiet way she tried not to show anyone.

Finally, Lando shifted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter now. “Would it… make things easier for you? If I went?”

Amelia blinked, surprised by the shift. “This isn’t about me.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “But it is, a bit. Isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached over, covering his hand with hers. “It would help both of us,” she said simply. “I feel anxious because I’m constantly worried that you’re not okay. That’s all.”

He stared at their joined hands for a moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.“Alright,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’ll do it. One session.”

Relief flooded through her so fast she had to blink back sudden, unexpected tears.

“Good,” she nodded, trying for lightness. “I would probably have tricked you into it, if you’d said no.”

He huffed a laugh, half-way between exasperated and genuinely amused. “You’re scary when you’re determined, you know that?”

“Hm.” She hummed, with a shrug.

He smiled, a real one this time, soft and a little sheepish, and sat back, closing his eyes again.

Amelia picked up her pen once more and tapped it against her notebook. The seatbelt light pinged above them as they started their descent into Istanbul. Below the clouds, she could see the sprawling city, the Bosphorus shimmering like a ribbon of silver in the afternoon sun.

They had a long weekend ahead of them. FP1, FP2, media obligations, the race itself. More pressure, more chances for things to go wrong.

Amelia tucked her notebook away, fastened her seatbelt, and glanced at Lando.

Already asleep again. Perfect in so many ways — still a little broken in places.

But hers.

—

They landed just after sunrise.

The sky outside was a muted gray, the roads slick with overnight rain. The air smelled wet.

The hotel was clean and quiet, the lobby still half-asleep when Lando’s team pushed their cases inside. Amelia barely remembered the check-in; she stood back and let them handle it, her mind somewhere else entirely. Half on the weekend ahead, half on the looming therapy call they’d scheduled for later that day.

Their room was beautiful, more of a suite.

“You want to go get breakfast, baby?” Lando asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. Before I crawl into bed and sleep for sixteen hours.”

He huffed a soft laugh and then reached out to grab her hand, entwining their fingers together.

They headed down to the hotel restaurant, one of those sterile, modern spaces that looked the same in every city, and found Daniel already there, sitting at a table by the window, sunglasses shoved into his messy curls even though it was still grey outside.

He grinned wide when he spotted them, lifting his coffee in greeting. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Amelia dropped into one of the seats across from him with a sigh. "You're very awake.”

Daniel smirked. Shrugged. "Slept the whole flight. Like a professional sloth."

Lando slid into the seat beside her, slouching low.

Daniel raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. "You two look like you’re about to get executed."

Amelia made a face at him before squinting at the menu. “Why would that happen? We’re not criminals.”

Lando pulled a face, raking a hand through his hair.

Daniel leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to something between a whisper and a bad stage voice. “Are the children grouchy?” He teased.

Neither of them answered, but the silence was confirmation enough. Daniel just nodded. Then he poured them both coffee from the jug without asking and passed the mugs over like offerings.

“Oh. I need sugar,” Amelia told him, but still accepted the cup.

“Of course you do,” Daniel said with a grin, reaching around to grab one of the sugar packets from the table behind them and then flicking it at her.

Amelia made a low, unimpressed sound and ripped her croissant in half. Then she picked up the sugar packet and put it into her coffee — because she was exhausted, and she needed caffeine immediately.

They ordered, pastries, eggs, endless rounds of coffee, and Daniel, kept things light. He told stories about the last media day disaster, about how a cameraman tripped over his own feet trying to get a slow-mo shot of Lando walking.

Amelia let herself laugh, cramming a bite of croissant into her mouth.

At one point, Daniel leaned back in his chair, looked at Lando with a cocked brow. "You reckon the new floor’s gonna hold up? Heard the lads were still tweaking it yesterday."

Lando shifted properly for the first time, straightening a little. "It should. They made the sidepod adjustment less aggressive, apparently. Should give us a bit more stability through Turn 8 than we had on the sim. Hope so, anyway. It was fucking awful.”

Daniel nodded in grim agreement. "Still reckon it’s gonna slide like shit if it rains."

Lando grimaced. "Yeah, well." He shrugged.

Amelia glanced at him, worrying her bottom lip.

Daniel rallied on, looping easily back into real shop talk. They started debating tire pressures for the cooler temperatures forecasted for qualifying, and Amelia sat there, chewing and sipping and letting their voices wash over her. Jumping in every now and then when Lando fumbled a technical term or Daniel started talking about "vibes" instead of tangible data.

"You two are hopeless," she muttered at one point, half under her breath.

Daniel leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his own. “Yeah, but we’re your hopeless idiots, ay?”

She didn’t smile, exactly, too tired for that, but her mouth twitched a little. She liked Daniel. He was fun, easygoing, a genuinely talented driver.

Her mind flickered, unbidden, to Oscar — to all the promises Alpine were making, all the big words about his future. In a way, she hoped they would follow through, give him the seat he deserved and the platform to build something extraordinary.

And in another, more selfish way, she hoped they wouldn’t.

When the breakfast plates were empty and the coffee was long gone, Daniel gave Lando a long look across the table.

"You’ll smash it, mate," he said. No jokes, no grin this time. Just honest, quiet faith.

Amelia felt her chest ache a little at the way Lando ducked his head, like he didn’t believe it yet.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder, light but firm. "You’ve got this."

They said goodbye, promises to catch up before FP1 tossed into the air between them, and Amelia followed Lando out of the restaurant, the cool hotel air whispering around them.

Upstairs, in the quiet of their hotel room, the nerves started creeping back in. Amelia pulled her laptop out, her fingers steady even as her stomach twisted.

"You okay?" Lando asked, standing awkwardly near the window, arms crossed.

She looked at him, at the tired set of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked to the laptop like it was a threat.

"Yeah," she said.

Because she was tired, but she wasn’t scared.

Not anymore.

"Come here," she added, patting the couch beside her.

He sat down, careful like he thought he might break something.

She touched his cheek, running the tip of her nail across his cheekbone. “I love you.” She promised.

—

The call connected with a faint chime, and the therapist’s calm, smiling face appeared on Amelia’s laptop screen.

Lando shifted beside her on the hotel room couch, visibly tense, one knee bouncing in a restless rhythm. Amelia resisted the urge to pin it down with her hand. She wanted him here because he wanted to be, not because he felt caged. She understood the difference all too well.

"Hi, Amelia. Hi, Lando," the therapist said warmly. "It’s great to see you both."

Amelia gave a small nod. Lando mumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'hi,' his hands twisting the hem of his hoodie.

The therapist didn’t even blink. She just carried on, patient and calm, the way she always was, the perfect kind of voice that never tried too hard, never felt fake.

“So, Lando, I know Amelia and I have spoken a few times before," she started, smiling lightly, "but since this is your first session with me, why don't we start simple?"

Lando swallowed, clearly uncomfortable under the attention. Amelia watched him out of the corner of her eye, the set of his shoulders too rigid, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

He had been the one to ask, awkwardly, sheepishly, if she would sit with him during his appointment. "Just for the first one," he’d said in the back of the car, on their way from the airport to the hotel. "It’ll be easier if you’re there, I think.”

Amelia had agreed immediately. Of course she had. He never asked for help, so it would have been ridiculous to deny him when he finally did.

"I guess... yeah," Lando said now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Simple’s good."

The therapist smiled, like she could see exactly how hard he was trying. "Perfect. So, how are you feeling today, Lando?"

There was a beat. Lando’s fingers dug harder into the fabric of his hoodie.

Amelia gave him a sidelong glance, deliberate but light. You can say anything, she thought, and it won’t change anything between us.

"Stupid," Lando muttered finally, voice barely above a whisper. "For… this."

The therapist’s face stayed soft. She shook her head gently. "There’s nothing stupid about needing support. Especially in a profession as demanding as yours."

Amelia’s jaw tensed before she spoke. "And for the record," she added bluntly, "you’re not stupid. You’re stubborn. There’s a difference."

Lando cracked a tiny, unwilling smile at that. His knee stopped bouncing.

"Thanks," he said, his voice rough but real.

The therapist nodded, almost like she’d expected Amelia’s bluntness to land exactly where she intended it to.

"Let’s not worry about being perfect or saying the ‘right’ thing today," she said easily. "This is about learning to notice what’s actually going on in your head, not what you think you're supposed to feel."

Lando seemed to digest that for a moment, eyes lowered.

Amelia leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms. She could feel how tightly wound he was, even from here, but he was trying.

God, he was trying.

"I’m fine at first," Lando said eventually, voice gaining steadiness. “Start of the weekend. I’m excited, full of adrenaline, feel like I can handle anything that’s thrown at me. Then... when I mess up, or when it feels like I’ve messed up, I can’t let go of it. I just keep thinking about it. Over and over." His voice had gone tight around the edges. Shame bleeding out before he could catch it.

Amelia exhaled slowly through her nose. She knew that loop well. It was like picking at a wound because the hurt felt more familiar than the healing.

"You’re allowed to be upset when things go wrong," the therapist said. "What we’re trying to avoid is punishing yourself for being human."

"Feels like weakness," Lando admitted.

Amelia pursed her lips. “It’s not.” She couldn’t help herself, she had to say it, had to be the one to remind him that for what felt like the fiftieth time in a week.

Lando glanced at her. The smallest flicker of something crossed his face, gratitude, maybe. Or just… fondness.

The session continued, the conversation meandering through the tight, uncomfortable spaces of Lando’s self-criticism. He was careful at first, tentative, like every word was being weighed before it could leave his mouth. But he didn’t shut down. He didn’t pull away.

When the therapist wrapped up, reminding them both that progress wasn't linear and perfection wasn’t the goal, Amelia felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

It was hope. Not the kind she usually reserved for numbers and data sheets and strategy calls. A different kind. Messier. Stronger.

Lando closed the laptop and they sat in silence for a beat.

Then he shifted closer to her, bumping his shoulder into hers.

"Sorry for being such a mess.” He mumbled.

Amelia shuffled into his lap, pressing into him, holding him. Letting him hold her. Feeling him all but melt under the weight of her body on-top of his. “Don’t say sorry. I’m a mess too, just in a different way.”

He pressed his face into her hair. "New race weekend," he said after a while, like he was reminding himself. "Fresh start."

"Fresh start," she nodded. "And if it falls apart again, we deal with it in a healthy way. No more being cruel to yourself. I won’t let it happen.”

Simple. Blunt. True.

Lando just held her tighter.

—

Amelia walked into the garage, eyes scanning the team members packing up, her mind already calculating the race data from the day. The weekend had been hard on everyone; a bitter P2 finish when they had walked into the race with their eyes on another victory.

Max was more than just disappointed. He looked drained, eyes slitted, jaw tight.

She found him in the corner, leaning against the wall. He didn't notice her approach, his mind still somewhere out on the track, lost in his thoughts.

“Hey,” she said, stepping into his line of sight. His eyes lifted to meet hers, but there was nothing but weariness in them. "You okay?”

He scoffed. "No. Not good. You saw it out there." His hands clenched at his sides. "I'm losing this fucking championship, Amelia. There's no way I can catch up now."

“That’s not true. You absolutely can catch up. Look at the numbers. You can still win. The gap isn’t as big as you think." She told him. Then she took a deep breath and started ticking off the facts, breaking it down as methodically as she always did. “We’ve got multiple race weekends left. You’re behind, but the points difference isn’t insurmountable. If you keep executing like you did earlier today, you’ll close the gap. It’s about consistency, and you’ve got that in spades. But if you lose hope now, start being sad instead of angry, you’ll just be handing it over to him.”

“I’m making too many mistakes.” He snapped.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, because you’re pushing the car to the limit. And that’s what makes you better than the rest.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, his eyes still on the floor, processing. But eventually, he let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... I need to figure it out. I need to get my head straight.”

She nodded.

“Thanks” he said quietly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Amelia told him. “Become a world championship first. Then you can thank me.”

Max’s lips twitched into a half-smile.

—

LandoLOG #4 | Let’s Do This

Uploaded on 23rd November, 2021

[LANDO POV — United States GP]

The vlog kicks off with a zoom-in of Lando’s car in the McLaren garage—mechanics adjusting the setup, wheels spinning. The camera quickly cuts to Daniel, arms spread wide, shouting, “Yee-haw!” in a loud, exaggerated cowboy voice.

[Cold cut to Amelia]

She’s sitting in McLaren hospitality, not a hint of amusement on her face. Wearing a MV33 bomber jacket and an orange LN4 McLaren cap.

Lando’s voice breaks in.

“Alright, guys, let’s focus. Car’s feeling good. I’m feeling good. Let’s do this.”

The camera flicks to Lando walking toward the garage in his race suit. Amelia’s in the Red Bull pit area, her eyes scanning her iPad. The paddock is alive, cars roaring, crew members buzzing with activity. Amelia briefly looks up, catching Lando’s gaze. He gives a thumbs-up.

[Race Prep - Qualifying]

The camera cuts to the grid. Lando’s helmet’s on now, and the camera stays focused as the mechanics buzz around him. He’s laser-focused, blocking out the noise.

Post-Qualifying

[Cut to Lando walking back to the garage]

He’s clearly frustrated. The camera follows him as he flips it on, his voice flat. “Well, that was... not great. P5. We had the pace, but something didn’t click in that last sector. Not happy, but we move on.”

[Hotel Room - Post-Qualifying]

The scene shifts to the hotel room. Lando paces, clearly agitated, while Amelia sits on the bed, working through her iPad, a stim toy in hand. Her focus is intense, but her voice cuts through as she speaks to him.

“It’s that stupid second sector. Everyone struggled with that last corner exit, even Max.”

Lando sighs, sitting next to her. “Yeah, I know. Just... frustrating.” He leans back, rubbing his face in frustration.

Later, it cuts to them at dinner. Amelia’s holding the camera, directing it at Lando.

“Tell them what you did,” she teases.

Lando groans, rolling his eyes. “Baby…”

“He accidentally ordered fish,” she laughs, shaking the camera slightly.

Lando glares but can’t suppress a soft, grimacing smile.

[Race Highlights - United States GP]

Quick cuts of Lando on the track. His car weaves through traffic, taking tight corners with precision. Amelia’s briefly shown on the pit wall, her concentration clear as she analyses Max's data.

[Post-Race]

The camera cuts back to the McLaren garage. Lando’s sitting with a towel draped over his shoulders, sweat dripping from his face. The garage is slowly clearing out. He looks exhausted but calm now.

“P5. Could’ve been better, but we’ll take it. At least we got points.” His voice lacks excitement.

Amelia walks in, standing beside him. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he smiles at the camera.

Text Overlay: Rest & Recharge

[Home in Monaco]

The video cuts to a scene of them in their Monaco apartment. Lando lounges on the couch, editing footage on his laptop, scrolling through social media. Amelia’s curled up with a blanket beside him, clearly content.

Lando’s voice is laid-back as he talks to the camera. “I didn’t get any sleep last night. So, today’s all about being lazy. Gonna order food, maybe watch a movie, just rest up a bit.”

Amelia looks at him, smiling over the camera. “We’re couch potatoes today — Lan, did I use that right?”

[LANDO POV — Mexican GP]

Lando’s walking down the pit lane with Daniel. The stadium section is packed with fans, the energy palpable. Lando’s voice comes through, upbeat despite the tension.

“Mexico’s always crazy, but I’m feeling good today. The car’s fast, the atmosphere’s unreal. Let’s see what we can do in qualifying.”

[Race Highlights - Mexican GP]

Cut to race footage; Lando pushing his car, making overtakes, keeping up the fight. In the background, Amelia’s pacing, muttering to herself as she goes over Max's data. When Max crosses the line, she beams, her focus momentarily shifting away. Jon, with the camera, catches the moment and gives her a thumbs-up.

[Post-Race - Mexican GP]

Post-race, Lando and Daniel are standing by their cars. Both are sweaty, but there’s a sense of satisfaction. Lando wipes his face, and speaks to the camera.

“Well, that was solid. P4. Not ideal, but we’re getting closer.”

Amelia walks over. When she sees Lando, she smiles. The couple share a quick, tight hug. She pecks him on the cheek, leaving a smudge of lipgloss.

[LANDO POV — Brazilian GP]

Cut to Lando prepping for the Brazilian GP, checking tire pressures, walking through the garage, the atmosphere high-energy. Lando’s pumped, the mood light.

Back at the hotel, Lando turns the camera to Amelia. “Here’s my girl, she’s got everything under control. Smartest person in the world.” He grins at the camera.

Amelia rolls her eyes, her cheeks flushing with a slight embarrassment. “Stop it.”

[LANDO POV — Qatar GP]

The camera shifts. The vibe’s different now. Lando’s face is tense, his jaw tight. The camera cuts to him on the grid, helmet in hand, his expression serious.

“Pressure’s on for everyone today,” his voice is calm but serious.

Amelia’s voice enters the background. “It’s going to be tricky with this heat.” She sounds calm, steady as always, but her tone holds a layer of underlying tension.

[Race Clips - Qatar GP]

Quick cuts show Lando on track, his car weaving through the desert-like circuit, gaining positions, making calculated moves.

[Post-Race - Qatar GP]

Lando stands in front of his car, towel over his shoulders, his expression hard. “P4. Could’ve been better, but... yeah. Good enough for today.” He’s not unhappy, but it’s clear this was not the result he hoped for.

The camera cuts to Lando and Amelia in their hotel room. Amelia’s curled up on his chest, a soft, intimate moment. There’s a quiet sense of exhaustion between them, but also a quiet understanding.

Text Overlay: Now onto the final stretch.

—

Amelia sat in the strategy room in Saudi Arabia, her posture stiff, hands resting on the table, but her mind was miles away. The hum of the room buzzed around her—the quiet chatter of engineers, the occasional rustle of papers, the sharp clicks of a laptop. Jos sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the data, while the rest of the team worked in focused silence. But Amelia felt herself barely holding it together.

Her fingers curled around her stim toy, hidden just beneath the table. It had become a constant companion lately, grounding her when her thoughts raced and anxiety crept in. Every squeeze calmed her pulse, but it did little to ease the storm inside.

The pressure was building—the championship was coming down to the final two races of the season. Amelia’s focus was entirely on Max. The weight of it all was overwhelming.

Her gaze flicked to him. Max sat a few seats away, leaning back in his chair with an air of calm that seemed unaffected by the chaos around them. When their eyes met, the quiet reassurance in his gaze helped her center herself.

"Amelia," GP’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp and focused. "We’re ready for your input on strategy. We’ve gone over the options, but I want to hear what you think."

Her heart skipped, but she steadied herself. "Right," she said, her voice firm, though tinged with strain. Her pulse quickened again, the stress creeping up her spine, but she gripped the stim toy harder, focusing on its calming pressure.

Max, noticing the shift in her demeanour, gave her a small, reassuring nod. A silent reminder to breathe. The tension in her chest eased.

She turned back to the board, her mind sharpening. Focus on the data. Focus on Max. He can win this. As she assessed the tire strategies, weather forecasts, and available options, the path forward became clearer. This was the moment to make it count.

"I think we should risk the undercut," Amelia said, her voice steady now. Confidence surged through her. "If Max pushes on the in-lap, we can leapfrog the others. The tire wear will be crucial in the second half, and we need to capitalise on that."

Christian leaned forward, studying the data on the screen. "You’re confident?"

"Yes," Amelia replied without hesitation. "It’s our best shot at maximum points."

Max’s gaze stayed on her, unwavering, as the room hummed with quiet agreement. The strategy was beginning to take shape. Despite the nerves twisting inside her, Amelia’s mind had snapped into focus.

When the meeting wrapped up, Max was the first to approach. He didn’t say anything immediately, just walked up beside her, his presence a quiet comfort.

"You did well," he said quietly, his voice warm. "You’ve been incredible this year. I wouldn’t be this close without you." He nudged her lightly, his smile small but genuine.

Amelia let out a slow breath, leaning into his touch. "I want this for you so badly, Max," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion.

Max’s expression softened. He crouched beside her, his voice dropping to something more intimate, just between the two of them. “Okay. I need to say this. Amelia, if it doesn’t happen, if I somehow mess this up... don’t blame yourself, alright? You’ve given me a championship-winning car. You’ve made me a better driver. That doesn’t change just because I—" He paused, looking for the right words. "—don’t win it."

She shook her head, a firm resolve settling in. "You will win it," she told him, her voice unwavering.

Max smiled at her, though it wasn’t his usual grin. He was just as nervous, just as desperate. "Yeah. Okay. Want to go find Lando?" he asked, his voice soft.

Amelia nodded, grateful for the shift in focus. "Let’s go."

—

Jos slammed his headset onto the table as Max crossed the line in second.

Lewis had beaten him.

But still, the fight wasn’t over.

It was official now — Max and Lewis would enter the final race of the season dead even on points.

Winner takes all.

The garage buzzed with tension, but Amelia sat frozen, the noise around her fading into a dull roar.

She squeezed her stim toy so tightly her knuckles turned white, forcing herself to take five slow, deliberate breaths.

There was no margin for error anymore.

They had one more chance.

NEXT CHAPTER

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