#WALKING AWAY SCREAMING ''IS SHE BREATHING''

[iydiamartinx]

ALL IT TAKES IS ONE BAD DAY

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a spending a year in a loveless marriage, you find your husband with another woman. warning: cheating, bruce is an asshole

The manor had never been a home. Not truly.

Its towering halls echoed with silence, its antique chandeliers glinting like frozen stars, untouchable and cold. You’d tried, in the beginning, to warm it—fresh flowers in the vases, candles lit at dinner, even soft music playing in the background some evenings.

But Bruce never noticed.

He came and went like a ghost—impeccable in tailored suits and always busy. And when he did speak to you, it was clipped, distant. A nod. A thank you. A hum of acknowledgment as he passed you in the corridor, the same way one might regard an acquaintance and not someone they chose to bind themselves to.

You’d grown used to the solitude. Learned to fill it with books, walks through the garden, dinners eaten in silence. On rare occasions, Alfred would try to bridge the gap, lingering just a moment longer in the room, a small reassurance here and there trying to cover up for his master, but there was no mistaking the disappointment in his eyes every time he saw the way Bruce treated you.

You were a Wayne by name only.

And maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe you would’ve endured it forever—the cold bed, the colder stares, the knowledge that this union was forged for reputation and power, not love.

But deep inside you felt that hollow aching loneliness, the insecurity of wondering why you weren’t enough. You always dreamed of a love that would consume you, of freedom and adventure. You never thought this might be your life, you played your part well but the posh dresses, the pearls, everything that came with being Bruce Wayne’s wife felt like a cage. 

You never wanted his money, in fact you never even took a penny from him, you were wealthy in your own name. You married him because it was arranged yet you had hoped the two of you could find some middle ground or at least be amicable yet he never even tried.

You he had secrets and you tried to respect it. But there was no mistaking the way he seemed to sneak out in the middle of the night, doing god knows what. How he always seemed too tired or too busy to even attend important functions and meeting, always leaving them to you.

It seemed you finally got your answer. It was late when you returned from the charity gala. You hadn’t expected him to come—he rarely did. But the photographers had still clamoured for pictures, still whispered about Bruce Wayne’s wife, wondering if the man even remembered he had one. 

You tried to ignore the humiliation but sometimes it became too much, like tonight, and you found yourself sneaking away early.

The silence greeted you first when you returned to the manor. Then the soft creak of the stairs under your heels.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar.

At first, it was the flicker of candlelight you noticed. Then the shadow on the wall—two forms, tangled together. And then the soft, breathy laugh. Familiar.

Selina Kyle.

Your throat closed. You stepped closer, silent as a ghost. Your eyes met the scene and for a second, you didn’t breathe. Her mouth was against his neck, one leg hooked over his hip, sheets disheveled. The way she touched him, kissed him, it was clear she knew his body intimately and that this wasn’t the first time.

His hands were on her. His eyes—those usually cold, unreadable eyes—closed with pleasure.

The sound you made must have been small, but it was enough. Bruce’s head snapped up. Selina glanced over her shoulder, entirely unfazed.

You stood in the doorway, lips parted, frozen. Your body refused to move. Your mind, however, was screaming.

A year.

A year of silence and patience and pretending that the chill in his eyes didn’t hurt you. That his absence at every dinner, every event, every attempt you made to be more than a burden, didn’t pierce straight through your ribs.

And this was what he gave you in return.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at you like you were the one who’d intruded. Selina at least had the decency to look like she felt at least a little guilty but you didn’t want nor need her pity

It was the silence that broke you more than the act.

Not even the decency to lie.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Your gaze flicked from him to Selina then back to him. You tilted your head. “I hope she was worth it.”

Then you turned. Trying to keep the calm and controlled facade, even as the world crumbled around you.

You didn’t look back.

Not even when he called out your name. You’d done everything to keep your sham of a marriage together and you were done.

And for the first time in a year, you were the one who walked away.

You hadn’t even bothered to grab your stuff, you were still in your gala dress as you grabbed the keys to your car, getting ready to get as far away as you could from this place.

“Madame, I’m sure—“ Alfred tried to do as he always did and make it better but for once you were in no mood to listen.

“I don’t care.” You cut off not harshly but firmly. “He’d made it clear since the beginning that he didn’t want this marriage, no matter how hard I tried. I’m done, Alfred. I have more self respect than to stay and continue trying with a man who clearly doesn’t want me and doesn’t respect me. I deserve someone who does,” you finished, voice low but steady, the final word catching ever so slightly on your tongue.

Alfred stood there in the entryway, a halo of warm light behind him, his face drawn with quiet sorrow. He didn’t argue. He only bowed his head slightly in acceptance because what could he say? You were right. You deserved more.

“I’ll have someone collect your things,” Alfred said softly, after a long moment. His voice, always composed, was tinged with quiet regret. “Where should I have them sent?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know—but because saying it aloud made it real.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” you murmured.

He gave a nod, the smallest motion. And though he was just the butler to some, to you, he had always been the one constant in that frozen palace of a home.

You offered him a faint, grateful smile.

“Thank you… for being the only one who ever treated me like I mattered.”

That got him. His throat bobbed slightly, and he looked away, just for a second—composing himself as always. But when he met your gaze again, there was nothing but pride and sorrow in his eyes.

“You always did,” he said. “He was simply too blind to see it.”

You nodded once, then turned on your heel. The dress rustled around your legs as you moved down the steps. You were still in heels. Still in diamonds. Still wearing the same red lipstick he hadn’t once complimented.

You slipped into the driver’s seat of the black car—the one you’d always parked at the edge of the Wayne fleet, never quite part of the collection.

The door shut with a soft click.

And for the first time in a year, you didn’t look up at the manor as you drove away. You didn’t wonder if he’d come after you.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

Even if he did, It no longer mattered.

The city blurred past your windows in streaks of gold and steel. Gotham’s skyline loomed like jagged teeth against the night, familiar and yet cold—just like everything else lately. The gala dress clung uncomfortably to your skin now, a mocking reminder of the life you’d just walked away from.

You tightened your grip on the wheel, trying to breathe through the storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, grief—all coiled in your chest like a venomous thing. But at least you were free now.

Free from him. Free from the expectations that came to being married to him. 

The light ahead flickered from yellow to red. You slowed, fingers tapping anxiously against the wheel, when—

BANG.

The car jolted with a deafening metallic crash. Your head snapped forward as the vehicle was rammed from behind. Airbags didn’t deploy. Your foot slammed on the brakes, tires skidding—but it was too late. A second hit came, this time from the side, and the world tilted as your car spun across the wet street and slammed into a lamppost.

Smoke hissed from the engine. Your ears rang.

You tried to move—unbuckle your seatbelt, reach for your phone—but the driver’s side door was ripped clean off.

A hand reached in—gloved, pale, too fast.

Before you could scream, a needle jabbed into your neck. Cold fire rushed through your veins, and the world slipped sideways.

Voices echoed. Laughter.

A man’s voice, high-pitched and giddy, like a child who’d just unwrapped a present he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Well, well, Mrs. Wayne. What a delicious little surprise.”

You tried to focus through the haze, your limbs too heavy to fight. The world went dark and spinning, but not before you saw a flash of white skin, a grin painted in what looked like blood, and eyes that burned with manic delight.

The Joker.

[suliigwp]

It's me again!

So its readers first day on track, like total rookie up from f3. So there sitting with acouple other drivers like lewis and fernando are sitting with her and giving her tips? But like there is totaly a language barrier. Like she is max verstappen 2.0

Thanks 🫶

-🦕

VROOM VROOM?

Rookie! Reader x platonic! Paddock (Hamilton, Alonso)

SULI: Yes I started writing this right away what about it🤨 I should be sleeping right now☺️ but I got an idea for this and had to write it down right away(only took an hour btw)- This was actually so fun to write. Thank you dino anon! Hope you enjoy this. I actually don't know how to tag this😭

Warnings: podium in rookie year? None!

The rookie sits stiffly in the white-cushioned chair, F1 jacket a size too big, hair still a bit damp from stress-sweat and a poorly aimed espresso machine incident earlier. She’s surrounded by legends—Lewis Hamilton on her left, Fernando Alonso on her right. Both have taken it upon themselves to gently mentor her. She, however, is somewhere between a confused raccoon and an overcaffeinated toddler.

Lewis starts off, his voice smooth, professional. He leans in with a kind smile.

“So, first weekend. You’ll want to be careful with tyre degradation in the first stint. If it’s hot, you really have to watch your—”

She blinks. Blinks again. Then chews her gum slowly, like her brain is buffering.

“…What is ‘tyres’?”

Lewis stops. He stares at her like she’s asked what oxygen is.

“The… the rubber. You know? On the car? Tyres?”

She squints. “Rubber?”

Fernando makes a quiet noise—either a cough or a laugh.

“Rubber. Okay. Sexy.”

Lewis sighs. “No. Not like that.”

She leans forward, excited now.

“You teach me. I go fast. I do… vroom vroom.” She gestures wildly, mimicking a steering wheel and what can only be described as throwing invisible dice.

Lewis looks to Fernando. Fernando shrugs and calmly sips his espresso like this is just Thursday.

“There’s a bit more to it than just… vroom vroom.”

She points at Lewis. “Vroom vroom?”

He hesitates. “Sure.”

She points at Fernando. “Vroom vroom?”

He puts down his cup, solemn. “Sí. Vroom vroom.”

She claps like a seal. “Ah! Vroom vroom!”

Lewis runs a hand down his face.

“This is what mentoring is now?”

They try again. Fernando pulls out a tablet and starts showing her a track map.

“So this corner—you brake late, stay on the inside. Apex here.”

She watches, squinting like she’s trying to read a foreign language.

“Brake late. Got it.”

Fernando: “But not too late—”

“I brake never.”

Lewis: “That’s… death. You will actually die.”

She grins. “I have no fear. Only vroom.”

Fernando leans back in his seat, taking a breath, looking at Lewis.

Lewis looks back at him. “She’s going to kill someone.”

The media rep calls time. She springs up like she’s just learned how legs work.

“Okay! I do tyres. I do apex. I do vroom. Thank you, old men.”

She walks off confidently—straight into a glass door.

Lewis stares after her, deadpan.

“…Did she just call us old?”

Fernando sips his espresso again, nodding. “Yes. I respect her.”

Lewis sighs deeply, then mutters,

“God help us all.”

...

Later on in the season...Mayhem. Three DNFs.

Ger Engineers voice reached her ears again.

“Okay, that’s the last corner—just bring it home, nice and easy. P3, unbelievable job.”

There’s a pause.

Then the radio crackles with static and adrenaline:

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!! VROOM VROOOOOOM!!”

The entire garage bursts out laughing.

Engineer, through tears of laughter:

“That’s a… yes, that’s a P3 confirmed, copy. Incredible job.”

She’s already sobbing, half-laughing, half-screaming, still holding the steering wheel like it’s a joystick in Mario Kart.

“DO YOU SEE ME?! I VROOMED!! I VROOMED SO HARD!!”

She parks up and literally forgets how to get out of the car. A mechanic has to gesture like, “Lift the wheel. No, like this. There you go.”

As she stands on the podium, still stunned and soaking wet, Lewis and Fernando are already waiting at parc fermé. Both clapping. Both smiling like proud uncles.

She practically jumps into Lewis’ arms, almost knocking him over.

“You said tires! I did tires!”

Lewis hugs her back, laughing.

She turns to Fernando and opens her arms dramatically.

“My Spanish father!”

Fernando, completely deadpan, opens his arms back.

“My chaos daughter.”

He pats her helmet like she’s a weird little puppy that just won Westminster.

Fernando leans in, murmurs just for her:

“Next time… brake maybe once, sí?”

She snorts. “Never.”

Lewis shakes his head. “She’s going to be a menace for the next ten years.”

Fernando: “Yes. And I love it.”

As they walk off together, someone overhears her say to Lewis:

“So like… if I win, do I get free pizza or?”

Next Part!

[tqlepatia]

— just know any love I gave you's forever yours to keep .

previous fic masterlist next

summary: After a rough night where their son lashes out at Sevika for kissing her new girlfriend, she brings him back to your home in tears. Once he's asleep, Sevika enters your room to talk.

notes: sorry for the long wait, i am doing anothers fics!! here it iss

The bedroom’s dim, the hallway quiet — like the whole house is holding its breath.

Sevika closes the door gently behind her after tucking your son into bed. He’s still curled up tight, cheeks puffy from crying. He only calmed down when you whispered to him together. When he could fall asleep knowing you were both there.

Now, Sevika stands in your doorway like a question.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands resting on your thighs. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what’s left to say.

She breaks the silence first, voice low and hoarse: "Didn’t think he’d react like that."

You nod slowly, eyes focused on the floor. "He's a kid. He doesn't know what to do with all that yet. It’s too much."

She exhales through her nose, frustrated. Walks to the chair by your dresser and sinks into it, her bionic arm flexing once, slow.

"You think I fucked him up already?" she mutters.

"No," you say, still not looking at her. "But that’s not the question you should be asking." Sevika frowns. "Then what is it?"

You finally look at her. Your voice comes soft, but sharp enough to cut.

"Why did you think it was okay to bring someone new into his life when he hasn’t even made peace with losing the one he knew?" She goes quiet. Rubs her hand over her face. "I wasn’t tryin’ to replace you."

You give a dry laugh. "He doesn’t know that. He just sees someone else kissing his mom and he thinks... he thinks he lost something."

For a long beat, she doesn't speak. "It didn’t feel real ‘til tonight," she finally admits. "Him freakin’ out like that. Screaming at me. I thought I could... compartmentalize, I guess."

"You can’t do that with him," you say gently. "He doesn’t have compartments. He just feels."

Silence again. But this time, it isn’t bitter. It’s full. Alive. You pat the mattress beside you. "Sit down, Sev."

She hesitates... then gets up, walking over, heavy steps, sinking down next to you. Her body warm. Familiar.

You both stay still for a while. Breathing the same air, Then, something bubbles up in your chest, uninvited:

"Remember when he cut all his hair off with those plastic kid scissors?" She snorts. "Looked like a baby raccoon. Like—straight patches missing everywhere."

You laugh, finally. The real kind, Sevika grins, just a little, like it surprises her. "You were so mad," you say.

"Because he lied and said you did it."

You shrug, smiling. "He knew you wouldn’t stay mad at me." Her smile softens into something quieter.

You shift back onto the bed, laying down. "I miss this. Not just you. I miss... us, all three."

She stretches out beside you, slow, heavy with thought, then carefully puts her head on your chest. You don’t move. Just breathe. Your fingers end up in her hair without thinking.

"He still waits for us to fix it," you whisper. "Even when we act like it’s fine."

"I know," she says, voice muffled against you.

A pause.

"You think we ever will?" You don't answer. You’re not ready to, But then your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You both ignore it at first.

Then hers vibrates.

She doesn’t reach for it either. But when it keeps going — again, and again — she groans softly and lifts her head from your chest. The air changes.

She picks up her phone. The screen lights her face up blue.

"It’s her." You close your eyes. Of course it is—She hesitates. Her thumb hovers over the screen for a long second, then taps. Brings it to her ear.

The voice on the other end cuts through the stillness. You can't make out the exact words, but the tone is clipped — urgent, a little panicked.

"Sevika, what the hell? It’s been hours. Are you coming back? You said you were just dropping him off—” You look away, shifting onto your side. You don’t want to hear her answer.

"No. I’m not, Don’t call again." She hangs up, The silence that follows feels sacred. Thick. Almost holy.

Sevika stares at the floor like she’s still hearing echoes. Her jaw tightens as she sets the phone down, face-down, beside your lamp.

She doesn’t speak. Just moves.

She crosses the room slowly, like she’s thinking through every step. Like if she rushes, you might vanish. Like if she speaks, the spell will break.

She pulls back the covers and slips beneath them again. This time, she doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t hover like a stranger in her own home, She finds you under the sheets, her body warm and heavy beside yours. Her head presses back to your chest — the same place it was before.

But this time, it’s different, Her arm wraps around your waist. Tight. Not possessive — grounding.

You breathe in, your fingers finding her hair again. The strands a little coarse between your fingertips, still damp near the nape of her neck. She smells like your son’s lavender shampoo.

Neither of you speaks for a while. Outside, it starts to rain.

You feel her relax slowly, as if she’s been holding tension in her jaw for weeks, and now she can finally unclench. Her nose brushes the curve of your collarbone.

Then, quietly, you murmur: "He’s gonna be so happy when he wakes up" A shaky exhale leaves her chest. You feel it more than hear it. Her hand tightens in the fabric of your sleep shirt. Her eyes close.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝐓aglist of the series : @possessedmagpie, @starrycherie, @moodient, @h2pinky, @minaridior, @abbysdollie, @vkumi, @acidblum, @skzhoiic, @sleepingwasp, @kmhbygss, @jksevendays, @lovejuliettq, @prettyyyy-girl .

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa, @starrycherie, @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine, @zombieeepup .

[avenging-fandoms]

Hit Me - Joel Miller

Summary: requested by anonymous- wowowow your Joel Miller angst is CHEFS KISS!!! if you don’t mind, i would love to request even more angst.. specifically the moment he’s about to die (you know the whole abby situation 💔). when ellie and the reader come to save him, abby realizes how much the reader means to joel and thinks it would hurt joel more to harm the reader than to kill him. pls tell me you get the vision! it ends with the reader surviving, and joel too of course — i am such a sucker for protective joel and i need him YEARNING to save reader from abby 🙏

Content warning: torture, violence, very hard before it gets soft. this is a happy ending, VERY different from the game/show

gif divider credit: @enchanthings-a

a/n: this is entirely different from the story line of TLOU but i yearn for happy ending Joel and Ellie so pls let me live. ps: i just finished writing and im so fuckin proud of this one

please reblog and like!

Snow crunches under hooves as you and Ellie ride your horse Ginger and Dina on Japan, hurrying to get back to the burning place you've called home the past 5 years.

"Y/N! Wait!" Ellie grabs your jacket and you halt, seeing what her eyes were trained on. More horse tracks in the snow and you get a sinking feeling in your stomach as your eyes follow the tracks up to a cabin. You glance at Ellie and you two didn't have to speak, you just hit the strap against your girl's neck and she was off with Dina following.

Your stomach was right. Joel and Jesse's horses were outside of the eery seeming cabin and Ellie squeezes your jacket before you both hop off. You swing your rifle around your shoulder, taking off the safety and checking that the chamber was full and nodding to the two girls.

Something wasn't right. The air was too cold, eating the nerves off the tip of your nose and making it impossible to breathe. The three of you step inside quietly and take a breath and hold it when you hear a gunshot. Ellie goes to run, but you hear Joel scream.

You turn to Dina and dig into your bag, pulling out matches and smoke bombs. "Holy shit, where'd you get those?" Ellie whispers.

"I made them. Dina, I want you to wait outside the door. If you hear things start to go very badly, light these fuckers up and throw them in, we'll find you." Her teary eyes stare at you and you hold her face. "You're brave, Dina, you can do it."

You look at Ellie and grip your gun again, finger loose on the trigger as you all walk closer to the girl yelling and Joel yelping and screaming in pain. You and Ellie hide on either side of the door, Dina behind Ellie.

She nods at you and you kick open the door. Jesse lays peacefully on the floor in a pool of blood made the anger spread to your hand and pulling the trigger, hitting two people before you and Ellie are wrestled to the floor. A gun nozzle digs in your skulls and they kick your guns away from you.

"Don't!" Joel yells and a girl with a braid looks at you and Ellie, then to her men.

"Not just yet," she mutters quietly. Your eyes widen and breath quickens when you see Joel's leg that’s pouring blood from a bullet wound in his thigh. "Well, now we have a crowd. And who are you?" Her black boots are inches from your face as she crouches down, brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes and smiling at you. You narrow your eyes and twist your legs, but she grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head up.

You hiss as she rips hair from your scalp, making you look at Joel. You grab her ankle but the man puts away his gun and sits on your legs, holding your hands behind your back.

"No, no! Leave her alone!" Joel's voice breaks, trying to scoot towards you but he falls over from the pain of his leg, the both of you laying on the ground. "My sweet girl, I'm so sorry," he cries and you give him a smile, a tear falling down your nose.

The girl looks at Joel with a smirk and her tongue against her molar, turning back to you and gripping your hair tighter as she pulls you higher, face inches from yours. "Did you know your boyfriend murdered a whole hospital?" Her voice shakes and Joel bows his head, his shoulders shaking and locking his eyes with yours again.

"Yes," you choke out, watching Joel get himself up again and he tries to move closer, but the cock of a gun stops him.

"Do you care?" Her voice shakes more and the anger in it fuels, more tears falling down your face as you glance at Ellie then lock your eyes with Joel's.

"No."

The room went silent before she threw your head on the floor, your skull bouncing off the wood. "No!" Abby pushes the guy off of you, forcefully rolling you on your back and straddling your stomach, your lip trembling in fear.

"Were you with him when he shot the doctor?" Her fists ball by her sides and you nod slowly, the girl letting out a breathy sob. "Did you try to stop him?"

You blink at her and a tear falls down your temple. "He was going to kill my girl." Your ear rings as she throws a punch to your right cheek. Left. Right. Left. Your head flops with every hit she lands on your face and you taste metal in your mouth when she splits your lip open.

"Stop! Stop! Hit me, Abby, fucking hit me instead! I shot him, hit me! Kill me!" Joel screams, banging his fists on the floor but Abby just hits harder.

Abby stops her hits and huffs her chest, gritting her teeth when she looks at Joel with her bloody fist held in front of her. "I am killing you, Joel," your head painfully flops to look at him and Joel wails. Your face was covered with so much blood he could barely make out all of the bruising in your face. "I'm making you watch me kill her."

Joel's eyes meet yours again and he reaches his hand out to you and your hand shakily goes to reach his, but Abby's heavy boot slams down on your fingers and you scream in pain, which makes you scream more because of the pain in your face. The man kicks your ribs repeatedly, your lungs quickly losing air.

You feel 3 bounces of something on the floor before the room explodes in a white smoke that made it impossible to see. Abby and the guy get away from you but you can't move. Your ears are ringing and your vision is getting blurry as guns go off around you.

A large thud moves your body as Abby lands right next to you, her eyes wide with a bullet hole between her eyebrows. You don't move, you can't. You don't close your eyes, but stare at her and blink. You take in her features, the wispy hair falling out of her braid and her brown eyes slowly dimming life.

"Y/N? Y/N?" Ellie crawls next to you and hovers her hands over your face, tears rolling down her cheeks and she takes a shaky breath. "We have to go, we have to get her help!"

"Where do we go? Jackson is burning!"

"We fucking find Tommy or something, I don't care, we have to save her," Ellie sobs and Joel grunts and whimpers as Dina helps him to his feet. She rummages through her bag and leans him against the wall, tightly wrapping the wound and he hits his fist against the wall.

He nods at Dina and stands, limping as he walks over to you and kneels on his good leg, brushing your hair out of your face. "You're okay, sweet girl, we've gotta get you home. We're going to help you up, okay?"

Joel, Ellie and Dina help you stand and you're light on your feet, falling over and crashing into Joel. He falls with his back against the wall and he cradles you in his arms, his whole body shaking with sobs into your hair.

"I'm so sorry, baby, I'm so sorry," he cries and Ellie lets more tears fall, wrapping her arms around you and Joel. You flutter your eyes open and faintly put your hand on Ellie's waist before it falls back to your side, consciousness almost gone. "Help me with her, please. I can't carry her on my own," Joel sniffles and Ellie wraps one of your arms over her shoulder, interlocking her fingers with yours and Dina doing the same thing with your other arm.

Joel picks up your feet and they carry you out of the cabin, Joel hopping on his horse and pulling you up and putting you in front of him, arms under yours to lock your hips in place and ankles crossed over yours.

"Jesse.." Joel starts and Dina turns away, heading behind a tree and Ellie look at the man.

"I know. You go and find Tommy, we'll get Jesse. I promise we'll be there soon," Ellie looks past Joel and sees smoke but no flames coming from Jacking. "Looks like it's okay, you can try to take her back home.

Joel looks at Ellie and to Jackson, then back at Ellie. "You'll be right behind me, nothing else, hear me?" He points at her and she nods and checks on Dina, no fussing or fighting when he points at and directs her.

Joel hits the strap against his Beardy and he's off in a flash. You have no energy, the world dimming and the wind pushes you into Joel's chest. He wraps his left arm around your waist to make sure you don't fall off and rubs his thumb on your side, studying the bruises on your face and crying to himself.

Clickers burn all around the wall, houses and buildings burning with scattered gun fire going off inside. The horse stops when Joel tugs and sees his brother standing in the midst of the ending chaos.

"Tommy! Help me!" He screams, getting the attention of a few people who rush to help but Tommy beats them easily. He looks at Joel who moves your hair, showing your beaten and bloody face.

"Jesus Christ, Joel, what the fuck happened?" Tommy carefully cradles you in his arms and Joel hops down, falling to the ground when he forgets about his wound.

Maria, Seth and a few others help Joel up and follow Tommy who rushes you to the closest building that wasn't on fire, the doctor following suit. Joel swipes everything off the table and Tommy holds your head as he lays you down, tears welling in his eyes.

"Fuck, Y/N," Joel cries and Seth lets him go, Joel's head falling on your thighs and holding you as he sobs.

Someone comes bursting in the door shortly after the doctor starts to assess you, informing Tommy and Maria that Ellie and Dina have arrived back with Jesse wrapped up. They leave the room to help and Seth and the other men pat Joel on the back before leaving themselves.

It was just you, Joel, and the doctor. He grabs a bowl of water and a cloth, handing to Joel to clean you off. "She's not going to die, Joel, but she is hurt. Her jaw is fractured and when she wakes we must monitor her, we don't know if her brain was effected in any way."

Joel nods with quiet tears falling as he wrings out the cloth, the doctor apologizing and patting his back before leaving you and Joel alone. His shaky hand ever so softly wipes the blood from your cheeks, watching your chest rise and fall.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you," he sobs, kissing your arm and shoulder, sniffling and wiping under your nose with the cloth.

⁂

"Joel?"

It had been a month since you last opened your eyes, since Joel heard your voice, since Ellie felt your fingers brushing through her hair. Joel beat himself up every night and day, barely leaving one of the new hospital rooms.

Ellie and Dina would force him home for dinner and his bed, and he barely spoke. Because of his actions, the woman he loves was laying in a bed in a coma, no one knowing and no way of telling when she would wake up, if she ever did.

Joel cried himself to sleep, so loud Ellie would have to come in some nights to calm him down and make sure he was catching his breath. Ellie would cry too, sleeping in one of your shirts, begging and screaming into her pillow for you to wake up.

Ellie was with Dina and Tommy helping rebuild some stores and Joel was cleaning up your hospital room, trying to make himself busy so he wouldn't cry looking at you.

Then he heard you.

It was hoarse, it was strained, but it was you. He spins a 180 and rushes to your side, your eyes still closed but calling his name.

"Hey, hey sweet girl," Joel lets out a breathy chuckle, sniffling and holding your almost healed face. "I'm here, I'm right here."

Your eyes peel open and he was smiling you, beaming like the sun you've missed. "Joel," you breathe, weakly smiling and lifting your hand to hold the overgrown, nearly-grey beard below his tired eyes. "I'm okay," you laugh quietly, Joel laughing with you and kissing your forehead.

He sits next to you on the bed and brushes the hair out of your face, rubbing his thumb over your cheek.

"Do you remember what happened?" He asks quietly and your lips fall together in a line. You didn't have to open your mouth, the tears pouring as soon as his sentences stops speaks for you. "It's all my fault. If I didn't shoot the doctor-"

You grab his hand and place it on your chest. "If you didn't do what you did, we wouldn't have our girl," you choke and Joel wipes your tears. "I was there next to you. I did it too, Joel."

He didn't have anything to say, he didn't have an argument. You argued to go in there with him when he begged you to stay in the stairwell and he'd find you after, but you told him you'd fight with him. Joel was overprotective, but at that moment, his words didn't matter and you wanted to help save Ellie.

"I've missed you so much," Joel smiles and falls into your chest, resting his hand on your recovered ribs. You both take in each other, feeling every goosebump on arms and tracing new features.

"Holy shit!" You sit up in the bed and blink a few times before opening your arms. Ellie sits next to you on the bed and falls into your arms with a sob. Your hands hold the back of her head, tucking her face into your neck while you softly stroke her hair. "I'm so glad you're not dead," Ellie pulls away and you laugh and Joel shakes his head.

"I would've missed you guys so much." You look between Joel and Ellie and lay back on the bed, Joel and Ellie squishing in and laying their heads on your shoulders. You grab each of their hands and cross them over your chest, a tear falling down your temple when you kiss the top of Ellie's head, grateful and happy to be alive with your family.

[keelt9]

A Promised Beyond The Corners

A/N: I totally forgot I should post this on different days, so it’s 2x1. 🍒

“Don't laugh!” But how he couldn't? She forgot her purse in her suitcase which is in her home over her bed.

Oscar kisses her cheek, as she keeps her eyes closed, her head resting against the seat of the car.

“That's why I keep recalling the red colour.” Y/N tries to remember the moment she changed her suitcases, leaving her papers next to her phone. 

The car turned around the corner, there it is circuit Gilles Villeneuve. 

“So lucky all the credit cards are digital.” She tries to console herself.

“And we got a spare pass.” Oscar plays with her as she covers her face, he couldn't find her more adorable.

She actually improved compared to the first months they turned into a couple. Living miles away is complicated, no matter how much they want to see each other or how much they missed, collide their schedule and places are hard 

The first time she refused to let him alone in the GP, she forgot her computer to keep working and her suitcase with her clothes; as time passed she got to bring almost all she could need, almost.

“You're such a supportive boyfriend Piastri.” Y/N takes her hand from his. 

But Oscar grabs her face, giving her a kiss. “I love you so much.” 

Y/N smiles between the kiss, feeling so loved by him. 

“Don't worry, I pay for everything.” Y/N pushed him, hitting his chest. 

The car park as he stole her another kiss, with her trying to avoid him, still she's slow.

“See you inside ok?” He said as hugs her one more time. “Are you sure you won't lose?”

“Go away!” Y/N laughs as he opens the door with a proud smile.

That's their routine every GP, Oscar takes a couple of minutes ahead before she gets inside; now she gets used to the cameras still she utterly prefers keeping them away, and Oscar respects that.

It's a critical race, if he wins this, he definitely increased the point gap and put a foot on the championship. Reason why she refuses to watch the race from her house. 

Inside of the paddock the usual movement is taking place, by the time she gets inside drivers are all preparing for the parade as special guests are arriving too.

When the moment of changing clothes came, that's where the “Special P81 routine” began.

With suit race on, Y/N knocks two times his door for she gets in.

“Whoa, do I tell you how handsome you are?” Leaning against the door as Oscar cheeks get pink and his eyes closed.

“Y/N…” Oscar warns her with a soft tone.

“Ok ok ok, sorry, I'll be calm.” She clears her throat and walks where he's adjusting the suit hugging him by his back. “Drive safe ok?”

He chuckles as grabs her hands. “I know I don't have to tell but, keep calm and enjoy it, you got this.”

Oscar closes his eyes, feeling her breathing that is calming for him.

She kisses his shoulder and lets him go, he turns around kissing her forehead.

“I love you.” Oscar said before finally must leave. “You'll be in the garage?”

Y/N scoff like it would be a way someone takes out of there.

As Oscar prepares for getting inside of the car hearing the last indications, Y/N appears in the garage crossing paths with Lando, making him laugh as they high five.

The final instructions and Oscar is ready, taking the last look to Y/N headphones on and winking at him, he gives her a thumbs up, as the loud sound of the car engine, and the cover tyres are removing for him to get out.

For one hour she moves incessantly in her seat, Oscar keeps the lead almost all the time, losing for 10 laps due enters to pits with a slow stop, causing she bites her knuckles for that 10 laps until in turn 5, Max aggressive style was used against him, Oscar got the position back.

“Yes!” She screams winning the eyes of people as they smile too.

It took him 4 laps to increase the gap with Max and by the last ones Oscar had a comfortable gap, crossing the line with a difference of 5 seconds.

The team high five with each other as they shout in joy, that one step closer to the championship.

The crew ran to the podium to congratulate Oscar as some of the others celebrated in the garage.

Tom finds her hugging the crew, shaking his head.

“What are you doing here?” He said as she hugged him. “Go! He wants you there.”

Tom softly pushed her, seeing her doubts. “Go!”

The vibration of the motor still is clear in his chest as he raises over the car with his hands in the air, he got it.

Running to celebrate with his team, he jumps over them as they pat him and congratulate him.

Going down he conceded a few photos before taking his helmet.

The victory is amazing, his name on the top is unique.

“Oscar!” One of the mechanics screams at him before he walks away. “This way.”

However, seeing her running among the crowd with a big smile on her face…that’s his podium, he reflects on her eyes.

“You did it!” He hugs her tighter, hating the damn fence between them. “I told you!”

“I'm sweating, I'm sorry I..” The fact he's apologising for such a foolish thing causes her giggle.

“I love you so much.” Y/N she whispers for only he could hear it, the one who actually matters.

Oscar knows he's holding her longer than he should; people talk, the flashes are repeating over and over again, but his mind is in a far away place.

It's been a couple of weeks that a thought has been running in his mind, now, after the victory with her among his arms any word said, it makes so much more sense than ever.

“There is something I want to do.” He spoke softly at her as she held back her shaking breathing. “Not here, just, wait a little bit more.”

Y/N splits a little bit enough for looking at him with curiosity as she's trying to guess what is in his mind. 

How could something else be in his mind when he's in the middle of this moment?

“Is it a good surprise or a weird one?” Y/N asks, finally letting him go, a podium is waiting for him.

Oscar kisses her cheek, grabbing one side of her face, one more time before going.

“I believe, a good one.” He smiles at her walking back for leaving his helmet and going to the top of the podium.

As the Australian anthem plays, Y/N couldn't avoid a few tears rolling down, whipping it immediately. It's been a long way but seeing him with fireworks at his back as he takes a long glimpse of her and smiles is all she needs.

Totally drenched Oscar found her on his way to the garage with a trophy in his hands and bottle on the other. 

“Go! The team is waiting.” She pushed him to walk to the garage, where the team was waiting to celebrate.

Oscar laughs as he walks, dragged by the team who keep congratulating him. After the photo session and covered in champagne Oscar lifts her as she observes from inside of the garage.

“Oh you're freezing!” Y/N as she put her arms around his neck. He pulls down the race suit at the level of his waist to avoid her getting wet too. “And with a curious aroma.”

Oscar laughs, putting her down. “Just another couple of hours and we go, ok?”

“Take your time.” Y/N kisses his cheek. “It's not like I could go either.”

“Ha ha ha, so funny.” He gives a quick peck on her lips. 

Oscar tingles every finger of his around her left hand as she sings the papers of the check out.

“Have a good flight miss.” The receptionist wished for her with a polite smile containing the giggles of a F1 driver in that situation.

Pouting as he rolls his eyes peeking over her shoulder.

“Thank you.” Y/N tries to pull her hand to take all her stuff but Oscar does it, refusing to leave her hand.

In one hand he picked her phone and her jacket. 

“Ok, but I can…” Y/N prevented the 6th time discussion about the same thing. She stood in front of him and kissed him.

Causing Oscar to let her hand only for grabbing a side of her face as he turns a simple kiss in a romantic scene.

Y/N grabs his shirt, already missing his warmth and cuddles.

“A couple of days…” She said between kisses. “We have to work, you know?”

Oscar breathes out as they keep walking. “Call me when you land, ok?”

Y/N nods as Oscar opens the door of the car which will take her safe and sound to the airport, although he’s clinging to her hand. 

“Oscar…” Y/N clicks her tongue. 

“Sorry, I…just go… another way I'll be sneaking in until the airport.”

Having a F1 driver in a normal airport sounds like a lot of chaos on a Monday morning.

“I love you.” He said before kissing one more time her lips.

After the meetings of the week, Oscar was finally free on Thursday morning.

Hating he arrived the same day late at night, but that's how flights work. 

It's 2:16 in the morning and by the way all her house is in total darkness, of course she must be totally asleep.

Carefully he opened the door, still rossines like when he found out what her password was.

8241.

His number at both sides, in the middle of them, the year he won his first GP.

Inside it all darkness, he doesn't need to switch on the light. Oscar knows he needs to walk carefully until the soft light of her bedroom is visible. 

She isn't afraid of the darkness, but she feels unwell and threatens being alone in the middle of it. So she left a night light next to her.

And there she is, on her left against the window, covered with the sheet around her waist holding her pillow.

Oscar carefully changes his clothes, consumed by the tiredness, carefully removing the pillow from her arms.

She moves, scared. “It's ok, it's me.” Oscar whispers to her to calm her down.

With barely open eyes, she put a smile on her face when saw him, moving carefully to her left, making enough space for him.

“You're here?” Oscar giggles; she's clearly sleepy. 

He put his arm in the curve of her neck and the other around her waist kissing her temple.

She couldn't say another word, she just sighs deeply hugging him tight, saying softly.

“I feel safe with you.”

Y/N groans when her alarm starts to sound, with eye open she switches off, noticing an arm around her waist.

“You actually have to work?” A little bit scared she turns around finding Oscar with eyes closed and a soft smirk on his lips. “So you were actually asleep.”

Y/N whine throwing herself over him laying on his chest. 

“Omg! It wasn't a dream.” Oscar hugs her kissing the top of her head. “I love you.”

Oscar chuckles, feeling her heartbeat close to his. “God.” He touches her face. “How beautiful you are.” For hiding her in his chest.

“Even if I hate to say it… I have to go to work.” She stands with the touch of Oscar all along her arm.

“Breakfast is on me.” He said as she went inside of the bathroom.

Making her look over her shoulder with a delighted expression on her face.

30 minutes later she goes to the kitchen fully dressed.

“Smells delicious.” Y/N perks over Oscar's shoulder. “Oh crêpes!”

Oscar notices her struggling with her necklace, taking out the last crêpe he left on the plate with fruit next to him. 

“Let me help you.” He grabs the necklace, of course it must be the necklace he gave to her on their first anniversary.

A delicate gold necklace with a tiny fragment of tourmaline.

“There it is.” Oscar smiles at her, holding her neck.

Y/N scoff rolling her eyes with a smile. “Work thing.” She complains.

Oscar bluffs, ready to let her go, not without a kiss.

[elliespassagerprincess]

hi darling <3 i saw that requests were open and wanted to share my basketballcaptain!ellie x cheercaptain!reader enemies to lovers brainrot bc ughhh enemies to lovers >>>>

Headcannons: basketballcaptain!ellie williams x cheercaptain!reader

masterlist

☆ Ellie can’t stand how you walk around like you own the school — head high, lips glossed, pom-poms always at your hip. She’ll roll her eyes when you pass by in the hallway but somehow always notices when you’re near.

☆ You think she’s stuck-up and full of herself. Always brooding in that stupid grey hoodie with her earbuds in and a bandage on her knuckle from who-knows-what. But you notice how her gaze lingers when you laugh too loud near the lockers.

☆ You both pretend not to see each other at school events, but everyone knows there’s something there. The way Ellie watches you during halftime shows isn’t exactly subtle.

☆ At pep rallies, when your teams are supposed to hype each other up, Ellie’s standoffish. You tease her on the mic—“Someone tell Captain Broody to smile for once”—and the crowd loves it. Ellie clenches her jaw so hard it aches for hours.

☆ Your friends swear she’s into you. “She literally only talks shit about you,” they giggle. “No one else. That’s classic ‘I’m in denial’ behavior.” You brush it off, but part of you wonders.

☆ Ellie has a hard time focusing during games when you're cheering on the sidelines. She tries to pretend she doesn’t hear your voice calling her name—“Go, Williams!”—but her heartbeat stutters every damn time.

☆ She tells herself she’s annoyed when you strut past after practice in those tight shorts and oversized hoodie. But then why does she stare? Why does she remember what color your lip gloss was that day?

☆ During a shared school fundraiser, you’re both forced to cooperate. You wear a fake smile, she wears a scowl. You call her “Captain Attitude” under your breath, and she fires back with “Pom-pom Princess.” It’s childish. It’s electric.

☆ Your fingers accidentally brush while setting up flyers. You both freeze. Ellie mutters, “Watch it.” You grin and say, “Aw, didn’t know you were so touchy.” Her ears burn for the rest of the day.

☆ One day in the gym, you’re stretching before practice, and Ellie walks in sweaty from a workout. Her hair’s tied back, tank top sticking to her skin, and she’s very aware you’re watching. She drops her towel and says, “Like what you see?” You scoff—but can’t stop staring.

☆ Ellie starts showing up to practices earlier, claiming she’s “just getting in extra drills.” But she always ends up staying just long enough to hear your cheer routines.

☆ There’s a school rumor that you two got into a screaming match behind the gym. Not true. You were arguing—yes—but it was way too close, way too breathless. Ellie said, “You drive me insane.” You shot back, “You wish you could handle me.” Neither of you could forget it.

☆ She has a whole section of her sketchbook filled with angry scribbles… and your initials. She calls it “vent art.” You’d call it a crush.

☆ After a late-night away game, you end up sitting near her on the bus. Your thighs are touching. You don’t move. She doesn’t either.

☆ Your friends dare you to compliment her. Just once. You walk up after practice and say, “You played well today.” She blinks, stunned, then mutters, “Thanks, I guess.” She grins about it for the next three hours.

☆ One time, you sprain your ankle during cheer practice. Ellie sees you struggling and wordlessly helps you up. Her touch is gentle, but her words are gruff—“Don’t make a big deal out of it.” You don’t. But you remember the way her hands lingered.

☆ The sexual tension becomes palpable. You both know it. You both deny it. Ellie avoids eye contact when you’re too close, but her eyes always find you across a crowded room.

☆ You get into a fight about something dumb during a student council meeting. Voices raised. Ellie slams a chair. You walk out flushed and flustered. That night, she texts you: “You’re insufferable.” You reply: “Right back at you.” You don’t block her number.

☆ Ellie finds herself dreaming about you. It pisses her off. She can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you mid-argument. To grab you by the waist and finally, finally shut you up.

☆ You start wondering what her mouth tastes like when she’s not biting back insults. When she’s kissing like she means it.

☆ It happens at a post-game party. Ellie shows up in a backwards cap, hoodie off, curls slightly damp from a shower. You didn’t expect her to look that good. You take one glance, then pretend not to care. She notices.

☆ You’re mid-laugh with someone else when Ellie walks over. “Didn’t know princesses drank beer,” she smirks. “Didn’t know brooding loners went to parties,” you shoot back. But neither of you walks away.

☆ She offers you a sip of her drink. Just to mess with you. You take it, lock eyes, and hand it back with your gloss smudged on the rim. Ellie stares at it like she’s been shot.

☆ After a tense game, you find her sitting alone in the gym. She’s furious, muttering about her performance. You sit beside her, say nothing, and just breathe. For once, neither of you feels the need to be loud.

☆ During a cheer performance, Ellie’s eyes never leave you. When the crowd goes wild, she claps with just a little more force. When you glance her way, she looks away like she wasn’t watching at all.

☆ One afternoon, you're caught in a thunderstorm. She sees you struggling with your bag and tosses you her jacket. “Don’t read into it,” she mutters. You do. And you wear that jacket to sleep that night.

☆ She starts walking you to your car after late practices. Says it’s “just in case.” But you both know it’s not about safety. It’s about standing there, under the lamplight, not wanting to say goodbye.

☆ She stops calling you annoying. Starts calling you “cheer girl” in this low, teasing voice. You hate how your stomach flips every time.

☆ You catch her drawing you in her sketchbook—head turned over your shoulder, mid-laugh. She snaps it shut too late. You don’t tease her. You just smile and say, “I didn’t know you saw me like that.”

☆ One day, during a pep rally, she’s cornered by a random girl from another team. Flirting. Touching her arm. You step in without thinking—“Ellie, coach was looking for you.” You glare daggers the whole way out. Ellie doesn’t say a word. But she notices.

☆ The next week, she corners you in the hallway. “You jealous?” she asks. “Of what?” you say, heart racing. She leans in and says, “You tell me.” Your brain short circuits. You shove her playfully and walk off. She watches you with a smile.

☆ Ellie starts sitting closer during class. Like, too close. Your knees touch under the desk. Her hand brushes yours. Neither of you moves.

☆ One night, you text her just: “You up?” She replies instantly: “Yeah.” You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to.

☆ At a joint team celebration, you play spin the bottle. It lands on her. She doesn't hesitate to kiss you. It’s soft. Tense. A second too long. Everyone cheers. You can’t look her in the eye afterward.

☆ She walks you home that night. Neither of you says a word. At your door, she pauses and whispers, “Goodnight, cheer girl.” You whisper, “Goodnight, Captain.”

☆ The next week, you avoid her. You don’t know why. Maybe you’re scared. But Ellie corners you after school and asks, “Did I do something wrong?” You shake your head. “That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You did everything right.”

☆ She brings you water during your practice. You take it, your fingers brush, and this time, you don’t pull away. She smiles. Just a little. Like the sun coming out.

☆ There’s a moment backstage before a pep assembly. You’re fixing your bow. She walks in and says, “You nervous?” You nod. She steps closer, brushes your hair off your shoulder, and says, “You’ve got this.” You’ve never felt more sure—or more nervous.

☆ You start seeking her out. You meet under bleachers, sit shoulder to shoulder, and talk about everything but feelings. But the silence between you? It’s practically screaming.

☆ One evening, after she wins a game, you run up and hug her without thinking. She stumbles back, stunned—then hugs you back tighter than she should. You both hold on a little too long.

☆ There’s a night when she grabs your wrist mid-argument. You stare at each other, panting, fire in your eyes. She says, “I can’t keep pretending I hate you.” And before you can answer, she kisses you. Hard.

☆ It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s desperate. You melt into her, and when you pull away, your lipstick is smeared, her hands still gripping your waist.

☆ She breathes, “I’ve wanted to do that since you made fun of my shoes sophomore year.” You laugh. “I knew it.”

☆ After that first kiss under the bleachers, Ellie disappears for a full day. No texts. No showing up to practice. You worry. But it’s not regret — she’s freaking out about how much she felt it.

☆ When she finally shows up, she doesn’t say a word. Just walks up, grabs your face gently, and kisses you like she’s trying to make up for every day she pretended to hate you.

☆ You start sneaking into her practices. She plays better when you’re there. Even Coach starts noticing the way Ellie’s eyes track you across the gym.

☆ You both keep it a secret at first. It’s not about shame — it’s about keeping it yours. Something intimate. Something sacred.

☆ Ellie starts bringing you little gifts: your favorite energy drink, a cute scrunchie in her team colors, a sketch of you mid-cheer. She acts like it’s no big deal. But it always is.

☆ She watches your routines like she’s studying art. You once caught her whispering your counts under her breath. She’d memorized them.

☆ You lend her one of your cheer hoodies. She wears it constantly, sleeves too short on her. When someone jokes about it, she shrugs. “It smells like her.”

☆ When you’re alone, she softens so much it’s disarming. Fingers brushing your face, eyes searching yours like she’s memorizing every emotion.

☆ You teach her a cheer routine just for fun. She’s horrible at it. But she does it anyway — arms flailing, tongue poked out in concentration — just to make you laugh.

☆ Ellie always acts so chill in public… until someone flirts with you. Then she gets weirdly protective. Arm around your waist. Death glare. You pretend not to notice, but you love it.

☆ She starts calling you “mine” in casual conversation. Like: “Have you seen mine?” or “Where’s mine at?” and it never fails to make you blush.

☆ Jesse eventually figures it out. He walks in on you two holding hands in the locker room. He doesn’t even blink. “Finally,” he says.

☆ Dina pretends to be shocked, then immediately starts teasing Ellie to hell and back. “So that’s why you couldn’t stop talking shit about cheer squad.”

☆ Ellie starts showing up to your competitions with posters. She’s shy about it — hides behind them. But your whole team swoons when they realize who made them.

☆ You start coming to her games with signs too. One says “#9 has my heart” in glitter letters. Ellie nearly trips when she sees it mid-game.

☆ After her games, she comes to find you first — sweaty, breathless, heart pounding — and wraps you in her arms like the world just makes sense when you’re in it.

☆ She starts sketching you constantly. Mid-laugh. Mid-pout. In your cheer uniform. In her hoodie. She never lets anyone else see them.

☆ Your team begins whispering about how "weirdly soft" Ellie is around you. You tell them it’s just an act. They laugh because they know it’s not.

☆ There’s a night you two sneak off to the roof of the school. Stars overhead, the city distant. You lay side by side, pinkies brushing, and she whispers, “I hated you because I didn’t know how to love you.”

☆ You press your forehead to hers and say, “Good thing I figured it out first.”

☆ She starts picking you up for school. Always has a snack waiting. Always plays your favorite music. And always kisses you before you get out of the car.

☆ Your fights are fiery but brief. Passion flares, then fizzles into whispered apologies and soft touches. You never let each other go to sleep angry.

☆ Ellie always sits at the edge of the court or field during cheer competitions, fists clenched, so invested it’s like she’s the one performing.

☆ You once got hurt during a routine — a sprained ankle. Ellie carried you off the field and refused to leave your side. “You’re my person,” she said. “I don’t do this without you.”

☆ You begin planning college applications together — trying to pick schools that have both good sports and cheer programs. She’s terrified of leaving you behind.

☆ You start sleeping over more. Not even to hook up — just to be close. Tangled legs, whispered jokes, her sketchbook open between you.

☆ The first time she says “I love you,” it’s quiet. Scared. Almost accidental. “I just… I love you, okay?” You whisper, “I know. I love you too.”

☆ After that, she says it all the time. Between classes. On the court. In her sleep. Like she’s been holding it in for years.

☆ She keeps one of your old cheer bows tied around her wrist under her wristbands. Says it brings her luck. Won’t admit it’s also a comfort thing.

☆ You start wearing her basketball jacket everywhere. Even when it’s hot. Even when it doesn’t match. Everyone knows. And they love it.

☆ The hallway stares don’t bother you anymore. You kiss her in public now. She kisses you back like she means it.

☆ Graduation comes fast. Ellie holds your hand the whole time. When your name is called, she stands and cheers louder than anyone else.

☆ Afterward, behind the bleachers, she pulls you in and whispers, “Told you we’d make it.”

☆ And then she kisses you — slow, deep, full of every moment of tension that brought you here. You melt into her. And when you break apart, you smile.

☆ “I hated you,” you say, still breathless. “I know,” she grins. “That’s how I knew it was real.”

[mourning-sapphire]

bruised fruit | aemond targaryen | chapter two

Summary: he wasn’t the warmest man on earth, he walked ashed fields and scattered fruitless seeds, that was until the sun delivered him the ripest fruit from the arbor, his to harvest. The story of a man learning to love his saccharine ladywife and all her softness.

Pairing: aemond targaryen x redwyne!reader

Chapter warnings: there is some bullying in this chapter, manipulation, ablesim, mocking of aemond's physical apperance (not by reader), some brief descriptions of anxiety, some mention of uncomfortable predicaments.

Word count: 16k (oops)

authors note: all i can say is enjoy, while i look at my plans and wonder how tf this turned out to be this long.

previous part | masterlist | next part

Aemond was officially losing his will to live.

Each step he took back to his chambers echoed that frustration, the hopelessness that he was feeling just from a few short seconds with his new endeavour. Everyone in the keep was used to his boots striking stone in some sort of attitude but it was never like this, he had never felt like this before. Thoughts of mounting Vhagar and soaring away from it all to some far-off city in Essos— away from duty, from court, from expectations, from this fucking betrothal—grew increasingly more seductive to him with every passing moment.

Gods, how the image seemed so lush in that moment

He could almost feel the sharp winds of open sky, the endless stretch of somewhere like Volantis beneath him, the screams of his name lost to the roar of wings. The idea didn’t just tempt him anymore—it whispered to him, breath hot against his ear like a lover, coaxing, urging him to flee.

It was erotic in its promise of freedom, it was what he wanted.

The introductions at the docks had gone exactly as he expected— completely and utterly abysmally. His mother’s reaction had been instant to his tone, though quiet. That look in her eyes, like a brewing storm, one she rarely gave him when he acted out of par. She hadn’t raised her voice at his disregard for the Redwyne girl, hadn’t even spoken, but he knew what that particular silence meant. It was the same brittle stillness before she snapped at him, her normally softer eyes widened with rage that she rarely felt for her second youngest. No, his mother had simply taken the Redwyne girl’s arm—gently, diplomatically—and guided her away from him, not sparing Aemond so much as a reprimand in the moment.

But he knew. Oh, how he knew that the verbal thrashing was coming, sharp and cutting,. He could practically hear it now.

But he just didn’t care.

The girl was beautiful, he’d give her that. Striking, even with delicate features, with eyes too wide and too hopeful for her own good. But beauty meant little to him these days, it stirred nothing in him—not warmth, not kindness, not even the faintest urge to impress her. When she’d curtsied to him, dripped with politeness and soft expectation, he could barely bring himself to acknowledge her with little more than a nod and a cold, flat greeting.

In the eyes of his mother, and most likely the gods, he might as well have have spit on the ground in front of her. He’d watched the light falter in her face, fade like a candle by an open window, and for a brief, twisted moment, he’d felt something close to satisfaction.

He knew he was cruel. He could feel it in his marrow, like his own rot beneath polished leather armour.

Usually, he had the sense of mind to feign courtesy towards people he didn’t like, to mask his contempt behind silence. But something about her, maybe her innocence, provoked something vicious inside him. A reflex, like a wounded animal snapping at the kindness of an outstretched hand.

His pain and his anger towards marriage couldn’t be soothed with a pretty wife, no matter how gorgeous she was. If all he wanted was someone beautiful to look at, he had enough coin for that. Aemond could pay for softness, for sweet lies whispered in the dark if that’s what he truly desired. He didn’t need a wife for that. Certainly, not one who would be thrust upon him like a political offering, all smiles and subtle desperation.

The doors to his chamber practically shuddered as Aemond shoved them open, the sound biting through the corridor like a threat. He didn’t pause to acknowledge the servants within who were changing his bedding. He wasn’t usually in his chambers at this time of day, he just stormed inside in his anger, letting the doors swing shut behind him with a thunderous slam. The startled servants quickly bowed and vanished, knowing better than to linger when the prince was in such a state.

He stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by morning light and silence, chest rising and falling with an emotion he couldn’t name. It wasn’t panic or fear, nor was it anger; it was something nasty that had taken all of that and burrowed in his chest. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles cracking with the force at which he curled his fist. The quiet of his chamber itched at his skin, he hated it. Hated the way his thoughts almost echoed around the room, bouncing off the stone walls and reminding him of the hollowness of it all.

“It was all a farce, a ridiculous farce” he thought as he tore off his sword belt and tossed it on his writing desk with a thunk, his ink bottles rattling and paper crunching with the lack of care he had.

Aemond was used to being able to keep a level head about most things, about things that shouldn’t matter, but all he could think was this was another thing taken from him as his boots struck hard against the floor. He couldn’t help it but he paced —once, twice, again in front of the balcony doors—a tight line carving into the rug like a trench of his own anger.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the door open behind him until he heard her voice.

"Aemond." His mother’s voice was calm and controlled, too controlled, for how angry she probably was.

He stopped mid-step at her tone, his body stopping to look out the balcony doors. He didn’t turn to face her, he couldn’t, he didn’t want her to see the turmoil on his face and he didn’t want to see the disappointment on hers.

“Aemond,” She repeated, firmer this time, the sound of her slippers thudding on the floors told him she was walking closer to him, too close.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound more of a huff than a breath, and finally faced her. Alicent stood just by his couches, the light that bled in through the windows catching in the green and gold silk of her sleeves. Lighting her in almost a saintly light. However, what she wore best though was the light of vehemence, banked but, unmistakable in her eyes.

They stood and faced each other off like they weren't mother and son. Like something closer to enemies in that moment, enemies that shared memories, blood, and shared pain. It was heavy, so heavy that the silence in the room was only broken by a guard outside shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

“Would you like to explain to me what that was?” His mother asked calmly, with no raised voice, no theatrics. Just that tone, the one that said she was holding herself together by inches. The one she had used on him and all his siblings since they were children.

Aemond didn’t respond right away, no he looked at her like one might look at a ghost. A relic of something that used to make sense, his mother once made sense to him. “Do you want the truth?” he asked, voice low.

“I always want the truth, Aemond.” She snapped softly, something rare, but there was hurt in it, dripping with it. “Though with you lately, I never know which version I’ll get.”

“Then here it is, I didn’t want to meet her, I never asked for this." He laughed—sharp and humourless, cruel. "I won’t play husband to some dainty girl with stars strung in her eyes who thinks she can smile her way into my good graces.”

“She is your betrothed,” Alicent said, stepping further into his space. “You didn’t even try to be civil, nor attempted to be welcoming.”

“She curtsied like I was a prince in some song,” he bit out like it was a mockery to him, that she couldn’t see how he was. “I spared her by not lying to her face.”

“And what exactly do you think you gain by acting like a beast?” Alicent said, anger beginning to simmer in her voice now, rumbling in her chest. “You not only humiliated her, but you humiliated me.”

Aemond turned away again. “Good,” he muttered. “Let her realise early what she's getting into.”

“That girl is meant to be your wife,” Alicent said, each word clipped, controlled, eyes widening with that familiar anger she often carried for her children. “She could have been your ally. Someone to—”

“Someone to warm my bed? To bear my children?” He whipped around to face her, teeth gnashing like the dragon he claimed to be. “To pretend she doesn’t flinch when she sees what’s under this?” He gestured to his eyepatch, the ache of his sapphire in his socket reminded him of all his agony, his voice cold with venom. “She’ll never love me. And I’ll never love her, so why should I pretend?”

Silence fell at that, thick and heavy. But Alicent’s gaze didn’t waver, though something in her expression softened—a flicker of his mother beneath the queen.

“I don’t ask you to love her,” she said quietly. “I ask you to act like a man, not a wounded boy lashing out at the world.”

That landed deeper than he expected. He looked away, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer, her voice lower now. “You think I wasn’t afraid? That I wasn’t bound to someone I didn’t choose? That I haven’t felt caged by duty since the moment I first bled?”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t really.

His mothers had an affinity to twisting the situation, something he’d seen grow over the years in the resentment for his father and his half-sister. Despite looking like a pious doe most days, she still had the Hightower ability to twist something entirely so that it may forge something else. Even if that something was reminding her children of all she had sacrificed in life to bring them to this moment.

“I learned to live with it,” she said. “You don’t have to love her, but you must at least respect her, Aemond… You cannot keep spitting in the face of every chance you're given simply because you still bleed over wounds long since scarred.”

He wanted to scoff at that, she too mourned wounds that had barely scarred, longing in her eyes for cuts that would unfurl at the slightest tug.

“I only want you to survive this world,” She added, lingering around him like she usually did; his mother was one of his few allies in his world. “And in this world, you do not survive alone.”

“I make no promises.” He swallowed slightly, his face away from her, he had never been able to deal with her version of scolding. “I cannot pretend that this is what I want.”

It was the closest he would ever come to a confession.

His mother didn’t sigh, didn’t bristle. She merely stepped a little closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm—not to comfort, but to remind.

She was still his mother, and she would always be watching. Her touch was featherlight, but it burned hotter than the forge, like it would melt the leather of his tunic.

“You think I did?” she asked quietly.

And then she was gone, leaving the space colder for her absence.

Aemond stood there for a long time after, unmoving, his eye drifting to the nearest window as the afternoon light stretched slowly across the city. The sky was clear—blue and vast in a way that made the walls of the Red Keep feel all the more stifling.

The thought of mounting Vhagar lingered still, tempting and sharp. He wouldn’t leave, not entirely—he never could—but a ride, just far enough to taste the air and dull the weight in his chest, would be enough.

Something just enough to push the thought of her from his mind.

Despite only being in King’s Landing for a mere few hours, it had already felt as though you’d aged lifetimes already. The capital moved on a different rhythm than home—everyone louder, faster, more watchful. The moment you stepped off the ship onto the stone docks, your every breath felt observed, weighed, and recorded. From the lingering heat of the sun on your shoulders to the heavy scent of smoke and sea air that clung to your skin, the day had been endless, thick with expectation.

It wasn’t like Aemond and his excuse of a greeting helped that case either, the sting of his disinterest still lingering in your chest like a paper cut that just kept throbbing.

It was only under Meredyth’s gentle care that you found the resolve to slow down after you got to your rooms, to come back to yourself after the storm that was this morning. Her touch was practised and grounding, her fingers moving with quiet precision as she brushed the tension from your scalp. It was sad but her movements were familiar in a way that you know you’d also mourn soon. She didn’t speak much after her words of encouragement—she didn’t need to.

The silence between you had always been one of comfort, and right now, it was the only thing keeping you from unravelling entirely in your new rooms.

Though it was much too early to begin preparing for the evening’s feast, Meredyth had started regardless. She knew better than anyone that it wasn’t just about being ready, it was about feeling steady and looking the part you needed to. The simple, deliberate motions of care: hair detangled, oils smoothed into the skin, the rustle of linens being laid out, each act gave shape to something solid inside you. Something you could cling to when the walls felt like they were closing in again.

And that’s exactly what she did.

It was just after a modest lunch had been delivered—a tray of warm bread, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine left mostly untouched—when Meredyth got to work. You feared for your stay here if she remained as sharp-tongued with the palace staff as she had been that mid-day, but it seemed to serve its purpose.

The palace servants did as they were told, tight-lipped and efficient, scurrying about under her brisk orders, despite her having no standing here besides being your chosen maid. It was at her request that a bath was drawn not long after the lunch was cleared away, a breath of relief passing your lips as soon as you saw the steam beginning to rise from the copper tub that they placed near the hearth.

Like always, Meredyth tested the temperature herself, rolling up her sleeves and adjusting the heat with a metal kettle of boiling water until it met her standards, the ones she knew you liked from the back of her hand. Only then did she turn to you, wordlessly beginning to undo the fastenings at the back of your gown with deft fingers.

There was no true ceremony to it—only quiet familiarity of a task she'd done a hundred times over. The layers came away one by one: the soft outer bodice, the shift, the stays, the undergarments, all peeled away like the shell of someone you couldn’t afford to be tonight. It felt final to watch your comfort turn into a soft pile of clothing on the rugs, but it was needed.

When you finally stepped into the tub, the heat was near scalding—but you welcomed it, it was like a kiss to your aching soul. The water lapped at your skin, loosening the tightness in your shoulders, washing away the grime of the docks and days on a ship, slipping away the weight of watchful eyes. You sank in slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a breath or two. For a moment, the world outside the bath ceased to exist.

Meredyth didn’t leave your side, she pulled a stool close and began to wet your hair with a cup instantly, her fingers moving through the wet strands with a tenderness that contrasted the steel in her voice earlier. She said nothing, but her silence was not cold. It was protective. A shield she held up for you when you could no longer hold your own.

The scent of floral, spices, and sage filled the air as she poured oils into the water, turning it that milky colour you loved so much, her sleeves dampening at the edges with each pour of the cup. You weren’t sure whether it was meant to soothe your skin or your nerves—perhaps both. Either way, it helped.

“You’re wearing the pink silk tonight,” she said after a while, her voice low, more thought than command. “The one with the embroidered flowers and veins on the bodice. It’s gentle, but not meek. And it’ll set you apart from every other girl draped in garnet and gold.”

You nodded, eyes still shut, the warmth making it easier to breathe, you knew the dress well.

It was an exquisite gown, the colour of blooming peach blossoms at the height of spring. It was a treasured gift from a group of traders who passed through the Arbor regularly during the height of trading season. Woven from the finest silks, the dress itself almost looked alive with the way it shimmered with any soft light. It was light enough that the fabric just moved like it was constantly catching the breeze, like petals on the wind.

You knew it wasn’t exactly the fashion of the capital but you wanted some sense of self. Even if a part of you worried that the ladies of court would side eye its deeper, sweeping neckline and flowing skirts, it was romantic. All while it was topped off with a gorgeous masterful embroider; a cascade of hand-stitched florals and delicate foliage in gold, green, and rose crawling down the bodice, onto the skirts and up the shoulders too.

The dress was hanging on the dressing partitions on the other side of the room, but you could see the tiny blossoms trailing down the bodice and gather at the waist like vines in bloom. It was a gown meant to be worn under the soft lantern light in the gazebos at home, surrounded by wine and song. Not politics—it was something that was supposed to be a whispering reminder of the sweet, heady promise of spring.

It was all idyllic thought, but it was enough to detach from reality for a while, just staring at the dress and all its intricacies while Meredyth scrubbed at your body and scalp. She let you stay in the water longer than usual, sensing your reluctance to emerge. But when she did eventually help you out, wrapping you in soft linens and patting your skin dry with care, it wasn’t with impatience. It was with the understanding of someone who knew you needed a gentler hand.

Preparations continued like this into the late afternoon.

Eventually, your hair dried with the freshly lit fire, and was brushed, and styled away from your face for the evening. While you often preferred to have your hair loose and down, tonight called for it to be gathered in an updo at the base of your skull. All while Meredyth took delight in sliding floral pins and little pearls into your hair like it had been kissed by morning dew.

Personally, the best part was your skin being scented and powdered lightly; giving you the chance to try the violet and woody oils that you had been gifted on your last name day, their pepperiness and subtle sweetness causing an aura around you like a comfort blanket. Getting ready truly was a ritual for you, as your underlayers too were eventually fitted and smoothed.

And through it all, Meredyth remained your quiet constant, guiding you through each step with the same calm certainty she always had. Tonight, would not be easy, but with her hands steadying you, with her voice anchoring you, the night didn’t feel impossible. Not yet.

She moved with quiet purpose, smoothing out your gown, selecting jewellery, smoothing silks with practised efficiency. She worked like someone who knew who you were even when you didn’t, who remembered what you looked like before the Aemond Targaryen had stolen the colour from your cheeks.

You had declined the offer of assistance from the palace staff—just for today. The Keep’s servants were probably skilled, yes, but they were also strangers with too many eyes and too few loyalties. In this place, every small gesture could be noted, every weakness catalogued. You couldn’t afford to be a novelty or a cautionary tale whispered about in corridors.

Not today.

Today, you needed Meredyth, you needed her presence like breath—quiet but essential. She moved through the room with that same silent command she always had, the air bending subtly to accommodate her certainty while you stood in the centre of it all, truly a stranger in a strange place.

Her motions were purposeful, almost reverent, as she laid out the final items for your attire. Jewellery gleamed softly from your box, the dress checked for any loose threads, slippers positioned just so by the edge of the hearth to put on later.

She adjusted your posture with a nudge to your shoulders, smoothed the fabric gathered at your shoulders without a word, and checked your reflection like it held the truth of your readiness. And perhaps, in a way, it did.

Because somewhere between the soft pull of pins, the scent of violet oil clinging to your wrists, and the quiet murmur of her voice reminding you to keep your chin lifted while she added a small pearl necklace, you began to believe you could do this.

She didn’t ask if you were alright, Meredyth never had, she never needed to. She knew better than to prod at wounds not yet closed. Instead, she gave you tasks to accommodate your busy mind, small ones; lift your arms, hold still, turn, breathe.

It had always been this way, even when you were a child. You were clever, always curious and hungry for knowledge but your nerves were another thing entirely. They were sharp, unpredictable, and often paralysing. Saying no was something you’d never mastered.

Standing your ground felt like walking into the sea without being able to swim. That was part of why home had always felt like a sanctuary: there was no one to challenge, no arguments to endure. Your father, though distracted by matters beyond you, had let you move through life as you pleased. Your sisters had grown and left, leaving you the home mostly to yourself to adventure and imagine as you wanted to.

Sadly, it was only when he took you along on his journeys—through the Reach, for trade, for introductions, for marriage prospects—that the ground began to shift beneath your feet and you felt the weight of those feelings. Even the most familiar towns felt foreign when you arrived as someone to be presented, discussed, considered. You never quite found your footing right away, and more often than not, it took days before you felt like yourself again, if you ever did at all.

Each of Meredyth’s subtle commands returned you to your body, to this moment, to the rhythm of preparation that felt more sacred than ceremonial. And still, she said nothing of the morning. Nothing of the Queen, or the eyes that had followed you through the court like you were prey. Nothing of the prince who’d looked at you with ice in his gaze and no sign of what he was thinking.

Instead, she focused on now, on what she could control.

At one point, she stepped behind you and gently rested her hands on your shoulders, just for a beat. Her thumbs pressed into the knots beneath your collarbones, grounding you, pulling you back from slouching in on yourself.

“You’re holding your breath again,” She murmured, her voice low, calm as she looked you over.

You hadn’t even realised that your breath was trapped.

“Breathe.” She soothed you softly, much like you would a child.

So, you did, slow and unsteady. But you did.

“Sorry.” You murmured softly, voice barely a breath as you smoothed your sweaty palms down your pretty dress.

“Don’t be, just breathe.” She hummed back, circling you and adjusting the smallest of details, “Your father will be here soon to walk you down.”

Meredyth gave you a quiet nod of approval in the mirror, then turned her attention back to the final details. You had refused the help of the palace servants earlier without apology, and you didn’t regret it. Meredyth was the only person in this place you trusted to see you vulnerable. The only one who knew how to hold the fragile pieces of you without pressing too hard.

The Keep’s attendants would have been polite, and efficient—perfect in the way court demanded. But there would have been glances. Questions unspoken but heavy in the air. Whispers waiting to bloom into rumours. You could not afford that, not tonight. Not while everything was still so newly set in motion.

So, Meredyth stayed, and in her staying, you stayed whole for a few moments longer.

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the hush of firelight, the distant sound of bells chiming the hour, and the soft rustle of your skirts as you stood, hands clenched lightly at your sides.

She stepped back, eyes scanning you one last time. There was no flourish, no grand declaration—just the quiet finality of readiness as she nodded at you.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and composed, your father was here to escort you down the stairs.

The hour had come.

Your father wasn’t the most talkative man, but when he arrived at your chamber door, dressed in deep blue velvet and smelling faintly of wine and cedarwood, he took one long look at you and offered a quiet, honest, “You look lovely.”

No elaborate praise, no flowery embellishments for his youngest daughter. Just those three words, steady and warm, the way only a father could say them. And strangely, at that moment, they meant more than all the silken compliments you’d endured from lords and courtiers over the years combined.

Regardless of the turmoil inside you, you still offered him a soft smile, not forced for once and slipped your arm through his so that the two of you could be on your way. While you weren’t the closest as you got older, your father was still a presence that grounded you.

Though he had spent much of the day apart from you, locked behind council doors with the Queen and the Hand of the King, presumably going over dowries, titles, and the tedious logistics of your future, he seemed noticeably lighter than he had that morning. There was a glimmer in his eye that wasn’t there when you got off the boat, it was the kind you hadn’t seen in some time.

He was pleased with everything you guessed, in his head already convinced that this arrangement would secure something better for you.

It was strange, then, how the sight of his joy only made your chest feel heavier.

Nothing felt as heavy as the corridors of the Red Keep though.

They were vast and echoing, their walls tall; lined with tapestries of the Seven and heavy with history that you were sure you’d come to understand in time. Every inch of carved stone and stained glass that lined the halls reminded that this was the dragon’s domain now. It was all topped off with torchlight casting flickers of gold across ancient murals of dragons and kings long dead.

There was no need for words as the two of you walked in silence, both of your footsteps softened by the rich carpets laid down for the evening most likely to protect the floor from the guests. The scent of roasted meats drifting faintly toward you from the direction of the throne room. Music, too—soft strings and lilting pipes—floated like smoke through the air, growing louder with every step.

You were glad that hadn’t spoken to Aemond since the introductions at the dock, and that by some hope he hadn’t been convinced to walk you down to the feast. He had looked at you, no through you, once today—with that cold, pale eye of his, and you didn’t feel the need to immediately dampen the evening again by seeing him so soon.

It was cruel, but the idea of his presence had felt like needles in your skin, you had never encountered such indifference before. And not just this indifference—this quiet cruelty that didn’t manifest in direct words or gestures, but in the complete lack of them.

As if you were not worth even the effort of his disdain.

You’d spent most of the afternoon trying to tell yourself it didn’t matter, that many noble marriages were made of worse things than silence. That, Aemond Targaryen, for all his coldness, was still a prince—one who could ensure security for your house, if not happiness for yourself. But it hadn’t helped. Not when the memory of his blank stare returned to you again and again in your thoughts, uninvited.

Your father’s voice broke the quiet between you as the throne room doors came into view.

“There is no need to be nervous,” he said, though his tone was more a suggestion than a reassurance, like he couldn’t feel you gripping his arm. “You’ve spent your whole life preparing for nights like this.”

You didn’t correct him. Because while yes, you had been prepared to deal with people, those people didn’t include everyone in the Red Keep. That the people you’d prepared for were closer to a smaller house, or even domain. You couldn’t tell him that nights like this, where all the eyes in the realm would fall upon you, where you’d be dressed up like a doll and offered like a prize, were the nights that were your worst nightmare.

No, you simply nodded, your fingers tightening again on his arm.

He glanced down at you as you walked. “You’ve always known how to carry yourself with grace, it’ll serve you well.”

You gave a faint hum of agreement, your eyes glued on the towering doors now just a few feet ahead. They were carved from heavy oak, gilded with the image of a three-headed dragon coiled around itself. Two guards stood to attention before them, silent and still, save for the gleam of their polished breastplates and the same symbol as the door, ready to defend their king and crown.

Behind the doors, you could hear that the feast was already well underway. The door did little to muffle the laughter now, raised voices, goblets clinking, the low pulse of a drum weaving itself beneath the higher notes of the music.

The sound of celebration, of duty, disguised as joy.

The moment the great oak doors opened, a wave of heat and candlelight surged toward you. The throne room had been utterly transformed, tapestries in rich hues of green and gold billowed faintly in the warm air, while a thousand candles flickered in their sconces, reflecting in the glasses on tables like scattered stars. Tables ran the length of the hall, heavy with silver platters of roasted fowl, smoked meats wafting in the air, fruits glistening with honey glaze, and decanters of Arbor wine shimmered beneath the chandeliers.

A gift from your family to theirs.

The music swelled as you stepped inside, a quartet of musicians strummed lively but elegant notes from the raised platform by the far wall, and all around them nobles and highborn ladies laughed, whispered, clinked goblets, and feasted as though they weren’t aware you were ready to perish inside.

And yet, as you entered, they quieted down—not complete silence, but a noticeable softening of the room as heads turned and eyes fixed on the court's newest meals. You felt them settle on you like the sky when it begins to rain: quiet, cold, and inescapable.

It was as if you could feel their thoughts the further you walked into the feast. Sensing their speculation, judgement, curiosity, and beneath it all, the smugness that reeked from those who’d long since accepted how the game was played. A young lady from the Reach, dressed like a springtime bride, walking to the table of dragons. Another lamb sent into the dragon’s maw, only this.

While your eyes kept forward, towards the queen who sat at an emptier head table than you’d imagined, you could feel the urge clawing at you to look around. A part of you wanted to search for him. For some pathetic sign that he might be there waiting with a happier face at his new betrothed. That he might have changed his mind about you, that the man who had offered you such coldness that morning might reappear tonight with the polished mask of courtly manners.

Even if it was a lie, even if it was only for show.

Your father gave your hand the smallest squeeze, “Smile, if you can.”

And with your chin lifted, your steps even, and your heart steadily sinking into your stomach, you walked forward closer to the royal table.

Dozens of eyes followed you across the floor, some curious, some appraising, and a few too familiar for comfort. You recognised them instantly from the corners of your eyes—the faces of the Reach. Lords and ladies you’d grown up seeing at harvest feasts, who had eaten at your family’s tables, whispered in corners with their heads together. You could sense their attention as clearly as if they had spoken aloud.

You wondered what they saw in you now. A future princess? A girl sold off? A lamb walking herself to the butcher’s table? You gave them nothing of yourself in return.

Just a steady gaze and carefully measured steps.

As you and your father neared the raised dais at the far end of the hall, Queen Alicent stood. Her expression, though warm and perfectly composed, held a gravity beneath the surface—not unkind, but certainly guarded. She descended the steps as you approached, robes of deep green velvet trailing behind her, her seven-pointed star catching the firelight at her throat.

“Lady Redwyne,” she said, with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, not like this morning. “Thank you for honouring us with your presence this evening.”

You curtsied low again, more eyes were watching than at the docks. “The honour is mine, Your Grace. I’m grateful to be welcomed so graciously.”

She extended her hands toward yours. The gesture was gentle, even maternal, though her touch was cool. It reminded you that her grace was not kindness while she squeezed your own clammy hands—it was composure, finely sharpened over decades in the keep.

“This dress is stunning, the colour matches you well,” she said, voice smooth and practised as her eyes looked over you. “I trust your rooms are comfortable? Did you settle in okay?”

You nodded with polite assurance. “Very much so. King’s Landing is… magnificent.” You lied.

Alicent studied you for a moment, her eyes dark and steady. Then, with a softer tone, she added, “We are pleased to have you, I can only apologise that King Viserys could not be here this evening, I believe he wasn’t feeling the best.”

“It is okay, Your Grace, I understand that the King needs his rest.” That seemed to please her.

A subtle smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She offered a final, approving nod before turning towards a table just next to the dais, where you were to be seated for the evening. The music swelled again around you, chatter resumed, and you felt the full weight of the room return.

And still, the chairs beside the Queen’s remained conspicuously empty.

No silver-blond hair. No cold gaze. No dragon’s son to greet his bride.

Even among the candlelight and laughter, something cold nestled at the centre of your chest.

He wasn’t here.

Eventually, you were led to your table just below the royal dais, your father’s arm resting lightly atop your own as you descended the final steps. It took a conscious effort not to falter beneath the weight of so many eyes, you could feel them, quiet and observant, sweeping across you like fresh meat. Nobles from all corners of the realm lined the vast room, arranged in neat rows of long tables dressed in golden runners, goblets of wine already in their hands.

Your place had been set beside your father, toward the front, close enough to feel the subtle heat that emanated from the dais above, where the Queen and her children would sit. Aemond was absent, and unsurprisingly so was his brother.

Still, your eyes were drawn to the table.

From beside the Queen, you caught sight of another pale head bowed low, her fingers laced delicately in her lap, like she was fidgeting with something. The light caught in the strands of her hair, white-gold and softly curled, unmistakably Targaryen.

"Helaena." The name passed through your thoughts like a whisper.

You hadn’t met her yet, you had only heard vaguely of her from your maids back home, but there was no mistaking her from this angle. She sat quiet, withdrawn, her chin tucked so low it nearly touched her collarbone, and you doubted she’d looked up once since your arrival.

It couldn’t be Rhaenyra. You knew that. She was leagues away at Dragonstone, surrounded by her own children and her own dragons. No, the silver-blonde head near the Queen could only belong to her.

A sliver of unease wound its way through your spine as you studied her. There was something delicate about the way she sat, as if she wasnt really there to. But it was fleeting as you looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring.

Instead you drew in a slow breath where you sat, the cool wood of the bench grounding you more than anything else had all day. Your father was already reaching for the silver pitcher of wine, pouring himself a modest amount before glancing your way. His expression was still reserved but there was a lightness in the corners of his mouth, a crinkle beside one eye that spoke of quiet satisfaction.

He was happy with you.

“You carried yourself well,” he murmured, voice pitched low for your ears only. “You’ll fit in just fine here.”

You wanted to tell him then and there, that no, you would not fit in just fine. You were sure that you would probably throw yourself from Maegor’s holdfast within a month.

But instead, you offered him a faint smile in return and a soft. “Thank you, Father.”

He nodded, then turned his attention toward his cup and the people around him, apparently content to leave you to your own devices for now. If you had to guess, the number of people from the Reach that was here was your father's doing, the familiar colours around the room and the odd familiar face more likely something he was conjuring up with the hand.

So, you sat with hands folded politely in your lap as you allowed your gaze to roam across the grand, candlelit space around you.

It was beautiful, not just in the way that royal courts were always beautiful, but it was beautiful in a way that was so distinctly Targaryen. Overhead, great iron chandeliers faced with dragons dripped with wax and light, casting a golden warmth over everything they touched. Musicians played from an alcove beside the sword throne; drums, soft harps and strings weaving a melody that danced just beneath the murmur of voices. Servants glided between tables with silver trays like mice. All bearing foods they've never get to touch; dishes of roasted quail, carved venison, and piles of sugared figs. The air smelled of food, spice and smoke, of baked honey and wine.

Nobles from every house you could name sat together in varying degrees of comfort and formality. You saw girls with glass beads woven through their hair, and Lannister men in embroidered tunics worth more than some smallfolk would earn in a lifetime. Some spoke quietly, heads tilted together in earnest gossip as they flickered around the room; others laughed, bold and booming, unconcerned with the impression they made.

You recognised a few faces. Not names, not titles, but glimpses of familiarity. Ladies you’d once seen at feasts in the Reach, knights who had competed in tournaments where you’d been kept from watching the brutality, too young to truly understand the stakes. For a moment, it almost felt like home. Almost.

But the warmth didn’t quite reach your chest.

You took up your goblet, sipping carefully, if only to give your hands something to do. The wine was sweet and sharp on your tongue, tinged with peaches and citruses. It was definitely your familes making, you noted as you looked again at the dance floor. A few couples had risen already, taking hesitant steps to the music. A trio of children in courtly dress darted between the adults with giggles, narrowly avoiding the skirts of a well-fed lord who barked laughter after them.

You allowed yourself a moment to simply watch.

Then, just beyond the nearest column, your eyes caught a glimpse of movement—and you felt paused.

There was something oddly familiar in the shape of the man who stepped into view, his head turned slightly as he spoke to a companion. He was average height, lean rather than broad, with tousled flaxen hair. A green tunic, the fabric rich but well-worn, but clasped at the front was the silver pin of House Fossoway.

An apple, rendered in red enamel.

Your eyebrows raised as your chest gave a small, surprised jolt of recognition.

Ashton Fossoway.

You hadn’t seen him in years, it felt like. But you remembered him from a visit to the Reach sum years ago when your father was still looking for potential matches closer to home. You hadn't spoken in some time, not since the last time you had accompanied your father to Cider Hall.

You didn’t like to think about that particular trip.

You could still feel the burn of something foul in your chest as the memories of the last time you met came back. There had been an edge to your last conversation, a moment where civility thinned into something uncomfortable and something less kind had bled through in him. He wasnt the quiet little lordling you met at first, and even to this day you weren’t even sure if he’d meant to offend you. Perhaps that was the most irritating part.

You watched now as he took a sip from his goblet, glancing sideways at something his companion said with a smirk. He looked older, of course, hardened slightly over the years. The boyishness had faded from his features, replaced with the leaner edges of adulthood, but there was no doubt that it was him.

He had definitely seen you walk in, there was no way he couldn’t, but still, you didn’t wave or try to draw his attention. Didn’t nod either, you turned your face away just slightly and refocused on your empty plate, heart thudding with a quiet heat you hadn’t invited.

So many faces in this room—and of all of them, it was his that made your pulse spike to something uncomfortable. You were frozen in time as your father leaned toward you once more.

“I’ll take the opportunity to speak with Lord Beesbury,” he said in a low tone. “Perhaps Lord Merryweather, too, if he’s drunk enough to say something useful.” That small, rare flicker of humour passed across his face again, and then he gave your hand a brief, approving squeeze before rising and disappearing into the crowd.

You watched him go, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you blindly reached for some food to put on your plate. You wouldnt eat it, but you could exactly sit and look like you were refusing the Targaryen's hospitality. The seat beside you felt impossibly empty—a hollow gap in the warm hum of the room.

All around, people were laughing, eating, passing platters between them, slipping into old conversations. All while you sat quietly at your place, hand tightening on the silver fork like a weapon you could brandish to stab away these feelings.

You could feel the room pressing in. Not overtly, no one was looking at you directly now, but the weight of your place here, of what your presence meant, lingered on your shoulders like two hands pressing down. Aemond hadn’t even made an appearance yet, if he ever would, and still, you were on edge like you were being hunted for sport.

Laughably you were, while no one was overtly looking at you, there were people at the table near sneaking glances, or looking from the corners of their eyes.

It was already exhausting.

You let your eyes drift again, though you already knew what they would find. Ashton was still across the hall, holding court in his own quiet way, not the centre of attention, not exactly, but comfortably near it. He had a knack for positioning himself just so. Just close enough to matter, just far enough not to be noticed when he wanted. You wondered if he was still that boy who could charm a septa into breaking fast rules and talk his way out of a minor scandal with nothing more than a crooked smile and a convenient memory.

You had hoped he wouldn’t care to talk to you.

Which, of course, meant he did because at this point there might as well have been a fool screaming “LOOK AT SHE” beside you.

You caught the moment it happened. He’d been turning slightly, saying something to a seated knight beside him when his eyes flicked past the crowd and landed directly on yours. Not by accident. Not a passing sweep. His expression didn’t change, not right away, but the pause in his movement. It was that subtle stillness, told you everything. He had recognised you and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

You looked away, instinctively, but it was too late.

You saw him move from the corner of your eye—a step back from his group, a quick word of parting, and then he was crossing the floor. Not with urgency, not boldly, but casually. Almost lazily, like this was nothing at all.

You braced yourself, fingers curling lightly around the stem of your fork again as he approached your table, it was instinctive. He didn’t make you feel comfortable anymore.

“Lady Redwyne,” Ashton greeted, stopping a careful respectable distance away, one hand resting loosely against his belt. “My, it’s been some time.” His voice hadn’t changed either, smooth and neutral.

He was always too polite to be unfriendly, but also too light to be sincere.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his eyes as you carefully put down your fork. They were a shade or two darker than you remembered, but still bright with that unreadable glint—a flicker of amusement? Curiosity? Calculation?

“Ser Fossoway,” You replied with a small nod, standing with a slight head nod; as much as he unnerved you it was still rude to have a conversation with someone sitting. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

He smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly and shrugged. “You and me both, my father was keen to curry favour.” He glanced toward the dais, then back at you. “I drew the short straw and had to attend this time.”

You let a breath escape through your nose, not quite a laugh.

The air between you remained taut like a string tied too tight, stretched thin with unspoken words between the two of you. There was a circumstance never acknowledged, and memories best left buried, but it clung to you more than him, anxiety gripping at your throat just at the mere sight of him.

It clung to you like humidity before a storm rolled in, tension thick and hard to breathe through. He seemed aware of it, though whether it bothered him was harder to tell. Ashton wore discomfort well, wrapped it in arrogance and smiled through it, as if any unease was something to be thrown back at the other person like a challenge. He was the type to lean into silence, just to see if you’d flinch.

“And you?” he asked, after a brief pause. “From what I hear, this isn’t a social visit.”

No, it was far from that, but still, you kept your tone steady hands holding your wine goblet. “No. It’s not.”

He gave a thoughtful hum as if that answered more than you’d said. “Didn’t think so. Though I’ll admit… I hadn’t expected to see you walk in beside your father tonight.” A brief pause. “I wasn’t sure if you still travelled with him.”

There was something in his voice, it was not quite an accusation but it wasn’t of concern either. Just the faint suggestion that he remembered more than he let on, or at least he was leaning into something you didn’t want to get into, not with him at least, not now.

You looked at him properly then, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel deliberate.

“A lot can change in a few years,” you said simply, lips pulling in what could be a smile from afar, your hand briefly lifting the wine to take a nervous sip.

There was a flicker again in his eyes, and in the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t disagree.

 “And now here you are, sitting at the front like a prized swan.” He gestured loosely to the hall around you, where dancers were beginning to gather again. “So, which one of them won the honour, then? Who’s your lucky groom-to-be? Daeron?”

You hesitated for only a moment, just long enough to weigh whether telling him was worth the trouble. But then, what was the point in dancing around it? Word would spread by morning if it hadn’t already.

You met his gaze with a subtle nod, jaw flexing ever so softly like it was a drag to even let out his name, like it would summon him, “Prince Aemond.”

For a heartbeat, Ashton didn’t react. Then, a half-laugh escaped him with a tipped-back head like it was so much funnier than it was. Your skin crawling with the low, incredulous sound that was entirely unsuited to polite company, especially so close to his family.

“Aemond Targaryen?” he said, leaning back slightly as if the very idea tasted bitter on his tongue. “Seven save us, I thought you were marrying into royalty, not into a sermon.”

The sneer in his tone was unmistakable, it wasn’t just mocking, but biting. Something laced with the kind of disdain that sought to wound more than amuse. His mouth curled like he’d bitten into something rotten, as though even saying the prince’s name aloud offended his sensibilities.

“Tell me,” He went on, lifting his brows in mock curiosity, “Will your wedding vows come with a lecture? Or does he just glare at you in High Valyrian until you submit to bed him?”

Your expression didn’t change, though your stomach curled tightly beneath your ribs, the invisible fist of shame or anger tightening with each word.

He was being cruel.

He stared at you for a moment, then shook his head like he was willing something away, grin spreading cruelly over his face like oil on water. “Gods, you’re joking either.”

His voice dropped lower, certainly not veiled, not subtle. “They’re marrying you off to the one-eyed freak? That stiff phantom who skulks around the court like a bad omen? Seven hells, I thought maybe they’d give you to someone real, something warm.”

You swallowed, keeping your hands tightening around the goblet as you politely smiled, eyes flickering around in case anyone heard, like he wasn’t talking about a crown prince so close to the dais.

He leaned in closer, making it look as if he confiding something with me. “You do know what they say about him, don’t you?”

“Ashton—” you began, but he cut over you.

“No, truly, I’m curious.” His eyes sparkled with the cruelty that someone would have while butchering a small animal. “Did you draw the short straw, or did your father throw you to him like a bone to a dog just to win a favour with the Targaryen’s?" He laughed.

“Is it duty? Penance? Some sort of punishment you weren’t told about?” He continued, still leaning into your space while you tried to keep your face as neutral as possible

Your jaw tightened before you could stop it, not in defiance, but in the quiet, instinctive way your body reacted when your words failed you, the way that made you feel like the smallest person alive. He saw it, of course he did, the flicker of satisfaction that lit his face told you that was all he needed. He fed on it like the smallest crack in your composure might sustain him for weeks.

You wanted to say something, anything, to push back to defend yourself but you stood there with your throat constricted. Your voice caught behind the wall of politeness and fear you’d never be able to climb over. Your silence wasn’t strength, it was a cage you locked yourself in and hadn’t yet figured out how to open.

“By the Mother,” he muttered, more to himself now. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Almost.

He took a slow step closer, voice lowering. “Tell me, are you excited? Or are you hoping he somehow loses that other eye too, so you’ll never have to look at him properly?”

"Maybe you'll take it, finish what his nephew started." He grinned.

You forced your expression to stay calm, your voice low, hands relying on you goblet to stop them from shaking. “You’ve said enough, you’re being cruel for what reason? You do not know him.”

“I haven’t said half of it,” He shot back, too quick, too pleased with himself. “But don’t worry, I’ll save the rest for now, wouldn’t want to spoil the festivities.”

You didn’t bother replying to that, content with looking at the crowd until he left.

Suddenly, Ashton turned making a small, theatrical bow and extending his hand out to you with a glint in his eyes. “Come,” he said, loud enough that the people at the nearest tables glanced over. “It’s a feast, isn’t it? Dance with me, at least someone will be able to look at you with two eyes.”

“I’d rather not,” you said softly, eyes flitting across the room, looking for an out, a distraction, anything, your voice barely carrying over the crowd. “Really.”

But still, Ashton kept his hand out, the gesture unwavering with a smile too wide and too pleasant, like it had been nailed into place. “Ah, but you must,” he said, faux-gently, as if coaxing a child. “What kind of noblewoman sits sulking in the corner while the rest of us enjoy the night?”

You stared at him, your lips pressed into a fine unmoving line, the pulse at your throat fluttering faster, but your expression didn’t shift.

Then he leaned in again, just enough for his voice to slither into your ear like a whisper wrapped in thorns. “Unless you want to seem cold in front of everyone before your prince even arrives,” he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Or… are you already practising what marriage to him will be like?”

The insult landed harder than the last, not just because it was cruel, everything he said was. But because it was manipulative, and it came at just the right volume, not loud enough to draw true attention and nor quiet enough for you to ignore.

You didn’t answer his ask, frankly, you didn’t need to, the damage had already been done.

People on the frays around you were still watching the two of you, not many, but enough. Enough to murmur if you refused, and enough for it to mean something, like a match dropping into a pile of paper.

And Ashton, of course, knew it, hence why he asked in the first place.

So, placing your goblet down, you took his hand.

Your fingers curling into his palm, light and reluctant, like you were touching a snake you didn’t trust not to bite you. While he grinned, ever triumphant, and pulled you gently but firmly towards the centre of the floor, where the music was rising into a new tempo and more couples were stepping forward.

“You always were good at pretending,” he murmured as the music swelled. “Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

You didn’t reply.

The longer Aemond lingered up here on the balcony that overlooked the throne room, the more inevitable it became that his mother would eventually send Ser Criston looking for him. She always did when he vanished too long, especially during events like this where his presence was mandatory. After their talk earlier, he knew he was walking a thin line, and was expected to perform the part of the prince, but he found himself caring little.

The notion of going down there and sitting with the rest of them stirred no urgency in him, only a faint, familiar ache of defiance that he was clinging to.

His fingers flexed around the cold stone railing out of habit, tightening as he leaned forward. His one eye cast down to the feast below. It was a sightly affair, that much was true, some wholesome golden thing that looked almost unreal from his perch above it, watching the affair like the Stranger.

His mother truly had spared no expense for the Redwyne’s arrival. The long tables were heavy with silver platters of food and treats, gilded goblets on every surface, the centrepieces lush with grapes brought in most likely with the Redwyne’s. Topped off with rich pomegranates and early spring flowers. Musicians played from near the corner tucked by the throne, and laughter drifted upward him in intermittent bursts, carried by the fragrant waft of roast meats and wine.

It looked like a truly joyus affair, but Aemond just stared, unmoving, reminded that feasts were never his thing.

It was all so perfectly constructed and so carefully staged by his mother and grandsire. A performance, like every other thing in his life and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t down there, seated at her side or standing tall for the court to see. As long as the spectacle unfolded as planned, Aemond himself was just another figure to be slotted into place.

His grip on the stone tightened again, knuckles paling as his worn hands gritted against the stone. From up here, it was easy to forget he was part of the farce, that somewhere in the crowd below, his bride-to-be sat beneath the glow of candelabras and courtly stares. It was easier to imagine himself a ghost haunting the rafters, unseen and untouched, than a man meant to walk down those steps and claim a life he did not ask for.

Aemond had little interest in partaking in the festivities, he wished for some peace to himself before they only got more extravagant as the wedding neared, and his contribution would be forced. But for now, he could only stand in wait.

Waiting for what, he was not sure, but Aemond’s eye scanned every inch of the floor in assessment. Anyway to kill the time he so dearly longed for.

He wasnt looking, but he did spot you like a beacon of soft pink and nervousness. The demise of his peace was stood off to the side, deep in conversation with someone he completely didn’t recognise. From his place on the balcony, it was hard to completely make out this man’s features without being face-on. But from what he could see, the man you were with was of average height, slimmer but still built enough to swing a smaller sword, perhaps a knight? Or one of the many minor lords littering the court in hopes of favour?

Aemond truthfully had little interest in what you were doing down there with the crowd of feast-goers or with that man, you could puff into smoke for all he cared. His mind truly was at ease where he was, that was until his eye narrowed on the way you stood with the man. It was not indecently close, no, still within the bounds of propriety and your standing. But it was near enough for Aemond to notice something between you, the subtle lean of the man's posture, the faint curve of his comfort in your stance as he stayed close.

There was a familiarity there from the man, unspoken, but there.

You smiled at whatever was said—light, polite—as you lifted your cup to your lips, a gesture that, to Aemond could tell was tinged with nervousness and something else. It was hard to tell from so high up but there was a look on your face that spoke volumes. And it only deepened as the man leaned in to whisper something, something clearly meant for your ears alone—something Aemond couldn’t make out from where he stood on the balcony.

It was only a brief few seconds of chatter but the look you gave was enough to have his fingers tightening on the railing instinctively.

You were uncomfortable.

It was clear on your face, and even clearer when the man held out his hand to dance, all flourish and grin, and you hesitated. Aemond saw it, the fraction of a second where your body held still like your instincts had gripped your ankles to the floor, and your eyes scanned around you like you were looking to flee. But after a second, something passed over your face and your hand rose, slowly, and you let him lead you toward the dance floor.

Whatever was going on between the two of you, clearly wasnt in your favour and he watched you endure it with the same kind of grace he’d recognised over the years in the keep. The kind bred into girls at court, taught to smile through discomfort, to bow their heads instead of raise their voices. You didn’t pull away, but neither did you lean in to it. You didn’t retreat, but you didn’t respond in kind.

The scene below unfolded in vivid detail, the man took your hand and placed his other lightly at your waist as he started to guide you in a more upbeat dance. Unexpectedly, you were composed with your eyes locked on some vague middle distance and never on him. It was a curious thing but you danced like someone trying not to be seen, while he moved with casual confidence, wanting to be looked at, speaking all the while to you. Intimately and too low for anyone but you to hear.

But too loud for Aemond’s liking.

Whoever that man was, whatever title or sigil he bore, his interest in you was laid bare for all to see. It was not subtle and certainly not harmless. Aemond could see it in the way the man looked at you like he was drinking in every inch of your presence, not just admiring, but consuming. Feasting on you with his eyes as though you were something delicate and sweet set out just for him, ripe fruit for the taking.

There was no mistaking it, not in the way the fool smiled too easily, leaned in too close, nor in the way he dared to touch you under the veil of dance, fingers grazing your hand with too much ease. It was the look of someone who wanted, who believed he had the right to want, who didn’t care if others noticed.

And Aemond noticed, even from this high up.

Whether you realised it, that was another matter.

You didn’t lean into his attention, didn’t glow under it the way some ladies in your situation might. No, your movements were tight, graceful as expected, but still nervous and a tad awkward if someone was looking hard enough. There was tension in your shoulders, in the way your jaw set when the man spoke. You smiled, but Aemond saw it for what it was, something brittle, the kind worn by women at court who had been raised to endure.

He watched your smile flicker with each step, watched you nod along to whatever insipid thing the man was saying, even as your eyes betrayed you. Uncertain, darting, never still for long. You weren’t enjoying it, that much was clear.

Aemond was no fool, he knew what it was like to be pulled by the tide of expectation, to dance when you’d rather flee, to play at pleasantries with those who made your skin crawl.

You weren’t refusing because you couldn’t.

Because your refusal would be seen, remarked upon, something for the vultures to feed on. It would be just another whispered thing tied to your name.

Aemond didn’t know your full history with the man and frankly, he didn’t care to. You were his betrothed and that was the extent of it. You were a match signed and sealed by his mother, king, and council. Another step in the tower of alliances and politics. There was no disillusionment, not after this morning and the fuss he’d kicked up, Aemond did not want you, he barely knew you.

However, your name would soon be chained to his in the mouths of lords and ladies across the realm, and frankly, he didn’t care to have a wife who would so openly dance with other men, or even have one speak to her as such. Even if it wasnt your choice.

As soon as you stepped off that fucking boat, your reputation was married to his.

He could stay where he was, and let the snakes pick you apart, but it would be far too easy for gossip to fester so early. A woman seen dancing too closely, too warmly, with a man not her intended, and before the betrothal had even been finalised? The court would feast on the scandal like dogs on meat. They wouldn’t care that you hadn’t chosen it, he knew they never did.

And then his name would be dragged into the mire alongside yours.

Aemond Targaryen, forcibly cucked and made to watch his wife fuck a reachman right under his nose, or whatever notion they’d spread around.

No, he would not let that happen.

Not because he harboured any romantic delusions about you. He didn’t. He barely thought of you beyond the obligations you represented. But as a woman soon to be his wife, whether he liked it or not, you were a reflection of him. And he would not be made to look a fool before the court while some foppish lord with wandering hands played puppetmaster on the dancefloor.

His grip tightened again on the stone balcony railing as a huff of annoyance breathed through his nose. Many ideas rolled around his head of what to do, he could have his sister intervene and ask to talk to you, or perhaps have some scene made, but the likelihood of anything happening was slim.

Annoyingly there was only one thing, he could do.

So, with one final glance down, he stepped away from the edge.

There was no rush in his stride as he descended the stairs leading down to the great hall. No urgency. No fury. He moved with the quiet certainty of a man who never questioned the rightness of his own decisions.

He would cut in. Not because you needed saving—whether you did or not was irrelevant—but because this farce had gone on long enough.

The Reachling had made his move.

Aemond’s descent into the hall was slow and methodical, rushing towards anything was beneath him, and he wouldn’t be seen scurrying towards some pretty welp of a girl. The music swelled as the musicians shifted into a new rhythm, something with a softer edge, a song made for gliding steps and brief touches, something couples would usually dance to. He took the stairs one at a time back down to the throne room, his hands folded neatly behind his back, and though the hall was bustling with the energy of the feast, it felt to him almost quiet.

As he closed the distance, he could see the discomfort in her smile clearer and clearer. It was small, so small most wouldn’t notice, but Aemond had been trained to read tension and he still saw it in the way her shoulders didn’t rise with laughter. In the way her hand looked limp in his hold, almost indifferent.

She was performing, dancing not out of joy, but out of expectation. The man she danced with, that flaxen-haired, smirking creature who looked far too pleased with himself. He held her not with reverence or courtesy, but with something else. Something indulgent. Like he was playing a private joke.

And the court was watching. Aemond felt their eyes like embers as he stepped fully into view. He was not a man who was made for feast halls. He preferred libraries, candlelit chambers, and rooms where things were quiet enough to think.

But tonight, he was reminded of the use of spectacle, of what it meant to be seen.

He crossed the floor without hurry, and as expected dancers moved around him, skirts and sleeves brushing him, heads turning as he passed, they were just as shocked as he was to even me out in the middle of the dancefloor. He heard his name in the hush, spoken in soft surprise, and watched as nobles craned their necks to see where he was going, and who he was going to.

Aemond didn’t spare them a glance.

His attention was on her, the girl in soft pink silk moving through the steps with her partner like a ghost in her own body. She was trying not to flinch when the man leaned in too close again and said something low in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear, but Aemond saw it.

Saw the small, stiff line of her jaw, the strain in her eyes.

He arrived just as the music shifted again, a convenient moment, one that made his interruption seem, at least to the casual eye, almost natural.

He stepped directly into the space next to them.

The man startled, not dramatically, but enough to falter for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the sudden presence of the Prince between himself and his dance partner. Aemond didn’t care enough to give him time to recover or even look at him. He merely extended a single hand, palm open and steady, expectantly wordlessly cutting in.

There was a moment of uncertainty, the kind that clung like damp wool, he knew he could not be denied.

“My prince—” the man began, his tone laced with false charm, the kind of arrogance only second sons and minor lords carried with such ease.

“I believe I’ll have this next,” Aemond said calmly, not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the music. His eye, cold and pale, didn’t blink. Didn’t move. He looked directly at the man, unflinching, and held his hand out without wavering.

The man hesitated, a falter in his step that told Aemond that he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. Perhaps the fool was weighing his station, his pride, against what it might cost him to challenge a prince. Aemond waited, whatever challenge the idiot could bring would be handled.

He never moved, he didn’t need to.

And like that, the other man caved like a paper house in the wind.

He resisted the want to smirk as the man stepped back with a mocking little bow, one not deep enough to be respectful, but not shallow enough to be overtly rude. Cowardice thinly veiled in civility, but Aemond paid it no mind for now. He no longer existed to him at that moment.

Instead, his eye shifted to her.

She looked up at him, startled, not afraid, but unsure. She hadn’t expected him to come down, not when he had so clearly removed himself from the night’s festivities. Her fingers trembled faintly at her sides.

“Lady Redwyne,” he said smoothly, without warmth, “Dance with me.”

There was no choice in it, not really. He was not asking her to dance, he was telling her, and they both knew it.

Still, she hesitated, a placid little thing out of uncertainty, not rebellion. There was a beat of hesitance from her before placing her hand in his, her fingers were warm, slightly clammy, and for a moment he wondered if she was embarrassed, or simply exhausted by the performance of the evening.

Aemond wasted little time and drew her into the proper frame without ceremony, his hand resting lightly but firmly at the curve of her back, his other hand cradling hers with practised grace.

And with a breath, they moved.

The first few steps were awkward, as they adjusted to one another’s rhythm. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze lingered somewhere over his shoulder, flitting from face to face in the crowd like she was counting how many people were watching.

And many were. Lords and ladies leaned closer to whisper behind their cups, and he didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know that someone had already passed word to the Queen. Aemond didn’t speak, he didn’t ask her if she was alright, he didn’t tell her she looked well. He simply danced, guiding her with ease, his body fluid, elegant, trained not for joy, but for appearances. For control.

The silk gave under his touch like water, cool yet warm from the heat of her skin beneath. The bodice had structure, yes, but the rest of it moved like it barely clung to her frame, brushing against his fingers and his boots as they turned through the dance.

It suited her, that dress, perhaps more than it should have. The colour softened her and caught the light in a way that made her seem gentler, more breakable, like a figure carved from porcelain. And Aemond, even in his indifference, noticed. Not because he wanted to, but because it was impossible not to.

Every step they took together reminded him of it, how small her waist felt beneath his hand, how the brush of her skirts swirled like wind around his boots, tangling against his legs like she was trying to trap him. There was something dissonant about it, this softness paired with the tension he could feel in her spine. She contrasted him in every way, the soft silk clashed harshly with the leather of his garments; like the way sand would meet rock, there was a line between them that was ruled all the way down to their clothing.

She moved with grace, yes, but there was a stiffness just under the surface. She wasn’t at ease. He could feel that in the slight hitch of her breath when he guided her into a turn, the way her hand twitched ever so slightly within his own.

Still, she felt light in his hands, not fragile, but held in a way that spoke of restraint. He could sense how much she wanted to shrink, to disappear from this moment. Perhaps not from him, but from the weight of the night; from the eyes, from the whispers, from the man who had tried to drag her into something unseemly just moments before.

Aemond didn’t care for her feelings, or how she would probably flee as soon as he released her from his hold.

But he did care for her name, and his.

Letting her be paraded by some shrewd Reach peacock would do nothing for their engagement. The court would smell blood, and the rumours would outlive the night. She’d only been here a few short hours but he knew that people would already be questioning the match, comparing her station, his reputation. Aemond wouldn’t have her looking weak, not because he pitied her.

But because she was his betrothed, and weakness by her side reflected on him.

So, he danced, wordless and focused, body poised like a blade sheathed in velvet.

He hadn’t come to rescue her; he had come to remind the court exactly who she was marrying.

The silence of your chambers was nearly deafening after the roar of the feast.

It greeted you like an old friend the moment the heavy doors shut behind you, muffling the fading notes of music still lingering in your head from the great hall. Having declined any help for the evening, you stood there for a breath too long to centre yourself. Your back pressed to the carved wood as if the weight of the night hadn’t truly settled on your shoulders until now, until the moment you fled and returned to your rooms. It was only then, in the solitude of the candlelit room, did your body find the will to sag, the effort of appearances finally dragging you downward as you slouched for the first time in hours.

Despite how upset you felt, you didn’t cry, you weren’t sure if that was from restraint or exhaustion, but no tears left your eyes yet. They would come, but right now, exhaustion riddled you useless.

It felt like a godly effort, but you found the strength to push off your door and walked slowly into the room, fingering itching as they reached behind to the ties of your dress. Undoing the clasps of your gown with stiff fingers and bated breath.

It wasn’t the dress’s fault, it had looked beautiful, it was beautiful, but after this disaster of a night, it clung to you like a memory you didn’t want.

The fabric was soiled with Ashton’s laughter and his cruelty, the feel of his fingers curling too tightly around yours, the mocking grin that never left his face no matter how soft his words became. It clung to the hem and the bodice like perfume, unwelcome and sour. You wondered if the embroidered flowers on the dress would somehow wilt due to his wretchedness.

The closer you drifted to your vanity, the more the weight of the evening clung to your skin like oil, like something foul that needed to be scrubbed off.

Your fingers worked on pure instinct, finding the ties and clasps, loosening seams that had felt too tight since the moment you’d stepped into the gown hours before. You didn’t even look down as it slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a sigh of fine pink silk. You could only step away from it like it was ash, something scorched and ruined, unfit to be touched again.

Let it lie where it fell. Let it burn a hole in the rug if it wanted to.

The room felt quieter without it, not in sound, but in pressure. It was like your lungs could finally expand again as you drew the first calming breath of this evening.

The fire roared in the hearth and flickered across the room, crackling softly, the orange glow crawling across the cold stone walls, licking gently at your bare skin. It didn’t chase away the chill completely, but it was something. Something tangible, something real, when so much else that night had felt like a performance.

The air was still, but not silent. There was the distant whisper of the wind outside the keep, the occasional pop of resin from the logs, and the rustle of your underthings as you peeled the last of them off. You stood there for a moment, wholly unguarded, stripped down to your skin in this foreign chamber, where nothing yet had your scent, the bed didn’t have your shape.

You could feel the weight of your hair falling down your back as the pins were plucked from it. Pearls falling to the ground like tears, and the gooseflesh rising along your arms. with each soft ping of them falling to the floor. Your heartbeat was loud, thudding steady and stubborn beneath your ribs as your hand drifted to your bare torso, soothing the skin with ghosting fingers to try and remedy the anxiousness.

It was strange, this bare newness, to be unwrapped and naked in an unfamiliar space. You weren’t used to being watched at court, not like that, not like tonight, and yet you still felt the phantom burn of eyes on your back, the heavy weight of stares you hadn’t invited to even look at you. You tried to push them out of your head, tried to will them back to the feast hall where they belonged.

But they followed you here, haunting you while their hands clung to your shoulders, a memory you couldn’t shake.

It was out of nervousness, but your gaze slid to the bed, to the nightgown hung neatly over the bedpost, waiting for you to climb into—something gauzy, simple, soft, untouched. You reached for it instantly, with fingers that were colder than you realised, brushing the linen like it might vanish if you moved too fast. You slipped it on in silence, letting it fall over your frame with a sigh.

And only then, wrapped in something that was yours, did you exhale fully. Your shoulders slumped, your throat ached as the fabric kissed your skin.

The fire in the hearth was the only warmth in the room as you moved toward it, arms wrapping around you, chilled despite the heat from the dancing flames. It was still early spring, and the heat hadn’t settled into the nights yet. It was cold and lonely in your rooms, even if there was still voices echoing in the sharp of your mind.

Ashton? No, you willed him away, your brain trying to focus on something else, you couldnt think about him, not now.

Aemond.

You hadn’t dared look at him during the dance, not properly, not like this morning on the docks. And certainly not straight-on. Your eyes had flitted, caught in the space just barely over his shoulder, to the far walls of the hall or the blur of movement from other dancers.

Anything but his face, not because he wasn’t beautiful, he was, but because what if you looked and saw disdain? Or worse—nothing at all again?

His expression from the moment he had stepped in had been carved from stone. You weren’t the type to be able to read anyone, but he was truly unreadable, untouched by the warmth of the feast. Not cold exactly, but distant, like he was seeing straight through you. His hand at your back had been firm, unmoving as his fingers sunk into the fabric, the weight of it solid and inescapable through the thin fabric of your gown.

But it hadn’t hurt, no, there was no cruelty in his touch.

You had danced with him like a ghost of yourself, there in body, swaying in time to the music, but your spirit had splintered somewhere else. You moved because you were meant to, because he had extended his hand and the room had turned to watch. Denying him wasn’t an option, not when his eye had locked with Ashton’s like he knew something you didn’t.

It had felt like you were being hunted.

When he’d taken your hand, there had been no softness in the gesture, no attempt to ease your nerves or offer comfort. It was all duty, and as he’d placed his hand on your back and led you into the dance, there had been no flicker of familiarity or curiosity in his face. Just that same look you’d seen earlier at the dock. Detached.

He was exhausting.

Not in the way that loud, foolish men were like Ashton were—no, this was something else.

It was the weight he carried, the way he seemed to suck the air from the room by simply standing in it. The way his silence spoke volumes and forced you to fill it with endless questions you weren’t brave enough to ask.

You wanted to talk to him, extend a hand and tell him that the two of you were in the same situation. But it was clear, painfully so, that he had no intention of getting to know you, not truly. You were a name, a political match, his new obligation.

A body to wed and keep.

Every thought of him had you sinking to the floor in tiredness, your fingers brushing the edge of the mantel as you stared into the fire, trying to will the heat into your skin.

The rug was rough even through your nightgown, but you didn’t care. The cold tonight wasn’t just physical, it came from a place deeper than that—clawing its way from the hollowed pit in your stomach, the ache in your throat from saying too little, and the shame that now sat so stubbornly in your chest.

There was something wrong with sitting here, childish, you thought vaguely. Something undignified in being on the floor, in nothing but your nightgown, legs curled beneath you as you watched firelight flicker and warp the edges of the room.

But still, you stayed, the warmth of the fire was the only thing that reached you and even that felt undeserved.

You tried not to think about the dance. Not about his hand at your back, not about the silence between you. Not about the way the air in the hall had shifted, how people had looked. Not about Ashton’s cruelty or smirk when he stepped away, or the way your stomach had twisted in panic when Aemond had reached out for you.

But the thoughts came anyway.

The fire snapped, and your shoulders flinched, even though it wasn’t loud. Every sound felt like it might splinter something inside you, the anxiety hadn’t lessened with the night, if anything, it had grown roots.

And you were left here, body curled in, chin resting on your knees, folding inward like maybe you could disappear into yourself.

Disappear into the heat, into the shadows cast against the stone, somewhere else but now. You hadn’t said a word to him. You hadn’t said a word to anyone that mattered, and now your silence clung to you like smoke.

You didn’t know if it would ever come off.

The stone corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were still cold at this hour—not just in temperature, but in spirit. But they had always felt like that to Aemond, a series of quiet, winding networks that little knew about. A hidden home of half-forgotten passages built for secrecy, for war, for escape. The kind of place where ghosts felt more at home than men.

He liked it here.

His boots struck the ground in a measured rhythm, their echoes soft against the stone walls. The torch in his hand sputtered with each step, its flickering light barely holding back the shadows that clung to the corners like cobwebs. The air in the tunnels always reeked of damp stone, dust, and something older—something metallic like rot.

Not that he cared, he never walked through them for the atmosphere. He was walking because if he’d stayed a moment longer in the feast hall with her any longer, he really would have climbed onto Vhagar and flown away that very night.

Part of him wanted to argue that this wasn’t about her, not truly.

It wasnt about the way her fingers trembled slightly as she danced with that smug green-and-gold Reach bastard.

No, he didn’t care. She was his betrothed at this moment, not his wife. The arrangement wasn’t of his choosing and it wasn’t a matter of love or want. She could dance with half the court for all he minded, so long as she understood the boundaries. So long as they did.

It was about that man… Ashton Fossoway.

Aemond knew his type well, soft-handed, easy-tongued lords who grinned as they slid daggers between ribs. The mocking kind who whispered poison behind goblets of Arbor gold and pretended it was a jest.

Aemond flexed his fingers even the thought og his name. His jaw tense as he passed deeper into the tunnel, his eye burning from the light of the torce—or maybe from the restraint he’d forced on himself all evening.

He had held it in, he had danced with her, cold and civil. He had kept to his role, even though he didn’t wish to. And now, here he was. Walking through the underbelly of the Red Keep in search of something. A place. A person. A moment where he didn’t have to keep holding the mask to his face.

Aemond needed release.

He had gold tucked in his belt and his cloak wrapped tight to hide his hair from any prying eyes. The guards at the postern gate knew better than to ask where he went on nights like these, or even stop him from coming and going. Some men drank. Some hunted. Some chased women.

Aemond preferred clarity. Something brutal. Something honest.

He didn’t lie to himself about what it was. There was a woman in the city, tucked away in a quiet quarter far from the eyes of court, whom he visited when his thoughts grew too loud or his temper pressed too tightly against his ribs.

A woman who asked for no tenderness, gave none in return. There were no lies in her hands, no illusions in the way she was paid to talk to him or the way she looked at him like he was not a prince. He was not a dragon in there, but a man—a man wound too tight, too cold around the edges. Who was just desperate to feel something that did not come wrapped in duty or shame.

That was what drew him into the tunnels.

What had him turning down a narrower stairwell, the stones slick with age, and inhaling slowly. It wasn’t desire, that drove him. Not lust. Not love. It was need. A crack in the wall of control, a hunger for silence in the aftermath of the spectacle he was made to endure. He had danced. He had allowed her to be touched by a fool and had said nothing.

Now he needed the storm to break somewhere.

And not within the Red Keep. Not where the walls had ears.

Not near her.

He needed something he had control of, something of his choosing, something fleeting.

He just needed release.

He had navigated the tunnels to the holdfast more times than he could count, he could walk it with his eye closed and his ears plugged, and still would end up in the same places. It was always a left at his mother’s wall, where it was always quiet. He could sometimes hear the soft shift of her footsteps, or her muted voice in prayer or conversation.

From here he knew hiis sister's apartments were further off, filled with the distant echo of her children’s laughter or the mumbles of her talking to her crickets.

Now, the part he walked down now contained the nicer guest chambers, the ones down here were often empty, and when they weren’t, they were too loud, too foreign to hold his attention long. He didn’t often didn’t linger there.

Aemond’s steps slowed as he approached the narrow corridor that let someone squeeze past the guest chambers, the light falling in through the lattices in the wooden walls. His boots made barely a whisper against the stone as he shuffled. This part of the holdfast was always quiet—intentionally so. As they should be.

He expected the silence, relished it, that was until the silence cracked.

It was soft. So soft he almost missed it if he was walking any faster—it slipped through the tunnels like the creak of old wood or a breeze slipping through a window left ajar.

But Aemond was not a man who missed things.

In losing an eye, his other senses sharped drastically, and while others might have missed it, he found himself stopping mid-step, head tilting slightly. The sound had come from behind the carved lattice to his right—one of the intricately patterned walls built to let heat and air pass from room to corridor.

It was curious, but he turned his head toward it slowly, the torch he carried lowered to the ground to let the fire burn out incase the person on the otherside saw.

He thought that maybe it was a one off noice, but there, it was again the closer he got.

A choked inhale, a trembling exhale, quiet but soaked in emotion. Then a sob, not sharp or shrill, but the kind that sat in the back of the throat, struggling to be kept down.

Through the narrow, patterned gaps in the lattice, Aemond leaned in just enough to peer into the chamber, the thick carved wood cool beneath his palm as he steadied himself. His eye fixed on the sliver of the room beyond, adjusting slowly to the contrast of light and shadow. The light from the room bled faint golden stripes through the cutwork panel, trailing down his face like stained glass.

Everything was dim, the candles had slowly gone out, but the hearth still gave the room a light that bathed everything in warm tones. The firelight licking up the shadows made the space feel softer than it truly was, filled with false warmth.

His eye narrowed further, focus sharpening as he looked around what he could of the small space. The light inside the room was steady, but not bright, which made details slow to come into clarity. What he saw first was the rug, thick and plush, patterned with rich thread, it absorbed the firelight like old velvet.

And then movement, a shift, subtle and hesitant, he stepped slowly to the side to see just past the couch, his head tilted slightly downward.

Someone was there.

When he realised who it was he felt his body go still, his breath softening as he adjusted his angle slightly, tilting his head just so just to get a clear picture.

There she was—the Redwyne girl.

Sitting low near the hearth, folded into herself as though trying to vanish entirely into the space she occupied. She sat near the hearth, wrapped just in her nightgown. The material was gauzy enough that the light from the fire caused an outline of her body. She was curled like a soft piece of cotton with knees drawn close, arms looped loosely around them.

The fire warmed her skin, painting her bare arms in soft tones, but it didn’t reach what he could see of her expression. Her face was turned slightly to the side, but it was not enough to hide the way her brow pinched and her lips trembled. Small beads of water gathers on her cheeks.

She was the one crying, not loudly, not desperately. But it was raw, real, and more honest than anything he’d seen from her since her arrival. Her shoulders hunched forward slightly, almost childlike in the way that she cuddled herself. Every so often, her breath would stutter from trying too hard not to make too much of a sound.

He didn’t move, he barely breathed as he watched her.

There was something deeply strange about watching her like this. It was not out of amusement, nor desire, nor pity. He didn’t even know what he felt. Only that he was watching, and that he could not look away.

There was something about the fragility of the moment, about seeing her so small, so unseen—that settled something uncomfortably in his chest. Something familiar, like he’d been that person before.

He should have left the moment he realised, turned and gone the way he came, left her to her grief. But his feet remained planted, his single eye fixed. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps calculation. Or perhaps something far simpler: an understanding of what it meant to bleed behind closed doors.

Watching her cry had killed that need for release that he had, that need to sink himself into some warm body and replaced it with something he hadn’t felt in years. Something he kept locked and controlled, the astute and uncomfortable feeling of being laid bare.

The restless hunger that had driven him to the tunnels in the first place—his need to sink into some faceless warmth, to dull himself in carnal release, to claw something human out of the night—died quietly in his chest the longer he watched her.

His desire was snuffed out like a candle with no air.

Aemond clenched his jaw and let his eye drift shut for a moment at her sobs, dragging in a slow, steady breath as he tried to take everything in.

Then, without a sound, he made his decision.

Finally turning and melting back into the tunnels, back to his rooms to deal with it himself, the whisper of his boots on stone the only sign he’d ever been there.

[sweeethearts]

needy girl

a/n: hiiiii everyone!!! this is my first dip into the pitt fandom but robby has been invading my head since the show dropped so i finally had to get on here with all you sweet people and empty my brain out!!! i stuck to my roots on this one and its purely self indulgent but i hope you all enjoy reading <333

summary: after a long, brutal shift, robby comes home to the only thing that quiets the noise: you. you’re warm, needy, and aching for him in a way thats bordering on desperate—but robby knows how to make it better.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: SMUUUT!! fem!reader, established relationship, age gap relationship (reader is in her 20s, robby is in his late 40s early 50s), neeedy reader, teasing from robby’s part, p in v, unprotected sex, robby talking you through it, lots of pet names, reader’s self sabotage gets the better of her

michael relished the feel of the breeze hitting his face as he walked out of the pittsburgh medical trauma hospital. the sound of the last birds chirping filled his ears, their last conversations moments before succumbing to the sombre of midnight. the trees moved with the wind, dropping leaves with its pressure and making them stick to the wet ground below his shoes.

it had been raining mostly all day, as you sat by the bay windows in your shared home. however, for robby, the pounding of the rain against the roof and windows were lost within the echoes of heart monitors, screaming, crying, and ambulances announcing their arrival with their piercing sirens. when another victim in need of assistance was wheeled in and your boyfriend was bedside with his immediate analysis, overlooking the condition of the individual, proposing the proper medical services and actions needed, all whilst teaching his interns and students and residents in each breath. administering chest tubes and incisions, all of it becoming second nature, a ritual, a habit, an instinct.

throw out the gloves. sanitise. repeat.

12 hours.

twelve long hours away from you.

body sore and heavy as he walks in the direction of the small house the two of you got last year. a stepping stone from his spiritless apartment, and an opportunity for your flourishing relationship. sure, maybe finishing your degree at university is a bit too young for michael to someone from the outside. but you were sick of being thrown into the wolves with every frat bro or business majors you cross paths with. sick of the incels, and double standards and fear of your safety.

robby was warm. comforting. loving. smart. real.

and you were the breath of fresh air he needed. an opportunity to quit sulking in his apartment an opportunity to–

feel something again.

he was beginning to get tired of coming home to a can of beer, maybe a few reruns on cable and that quiet that makes the trauma echo louder. you didn't carry the same kind of losses under your belt, but you carried something else: light. the kind that glowed the low lit apartment with the laughter that caught him off guard mid-sip of wine. the smile when he would hear you talk about your day. when your eyes were perk up when he told you something new. when you would ask him questions, and you gave him a feeling to not hold back. to want to start a relationship with you, to stop letting every gruesome, guilty, harrowing thought boil inside of him.

to let the light in.

and there she was. starting like it always does. pressing up against him the second he got through the door. skin so warm, and soft and so alive. his head in your hair and you smelt so sweet.

he could finally breathe. even with each step it took him to get here, only now could he finally take off that backpack and feel at ease. at home. where he belongs. where you belong with him.

he used to feel bad for wanting your skin on his. trying to take away the sound of you whining his name in his ear, breathless and repetitive like a prayer. like hunger consumed your every atom and it was so goddamn addictive.

he stopped denying himself of this privilege. of you. because the way that you looked at him, like he is something more than a worn-out man with too many ghosts, it clinged to him like the answer.

it was the moment when you whispered that you wanted it, that you wanted him, that you wanted him for as long as you two got, that he let himself go. that he took the whole night to map out your body like it was a textbook and he was back in school. like he was going to fail at life’s exam if he didn’t know what made your toes curl and your nails dig into the skin of his back. what angle brought a celestial cry deep out of your chest. what position leaves you flush and weak at the knees.

he wanted to know everything. he wanted everything.

and here you were again. under him in the comfort of your shared queen bed. lips merging with his like they were the two missing pieces of the puzzle you and him couldn’t find last week. and that’s what keeps undoing him. the shaky breath and whines that leave your pretty pink mouth. the hands that paw at his broad and formed shoulders, using every force in your body to press him down onto you. to feel his weight encompass every crease and crevice that make up your body. because it's all so much and yet all of it is not enough and you want more, you want it, you need it, god it feels like you’ll die without it.

you’re squirming under him, and it may look like you’re trying to get away, but that is not nearly the case. you just feel overwhelmed. even with the faint trail of antiseptic, robby’s earthy and woody scent suffocated your nose, his lips biting up a mark on your neck, his hands sliding up your sides, trying to soothe your body down.

michael was not shy about your needy behaviour, quickly picking up on it and making sure to act upon it. feeling the way your body relaxed under his touch, making sure to keep a sprawled palm on your thigh in the car or at the dinner table, his arm around your waist in the line for the movie theatre, or at the coffee shop down the block. noticing how your heart rate lowers in a crowd just by holding your hand. and he always sneaks a peck on your forehead whenever he can, which is always at least five times a day, but how could he resist when your cheeks would blush and your eyes would flutter in his direction with that smile of yours.

he understands his effect on you, and sometimes he uses it for his advantage—he must admit. however, this level of frustration that you’re currently battling with was a bit new to him, not that he didn't enjoy it.

you were a mess.

a grin began to perk up the corners of his lips. “you missed me?” robby asks gently into your jaw, teasing the obvious.

you nod into his shoulder, quickly and desperate. “s’much”

his arm snakes under you, wrapping around your back and letting your hips lift up and grind yourself closer to his crotch. cargo pants growing tighter by the second.

you nibble on your lip at the raw friction, the rough material sneaking through the wet and thin fabrics of your shorts and panties. your stomach beginning to crumble itself into a knot. you were so worked up. waking up too late, missing robby and his warmth in the bed just hours before he left for his shift. but he always kissed you goodbye, and that's all you could hold onto for the time remaining. yet your body was beginning to eat away at itself the 12 hours you had to go about your day without him. trying to focus on your chores, on the tasks in your planner, the assignment sitting on your laptop still untyped and still due in three days.

but you have never felt this crazy for anyone. and god you fucking love it.

you love him.

your hands shoved themselves into his zip up hoodie, swiping it off his shoulders and throwing it to the side. you then catch the hem of his black scrubs, letting your hands roll it up and tug at them, silently begging for him to take them off but you’re only met with the white undershirt he wears and you still haven’t reached the snail trail that makes you feel like a cat in heat. oh whyyyyyyyy you mumble to yourself.

“easy,” he warns, grabbing both of your hands into his own respectfully. lifting them up above your head and squeezing your fingers tightly against his. you let out an exasperated sign—no, this isn’t what you want. godddddd

“you’re always so fucking greedy for it sweetheart, hm?” you try to roll your hips again, instead coming out frictionless and covered in desire. robby presses a kiss to your temple, lets his palm spread across the small of your back and your legs fall open as much as they possibly can. its instinct now—the way your body responds to him, the way you fold so prettily when he speaks low and cruel and yet oh so soft to you.

“robbyyyyyy” you murmur, hands trying to escape their hold and get back onto him.

“what’s wrong, angel?” he asks into your cheek, kissing you softly and you close your eyes to accept his love. his grip loosening on your wrists, not wanting to be any more cruel than he's already acting.

“robby!!!!!” you complain against the warmth of his breath, squirming and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“baby, i can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want, hmm?” you let out a frustrated groan, robby chooses to ignore it. “you need to use your words sweetheart, you’re better than that.”

“m’god please robby urts s’bad” you babble, core clenching around nothing and hands escaping his loosened grip, moving to tug at the hair on the nape of his neck. god you don’t even know what you're doing.

“please what?”

“please..." you swallow.

“need a little more, angel”

your breathing becomes more uneven, "i...i want, i want to…”

“want to what? speak to me sweetheart, can't read your mind.” robby explained calmly, despite knowing all too well what you needed. nevertheless, he was a man for consent and for words, he wants to hear it out of you, and there's no denying that he will give you exactly what you want.

you took a sharp inhale of breath, trying to find a healthy rhythm. your eyes beginning to sting, his hands roamed down, pushing the band of your bottoms just enough for his palms to sit on your hips, allowing him to squeeze supportively. you gripped his hair tighter as you begged. “wanna cum”

“yeah?” his voice held a tone of amusement, a slight raspiness behind it as he watched you squirm on the bed again. “say it again for me, darling.”

“robby” you cry.

he stays quiet, brown eyes on you, wanting you to accept the trust in his gaze.

you finally let out a choked sob, voice cracking, “please, i want to cum!”

“oh my poor sweet girl,” he says, taking one of his hands away from your hip, moving to brush a knuckle over your flushed cheek. “you can’t go more than a day without needing me stuffed inside you.”

you make a noise—half protest, half cry. chest heavy, eyes watery. he smiles lowly. knowing.

he moves away momentarily, discarding himself of his scrubs and undershirt, stepping up to take his pants off as he throws it to the bench by the foot of the bed.

your fingers vibrated, waiting needingly to feel his skin back under your nails. robby knows, moving quickly back between your open legs, slipping your sleep shirt over your head. hands swiftly taking off your shorts and panties all at once. the cold air touches your soaked core, but its quickly masked by robby's long fingers marking a stripe down your folds.

a shaky moan escapes your hoarse throat, so close already, the pressure in your lower belly increasing by merely his fingers playing with your wetness.

“shh, i know angel. you’ve waited so nicely for me.”

his praise winds around your ribs like a corset, tight and unbearable. you nod, frantic, desperate to be good, to show him how much you need it. your legs wrap around him, knees on either side of his ribs, your whole body trembling as he aligns his tip to your entrance. he’s so warm and thick, steady as he slides in.

“there you go, nice and easy, sweets. let me in” his tone so soft, your pussy taking all of him in one slow, breathless push. he doesn’t buck his hips. doesn’t move at all.

but it wrecks you.

you gasp like it’s the first time, like you’ve forgotten how big he is, how deep he goes. but you whine with such relief—finally. your hands clutch at his shoulders, your forehead pressing against his, overwhelmed and yet so fucking gratified.

robby exhales deeply through his nose. you’re clenching around him with no hesitation, walls fluttering, heat pooling low and unrelenting. he takes a few moments to compose himself, he needed this just as much as you do.

his large hand strokes down your spine. “there you go,” he whispers, low and smooth. “just like that, angel. that’s all you needed.”

you mewl at his words. it was exactly what you needed, and he made sure to take such a gruesome time to get you here.

“you don't even need me to move,” he says, giving you a soft kiss on the tear that's creeping down your cheek—salty. “you just need to feel me, right? need to be full. that's all it takes to make you come.”

you shake your head—part in shame, part in agreeance—but your hips betray you again and you grind forward, hunger so strong you can't even see, or even make sense of all of this. all you can focus on is the undeniably fulfilling feel of robby's cock stretching out your soaked walls. unsure how you can feel every veiny line running up the length but in love with every minute of it. how the pink fat tip hits that part in your cervix where your ears ring and you need a moment to thank god for bringing you a man named michael robinavitch.

your eyes are shut closed. trying to steady your breathing as your core contracts around his girth, squeezing robby as if pulling out would be your last straw because it really would be.

robby gives a quiet groan into your ear. tilting your chin with his nose so you can look at him. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks softly, hand caressing the side of your head. warm chocolate orbs looking down at you with as much need and adoration as your own eyes look up at him. mouth agape, face pink, lips wet.

my angel, robby tells himself.

you whimper, nodding against his chest. your thighs begin shaking from the strain of staying still, however the wave of pleasure inside you begins inching closer and closer. robby strokes the small lines that indent your skin, following the way they cascade your breasts, your hips, and the curve of your belly. he hasn’t moved his hips, not a single thrust.

“i can feel you fluttering,” he murmurs, like it's just a sweet observation. “so sensitive tonight, all wound up. you poor thing.”

“missed you. took s’long” you choke out, back arching, your lips trying their best to reach for his own. he leans down so you don't struggle, arm wrapping around your waist, kissing you, your toes curling.

“i missed you more, sweets. need my pretty girl,”

“your pretty girl?” you ask, words shaky, unable to stop yourself from squeezing around robby’s cock.

“mhm,” he nods, “my beautiful gorgeous girl. all mine, right?”

“forever” you whine into his lips, arms pinning him into you. your breasts rubbing against the hair on his chest.

robby's eyes close, chest tight, “that's my girl.”

your heart swells, his girl. his girl to love. his girl, his girl.

your eyes fluttered closed. welcoming the addictive feel of pleasure flowing through your body, relieving the storm inside your body.

“go on, sweetheart. let me feel you fall apart. show me how much you need it.”

the way he says it—affectionate, amused, indulgent—it ruins you.

you come with a cry, clinging to his shoulders like you’ll fall apart without him. it's so overwhelming—waves of heat and pressure rushing through you, pulsing around him, slick so profuse it's dripping down your inner thighs with the way you move your hips.

“there you go” he coos, inching you through it.

robby watches you unravel. adoring that look on your face, when you’re caught between the blur of pleasure and pain, your expression twisting with every wave that overcomes you. and he’s so proud of you. of giving him that raw, aching, shameless trust. the kind that has you needy, desperate, open, stripped bare. surrendering every little piece of control to him, because you know he will treat it, treat you, like something precious.

because you are.

your body pleads for you to catch your breath, legs heavy as they fall to the side and lay back on the bed. robby leaves wet kisses on your neck, nibbling softly at your pulse point, hand resting on the curve of your breast, the other soothing your thigh.

you don’t know what makes your breath hitch—whether it's the way robby throbs inside you, still so warm and thick and snug, or the way your thoughts suddenly begin to sharpen cold, feeling yourself pulled back into your body. but the more you are aware of the series of events that have led you to this moment, the more you begin to feel like maybe you were too much.

your cheeks burn, heart racing. a wave of something ugly curls inside your ribs. not because of him—never because of him—but because of you.

because you begged. you cried for him. unable to form a proper plea for it while you sat there whining and whimpering. no thrusting. no friction. just need.

pathetic.

you begin to feel yourself shrinking, a sticky wave of anxiety crawling up your throat.

embarrassed. ashamed.

“hey,” robby calls your attention. hand on your cheek to bring your spiralling eyes to him, “no. none of that.”

you shift like you want to move away but his arms don’t budge. instead they tighten, keep you still in your place. “but-”

“don’t.”

you blink. “don't what?”

“don’t do that.” his voice is a low warning. careful but direct. “don't make that face and trick yourself into thinking there’s anything wrong with needing me. there’s nothing wrong with that, kid. not ever.”

your throat forces a harsh swallow. “i-” you start, your saboteur trying to continue to form its case but it catches on something sharp.

you sniffle, hand running across your face. “i'm sorry. i just- i sounded so-”

“so what?” his big hand smooths down your spine, like he’s petting the shame out of you.

your mouth trembles. “so pathetic.”

there's a beat of silence, the sound of your heartbeat in your ears making it all feel heavy. but his lips come hush you with a kiss, forward and stern but laced with all the love he has to offer. his arm swoops you up, bringing you to sit forward. robby’s cock slipping out of your pool of warmth and slick, and you shudder at the emptiness

“you never call yourself that again.” he denotes. not angry, just certain. “you hear me?”

you nod, face soft and defenceless.

“not when you’re crying on my cock,” kissing your forehead, “not when you’re begging me to fill you. not when you come apart just from being mine. there isnt a fucking ounce of pathetic in that.”

that breaks something in your chest. the lump in your throat begins to dissolve but you tuck your face into michael’s chest, arms wrapping around his frame, holding onto him like you’ll float away.

but it still tries to fight.

“…but you didn't even cum” the words slur quickly off your tongue.

he laughs. soft, breathy, genuine.

it's your favourite sound.

“christ, your brain doesn't stop, does it?”

he’s one to know.

you nuzzle deeper into his neck, regretful of your stupid remarks. god you know better.

his hand pets your head, moving to your sides and rubbing up and down. “we’re not done,” he murmurs into your hair, voice so rich. “not unless you want us to be.”

you lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. god, those brown eyes.

and the look he gives you—heat and promise and something so tender and pure—it can’t help but make your heart stutter.

xoxo, liliana <3 | thank you so much for reading!

[clarkeyscvntymullet]

GREEN LIGHTS AND RED FLAGS - WILLNE

content warnings : smoking, drinking, swearing, jealousy, very suggestive, quite an angsty one !

word count : upwards of 3000

a/n : not proofread sorry ! swear half of it is past tense and rhe other, present but hope you enjoy nonetheless 😘

Only after dark. That’s what you and Will have established. It was a disaster waiting to happen, when you and him first got into bed together, but it was addictive. This Wednesday night was no different, he messaged you at 2.30 in the morning, which was just as well as you couldn’t sleep. He arrived at your place 10 minutes later, bags under his eyes more prominent than ever, mullet messy and headphones round his neck – no doubt listening to Bon Iver on the walk to yours. Melancholic fuck.  

You didn’t say anything when you opened the door, just stepped aside and let him in like you always did. He smelled like rain and cigarettes, and your stomach turned the way it always did when he was around. 

You reach out for a hug, but he just grabs your hand and leads you to your bed, pushing you onto the edge before leaning down and kissing you, hands roaming your body – his movements a mix of desperation, torment, and lust. He held the back of your head with one hand, his other on your waist, as if you were the only thing grounding him. You fucking hated how you melted in his touch, how you knew he was only with you so he wasn’t by himself, you hated that you were letting him fuck you like nothing else was on his mind. 

After, he flopped onto your bed without a word, arms folded behind his head and stared at the ceiling, and he looked absolutely lost. 

“What brought you here then, Will?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, turning to face you as you sat beside him, his hand brushing yours. You tried to ignore how it made your heard thud at a billion miles per hour. You wanted to scream, cry – or maybe just crawl into him and pretend this was something more than a hookup, something it isn’t. 

You reached for him again, “We need to stop this, Will, we aren’t good like this.” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, “but it’s the only time I feel anything – when I’m with you.” 

You let him kiss you again, even if it would ruin you the next morning. 

But there he was, in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall like, sunnies propped on his head. He was smiling at a girl you’d never seen before. Her hand was on his arm, and he leaned in to say something, clearly not noticing you staring. Your heart dropped into your stomach, and you looked away as fast as possible, gulping down the rest of whatever alcoholic drink you grabbed off the side – it burned, but you didn’t mind – it took your mind off of Will and the other girl. Did she know? 

You saw Will again about a week later, at a party – where the music was too loud, the kind that made your head ache. You only came because Liv had begged you to, and besides, if you stayed at home, you’d only order takeaway and refresh your Instagram story every other minute. He wasn’t meant to be here though. 

You told yourself you didn’t care; he could sleep with who he wanted. You weren’t even together, you and him were just a secret he preferred to keep behind closed doors, a bad habit neither of you could stop. So why did it feel like you were being suffocated? Someone called your name, snapping you out of your trance – you turned and forced a smile and allowed yourself to be persuaded to play beer pong with people you didn’t know.  

At some point, he looked over and you could feel his eyes burn into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes, but he looked away. 

An hour passed, maybe more. You lost track of time somewhere between fake flirting with a guy you didn’t even like and pretending your skin wasn’t crawling. You went to the bathroom to touch up your makeup and to calm your racing mind - that’s when your phone buzzed.  

Will: Come outside, I’m out the back. 

Your stomach flipped and you stared at the screen, hoping it might change. You almost didn’t join him. But of course, you did, you always crawled back to him one way or another. He was stood under a light, hoodie pulled over his head, cigarette in his left hand, smoke surrounding him and the girl from before was nowhere in sight. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice tight. 

“I’m looking for you,” he muttered, blowing smoke out slowly. 

“Why?” you shot back, too fast. “Haven’t you got other people to talk to anymore, Will?” 

Will looked at you then, eyes tired but knowing, knowing you were jealous of seeing him and another lass flirting. “You saw me with her.” 

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Yeah, I saw you.” 

There was a long beat. Will ran a hand over his face, flicking the cigarette away. “I didn’t want to be with her,” he said, voice low, almost pleading. 

“Then why were you laughing with her?” you snapped, your eyes beginning to burn, as you fought back tears. 

“It’s not what you think.” 

“No,” you laughed bitterly, but it wasn’t humorous, “it’s exactly what you don’t want me to think isn’t it? You think I just make myself available when it’s convenient for you, and you’re over there – flirting, pretending I don’t exist, like I’m just some-” 

“You’re not just some thing,” he interrupted. He was closer now, eyes wide, chest heaving slightly with frustration. 

You could feel his breath on your face, close enough to make you ache, but despite yourself, you stepped back. “Yeah? Then why do I feel like I don’t even exist when you’re not with me? You’ve fucking consumed my every thought, Will,” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, the sound of music from inside echoed in the distance – you wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and sob. "I don’t need this,” you muttered, turning away. Will just stayed outside, holding his beer like it was his lifeline. 

But there he was, again, standing in the middle of the chaos like he owned it, cigarette dangling from his lip, the same girl in the red dress wrapped herself around him like she was doing all night. She was laughing too loud, touching his arm a little too much. Your stomach churned again, a heavy feeling settling in your chest. 

Two in the morning, and the party was turning into a shitshow. The music was pounding so hard you could feel it in your ribs, and you refilled your glass more than once because what else were you supposed to do? You needed to forget, you needed to get the taste of him out of your mouth. 

Fuck, you don’t want to watch this, but you can’t look away. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you stared at the screen. Will, again. This time it read ‘Meet me in the guest room, please’ 

You didn’t even hesitate. For the second time that night, you shoved through the crowd, knocking past people you don’t care about, and head straight for the door. You don’t bother to text back, don’t bother to ask why. You already know what he wants, and it kills you. 

You found him standing near the bed, another lit cigarette between his fingers. He said he didn’t like smoking all that much, only did it to distract him – like you, another bad habit of his. He was leaning against the bedpost, eyes locked on the ground, and he looked uncomfortable. He looks like he knows he fucked up, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. You thank God that he finally felt as shit as you. 

“Why the fuck did you even come here tonight?” You didn’t know where the words are coming from, but they’re coming, sharp. “You were fine before you saw me, don’t pretend like you care now.” 

He looked up at you, like you’ve slapped him. He opened his mouth to say something, but you didn’t let him. 

“You think I don’t see what’s going on?” Your hands were shaking from the anger, the hurt, the alcohol coursing through your veins. “You and her? You really think I’m that fucking stupid? Admit it, I dare you” 

He dropped his head, face burning. “I didn’t want it to happen.” 

“Bollocks,” you spat. “You’re always doing this, Will. It’s always me and you, back and forth. But when it’s convenient for you, when it’s easier for you, you’re with someone else. So, please, spare me of your ‘I didn’t mean it’ shit.” 

He’s quiet, eyes burning into you, but he didn’t respond. 

A minute passed and regretful apology left his lips. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice so low you almost couldn’t hear him over the music inside. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

You let out a bitter laugh, and it sounds broken, even to your own ears. “Well, surprise! You did; I did – God I don’t know any more. It was a mistake getting into bed together.” 

His face twists, like he’s trying to reach for something that’s already slipping through his fingers. 

You stare at him, feeling the weight of everything you’ve tried to ignore - the desire, the jealousy, the resentment. Before you can think twice, you close the gap between you, grabbing his collar and pulling him into a kiss. 

You kiss him hard, and he lets you, hands coming up to your waist, pulling you close. You’re both angry, both broken, both needing something more than what this was ever supposed to be. 

You bite his lip, and he groans. “A mistake we are too happy to make,” he mutters. 

You don’t care anymore. You’re done pretending you don’t want this. You can’t stop yourself, not when he’s kissing you like this, holding you like he’s never going to let go. It’s not pretty, but instead messy and sloppy, the kind of kiss that tastes like need more than anything else. Hands are everywhere - yours are tugging at his shirt, his are gripping your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to make it hurt. 

Somewhere between the heavy breaths and the feeling of his tongue against yours, you both end up on the bed, backs pressed against the soft fabric of the sheets, the room spinning around you. The music downstairs is muffled, but you hear every breath, every movement, like it’s the only thing that matters. 

But when you pull away, panting and out of breath, you don’t look at him - you can’t, not when everything in you is telling you to walk away, to leave before you get any more tangled in this mess. 

Will’s staring at you, his breath heavy, eyes too wide, like he’s waiting for you to say something. You don’t. 

“I’m done,” you finally whisper, your voice cracked, your heart raw. You get to your feet; eyes locked on the ground as you walk past him. 

A week later, and you’re still feeling the sting. You tried to get through the week but it was a struggle; you went out, went on dates that were decent enough to get you through the days. You’ve deleted his number three times, and somehow, it still shows up in your contacts. 

He’s been quiet too. Just enough to let you think, maybe, maybe you’re finally done, but you know you’ll never be done when it comes to Will. He’s everywhere and everything. 

It’s a Saturday night, you’re at the Clarke-Dixon-Hill place, celebrating George’s birthday, one of those “everyone’s invited” ordeals. You don’t even enjoy going out anymore, but you remind yourself that you’re here to celebrate your mate. He’s here too. You can feel it even before you see him, his presence always close to tangible. 

And then you see him, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, laughing loudly at something Chris had said. He’s in his usual hoodie, his hair messy and wild in the way you remember. He catches your eye for a split second, and in that tiny flash, you both know, it is far from over. 

Your chest tightens as your pulse starts to race. You hate him, you miss him but you’re so fucking tired of this never-ending cycle. This never-ending cycle which destroys you, but you’re addicted to it. Before you can stop yourself, you make your way towards him. Your body moves like you’ve done this a million times before. Will notices you, eyes flicking to yours, then down to your lips. 

He stands up straight, setting his beer down like he's been waiting for this moment. "Here you are," he starts, voice low, and it makes your stomach tighten. 

"Here I am," you mutter, the words coming out colder than you anticipate. 

There’s an uncomfortable beat. The noise from the party feels like it’s miles away now, like it’s only the two of you in the whole flat. Then, without warning, he pulls you into him, crashing his lips against yours. You gasp for a second, taken aback, but you don’t pull away. You shouldn’t want this, but God, you really do. 

He tastes like whiskey and cheap cigarettes but that doesn’t stop you from kissing him harder, deeper, like you’re trying to undo the last few days of silence. His hands find your waist, and his touch is like a spark, and you feel your knees buckle at his touch. Neither of you speak. He grabs you by the top of your dress, dragging you towards the stairs, barely keeping his balance as you both stumble through the house. You know where this is going, you’ve been here many times already. 

His hands are all over you, desperate and frantic, his fingers press into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. When you reach an empty bedroom, you slam the door behind you. Will pins you against it, lips never leaving yours, both of you too hungry for this to stop. 

There’s no buildup, no words exchanged - just raw, unadulterated need. His hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, around your waist as he presses into you until it feels like the world is crumbling around you. 

But it’s still not enough, you can’t stop the ache, the feeling that you’re both drowning in something that isn’t real. You don’t want this to be the last time, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself or to him. You both know that you’re better off as friends. 

He’s kissing you again, but this time, it’s softer. Slower, there’s something tender in his touch. “Fuck,” you whisper, pulling away to catch your breath. “Why is this so easy?” 

He doesn’t answer, instead, he takes your face in his hands, looking at you with those brown eyes that are filled with insecurity and confusion. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I don’t know why I keep doing this.” 

You both fall onto the bed, tangled in sheets, but neither of you apologises, the room is silent with the quiet knowledge that you both ruined the other. 

The room is quiet, too quiet, after everything and it keeps you awake. You can feel the weight of the unspoken words between you. It’s clearly keeping him awake too, as Will shifts beside you, not quite looking at you, like he knows what’s coming. 

“Will,” you start, your voice soft but firm, “we have to stop doing this, properly.” 

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been waiting for you to say it. “I know, it’s just easier to pretend we can make it work, but we can’t. You deserve a real shot of happiness, sweetheart, and you can't do that with me fucking with your head.” 

You nod, your chest tight. “I fucked with you too Will. This, whatever this is, was - it’s not healthy for either of us, we had our fun but you deserve someone who can give you everything.” 

He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for some way to fix it, but he knows it’s over. “I guess that’s it, then?” 

You nod slowly, your heart aching in that bittersweet way. “Yeah, it’s time to let it go.” 

Will gives you a small, sad smile. “Take care of yourself, alright?” 

You nod, smiling back. “You too, see you around, Will.” 

It hurts you, as much as it hurts him. It is the end, and you know that he deserves better, and that you also deserve better. With one final glance at the door, he softly shut behind him, you bury your head into the pillow – tears streaming at what could’ve been. 

[claramelooo]

CHECKMATE (6/20)

I'm on my lunch break, so why not give you these surprises?

I guess you will be able to breath a little after that tension...

Enjoy!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: a delicious tension and mild-angst

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Suddenly, everything you were running away from comes rushing back to you, and your worst nightmare becomes your reality. But is it really that bad?

Truce

noun

an agreement between enemies or opponents to stop fighting or arguing for a certain time.

You had barely taken two steps toward your desk when Jennifer Barkley’s voice echoed down the hallway—sharp as a scalpel.

“You. My office. Now.”

No good morning. No smile. Just that dry, commanding tone that made even the most seasoned stomachs twist.

You felt the adrenaline start to crawl up your spine. Something inside you screamed that this wasn’t good. Nothing that started with “now” coming from Jennifer ever was.

You walked in.

She had her back to you, fiddling with the coffee machine filters like she was operating someone’s heart. Every movement precise, controlled. She didn’t even look up.

“Close the door and sit.”

You obeyed. The click of the door behind you sounded like a seal being shut. You sat down across from her desk, trying to appear steady, but your heart was already hammering in your chest.

Jennifer turned slowly, finally looking you in the eye. She held her coffee cup like it was a verdict. No warmth in her eyes. No anger either—which, honestly, was worse. Because that meant you had no idea what was coming.

“Harkness wants you on the campaign,” she said, straight to the point, as always. “Starting today, you’re officially assigned as Agatha Harkness’s personal image assistant.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

What the fuck????

Your brain was still catching up when the avalanche hit:

You and Agatha.

Same room. Same plane. Same rhythm.

You could barely share elevator air with her without wanting to throw something, and now this?

You opened your mouth, protest already loaded but Jennifer raised a hand, silencing you with a gesture sharp as a blade.

“Don’t even try, this isn’t a request.” Her voice carried the weight of an unchangeable order. “She demanded someone. I picked you. And you… will smile and accept it, like the smart girl you seem to be.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart wasn’t pounding now—it was roaring.

Demanded?

Why would Agatha want you? After everything? The bathroom? That conversation in the elevator? The almost... touch? The almost... everything?

Jennifer calmly stirred her coffee with a spoon, and when she looked at you over the rim of her glasses, it felt like she was already reading your thoughts.

“You’ll accompany her to interviews, events, media briefings. You’ll revise speeches, tweak language, manage tone. Stop her from strangling reporters on live TV,” she paused. “And most importantly, you’ll make sure her image stays polished, powerful, and consistent. Understood?”

All you could do was nod, barely aware of your body. 

The office felt way too small now.

“Good,” Jennifer leaned back, satisfied. “First assignment’s today. Live interview at Northwest Current. Two hours. I want you back with enough material for three solid posts, two edit-ready videos, and a press release that doesn’t make me want to fire someone.”

She took a sip of her coffee and finally smiled. It was small, sharp.

“Welcome to the front lines, darling.”

You sat there for a second longer, stunned, trying to understand what had just happened. When you finally stood with your legs a little shaky.

A whole month. Stuck to her. Breathing the same air. Watching every move. Every silence. Every look.

This was all you could think about.

May God help you.

You rushed to the office kitchen, caffeine your only salvation, stumbling over your own thoughts and nearly forgetting how to push the door open.

You were burning inside.

Personal image assistant to Agatha Harkness. A sentence disguised as a promotion, a trap tied with a satin ribbon.

Billy’s voice hit first, dripping with irony and rehearsed charm.

“…so I told him, no one handles a media agenda like you, senator-boy.”

You froze.

He was leaning against the counter, mug in hand, that crooked smile on his lips.

And across from him?

Daniel, from the comms team. Crisp shirt. Eyes down. A faint blush on his face. Laughing nervously, stirring his coffee like it was more interesting than the tension floating between them.

You stepped in quietly, like someone intruding on a moment they weren’t supposed to see. The air seemed to tighten. Billy saw you and his smile faltered with not guilty, just... caught being too familiar.

“Hey, meeting beast,” he said, trying to play it cool. “Did Jennifer scream at you yet?”

“Nope. She just signed my death warrant with a cup of coffee," you walked to the machine and poured the hot liquid into your mug, already salivating for the hit. “I’ve been assigned to Harkness’s campaign.”

Billy’s eyes went wide. He completely forgot about Daniel—who took the opportunity to quietly vanish. You barely noticed. You were too busy emotionally combusting.

“What?” He stepped closer, nearly spilling his mug. “Like... actual campaign? Travel? Official car? Champagne flavored trauma?”

You turned to face him. “Personal image assistant. Full-time. Speech edits. Dancing with wolves… and probably some retirees.”

Billy took a step back and clutched his chest, as if he’d been metaphorically shot.

“Girl. This is serious. This is... working with the Miranda Priestly of politics.”

“Worse.” You took a sip. It burned your tongue and you couldn’t care less.

“And why the hell did you say yes?”

You looked at him. Wanted to say because I didn’t have a choice. Wanted to say because she asked for me.

But what came out was: 

“Because apparently, I’m a smart girl who wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

He stared at you for a moment. The intensity faded into a small, sad smile.

“So... you’re already dead inside. All that’s left is the burial.”

You laughed. For real. Brief, a little shaky, but yours.

“Promise me something?” you said.

“Anything.”

“When I lose it… like really snap and need to be committed, lie to me. Tell me it was quick. Painless.”

Billy placed a hand on your shoulder like a priest blessing the damned.

“I’ll tell them you died as you lived. Stubborn and surrounded by questionable decisions.”

You smiled. Almost forgot the bitter taste of your “promotion.” 

Northwest Current. 

Two hours.

You took a deep breath. 

Okay. You can do it, you can be professional.

Right?

[...]

You were alone in the car. The same official car that would later take Agatha Harkness to the studio but for now, it was yours—just for a little while.

The driver was outside, smoking, and you had the whole back seat to yourself. Your papers, your tablet, and the growing weight of stepping into a war that wasn’t yours.

The screen glowed with a browser tab open. Agatha Harkness. Gubernatorial candidate. Sky-high approval ratings in recent months; former senator and committee leader. A respected and feared political strategist; founder of social, environmental, and educational initiatives. Every line of her resume felt like a medal burned into her chest.

You could almost hear the metallic clang of honors being pinned on a woman who didn’t need applause to be undeniable.

But it was the video that stopped you.

An old campaign recording, from her first run for Senate. Poor quality, choppy lighting. But her gaze… her gaze was intact. Steady, direct and always so severe..

She started talking about climate justice. About single mothers with no access to housing. About Black children treated like statistics before they even learn how to write. And in that moment, something ignited behind her eyes.

A raw, genuine passion.

You realized you were holding your breath, that your fingers were gripping the edges of the tablet too tightly.

She wasn’t there for vanity or for empty ambition. Agatha was there because she believed, because some part of her still wanted change. Still wanted the world to bleed a little less.

And that was what threw you off.

She wasn’t just powerful.

She was real.

In a barely noticeable moment, her husband's name slipped from her mouth. Thanos Harkness. Her voice faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough to make you pause the video. Rewind and watch it again.

You frowned and read the description.

Banker, international investor and oil tycoon.

You scoffed, alone, muttering with a crooked smile.

“Seriously? An oil tycoon? That’s the best you could do, Harkness?”

It was like watching a nun marry the devil and say he “had kind eyes.” The contradiction was glaring. And yet, intriguing. Because if there was one woman on this planet you thought was immune to contradiction… it was her.

Or maybe not. Not after that night at the bar. Not after the two of you touched each other with so much intensity and intimacy—without even knowing each other's names.

You almost expected Agatha to appear in the passenger seat right then, sunglasses on and that glacial look in her eyes, ready to kill you with a single sentence.

But no.

It was just you and the silence, the growing discomfort of realizing you were starting to understand her. 

Truly.

You scrolled down the page. Stopped on an old photo. Agatha with him and a little boy between them.

Nicholas Harkness.

The contrast was almost absurd.

Agatha was in jeans. A simple T-shirt. No makeup. Hair pulled back in a messy braid and she was smiling. Not the political smile, or the cynical one. An open smile, almost silly. That kind that makes your eyes close and dimples appear on your cheeks.

You stared in silence.

There was tenderness in the way she held her son. Steady hands, but also… so gentle. A kind of protection you don’t pose for. 

It was instinctive.

Genuine.

A knot formed in your stomach.

You inhaled. Exhaled. But the weight stayed.

Because in that photo, she wasn’t a candidate. Or an opponent. Or a challenge. She was just a woman who had lived. Who had lost. Who was raising a child on her own and, despite everything, still smiled in that way.

And the only reaction you’d managed to draw from her so far… was anger.

You shut your eyes, almost ashamed of yourself. It wasn’t envy, or guilt. It was just… frustration.

Maybe for hitting a nerve. Maybe for not knowing how to handle the wound you glimpsed in that elevator. Maybe… for wanting… more.

More than disdain. More than fights. More than this.

You tossed the device beside you, leaned your head against the seat. The leather still carried her scent. Subtle, woody, slightly citrusy. A precise fragrance. 

Exact, just like her.

Shit. 

You exhaled slowly, as if trying to empty your chest of that mess of unnamed emotions.

And then, the car door opened.

You flinched like you’d been caught snooping, heart pounding from the surprise. The papers slipped from your lap, and you scrambled to gather them, as if you could hide both the external and internal chaos just like that.

She entered with her usual military grace, sunglasses still on, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“What were you doing?” Her voice came warm, yet sharp. Her eyes flicked from the mess in your lap to the half open tablet beside you. She didn’t seem to be asking just about the papers.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to pull yourself together.

“Studying.”

Before you could stop her, she picked up the tablet. Skimmed quickly through what was on the screen. The biography. The interviews. The personal photos.

“Studying my personal life?” She asked, one eyebrow now fully visible above the rim of her sunglasses.

You rolled your eyes. Felt your face heat up. Yes, there was anger. But also the shame of being caught looking too hard.

You snatched the device from her hands—the gesture sharp, but your eyes… no. Your eyes said something else.

You didn’t know how to protect yourself from her.

“I’m getting to know you. How am I supposed to work for someone I don’t even know?”

That seemed to catch her off guard and for a moment... a brief, but weighty silence, like a misstep in an over rehearsed speech.

She leaned back into the seat beside you. Let the sunglasses slip down into her lap, her eyes meting yours with an expression you couldn’t immediately decipher.

“Getting to know me, huh?” she repeated, voice tired. “You don’t need to do all this for that. You can just ask me anything.”

You blinked.

Oh.

You weren’t expecting that. Not from her mouth. Not from that face. Not from that woman carved in marble and steel who had spoken such cruel words to you.

“That easy?” You asked, as if challenging her was the only way to avoid crumbling under her gaze.

“That easy.” She confirmed, with a lightness that felt… sincere.

You looked at each other for a moment. Long. Tense, but warm.

There was no provocation, no judgment, no irony. Just two women in the backseat of an official car, holding the frayed threads of a conversation neither of you knew how to start.

You cleared your throat, triying to remember where you’d left off before being swallowed by eyes and words and unspoken promises.

“Right,” you cleared your throat again. “I took some notes... on things you might want to try.”

You held out the tablet, but didn’t look at it. You looked at her and she looked back. As if, finally, she’d stopped seeing you as just a pawn on the board… and started to see the girl.

Agatha read your notes silently. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the idle engine and your two breaths, occasionally overlapping by accident.

“‘Avoid overly absolute statements,’” she read aloud softly, quoting one of your suggestions. “‘Like: ‘I’m the only realistic choice’ or ‘my opponents have no idea what they’re talking about.’”

She looked up at you with an expression… almost amused.

“Are you saying I sound arrogant?”

Yes.

You shrugged, pretending to be neutral.

“I’m saying people like to feel included. Especially when they’re about to vote for you.”

She made a low sound in her throat, something between a quiet chuckle and a silent acknowledgment. Turned back to the screen.

“And this one? ‘Soften tone when discussing public safety’?”

“Yes… well… the tone you usually use is a bit…” You searched for the right word, but she said it first.

“Authoritarian?” She offered, one brow raised.

“You said it, not me.”

She smiled—not the political one, not the ironic one. A small, honest smile, like someone caught in the act who doesn’t even try to defend herself.

For a few minutes, you stayed like that: reading, suggesting tweaks, cutting a word here, rethinking a line there.

You noticed she was listening. Even when she didn’t seem to be. That she was mentally taking note of what you said, even without replying.

She listened.

And that, coming from Agatha Harkness, was already more than half the battle.

“I didn’t think you’d take the job.”

She wasn’t looking at you, still staring at the screen. But you could feel the warmth of her skin, the scent of her expensive lotion hanging subtly in the air.

“I like a good challenge and the salary’s not bad, you know… a girl’s gotta live.” You shrugged.

“A girl… Right.”

She went quiet for a moment—long enough for the sound of cars outside to feel overwhelmingly loud.

You couldn’t quite tell what had bothered her more.The term, the tone, or the little bit of ease you’d allowed to slip through.

Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe… something else.

But she just took a deep breath and, with a gesture too practiced to be spontaneous, changed the subject.

“Alright,” she said, flipping to another tab on the tablet, back to the game. “What about the interview questions? Which ones do you think they’ll use to try and take me down?”

You slid a little closer on the bench, showing her your own screen, where you’d highlighted a few predictions. Agatha leaned in just enough to get a better look, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

Almost.

You ignored the shiver.

“They’ll probably push on the education fund and your lack of ties with the major unions.”

“Typical. They’ll think they’re being clever.”

“And you’ll look smarter if you don’t take the bait.” You said, tossing the words like a coin into the dark, hoping they didn’t hit any walls.

But she only nodded, as if you’d said exactly what she was thinking.

And for a few moments… the world went still. Time paused, suspended between scribbled notes, shared tablets, and a cramped back seat that had never felt so full of meaning.

Right there, between strategy forecasts and tonal adjustments, something new was born.

Complicity.

Not the easy kind. Not the comfortable kind. And that—just that—felt, for the first time, like the beginning of something.

[...]

The backstage hallway was lit with cold, impersonal lights You watched from a distance as Agatha adjusted the mic clipped discreetly to the lapel of her dress, exchanging brief nods with the tech crew like she’d been doing this for decades.

She looked ready. Impeccable, untouchable. But you knew what a moment like that took.

You knew because you’d studied every one of her speeches. Because you’d stayed up all night refining her word; because you recognized the way she pressed her fingers together when she was trying to keep her anxiety at bay.

And that’s why you approached.

In silence with no jokes.

Just you, the solemn and peaceful memory of the two of you in the car, and the slightly absurd thought that maybe she needed something that wasn’t in the script.

She turned her head toward you, surprised by your silent approach.

You didn’t smile, neither did she.

“Good luck.”

Just two words. But you said them with a steadiness that didn’t match the nerves in your stomach.

For a second, Agatha said nothing. She looked down, like she was weighing the gesture. Not with arrogance—with care.

Then she looked back up.

“I don’t believe in luck.” She said. Her voice was the same—steady, restrained. But there was something… gentle in how she said it.

You nodded, accepting. But you didn’t step back.

“Then pretend you do,” you replied. “Just for today.”

Her eyes held yours a moment too long to be professional, long enough for you to feel the air shift.

Then she let out a soft breath through her nose, something between a laugh and surrender. She straightened her shoulders with that posture you already recognized from a mile away.

Agatha Harkness, campaign mode.

“Thank you, then.” She said and walked away.

You stayed where you were, the director’s countdown starting in the background.

The show’s intro ended with a sharp saxophone note, and the main camera opened on a wide shot of the studio. Bright lights, restrained audience, and the host already wearing that plastic smile of someone who knows exactly what game they’re playing.

You stood backstage, next to the sound producer, arms crossed, heart beating too fast. 

Agatha sat at the round table, posture perfect, eyes alert. Too elegant for the set around her.

Everything started smoothly. 

Questions about public safety, sustainability, education and the woman was responding like a word surgeon You could see the audience turning their heads toward her, attentive. She was magnetic. You even forgot to breathe for a few minutes.

Until he started.

The host paused dramatically, leaning slightly over the table, his face stretching into a smile that didn’t match anything that had come before.

“Now, former Senator Harkness...” he said, like he was about to whisper a secret into a mic, “you’re known for your progressive views. Sustainability, taxing the ultra-rich, climate justice… all these bold stuffs. But… weren’t you married to an oil tycoon? International banker? I mean, Thanos Harkness doesn’t exactly match with your "pro-Amazonia" outfit, does he?”

Muted laughter from the audience.

You froze, your eyes locked on her.

Your stomach flipped. 

This wasn’t about politics.

It was personal.

It was low.

And it was about her.

But Agatha didn’t move, not even a single muscle. She looked at the host with the kind of calm that doesn’t need volume to destroy someone.

“Really funny,” she said. And it was like the air in the studio thickened. “But every time my husband and I discussed the future of this planet, the only thing I ever found truly hard to digest… were comments like yours.”

Silence.

She folded her hands on the table, her voice still soft. But her words weighed like lead.

“Thanos believed in transition energy investments. He was one of the first in his sector to fund sustainable initiatives. We disagreed on a lot, of course. But we also had something sorely missing from most debates today: respect.”

The host tried to smile, and it was forced.

But Agatha didn’t care.

“I’m not Thanos. And he never tried to be my politics. Now… if your goal is to undermine what I’ve built because I married someone with different views, maybe you’re more into gossip than governance. In which case… let me know, and I’ll switch channels.”

She winked at the camera.

You laughed. Brief, incredulous, and utterly charmed.

It wasn’t about policy, indeed.

It was about her.

And God… you were proud.

So proud that, for a second, you thought maybe you were screwed. Because this was the kind of woman who made you want to… be part of something bigger.

Even if it was just her team.

The host gave a dry chuckle. “Well… on that note, let’s take a quick commercial break, shall we?”

He tried to seem in control, but the truth was in the nervous grip on his pen and the way he couldn’t quite meet the camera’s eye as he called for the break.

The studio lights dimmed slightly, the red recording light turned off, techs appeared out of nowhere with water bottles and mic adjustments, moving with professional silence.

And Agatha just leaned back, as if she hadn’t just turned a potential public humiliation into pure political gold.

You, backstage, didn’t move for a moment. Like someone watching a magic trick and needing a few seconds to accept it wasn’t an illusion—it was talent.

Her body was still leaning forward, like she was ready to run in and protect you. But she didn’t need to protect you. She was the protection. A thin, sharp shield, wrapped in a flawless suit and a voice steadier than any attack.

You crossed your arms, let out a slow breath, disguised as a whisper. “This wretch is fucking good.”

Billy would’ve laughed in your face if he were there. He would’ve said you were spiraling straight into emotional doom and maybe you were.

Because this wasn’t regular admiration. It wasn’t political pride, it was something more intimate.

More dangerous.

You weren’t just rooting for her, you were starting to… care.

Agatha turned her head slightly in your direction. She didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. That quick glance was enough, a silent kind of acknowledgment.

You stared back, wearing the same neutral expression you’d mastered since childhood.

But inside? You were losing it. She had surprised you and she knew it. You were exactly where you needed to be and Agatha Harkness... was the only woman who could completely wreck you, if she wanted to.

And maybe—just fucking maybe—you wouldn’t mind that so much.

When the show ended, Agatha walked into the dressing room with the heaviest aura in the world.

She yanked off her mic with a harsh motion, fingers too tight on the wires, like ripping it off might erase what had just happened.

The door clicked shut behind you both, loud and final.

You didn’t say a word. Not yet.

She brushed past you without looking, went straight to the lit vanity, and tossed her notes on it. Her reflection in the mirror was the image of control cracked at the edges.

“Vultures,” she muttered, pulling off her earrings with a kind of cruel precision. “They turned everything into a footnote about what Thanos were. Like I’m just his reflection. My fucking dead husband.”

You bit your lip. You knew this wasn’t the time, but you felt the same disgust rising in your throat.

This wasn’t just politics. 

It was personal. 

It was filthy.

And even knowing she was on the edge, you didn’t expect the first jab to be aimed at you. She turned, her gaze sharp like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“And you?” Her voice sliced. “What was that little smile in the middle of the interview? Was it funny to you, seeing a man try to humiliate me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then narrowed your eyes.

“Oh my God. Are you serious?” You crossed your arms. “I thought it was brilliant, Agatha. You shut him down without even raising your voice. But if it makes you feel better, I can stop rooting for you. Makes it easier, right?”

She took a step closer. The tension between you was thick like smoke.

“I don’t need someone like you rooting for me,” she said, coldly.

You let out a sarcastic laugh and stepped back twice.

“Someone like me?” you echoed, your smile tilting. “Guess we’re back to that game, then. Great! I thought I’d seen the real you for a second, but of course I was wrong!”

Agatha’s head snapped toward you like you’d just spat poison. But she didn’t yell. Her voice came out low, tense, ragged from the inside.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be me.” She stepped closer. “You think you get it with your bright eyes and your idealism. But you don’t know a shit about spending decades having to be perfect. Tireless. Unquestionable.”

The air in the room felt thinner.

“You think that was just a joke? Just a moment? That is every fucking day, girl.” Her voice was sharp, like glass. “Every single day someone tries to reduce me to a last name, a dress, a tone of voice. If I’m firm, I’m bossy. If I’m kind, I’m weak. If I get emotional, I’m unstable. If I don’t, I’m cold. And all of it… while smiling. While acting like it doesn’t hurt. Because the second I show that it hurts? Then I’m hysterical, unfit, fragile.”

She tapped her chest lightly with her fingers like touching a shield that had taken too many hits.

“You don’t know what it’s like to live in this, and if you do… and you don’t agree… get out while you still can. You’re not built for politics, girl.”

You opened your mouth, but the intensity in her eyes stopped you. This wasn’t about you, it was the weight of years. Decades.Centuries, carried in every woman who ever dared to take up too much space.

But you expired, your shoulders falling apart, as well as your armor.

“I… I’m sorry.” Your voice came out soft, but sure. “I really don’t understand, but I’m sorry.”

You stepped closer, careful, like approaching something sacred. She dropped onto the couch with a long sigh, as if her body was begging for mercy.

“You’re not alone, you know.”

Agatha scoffed, eyes looking away.

“Oh, sure. Jennifer’s with me because she’s very well paid,” she slowly turned to face you. “And you… you don’t want to lose your big shot. I really understand you.”

You gave her a small smile.

“I’m not talking about Jennifer. I mean people, Agatha. You have something no one else has. You convince with a look, you win with silence. People… see themselves in you, even when they hate you.” You chuckled. “And honestly? We both know I could ruin your campaign with six words.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That was your attempt at reassuring me?”

You looked at each other for a beat frozen and you got lost in those cold blue-green orbits.

“No," you shrugged, laughing. “It’s just the truth. But I don’t want to. Mostly because I’m not that kind of person and because I believe in you. I really do. Even when you’re being unbearable.”

Her laugh came fast, almost unwilling, genuine. And you saw her shoulders drop just a little.

Your eyes met. And this time, it wasn’t a battle. It was… recognition. Like something between you had finally been named, even without needing a word.

And then, with a teasing half-smile, Agatha asked:

“So… what were you doing at Lux that night? With a fake ID?”

You threw your head back, exasperated but amused.

“Oh. It was my roommate’s idea. She wanted to be ‘grown up for a night,’” you air quoted, laughing. “Apparently pretending we’re older and more powerful would help us cope with academic trauma.”

“What nonsense,” Agatha scoffed, one of those short, fake disdainful laughs. “You young people love playing with consequences like it’s a board game.”

The way she said it felt… maternal, concerned and suddenly, you froze.

“Oh. My. God.” You sat up on the couch, eyes wide. “I just had a brilliant idea!”

“Of course you did.” Agatha rested her chin on her hand, sarcastic.

You were already up, grabbing your notebook, your tablet, sparks flying.

“You’re going to tell me now, or…”

“Create an Instagram account targeting young people, make edits of you, post on TikTok. Subversive. Smart. With real digital reach. I have to sketch this out right now!”

But before you could sit again, three knocks on the door interrupted.

“Excuse me, Ms. Harkness. The car is waiting in the garage.”

You walked side by side through the hallways. You typed furiously on the tablet, caught in the idea. Agatha, on the other hand, watched you with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity.

“So… you’re not going to tell me this big and brilliant idea?”

“Hmm… tomorrow,” you smiled still looking at screen. “After I test everything and build a solid plan. No loose bets, remember?”

She let out a breath of a laugh, but didn’t say a word. You just walked side by side, creating an invisible bond and at that moment things seemed to be heading in the right direction.

~*~

Ohhh, I'm so proud of her!!!

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @ahintofchaos

[rafeslittlepup]

bunnyhousewife!reader can usually take a lot of rafes yelling , but one day shes js dealing with a lot before rafe gets home , so dinner isn’t ready , the house is a mess , shes in sweats instead of a dress , nd the kids are being loud nd throwing tantrums . nd after they get sent away she gets yelled at , nd starts crying literally 2 minutes in , nd rafe realizes she’s also has days js a long as rafe usually has , nd he stops yelling , but doesnt comfort her nd tells her it’s ok nd wtv . this is very random , so do with this ask what you will (i suggest writing it 😇) anyways bye queen

-💌

the front door slammed harder than usual, making her flinch.

she was on the kitchen floor. messy hair, stained sweatshirt, one sock half off her foot, as she wiped up spilled juice from rhett’s tantrum. jamie was crying upstairs, colton had drawn on the wallpaper, and the twins had just spent 10 minutes fighting over who got to chew on the plastic spatula.

the casserole never made it into the oven, garden roses on the table were wilted. and she hadn’t even changed out of her “ugly mom clothes.”

rafe stepped in and froze. his usual welcome home ritual. her in a ribbon-tied apron, candlelit dinner and lipstick on his cheek was nowhere to be found.

instead, he got crumbs on the floor, children crying, his wife in old sweatpants looking like a complete mess

“jesus,” he muttered. “the hell happened in here?”

and she didn’t answer, she sat back on her heels, silently clutching a half-clean paper towel.

“did you even start dinner?” he asked, walking past her into the kitchen. “why are they screaming like that? why does the house look like this?”

she blinked hard but throat tightened.

“i- rafey, i’m trying…”

“trying?” he snapped, yanking open the fridge. “you had all day. you’re home all day, and you can’t even manage the one goddamn thing I ask—?”

a shaky breath got stuck in her chest and she tried to speak but only a broken little hic came out. he paused mid-rant, still looking inside the fridge, before slowly closing it and turning to look at her.

she looked like a ghost of his bunny, her lip trembling, hair falling out of the claw clip. fingertips red from washing dishes over and over with hot water. and he didn’t say anything at first.

her voice cracked again, “i- i didn’t mean to mess it up. the twins were crying and fighting and— then rosie- i- i didn’t even get to brush my hair and then the casserole fell and— i know you like dinner when you get home, and I wanted to wear the cute dress, i just— i just couldn’t-“ she broke in tears.

it hit him then, she wasn’t just being lazy, she was overwhelmed, maxed out. his pretty little bunny had tried to hold it all together, and today it had all collapsed. she sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve, still sitting on the floor like a scolded child.

“…i’m sorry… i didn’t mean to make you mad.” she said trembling

rafe swallowed hard, he wasn’t used to seeing her cry unless he was the one comforting her. he reached for a dish towel, tossing it towards the counter without looking at her.

“…it’s fine.” he said “ i shouldn’t have yelled,” he added stiffly, rubbing his temple in that very rafe way. “it’s just- i had a long day.”

her voice was so small, he almost missed it “…so did i.”

that made him go still again. he glanced at her. soft, ruined, baby-pink bunny, her shoulders shaking as she bit back another sob.

but rafe didn’t know how to comfort gently. instead, he walked past her and turned off the oven she hadn’t used.

“i’ll order something, ‘kay?,” he muttered. “you want something?”

she shook her head no and he turned toward the hallway. “you should lie down, i’ll deal with them.”

she looked up, confused, “you will?”

“yeah.” he mumbled still not looking at her. “just for tonight.”

she just nodded, watching him walk upstairs.

[criminalamnesia]

Hey man, idk if your goal was to make people cry with that Jack Abbot fic but if it was mission accomplished! *finger guns out of the room while sobbing*

10/10 fic would definitely recommend to anyone needing a satisfying story that ends with you crying

I honestly didn’t expect it to get so much love!!! im just obsessed with the Pitt rn and god that man… I need him….

anyways here’s part 2 to this!!

jack doesn’t know what’s going on.

ellis came into the er with a gurney, screaming for robby, and then (if even possible) things in the ED got worse.

people scrambling, muffled sobs from nurses and doctors alike as they pass by whoever robby is currently working on. jack’s brows are furrowed, his eyes squinting to try and get a look across the room, but no dice. he starts to think maybe it’s jake— and fuck if it is.

“dr. abbot,” samira breathes beside him from where she’s hunched over their patient. another red, blood covering their torso— a gunshot wound through the upper chest. collapsed lung, struggling to breathe, struggling to live.

(like someone else across the room. but he doesn’t know that.)

“you’re good, mohan. keep going,” he says, voice even as he glances down at the resident’s work. she doesn’t need him here, really. she was one of the best residents on the floor— next to you, of course.

speaking of you— where were you? even if you’d been sleeping during dana’s slew of calls, he’d figure you’d have cracked an eye open by now. you always complained you tossed and turned at night (he had offered to remedy that in various ways.)

“done,” mohan exhales with a grin as jack’s fingers find the patients carotid, pressing for a pulse. it’s stronger than it was before mohan went to work.

“sound work,” he says, nodding down at her. her grin widens as she straightens up.

“great teacher.”

jack chuckles as he waves dr. walsh over. samira starts to walk away, but before he can even register what he’s doing, he’s got a light grip on her forearm. she glances over at him, obviously confused, head cocked to the side as chaos continues around them.

“check on robby, yeah? make sure that’s not jake he’s got.”

samira nods and leaves his grasp, weaving through gurneys and wheelchairs to reach the other attending.

“got one for me?” walsh has finally made her way over, her eyes assessing the stabilizing patient before her.

“yeah, this one’s good for upstairs,” he responds, eyes glancing once again to robby before santos starts yelling for an attending.

“better go see what she wants before she kills someone,” walsh says, smug grin adorning her lips as she grabs the gurney’s handles. “garcia says that one’s trouble.”

“yeah, yeah. don’t you have someone to cut into?”

“oh my god!”

even with all the clamor in the room, samira’s gasp cuts over the noise loud and clear. abbot’s head shoots up, watching as the resident’s hands fly over her mouth. dana hurries over, a hand landing on the young woman’s shoulder as she pulls her to the side.

“dr. abbot, we need you over at the yellows—” santos is saying as she catches her breath in front of him, her eyes flitting from the scene across the room and back to the attending beside her.

“abbot!” shen calls as he pushes a gurney through the bay doors “got another red!”

“are they dying, santos?” he asks, already starting towards shen.

“well, not actively—”

“get someone else.”

he hears her faint huff behind him, but it’s forgotten as soon as he gets his eyes on his next patient.

across the room, robby is sweating.

it’s awful, profuse, and he feels like he can’t catch his breath. there’s a ringing in his ears.

he’s never experienced drowning, but he imagines it feels a lot like this.

“c’mon,” he mutters, his eyes watching your face, searching for a sign that you were coming back.

your eyes were closed. your skin was pale from blood loss.

your heart had stopped beating.

“robby,” dana says, her voice as soft as it can be as she rests a hand on his shoulder.

“no,” he says, and he doesn’t need to say anything else. he’s tired. his body aches from the past twelve hours, but he can’t stop. this is you. he cannot stop.

somewhere in his brain, he realizes that this is not working. he’s been doing cpr since he lost your pulse, and it is not working. the tube shoved down your throat is helping you breathe. blood is still trickling from your gunshot wound.

your heart is still not beating.

this is not working.

samira is crying quietly behind him. princess has tears on her cheeks from where she stands beside your head, squeezing the bag attached to your intubation tube.

he can’t stop. one, two, three, four. one, two, three, four. up, down. up, down.

he presses down so hard he cracks your ribs. he cannot breathe. he can’t think. he can’t, he can’t—

“way past trauma protocol over there, brother.”

everything comes crashing down around him at the sound of jack’s voice carrying across the room.

he wants to laugh, because doesn’t jack know who he’s working on?

would he still be saying that if he was looking down at your pale face, your bloodstained skin?

robby ignores him. shakes his head as if shaking off the words. he can’t be done with this, he can’t give up on you. he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“we use blood on the ones that are gonna make it.”

jack again. robby wants to scream and laugh and cry. he’s turning hysterical, he knows it. this fucking day.

adamson. jake. abbot. you.

he can’t catch a goddamn break and it’s all weighing on him, and he’s about to lose his best friend and his best student and—

a hand on his shoulder. a firm hold, squeezing his skin so hard it almost hurts.

“robby,” it’s dana again. “you gotta let her go.”

he can hear the crack in the steely charge nurse’s tone, and that’s what really breaks him.

“fuck,” he breathes, and tears are clouding his vision. “fuck.”

dana’s hands land on top of his still moving ones. the ones that are physically beating the heart that lies dormant in your chest. she digs her nails into his skin, and that breaks him from his trance, and he finally stops.

someone sobs nearby. he doesn’t look up to see who.

he announces time of death. marks it on the card tied to your wrist.

princess removes the bag from your tube. dana pulls a blanket over your body, tucking it over your head as carefully as she can.

without a word, she and robby wheel you toward the makeshift morgue. you do not deserve to join the other bodies in there. you do not deserve to die.

dana leaves the room before him, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, he sinks to the ground.

“shit,” he cries, shaking hands reaching up to cover his eyes before scrubbing over his face. his trauma gown is covered in blood— some of it yours— and he tears at the thing as he sobs.

“fuck, fuck,” he can’t breathe. adamson, you. langdon and his drugs. jack and his trust. everything, all of it, is overwhelming. a wave too big to jump over or swim under. a current so strong it’s pulling him out to sea before he even knows he’s in the water.

“dr. robby?”

he can’t. his eyes are clenched shut, his hands grasping the chain around his neck. he mutters a prayer his grandmother taught him when he was a kid.

“dr. robby,” the voice calls again, and robby recoils as a hand grazes his shoulder, his eyes shooting open as he pushes the offender away.

whitaker looks distraught, a frown forming on his lips as he stands over the older man.

“we need you out there,” the intern says, his words firm. “you gotta get up.”

and robby wants to smack the kid, but as he finally starts to take deep breaths again. whitaker holds out a hand. robby (after a moment of contemplation) takes it.

and then he promptly shoves whitaker away as soon as he’s on his feet.

the intern nods, and without another word, leaves the room.

robby takes a breath, then another. he reaches for the door handle, but stops just short of turning it. he turns, his eyes landing on your gurney and the sheet hiding your body.

“im sorry,” he says. it is such a guttural and profound feeling, this sadness that overtakes him as he says those words.

but the ED needs him.

so he steps back into the chaos.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Royal Duties Chapter 1

Summary:  Princess Y/N is betrothed to Prince Bucky Barnes, a political match to form bonds and alliances.  A friendship is formed between them built on understanding and allyship.  But can real love grow from forced circumstances?

Warning:  Language, eventual smut, miscarriage/pregnancy, mentions of possible cheating

Next chapter

Y/N swiped her hands down her wedding dress, sweeping away any last minute crinkles.  Her soon-to-be-mother-in-law smiled kindly at her and handed her a bouquet of deep red roses, and she quickly took them with a small smile back and stood ramrod straight, staring at the ornate church door separating her from the awaiting groom.  She felt numb.  Any feelings of hurt, betrayal, stress…it had all morphed into resignation two days ago.  This was her life now.  No use fussing over it anymore.  Her father approached and she dutifully took his outstretched arm.  “Try to look happy,” he grumbled.

She merely blinked and waited for her cue to enter.  Then the music started, she took a deep breath and pinned on a shadow of a polite smile as the doors opened.  There was really no pretense with this wedding.  Everyone knew it was arranged in some aspect, the smiles and public outings were merely a carefully curated facade to try and convince the people that love could unite two sides that had been at war for years.  Y/N was just a bargaining chip.  A tool in a peace treaty.  She had known this growing up, that at some point she would be married off to God knows who as a means to an end, but she had been given so much time to live her life that when the moment came she had fought it, both diplomatically and not-so-kindly, at one point screaming and beating her fists against her father’s chest.  But it was futile.  She was sold off to the prince of their enemy.  The only solace she found in the arrangement was that at least it would end the war and her people could finally have some peace.

The prince was…nice.  She had met him a few weeks before.  James Barnes, prince of Brooklyn, but he preferred to be called Bucky by those closest to him.  He was a perfect gentleman when they met, giving her the proper greetings and acting accordingly with royal propriety.  He had put on a good show when they were in public, giving her his arm as he escorted her around his kingdom and got her acquainted with his people, basically introducing her as the prospective new queen.  But the moment they were in private he would pull away and act like she didn’t exist.  Honestly it didn’t surprise her.  Their people were enemies for many years, so they didn’t trust each other.  

He was incredibly attractive, which helped lessen the blow of an arranged marriage to a stranger, but he was indifferent.  He was waiting at the end of the aisle, wearing his military uniform as was customary there, but also as a show to her and her father who was ultimately winning in this deal. He looked very handsome.  His hair was long, almost hitting his shoulders, and he had it tied and slicked back for the occasion, a small smile slightly quirking up the sides of his mouth.  And yet her heart didn’t flutter.  Her steps didn’t fumble.  She walked with timed precision, letting the media take all the pictures of her in a wedding dress she would never have chosen and holding a bouquet she would never have chosen for herself.  None of the process had been her choice.

She kept her eyes trained on the priest at the front until she reached the steps to meet her groom, where she made a show of hugging her father and him placing her hand into Bucky’s before he sat down and she let Bucky guide her up the steps.  She handed her bouquet to his sister Rebecca, her maid of honor, then placed her hands into his outstretched ones.  “Please be seated!” The priest called out to the attendees once the song ended, then the ceremony began.  Y/N repeated everything she was supposed to say, keeping her polite smile on her face and looking at Bucky periodically, trying to keep up appearances for the cameras.  Every minute detail of this had to go well, otherwise the peace treaty would be considered a farce and international relations would fall apart.

When it came time to exchange rings she took the gold ring, that she also didn’t choose, and slid it onto his metal finger.  Ah yes, the infamous metal arm of Brooklyn’s war hero prince.  His price to pay in battle.  It really was a feat of science and a thing of beauty all at once.  She had never seen past his wrist, and as much as it was fascinating, it had never scared her like it did others.  She could see it in the faces of dignitaries and other world leaders when they would inevitably stare.  She knew it held great power, the ability to snuff out a life, but she did not fear it or him.  Maybe she should, but as she finished adjusting his ring she did as they had discussed with the advisors beforehand and lifted his metal hand as she slightly bent down and kissed his metal knuckles.  

That garnered a slight gasp and whispers among the attendees, the sound of the whirring of camera lenses focusing in on the moment, a strange sound in an old place of worship.  But that was the whole point.  Another show of her accepting him, and therefore his country and people fully as well as showing reverence, respect, and bending the knee in surrender.  Normally she would have bristled at being asked to do such a thing.  Now her pride had been tucked away into a far recess in her mind and heart, and she didn’t care anymore.

She righted herself, gingerly holding his hand still and met his gaze.  He didn’t look as indifferent, his face looking a little shocked at her actions.  She wasn’t sure why, they had spoken about what she was going to do, even if they hadn’t fully practiced it.  She had agreed to it.  But he quickly schooled his features, the polite smile returning to his lips.  He took his turn in placing her wedding ring on her finger gently.  It felt like a shackle, heavy on her finger with meaning as well as with how large the 12 carat diamond was, engulfing her ring finger.  Bucky nestled it onto her finger, then brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the ring, then kissed her knuckles and set it back down.  That was surprising.  It wasn’t rehearsed or discussed beforehand, and her dulled heart stuttered at the last minute affection.  She could feel her own shocked expression and quickly blinked and smiled wider at him.  

Now for the last thing they hadn’t rehearsed.  “You may now kiss the bride,” the priest said with a sickly sweet smile on his face.  Y/N swallowed thickly and took a deep breath, looking up at Bucky.  His jaw ticked, betraying the slight smile on his face, but took the lead and leaned down, his metal hand reaching up to cup the side of her face.  His metal fingers wrapped around the base of her skull, his thumb directing her jaw to move upward as he closed the distance between them and kissed her soundly on the lips.

Y/N didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t how much she would love it.  His lips were perfect.  The metal on her skin felt perfect, especially with the grip at her neck and his metal thumb skimming from her jaw up to her cheekbone in a soft caress.  Her heart stuttered again, and she mentally chastised herself.  It was quite convincing, and for just a moment she got lost and drowned out the sound of camera clicks and thunderous applause.  He pulled away first, his eyes focusing on her lips first before flicking over her face.  She stared back at him, unsure of what he was thinking, but she could see emotions flying in those bright, ocean eyes of his.  She squeezed his flesh hand that was still holding her left hand, and he seemed to come back to himself and the polite smile resumed as he turned to the crowd.  Y/N instantly followed, both of them smiling at the attendees.  Rebecca handed back her bouquet and she smiled as convincingly as she could as the camera flashes blinded her and Bucky led her down the steps and back out of the church.  

The rest of the day was filled with constant pictures being taken, faces old and new being shoved in front of her, handshakes, polite smiles and diplomatic responses to questions and compliments.  The reception was a blur of more playing pretend with Bucky as he would hold her close with an arm around her waist, always have one of her hands in his, dancing with her, and every once in a while a well timed kiss.  Usually on her lips, but sometimes on her cheek, in her hair on top of her head, her temple, and once a sensual one on her neck as his metal hand squeezed her hip.  The cameras really ate that one up.

By the time the party ended and the frenzy was quieted by the plane door being shut, Y/N slumped in her seat.  The newlywed couple was now jet setting off on their honeymoon, but only for a week.  Bucky had to get back quickly as a show of commitment to the country, to show that they weren’t spending too much money on frivolous things after being at war for so long.  The second half of their honeymoon was going to be humanitarian visits to spots around Brooklyn, showing off the new Queen and painting their coupling as the people’s King and Queen, united in strengthening bonds between their countries and people.

Bucky sat in the seat across from her, leaning back in it as the plane took off.  They sat in silence, Y/N looking out the window for a while before taking her phone out.  She had multiple missed calls and messages from family members and friends, all congratulating her on her big day.  Her father and mother’s messages were stark in comparison.  “Keep smiling and secure an heir,” her father had written.  “Behave and be the Queen I taught you to be,” her mother had written.  Y/N sighed quietly and set her phone aside, leaning her head against the seat and closing her eyes.  It was done.  

Bucky cleared his throat, and she slowly opened her eyes and met his gaze.  He had leaned on the seat arm rest, looking more relaxed than she had ever seen him, but his flesh fingers fidgeted with the new ring on his metal finger.  He looked nervous, a far cry from the quiet confident man she had observed for the past few weeks.  He was about to say something when his head advisor and best friend, Steve Rogers, approached from the front of the plane.

“Congratulations, Your Majesties,” he grinned proudly at them.  “A fine wedding day.”

Y/N smiled at Steve appreciatively.  He had been a bright light since she had been brought to Brooklyn, always kind and understanding and friendly with her.  “Thank you, Steve,” she said quietly, her eyes blinking tiredly.

Steve nodded at her then sat next to Bucky.  “I’m sorry to bother you with more event scheduling, especially on your honeymoon, but I thought I’d run through the vague rundown of what we were thinking about for this week.”

“Alright,” Bucky nodded.  

Y/N listened as Steve outlined the basics of what their days on the honeymoon would look like.  They would be followed on vacation, undoubtedly, so every moment would be caught.  They had to keep up the charade of a happy, newly married couple.  “That neck kiss during the reception was great,” Steve said with a smirk, nudging Bucky’s arm.  “Just keep doing stuff like that and we’ll be good.  And…” he looked at Y/N with a slight grimace, “it would be helpful if you initiated some physical affection as well.”

Y/N huffed a laugh.  “Will do,” she said with a slight smile, looking down to hide the small blush brightening her cheeks.  It wouldn’t necessarily be hard to initiate physical contact with Bucky.  He was attractive, kind, and she liked kissing him.  It was just getting him to talk casually that would be a challenge.

“And you guys can use this time to get to know each other better,” Steve said suggestively.  “You won’t constantly be chaperoned by me or anybody else.  I’ll only be a phone call or text away, but me and the rest of the team will make ourselves scarce.”

Y/N and Buck agreed, and Steve left to the back of the plane to talk to the rest of their entourage.  Bucky bit his lip, looking everywhere but at her.  Y/N was too tired to care, and when the stewardess came by to ask if they wanted to eat she nodded happily.  “Yes, please,” she sighed.  “I haven’t had a full meal in hours.”

Bucky looked at her incredulously, a small frown creasing his brow as she ordered, then he ordered a small meal.  The stewardess walked away and he leaned forward.  “What do you mean you haven’t eaten a full meal in hours?” he asked.

Y/N waved away his concern.  “Well, we haven’t really had a moment to sit down and eat, have we?” she joked.  

“I ate at the reception.  You were right next to me, why didn’t you?” he probed, his frown deepening.  

Y/N frowned back at him.  “It’s not polite for a princess or Queen to eat while she’s being spoken to during meals,” she said robotically.  “Especially with dignitaries or other royalty.  I have to wait until the conversation is over.  The conversations just kept coming, so I snacked in between.”

He looked perplexed.  “Is that what your parents taught you?”

“Yes, and every royal protocol teacher or advisor I’ve had,” she said, shifting in her seat.

Bucky’s frown stayed, then the food was brought out for them.  Y/N thanked the staff and dug into her meal, enjoying the first real meal she’d had since breakfast.  She made it through most of it when Steve came walking back towards them.  She went to put down her utensils but Bucky shook his head at Steve.  “Give us a few more minutes, punk,” he said quickly and motioned for him to walk away.  Steve’s eyebrows raised, but he nodded and walked back the way he came.  

Y/N looked at Bucky in astonishment.  “It’s okay, Your Majesty,” she said.  “I’m almost done.”

“Finish your food, then I’ll call him over,” he said without looking at her, taking another bite of his food.  “And it’s Bucky.  Not Your Majesty.”

That damned flutter in her heart was back, and she blinked stupidly at him for a moment before picking her utensils back up and finishing the rest of her meal.  A few hours later she was asleep when she felt a nudge to her shoulder.  “Y/N,” Bucky’s voice called out to her.  “We’re here.”

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes blearily, turning her head to look at him.  He was close, leaning over her as his flesh hand rested on her shoulder.  “Hm,” she hummed.  “I’m up, I’m up.”

He gave her a tight smile then stood up, holding his hand out to her.  She quickly got her bearings and took his hand, letting him help her up.  Her team immediately surrounded her, fixing up her hair and makeup, straightening out her clothes that she had changed into halfway through the flight, popping a mint into her mouth before clearing her to leave the aircraft.  Bucky led the way out, and they were immediately met with flashing cameras and shouts of their names.  Y/N kept her smile on, politely waving at the cameras and taking Bucky’s hand when they reached the bottom of the stairs from the plane.  They stood for a moment, letting the cameras get their fill, then he pulled her towards the limo awaiting them.  

“Kiss her!”

“Kiss him!”

“Hope you have fun on your honeymoon!”

Y/N remembered what Steve said, and as Bucky opened the car door for her she gave him a wider smile then reached up and cupped the side of his face, showing off her wedding ring and sweeping her thumb along his cheek affectionately.  He smiled back at her and she sat in the car, another round of cheers and more flashes blinding her until Bucky got in the car and shut the door.

“Very good, Your Majesty,” Steve said, already in the car sitting across from them in the back-facing seats of the limo.  “Just a little razzle dazzle goes a long way.”

Y/N scoffed and relaxed back against the seat.  “Exactly how much PDA do you want from his honeymoon, Steve?” she asked.  “A nip slip?  Excessive making out?  The first royal porno?”

Bucky snorted and Steve blushed.  “Oh, um, well nothing like that,” he sputtered.

“I’m teasing,” she winked at him.  “I’m just wondering how far you want us to take it, to really sell it to the people.”

“As far as you’re willing to take it, without it becoming the first royal porno,” Steve teased back.  “Though I’m sure there are plenty of people who would love that.”

Bucky shook his head with a smirk, and Y/N nodded before sighing.  “What’s the timeline for an heir to be produced?” she asked.

Both Bucky and Steve looked at her incredulously.  They glanced at each other then back at her.  “Well…that’s…up to you two,” Steve said carefully.  

She frowned then looked at Bucky, who was giving her a sad, knowing look.  “Is that another lovely thing taught to you by your parents?” he asked quietly.

Y/N felt like she was missing something.  She looked between the two of them, trying to process the turn the conversation had taken.  “Y-Yes?” she answered simply.  “Aren’t royals expected to reproduce within the first year or year and a half?”

Bucky’s eyes looked tight and Steve cleared his throat.  “We don’t expect you to,” Steve said quietly and reassuringly, a kind look on his face.  

Y/N simply nodded then looked away from both of them and out the window.  She felt naive, like she was learning something that everybody else already knew.  Nobody spoke again for the rest of the ride to the private resort.  She and Bucky were accompanied to their little bungalow on the beach, then the door closed behind Steve after he made sure they were settled and the silence around them became deafening.  There was only one bedroom, with one bed.  But now after their earlier conversation, she wasn’t sure what to do now.  Her parents expected her to throw herself at Bucky the second she could and get pregnant.

“Well, I’m exhausted,” Bucky said as he stretched and walked toward the bedroom.  “What side of the bed do you normally sleep on?”

Y/N followed him, watching as he rummaged through his suitcase and started pulling out things for bedtime.  She glanced at the king sized bed.  “Um, usually that side,” she pointed at her left.  

“Sounds good,” he said noncommittally.  He gathered up his things and headed to the bathroom.  “Did you want to shower?”  Her eyes widened and he whirled around with his own eyes wide and held a hand up as he shook his head.  “Not together!  I mean…not that I would mind that, but I don’t expect it, you know?  I–”

Y/N snorted and started laughing, almost doubling over at the look on his face.  “Oh my god, Bucky,” she giggled, covering her mouth with her hand and shaking her head.  He huffed a laugh and rubbed his eyes.  “I may have been taught some pretty shitty purity culture and royal protocol things by my parents, but I’m not some fragile virgin,” she said.  “Yes, I would like to shower, but you can go first.  I’ll unpack while you do what you gotta do.”

Bucky chuckled and nodded.  “Okay, I won’t be long.”

A while later he came out of the bathroom as Y/N was picking through her pajama travel bag with a frown.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Y/N groaned and hung her head in her hand, rubbing a hand down her face.  “You’re gonna judge my parents real bad,” she said in warning.  Bucky sat on the bed next to her and she looked at him with a grimace.  “My mom replaced all my regular underwear, my pajamas, and my swimsuits with this,” she said, pulling out lacy lingerie set after lacy lingerie set, even the swimsuits looking very revealing.

Bucky’s eyes widened, a blush painting his cheeks as he eyed it all.  “Jesus,” he murmured.  “They really want you pregnant.”

Y/N laughed at that.  “Yeah,” she said.  “They’re um…very enthusiastic about this marriage.”

Bucky shook his head then reached out and thumbed one of the sets.  “Do you have a tank top or something you could wear instead?” he asked.

“Actually, yeah!” she said, quickly getting up and going over to the closet she had been hanging everything up in.  She pulled out an oversized white tank top that she usually used for covering up her swimsuits, then went back to the mound of lingerie and picked out the only piece that was more of a short than a panty.  “This should work,” she said, then smiled at him.  “I’ll go shower.”

“Take your time,” Bucky smiled back at her.

The shower was rejuvenating, but also reminded her how late it was and how tired she was from the eventful day.  She opened the bathroom door to find Bucky had put all the lingerie back into the travel bag and thrown it onto her closet floor, and he was texting on his phone while leaning against the headboard of the bed.  “I’m having Steve order you some new pajamas,” he said as he finished typing the message.  “And we can look at swimsuits in the shops nearby tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Y/N said with an appreciative smile.  He finally looked up at her then did a double take.  Her tank top was a bit large, so she knew that the side of her breasts would most likely show, as well as her cleavage, so she kept her arms close to her sides as she walked to her side of the bed.  The underwear shorts she wore were longer than a panty but not by much, and were skin tight, showing off the curves of her ass.  He looked her up and down as she climbed into the bed under the covers before turning away from him and getting comfortable.  “Goodnight,” she breathed.

There was a short pause of silence, then Bucky shifted and got comfortable under the covers as well.  “Goodnight,” he replied quietly.

Y/N tried to relax, shutting her eyes and wishing for sleep to take over.  But she was so overtly aware of him next to her, it was difficult to even breathe normally.  Suddenly a text dinged on her phone, and she inwardly cursed herself for not silencing it.  She reached over and grabbed it from the nightstand, and upon seeing it was from her mother she tensed and pressed her thumb on the notification.

I hope His Majesty enjoys the gifts I set aside in your suitcase.  Be smart, dear.  Remember the positions I taught you, and you’ll have an heir in no time.  

Y/N couldn’t believe the audacity of her mother.  She was about to type a quick reply when Bucky’s metal hand snatched the phone out of her hand.  She gasped and turned to find him leaned upwards on his right elbow, making him hover above her, the deep crease between his eyebrows even more prominent as he glared at the message.  He scoffed then turned her phone off and set it on his nightstand before turning back to face her, his eyes softening as he met her gaze.

“I don’t want you speaking to your parents until they can speak to you as a daughter that they actually care about,” he said firmly.  “Anything else can go through me.”  Y/N stared up at him with wide eyes, her mouth agape as her eyes flicked between his in surprise.  He stared back at her for a moment before sighing and looking away.  “I know that this isn’t something either of us chose.  That my country forced your hand.  But I hope we can make something good out of this.  Make something good between us.”  He hesitantly met her gaze again.  He looked hopeful, and it made a small crack in her hardened heart for what could be in the future.  

“I hope so, too,” she murmured.

Bucky gave her a grateful half smile and nodded before growing serious again.  “I need you to understand that I know we will eventually need to be together…uh, sexually, but I won’t push you or force you.  I’d rather we work up to that and grow as a couple.”

Y/N felt incredibly grateful to him at that moment.  She had been coached and pressured from the moment their engagement had been announced by her parents and their advisors on how to seduce the prince, that she would be expected to bed a complete stranger on their wedding night and immediately have his babies to secure the alliance.  But he was no monster, and all the stress and inappropriate conversations she’d had drilled into her head for the past month now slipped away.  The crack in her heart was chipped away even further, and she silently sighed and gave him a real smile for the first time since they’d met.

“Thank you,” she whispered, not trusting her voice at the moment.

Bucky seemed to be able to read the emotions on her face and returned her smile, then leaned down and kissed her cheek before lying back down.  “Goodnight,” he yawned.

“Goodnight,” she said, yawning as well before snuggling back down under the covers.  Everything would be alright…wouldn’t it?

[smutmind]

Heyy, i love your Work

I just wanna know what else do you have writing of the serie monster?

And if is not to much to ask can you do Karina or Chaewon

Monster ft. Karina [TW]

The lock clicked behind her. Karina froze, heart thudding in her ears.

She stood in the guest room like a lamb in a predator’s den. The light was dim, curtains half-drawn as if they, too, didn’t want to witness this. The air reeked of sweat, old incense, and something darker. Mr. Sato was barefoot, his shirt already discarded, muscles taut and eyes gleaming. He looked at her like she was something to dissect.

"You know why you’re here," he said, voice smooth, dangerous.

Karina’s throat tightened. Her hands curled into fists. "I made a mistake."

He laughed—low, sharp, and without warmth. "You walked in. Not much room for doubt now."

She didn’t move. Every muscle screamed to run. Her skin prickled like it sensed something her mind refused to admit.

"Your father signed his soul to me. But you? You’re the interest. The bonus prize."

Her breath caught, sharp and thin.

He stepped in, each footfall heavier than the last. "If you want to walk, say it. Out loud. Right now."

She opened her mouth. Nothing came.

"That’s what I thought."

He reached for her shirt. She slapped his hand, sudden, trembling.

"Don’t."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then go."

She didn’t.

Her breathing quickened. He circled her like a wolf, deliberate, drawn out. He unbuttoned her blouse slowly, watching her face for signs of protest. She offered none. But she didn’t help. Her arms stayed limp at her sides, fists clenched.

He peeled her shirt off like he was unwrapping something he owned. Her bra followed. She flinched when he grabbed her breasts.

"Stop—don’t touch me like that," she snapped, voice raw.

He only squeezed harder. "Tears don’t move me, Karina. They excite me."

Her skin crawled like it was trying to peel away from his touch. He leaned in and kissed her collarbone—not tender, not even passionate. Hungry.

“Please… there has to be another way.” she whispered, eyes avoiding his.

He shoved her back onto the bed, the mattress groaning under the sudden weight. He climbed over her, his knees pinning her thighs apart. She whimpered, eyes wide, body rigid.

"You’re afraid of me," he said, leaning closer. "You should be."

His mouth latched to her nipple. She jerked, a strangled sound escaping her.

"Don’t—please—"

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. One hand clamped down on her other breast, fingers bruising. His other hand slid down, fingers between her legs. She tried to close them, her hips jerking away.

He pried them open. Easily. Like she wasn’t even resisting.

"Don’t fight it. You’ve already lost."

A creak echoed above them.

Karina’s heart stuttered. Her father. Upstairs. Asleep. Oblivious.

"He’s just above us," she whispered, horrified. "He’ll hear."

Sato grinned. "Then scream. Let him know exactly what you’ve given to save him."

He yanked her panties down, cast them aside. Her thighs trembled.

When he entered her, there was no warning. No pause. No care. Just heat and pressure and pain.

She cried out, back arching, mouth gaping in disbelief.

He groaned, biting down on her shoulder. "Tighter than I imagined."

"It hurts," she gasped, nails digging into the sheets, tears flooding her vision.

"Good."

She pushed against his chest, desperate. He grabbed her wrists and slammed them above her head, pinning her to the mattress.

"You begged for mercy. Not escape."

Tears slipped down her face, silent and hot. Above, another footstep. Maybe a stir in the hallway.

"Please stop," she whispered, panic rising. "If he wakes—"

"Let him come. Let him see what his debt has bought."

He flipped her over like she was weightless. Bent her forward. Used her. Her body obeyed with mechanical compliance. Every thrust took something—her breath, her will, her self.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back. "You feel this? This is what payment sounds like."

Her voice cracked. "Please… not like this. Just stop."

He laughed. "You still think you have leverage."

Her body jolted with each thrust, her cheek pressed to the mattress. Her hands clawed at the sheets.

"Please," she whispered. "Not inside. I’ll swallow. I’ll take it. Just not like that."

He didn’t answer. Didn’t slow. Her pleas were background noise to him.

She sobbed when he came. Rough. Deep. A final violation. Her body tensed, then collapsed.

He pulled out without a word. She curled onto her side, small and shivering.

Then she snapped.

She pushed herself up, hands shaking. Her voice cracked but filled with fury. "I begged you. I begged you not to do that. I would’ve taken it—anything—but not inside. You said nothing. You just—"

Her chest heaved. She glared up at him through tears. "Do you even hear me? Or do you only hear yourself?"

He didn’t reply. Just looked down at her, cold and unmoved.

Then he grabbed her jaw.

"Clean it."

She blinked at him, confused.

"You wanted to swallow, didn’t you? So earn it."

He shoved his still-wet cock toward her mouth. She hesitated. He didn’t wait—just pressed until her lips parted. She closed her eyes, obeyed, licking him clean as silent tears streamed down her face.

When he stepped back, she collapsed again, trembling and hollow.

He wiped her mouth like she’d said something filthy.

She didn’t speak. Her lips were cracked. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven waves. The ceiling above creaked again.

Minutes passed. The world outside kept turning. The city’s neon buzz filtered through the curtains.

Then she found her voice. What little was left of it.

Her whisper wasn’t broken. It was final.

"Monster."

[slut4smokemoore09]

When You Know, You Know "Man I think I fucked up..."

Annie & Smoke's House — Backyard, Mississippi, 1998

The morning air was humid, thick with that heavy Mississippi heat that clung to your skin like a second layer. Cicadas were already screaming in the trees, and the smell of grass, sweat, and distant barbecue lingered like a memory.

Sammie sat stiff on the back porch steps, wearing a wrinkled white tee and some gray shorts, elbows on his knees, staring at the dirt like it owed him money.

Smoke leaned back against the rail post, shirtless in black jeans, lazy as always, puffing on a Black & Mild with his eyes half-lidded.

Stack had a cap twisted sideways on his head, an old Sprite can in one hand, bouncing on his heels like a damn puppy that needed walkin'.

"So... what's wrong wit'chu now?" Stack asked, already grinning like he knew the answer.

Sammie shook his head. "Nothin', bro."

"Uh huh. That 'nothin' voice sound a whole lot like a 'somethin' voice," Stack said, squintin'. "You look like you seen a ghost... or like you kissed one."

Sammie ran a hand down his face. "Man..."

Smoke didn't say nothin'. Just let the silence breathe.

Sammie finally leaned back, elbows pressed behind him. "Aight, listen—don't laugh, aight?"

Stack: "I'm definitely finna laugh."

Sammie gave him a look, then sighed. "Last night... I was sleepin', right?"

"Yeah..."

"And she was sleepin' too—Evangelize. And we was in the bed 'cause you know Annie got all the guest rooms full and shit—"

Stack cut in: "Uh huh, yeah, yeah, go 'head."

Sammie took a deep breath.

"...I said it."

Stack blinked. "Said what?"

Sammie stared down at the wooden steps. "I said I loved her."

Silence.

Stack blinked slowly. "Out loud?"

Sammie nodded once. "Whispered it. Thought she was sleep."

Smoke let out a low "Damn."

"And then," Sammie added, "I woke up this mornin' laid on top of her like a damn bear rug."

Stack damn near choked on his Sprite. "NIGGA, WHAT?"

"I ain't mean to!" Sammie snapped. "I ain't know I even laid on her like that. I was sleepin' heavy."

Stack sat down two steps above him, laughing hard. "You mean to tell me you confessed your undyin' love while she was sleepin' then fell asleep on top of her like y'all been married ten years?"

Sammie buried his face in his hands. "I was layin' on her chest, bro. Like face to titties. My leg was hangin' over her, other one under, arm round her waist—like I was tryna become her."

Smoke chuckled low, finally speaking. "That boy said 'Fusion dance.'"

Sammie moaned into his palms. "Bruh, I can't even look her in the eye. She came down to breakfast this mornin' and I damn near ran back upstairs."

Stack slapped his knee. "She prolly ain't even hear you say nothin', dawg!"

Sammie shot him a look. "I ain't stupid, Stack. She was blushing like hell. And she kept lookin' at me like she knew somethin'. Plus—Annie gave me that look. You know the one."

Smoke nodded slowly. "Yeah, she knew."

Sammie leaned his head back against the wooden post. "I been actin' like she don't exist all damn day. Every time she walk in the room, I act like I'm busy. I started sweepin' outside, bro. Ain't nothin' out here but dust."

Stack leaned forward. "Okay but... be real, Sam. You meant it, right?"

Sammie looked down again. "Yeah... I meant it."

Stack clapped a hand on his back. "Aight then. That ain't no L. You was just... premature wit' the declaration."

Smoke tapped ash off the tip of his Black & Mild. "You scared 'cause you got somethin' to lose now."

Sammie stared out across the yard, heart thudding slowly. "...She looked so peaceful. And warm. I ain't even wanna move."

Smoke just nodded like he understood. "That's what love feel like. Make you feel like you home even when you somewhere temporary."

Stack shook his head, but he wasn't smiling anymore. "You gon' tell her you know she heard?"

Sammie didn't answer right away.

"Nah," he finally said. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"'Cause... if she was tryna pretend she ain't hear, that mean she wasn't ready. I ain't tryna rush her. I ain't tryna make her run."

Smoke raised his eyebrows slightly, impressed.

Stack just leaned back and muttered, "Damn. That boy growin' up."

Sammie rolled his eyes. "Man, shut up."

But still, he smiled a little.

The kind of smile that only shows up when your heart's too full to keep pretending.

The sun was leaning low in the sky, throwing long shadows across the porch where Evangelize sat curled up on the swing, one leg tucked under her, the other swinging slowly. She wasn't crying, not exactly. But her face was tight, her eyes somewhere far off, and that stubborn little line had shown up between her brows again.

The door creaked behind her, and Smoke stepped out, shirtless, a towel hanging around his neck. He smelled like work—wood, sweat, and outside. He didn't say anything right away. Just stood there for a second, then lowered himself onto the steps.

"You good?" he asked after a beat.

Evangelize shrugged, eyes still straight ahead.

"Mm," Smoke grunted, chewing the inside of his cheek. "That's a no."

Silence.

The swing creaked beneath her, and the breeze finally picked up enough to cut through the heat. Evangelize exhaled slowly, trying to cool the fire in her chest.

"He walked right past me," she muttered. "Looked me dead in my face. Didn't say a damn thing."

Smoke didn't ask who. He didn't need to.

"Like I ain't him," she said, voice harder now. "Like I don't live in the same house. Like we wasn't just sittin' up last week laughin' about dumb shit."

Smoke ran his fingers through his hair, leaned back on his elbows. "Y'all fall out or somethin'?"

Evangelize shook her head. "That's what's crazy—no. Nothin' happened. He just switched up. Startin' actin' weird outta nowhere. And now it's like I'm invisible or somethin'."

She leaned back in the swing, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched.

"We best friends," she said. "He been my person since—shit, since I got here. That boy know all my business, all my moods. He used to finish my sentences, Smoke. Like... we was locked in."

Smoke nodded slowly.

"And now he actin' like I done somethin' wrong, but won't even say what it is."

"That boy speak to anybody else?" Smoke asked.

"Yep," she said quick. "He talkin' to Stack, laughin' with Annie. Whole time I walk past, he look down at his hands like I'm air. I said, 'you good?' last night. You know what he said?"

Smoke raised an eyebrow.

"Nothin'. He just blinked at me and kept it pushin'. Like I'm crazy for even askin'."

Smoke didn't say nothin' right away.

Evangelize glanced at him. "You ever had somebody go quiet on you for no reason? Like, one minute y'all vibin', and the next—it's like you don't even exist?"

Smoke gave a slow nod. "Yeah. I have."

She rubbed her hand across her forehead, frustrated. "I can't tell if I'm mad or hurt. 'Cause I keep wantin' to be like, 'what the hell wrong with you?' but also... I miss him. And it's hard to miss somebody who in the same room."

Smoke let that one sit.

"Maybe he goin' through somethin' he don't know how to talk about," he offered.

Evangelize scoffed. "That's what everybody say. But if I'm your best friend, why you can't talk to me?"

"I ain't sayin' it make sense. Just sayin'—some folks bottle up. Even when they don't mean to."

She went quiet again, staring out at the gravel driveway.

Then, softer: "I'm tryin' not to take it personal. But how can I not?"

Smoke stood and stretched, popping his neck. "You ever wanna hit somethin', let me know. I'll hold the pillow."

That got a tiny laugh out of her. "Shut up."

He grinned, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head real quick like a big brother would. "He'll come around. Don't chase him, though. Let him feel that distance. Let him miss you back."

She nodded, slow but still heated. "He better."

Smoke headed inside, letting the screen door slam just a little. Evangelize stayed on the swing, her fingers curlin' into the armrest like they had somethin' to say.

Inside the house, she could hear laughter—Stack's loud ass, and that familiar second voice, low and muffled, his voice.

She blinked fast, looking out at the street like it could distract her from the ache in her chest.

"He walkin' around here like I don't even matter," she whispered to herself.

The swing creaked again.

And still, he ain't said a word.

[elliespassagerprincess]

could you please write like pfofessor ellie not going to class because aurora is sick? sorry for my bad english 🫶🫶

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie masterlist

TW: mentions of seizures

☆ Ellie was deep into a lecture on postmodern theory, gesturing at the board, when her phone buzzed. She ignored it—until she saw your name.

☆ You never called during her class. Texted sometimes, but never called. Her stomach dropped instantly.

☆ At first, she thought maybe you forgot what time it was—but the second time your name flashed again, she froze mid-sentence.

☆ Her TA offered to finish the lecture. Ellie didn’t even respond. She walked straight out with her phone pressed to her ear.

☆ “Baby?” she answered, voice low, urgent. Then she heard it: Aurora’s sobbing, Arnold screaming, and you—panicked.

☆ “Ellie—she’s burning up—she’s shaking—I don’t know what to do, I can’t get her to open her eyes—”

☆ Ellie’s face drained of color. “Where are you right now? I'm coming. Keep her awake. Don't hang up.”

☆ She ran across campus like she didn’t care who saw, pushing past confused students and nearly getting hit by a bike.

☆ Her whole body went cold hearing Arnold crying in the background, yelling “Mommy! Mommy, Ro-Ro won’t wake up!”

☆ She called your pediatrician while in the car, eyes blurry, barely stopping at red lights. Her voice cracked: “She’s six. She has a history of febrile seizures. This is an emergency.”

☆ Ellie burst through the front door still holding her phone, and immediately dropped to her knees at the sight of Aurora limp in your arms.

☆ Arnold clung to her leg, hiccupping and crying, terrified and confused. Ellie scooped him up with one arm while pressing her lips to Aurora’s forehead.

☆ She barked out instructions like a soldier—wet towel, ice pack, call the pediatrician again—until she caught the fear in your eyes and softened.

☆ “I’ve got her now,” she whispered to you, holding Aurora to her chest, rocking her gently. “You did good. You’re okay.”

☆ She checked her daughter’s breathing every five minutes, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her face, whispering, “Mommy’s here, baby girl.”

☆ Arnold sat beside her, clutching her shirt. “Ro-Ro’s broken?” Ellie held both children tight. “No, sweetheart. She’s just fighting really hard right now.”

☆ You stood behind her shaking. Ellie reached one arm back blindly, pulling you to the floor, to her chest, into the huddle of trembling limbs and panic.

☆ She called her department, voice thick: “I’m taking personal leave. My daughter’s sick. I don’t know how long. I’ll send materials.”

☆ She didn’t move from the living room floor that night. Laid there with Aurora in her lap, Arnold beside her, and you curled against her chest.

☆ Even asleep, she kept one hand on Aurora’s chest to feel it rise and fall, counting seconds between every breath.

☆ The next day, Ellie couldn’t stop blaming herself. “I should’ve known something was off. She was clingy yesterday. I brushed it off.”

☆ She sobbed silently in the shower so you and the kids wouldn’t hear, hands pressed against the tile, whispering “please don’t take her from me.”

☆ Aurora murmured “Mama El” in her fever dreams, and Ellie would cry every time, whispering “I'm right here, angel.”

☆ She refused to let anyone else hold Aurora—even you—for the first twelve hours.

☆ She fed Arnold while bouncing Aurora in her lap. She looked wrecked but still kissed his head and said, “Don’t be scared, buddy. Your sister’s strong.”

☆ Ellie didn’t sleep. Not once. She spent the whole night memorizing Aurora’s fever patterns, alternating ice and lukewarm baths, cradling her close.

☆ She kept whispering “I should’ve stayed home today. I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it.” You had to hold her and say, “She needs you strong now, not guilty.”

☆ Arnold kept waking up crying. Ellie climbed into his bed with him, holding his tiny hands, kissing his tears away while Aurora slept on your chest.

☆ She kept checking your pulse, your temperature too. You were emotionally fried, and Ellie could see you spiraling. “You’re not allowed to fall apart without me.”

☆ She emailed her students personally. “I’m sorry I had to leave. There was a family emergency. Please be kind to one another this week.”

☆ When Aurora finally opened her eyes, Ellie broke down and kissed every inch of her face. “There you are, baby girl. There you are.”

☆ Aurora whispered, “My belly hurts…” and Ellie responded, “We’re gonna make it feel all better, okay? Mommy and Mama El got you.”

☆ She made a pillow fort for Arnold just to distract him while still checking Aurora’s vitals every half hour.

☆ You caught her kissing Aurora’s hand like a prayer, over and over again.

☆ Arnold asked, “Is Ro gonna go to heaven?” Ellie pulled him into her lap immediately. “No, baby. Not for a long, long, long time.”

☆ When Aurora smiled weakly at her juice, Ellie sobbed against your neck like her world was restarting.

☆ She wrote all the symptoms and medication times in her journal in tiny, perfect handwriting—“because my daughter deserves accuracy.”

☆ You caught her thanking the universe out loud. “You scared the shit out of me, Ro, but thank you for coming back.”

☆ Aurora whispered “Mama El?” at 2 a.m. Ellie was by her side in seconds. “You okay?” “I missed you in my dream.” Ellie sobbed.

☆ She told you the next morning, “If we ever lose her, I’ll go with her. I swear to God.”

☆ You hadn’t let yourself cry fully until Ellie came home. When she held you in bed, everything spilled out.

☆ She kept whispering, “You did so good, baby. I’m so proud of you. You called me. That saved her.”

☆ You said, “I didn’t know what to do.” Ellie cupped your face, “You did everything right.”

☆ You fell asleep holding her hand, her arm over Aurora’s waist. Ellie whispered, “I could live here forever.”

☆ She made you tea and forced you to rest once Aurora stabilized, carrying you bridal style to the couch.

☆ She kept texting you every hour while you napped. “Aurora smiled. Arnold farted. We’re okay. I love you.”

☆ Ellie bought your favorite snacks and restocked the medicine cabinet with backup fever meds.

☆ You caught her sketching again—Aurora asleep, Arnold cuddled at her side. You, blurry in the background.

☆ “This house doesn’t breathe without you,” she told you. “I don’t breathe without you either.”

☆ You kissed her slowly, hands in her hair, and whispered, “Thank you for coming home.”

☆ Ellie declined two guest lectures and ignored all her committee meetings. Her only priority was home.

☆ When she finally checked her email, there were 300 unread messages. She read none.

☆ She rescheduled midterms. Students were confused. She didn’t care.

☆ When Arnold asked if she was going to work again, she answered, “Not until your sister’s bouncing again.”

☆ She cooked meals from scratch—soups, comfort food—and you caught her humming lullabies while stirring broth.

☆ Her academic journals sat untouched. Instead, she read The Gruffalo five times to Arnold and Aurora, even when they were too tired to listen.

☆ She stopped wearing her usual crisp outfits—just sweatpants, your old hoodie, and messy braids.

☆ When Aurora asked why she looked sad, Ellie smiled gently. “Because you scared me, lovebug. But Mama El’s okay now.”

☆ Ellie swore she’d never take another class lightly again. “Family first. Every time. Always.”

☆ When you teased her about it, she replied dead serious: “I’d burn every degree I have for you three.”

☆ When Aurora got her energy back, Ellie took the whole family on a “recovery picnic” to the backyard.

☆ She hung fairy lights in the living room and let Arnold and Aurora fall asleep watching cartoons in a blanket nest.

☆ She started writing a paper on maternal instinct. It included a paragraph about “the call that split time in two.”

☆ You both agreed to keep emergency protocols more visible—color-coded notes on the fridge, double-packed medicine kits.

☆ Ellie started sleeping with one arm over each child every night for weeks. It grounded her.

☆ She kissed your temple every morning and whispered “thank you for trusting me.”

☆ She bought a locket and put pictures of both kids in it. On the back, she engraved: “Call me. Always.”

☆ You woke up once to find her watching Aurora sleep. “Just making sure,” she whispered, teary.

☆ Ellie started including family anecdotes in her lectures, more open with students about what love really looks like.

☆ And every time you call her now—even for something small—she answers before the first ring finishes, heart open, ready to protect the world she built with you.