#scan the future without fear

[saudad3]

Daddy was a rolling stone

Smoke x Reader Word Count: 1,908 Summary: Baby Daddy! Smoke returns to the Mississippi Delta with two things hot on his mind -- his woman and his baby. Let's just say, all he was met with was a purse to the face. Genre: two parts angst, one part fluff!! enjoy

Part. II

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

“I hope you rot in hell, Elijah Moore,” you spat in the man’s direction before turning on your heels and beelining it out of the bustling grocery store. Your face was hot with embarrassment as you made an honest attempt to compose yourself, smoothing over your white church dress and gripping your purse in front of your thighs. 

Here you were, thinking that after listening to your daddy’s sermon at church this morning, you’d simply stop in town to pick up some additional ingredients for Sunday dinner – red snapper for daddy, some collard greens for you, and cornmeal for your mama’s famous cornbread. 

Sunday was your favorite day of the week. The house was filled with the busy chatter of aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins playing in the yard, and your mama yelling at them to “quit that rough playin’!” through the kitchen window. On these occasions, you could be seen in the living room with your sisters and girl cousins gushing and cooing over your one-year-old baby girl, Elisabeth. 

Unbeknownst to you, you would be thrown off course when met face to face with the father of your baby girl, whom you had presumed dead sixteen months ago – Elijah “Smoke” Moore. 

Ever unchanging, Smoke’s serious aura and towering figure announced himself to the market before his low, southern drawl could. Everywhere Smoke walked, he turned heads in fear. Murmurs of infamous heists and crimes follow closely behind. 

You turned your head with everybody, face heating up as your eyes met his. 

You’re supposed to be dead.  You thought, head whirring with a myriad of thoughts, none of them particularly kind to you. Then, came the fury.

Screw Sunday dinner. 

You quickly placed the products you had stored in your basket back on the shelves before scanning the grocery store for an exit. All the while, Smoke makes his way through the crowd to you. You sped towards the glass door separating you from the outside world before stopping in your tracks at the call of your name. 

“Stop runnin’ away from me.” Smoke called out to you, earning some more disapproving stares from the aunties looking over produce.

You didn’t feel bad for damning Smoke to hell. Gosh, he deserved it. 

Smoke disappeared without a word two months before your pregnancy due date, making you give birth alone. You had been raising your baby girl with only the help of your family, which you were so thankful for. But nothing could cure the sting of being scorned by your former lover, who, by the looks of it, believed he could just come waltzing back into your life, demanding to play father and husband. 

You think the fuck not!

--

When you told Smoke that you missed your menstrual for the fifth week in a row, you expected the notorious gangster to be pissed. You mustered up the courage you could to include him in your pregnancy, telling him you were gonna keep this baby regardless of whether he was in your life or not. Instead of the expected rejection, the goofiest smile you’d ever seen plastered across Smoke’s face, and he dropped to his knees, peppering the smallest kisses onto your belly. 

That night, he promised you he’d be the father to his baby that his father never could be to the twins. He professed his love to you in confidence, declaring you his woman between the plush sheets of your bed.

His future wife. 

And for eight months, he kept this act up. He delegated most of the dangerous, dirty work of the Smokestack twins to his baby brother Stack, freed up his schedule to wait on you hand and foot, and even asked your father for permission to propose. 

Your sister giggled like a schoolgirl as she watched from between the stair bannisters. Smoke in his Sunday’s best, sat across the stern gaze of your father, adjusting his blue tie ever so often, and sweating in the cool air of the winter from nervousness. When your sister burst into your room, her infectious giggle let you know that Smoke was able to seal the deal with your father, and you two would soon be officially engaged. 

Two weeks later, he was gone.

He’d booked it up to Chicago with Stack, following promises of big money and “good work.” What followed for you was a maddening silence. 

Not a single letter or a telephone call throughout his absence made you convince yourself that he was dead. Maybe, he'd been caught up in the wrath of an Italian mobster from the dirty slums of Chicago. You mourned Smoke and his brother, Stack, whom you learned to love as your own. You halted your life for months, barely going outside, consumed by grief and the care of your new baby. During the nights, while your sister nursed and cared for baby Elisabeth, your mother soothed you from nightmarish visions of Smoke’s stiff body, bloody and bruised, drifting down the river. 

And now, sixteen months later, he’s returned to the Mississippi Delta – alive and well. In a perfectly tailored, expensive tweed suit that fit his strong figure, and chasing you out of the market and into the hot summer sun. 

“You needa stop followin’ me if you know what’s good for you Smoke.” 

No one dared talk to the Smokestack twins in such a brazen manner, but you were feeling mighty bold today. Anger rumbled in your chest as you took long, brisk steps out of the town square and onto the back road that led to your family’s plot of land. Trees stretched down the sides of the dirt road for what seemed like miles before you.

“You needa stop walkin away and tell me why you runnin’ from me,” Smoke addressed you seriously, grabbing your hand and forcing you to turn his way. His face was hardened with frustration, his nostrils flared with each breath.

Before your mouth could react, your body did, and before you knew it, your white handbag connected with the side of Smoke’s temple. 

“Who are you to touch me?” you shouted, landing a few more blows to Smoke's shoulder and torso. Your knuckles turned pale from how strongly you gripped your purse.

“What the fuck-” Smoke attempted to grab your hand and block you from attempting another swing, forcing you to looking up into his cold, chocolate eyes. You immediately softened and whipped your arm away from his large, calloused hands

No one attempted to harm the Smokestack brothers and got away scot free.

You licked your lips, suddenly feeling a bit bashful under the hardened gaze of your former lover, averting your eyes to anything but him.

“What are you doin’ here anyway?” you mustered out, suddenly more interested in weed across the way than the vision of your handsome ex-fiance. 

“I came to see you,” He took a slow step in your direction, keeping his hands at his sides. “I’ve come home.”

“You lost your damn mind if you think you gotta home here,” you chuckled dryly, looked at him in disbelief, before attempting to move past him.  

You ignored the way his familiar southern drawl ignited a certain fire within your stomach, one that ain't been tended to in months. You had to keep strong. Your baby was being raised without a loving father in her life, and you wasn’t gonna let him walk in and out of your life when he was chasing a thrill of looking for a quick fuck. 

“I want to see my baby girl,” Smoke started, stopping you in your tracks once again. 

“How you know she's a girl?” You whipped around, face morphed in pure confusion.

The corner of Smoke’s mouth tugged into a small smile, the glint of his gold fangs sparking in the sun. “I figured I’d pay the Rev a visit this mornin'. Had some sins I needed forgiven and whatnot.” 

You cursed your father for being the pushover he was, always giving words of god to those who you don't believe deserve it. You rolled your eyes before Smoke started again. 

“He told me how much I hurt you, darlin’. How you been taking care of our baby girl by yourself while I been away.”  Smoke’s eyes filled with sorrow as he pulled your smaller frame into his. He breathed in your scent as if it were the only source of air for his lungs and he hugged you so tightly, you threatened to pop. You bit your lip to stop hot tears from falling from your eyes, but did not hug back. “I missed you so damn much, baby.”

Smoke was alright with that. Just as long as he had his woman in his arms again.

– 

You allowed Smoke to walk you home just before the afternoon sun scorched you both. You allowed him to hold you for a few more minutes on the front porch before you invited him in. You allowed him to sit stiffly in the living room of your home, blazing under the unapproving gaze of your youngest siblings, before dismissing them to their rooms. 

“Do you wanna meet her?” You asked meekly, standing at the foot of your stairs. He nodded eagerly at the question, almost stumbling to his feet. He wiped his hand on his suit pants before rushing to the stairs, careful not to ambush you.

In your bedroom, on a small cot next to your bed, lay Elisabeth, sleeping peacefully, with a blue rabbit snuggled up to her slowly rising chest. She still had on her frilly white dress from church this morning and dark, soft curls brushing over her chubby cheeks. She was a splitting image of her father in looks, but you were thankful she at least had your lips and nose. 

You watched as Smoke entered the room carefully, trying his best not the make a noise or disturb the child's sleep. You bit back a laugh as he looked at you awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. This image of him was a sight to behold. Rarely was Smoke ever unsure of himself.

‘Elisabeth,” you cooed the child awake, earning a small huff from the child and her turning her back from you.

That attitude must have been from Stack. 

“Elisabeth, you have a special visitor,” You laughed at your baby girl, who wiped her tired eyes and immediately attempted to bury herself in your arms, arms wrapping around your neck. “C’mon Elisabth, that’s not polite.”

Smoke stood in the entryway of the room, brimming with pride. He let you take the reins of the interaction, but you could tell he wanted so badly to hold his baby girl. You motioned him to come closer before passing Elisabeth into his arms. 

God, he couldn’t contain his joy. Elisabeth practically melted into her father’s arms, letting out a small yawn. He scanned her beautiful features, imprinting them into his mind for all of eternity. 

Little did you know, he had been looking forward to this day for sixteen months. 487 days passed without being able to contact his woman on account of the dangerous jobs he was taking with the Irish mob.

487 days passed with nothing to think about but what you were doing, how you felt, who you could take comfort in while he was away. 

487 days passed without being able to touch and feel his beautiful baby girl and his precious wife. 

“Papa’s here,” Smoke whispered into your daughter’s ear. “Don't worry. Papa’s here.” 

You felt a beat in your chest of satisfaction, maybe something a bit sweeter than that. You touched your cheeks as hot, slow tears escaped the corners of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks.

You allowed Smoke to stay for dinner that night, allowing him to hold her baby girl for hours without end. Maybe, after the sun went down, he would have the chance to hold you as well.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Hello guys! Had this idea all weekend and wrote some paragraphs down whilst I was on a weekend trip. Saw sinners again, and gosh, do I love the twins. Anywhosits, this was supposed to be a drabble, but ended up almost 2000 words, so hope you enjoy! Also, if you have any fic ideas or wanna talk about sinners, my inbox is open bbies.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 29: August 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The room was dim and quiet, the hum of the ultrasound machine filling the space like background music to something sacred. The lights were low, the monitor flickering in cool blue and white. Belle laid back on the padded exam table, her hand already clasped tightly in Max’s, their fingers woven together like they had been every step of the way.

It wasn’t their first scan, but something about this one felt different. More real. More final.

 Because this one held a question neither of them had spoken aloud in the car ride over — not out of fear, but reverence.

“Alright,” the doctor said with a warm smile, moving the probe gently across the slight swell of Belle’s stomach. “Baby’s looking strong. Great heartbeat. Plenty of movement.”

Belle exhaled slowly. Max hadn’t stopped watching the screen since it turned on, his eyes wide and unblinking. She knew that look — the same one he wore when studying telemetry before a race. But this wasn’t data. This was theirs.

“Would you like to know the gender?” the doctor asked, her tone gentle. “It’s very clear now, if you’re ready.”

Belle glanced sideways. Max was already looking at her.

“You decide,” he said softly. “I’m good either way.”

Belle hesitated — but only for a heartbeat.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We want to know.”

The doctor smiled, angled the wand slightly, and froze the image.

“Well,” she said, “looks like your little one isn’t shy.”

Belle held her breath.

“It’s a boy.”

The words didn’t quite register at first.

But then Belle felt it — like a small bloom of warmth behind her ribs, like laughter waiting to escape. Her free hand flew to her mouth as her eyes flooded without warning.

A boy.

She turned her head, eyes meeting Max’s — and he looked absolutely stunned.

Not shocked. Just wrecked in the softest, most beautiful way.

“A boy?” Max whispered, like if he said it too loud it might disappear.

Belle nodded, tears slipping freely now, her chest tight with wonder. “A boy.”

Max leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers, his voice unsteady with emotion. “We’re having a son.”

And then he laughed — just a little, just enough — before kissing her tear-streaked cheek and murmuring, “He’s going to look just like you, you know.”

Belle let out a watery laugh. “God help him.”

Max shook his head, his thumb brushing her temple. “He’s going to be loved like crazy. That’s what matters.”

She reached up, cupped his cheek with a hand that still trembled, and whispered, “He already is.”

Max didn’t let go of Belle’s hand. He didn’t stop staring at the screen where their son’s tiny silhouette still floated in grayscale. He looked like he was trying to memorize every pixel, like this was the most important moment of his life.

And maybe it was.

Belle turned toward the screen too, her other hand resting protectively over her belly. It was still surreal. Still breathtaking.

Their son. Not just the baby. A boy. A future. A beginning.

She pressed her forehead to Max’s again, her voice quiet but sure.

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

Max’s reply was a whisper in return, fierce and full of love.

“Me either, schatje.”

***

The house was quiet that night.

Max sat on the edge of their bed, one hand in his hair, the other resting absently on his thigh. His shirt was rumpled — he’d changed hours ago, but hadn’t moved much since. The only light came from Belle’s bedside lamp, casting everything in gold.

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Humming softly. Completely unaware of the way his chest felt like it was caving in.

They were having a boy.

A son.

Max Verstappen was going to be father to a boy.

And that should’ve made him feel ten feet tall.

Instead, it made him feel cracked down the middle.

Belle came out of the bathroom with her hair pulled back and her nightshirt slipping off one shoulder — one of his old Red Bull shirts, worn soft from years of washes. She looked at him once, and stilled.

He hadn’t said much since they got home.

She crossed the room quietly and slipped onto the bed beside him, her hand finding his thigh.

“Talk to me,” she said gently.

Max didn’t look at her.  “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Belle sat up a little, not pulling away, just making it easier to see him. “Do what?”

He looked down at his hands. They’d always felt steady in a car. On a wheel. In the cockpit.

They didn’t feel steady now.

“Be a father,” he said. “A good one.”

Belle’s face softened. “Max…”

“I don’t mean I won’t love him,” he rushed to say. “God, I already love him. I feel like I’ve loved him forever. I just—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Belle’s hand found his, warm and grounding. “Why would you?”

Max blinked down at their hands. “Because I only know one version of it,” he said, voice roughening. “Because when I think of being a dad, the first image that comes to mind is someone yelling. Demanding. Pushing me until I broke, then pushing more.”

He paused. “And I love him. I do. I love Jos. I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But Belle… he was hard. He was relentless. He wanted me to be great. And I was. But not because I was happy.”

Belle didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Max’s voice was rough now. “I remember waking up some mornings and feeling sick because I knew he was going to be disappointed in me by nightfall. I remember the weight of that. I remember trying so hard not to feel anything because it just made everything worse.”

Belle shifted closer, her hand covering his. “You’re not him, Max.”

“But what if I become him?”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.I don’t want our son to be afraid of me,” he choked out. 

Belle’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” she said. “I know how you talk to Jimmy like he’s fluent in Dutch and sarcasm. I know how you carry Luka on your shoulders until your back hurts and you never complain. I know how you hold me when you think I’m too quiet for too long. I know how you put your hand on my stomach every night now, even when you’re half-asleep.”

Max blinked hard. Once. Twice.

“You are not your father,” Belle said gently. “You are not the echo of his worst days. You are better. Kinder. Softer. Still learning, maybe, but willing. And that makes you more than enough.”

Max exhaled, slow and shaking.

“I just…” He looked at her, his voice breaking a little. “I want him to feel safe. Always. I want him to look at me and know he’s loved, not just when he wins. Not just when he’s perfect.”

“He will,” Belle whispered, leaning in to press her forehead to his. “Because you’ll show him. Every single day.”

Max closed his eyes, her words sinking in slowly, steadying him.

“I don’t care if he never drives a kart,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if he hates racing, if he wants to be a violinist or a vet or a mechanic or—hell, a cat therapist. I just want him to be happy. To know he matters because he exists. Not because he proves it.”

Belle smiled against his skin. “Then you’re already doing better than you think.”

They sat like that for a while — forehead to forehead, hearts pressed together, building something soft between the cracks of what they’d both survived.

Eventually, Belle murmured, “Do you want to say goodnight to him?”

Max let out a breath that felt more like a prayer.

He rested his cheek against the gentle swell of her belly, his hand smoothing over it like a vow.

“Weltrusten, kleine man,” he whispered. Goodnight, little man.  “Papa loves you. Always.”

Max looked down at her belly again.

A boy.

His son.

And tomorrow, he’d tell his son — just loud enough that the bump might hear it — that love was never something he had to earn.

Not in this house.

Not ever.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: We had the scan this morning.

GP: Everything good?

Max: Yeah. He’s healthy. Strong. Kicked Belle hard enough the tech laughed. It’s a boy.

GP: A boy. Little Verstappen 2.0. God help us all.

Max: He’ll be calmer. Belle’s influence.

GP: I doubt that. Let me guess—he tried to overtake the probe mid-scan?

Max: More or less. Got his foot in position like he was practicing pit stop timing.

GP: Knew it. When’s his debut?

Max: December. Right before the holidays.

GP: So I should start working on a telemetry-themed baby gift?

Max: If it doesn’t come with data sheets, is it even from you?

GP: Fair point. Congrats, Max. Really. You’re going to be a great dad.

Max:Thank you. I’m trying to be the kind of dad he won’t have to recover from.

GP: You already are.

***

Belle had been up early — not from nerves, just from the kind of contented restlessness that came with good news too big to keep inside her chest. 

The sun poured in through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the floor as she moved barefoot between the counter and the stove. The kettle was steaming. The pancakes were stacked. And sitting on a little porcelain dish beside the fruit bowl was one perfect cupcake, its frosting an unmistakable shade of blue.

The front door opened with a familiar knock-knock-push, and Emilie’s voice rang through the quiet.

“Please tell me you made the good tea. I will cry. I will cry right here.”

“In the pot,” Belle called.

Emilie padded into the kitchen, wearing sunglasses, a loose sundress, and an expression of dramatic exhaustion. “I walked behind a tourist group for three whole blocks and I think I now have an intimate understanding of someone named Karen’s divorce settlement.”

Belle grinned and handed her a mug. “To emotional trauma and herbal tea.”

They moved into the dining nook — Belle sliding into her usual seat, Emilie curling up cross-legged on the built-in bench like she lived there. A few cats padded in and out, indifferent to the emotional weight in the air.

“So,” Emilie said, biting into a slice of peach. “You said you had something to tell me that wasn’t about paint samples or prenatal vitamins. Which is suspicious. Spill.”

Belle didn’t answer immediately. She reached across the table, pulled the little plate with the cupcake closer, and placed it gently in front of Emilie.

Emilie blinked. “Is that for me?”

Belle smiled, soft and bright. “Just look at the frosting.”

It took two seconds.

Emilie froze. Looked at the swirl of blue buttercream. Then looked at Belle. Then back at the cupcake.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”

Belle nodded.

“NO.”

Belle laughed, eyes already misting. “Yes.”

Emilie let out an unhinged squeal that made one of the cats bolt from the room. “It’s a boy?! You’re having a little Max!? Like, an actual Verstappen 2.0?!”

Belle was laughing now, wiping at her cheeks. “He kicked during the scan like he was already late for FP1.”

Emilie launched herself around the table and wrapped Belle in a hug that knocked the breath out of her. “Oh my God, Belle. A boy. A baby boy. I’m going to spoil him so much.”

“He’s already dramatic,” Belle whispered. “He deserves an equally dramatic aunt.”

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, still holding both her arms. “You’re going to be the most amazing boy mom.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

Belle looked down at her bump, then back at her best friend. “I’ve been thinking about names.”

“Please don’t name him after a racetrack,” Emilie said, only half-joking.

Belle grinned. “I’d never. Though Max did pitch Zandvoort as a middle name.”

Emilie made a sound of horror.

They both burst out laughing again.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: We found out yesterday. It’s a boy.

Jos: Congratulations. That’s great news. How’s Belle feeling?

Max: Good. Healthy. He kicked during the scan. Like he already wants to race.

Jos: Runs in the blood.

Max: Maybe. But I’m not pushing him. He gets to choose.

Jos: Understood.

Max: He’ll grow up knowing he’s loved. Win or lose. No stopwatch needed.

Jos:. You’ll be a good father, Max.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Summer Chaos

Members: Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur, Pascale, Charlotte and Alexandra

Pascale: We need to decide on a destination.

Charles: Beach?

Arthur: Mountains?

Lorenzo: Not that hotel in Antibes again. I still have nightmares about the breakfast buffet.

Charlotte: I’m fine with the beach. But not that beach. The one where you all complained about the sand for three days.

Alexandra: Seconded. And I am not spending a week somewhere with no air-conditioning. That would be medieval.

Pascale: Well someone needs to book something soon.

Arthur: Can we do a road trip?

Charles: No. That’s so much driving. I want to relax.

Lorenzo: You don’t drive. You just sleep in the passenger seat.

Charles: Exactly. That’s relaxing.

Charlotte: You know what’s not relaxing? Planning a vacation with five people who all want completely different things and none of whom will make a decision.

Arthur: We could do Tuscany?

Charles: Too many tourists.

Alexandra: Oh my god.

Lorenzo: Just pick something, Charles. You’re the one with the stupidly specific villa standards.

Charles: SORRY I LIKE FUNCTIONING WIFI.

Pascale: Isabelle always found the best villas. She even had spreadsheets…

Lorenzo: I’m going to pretend I’m busy for the next hour and see if that magically resolves anything.

Alexandra: Lorenzo. We see you typing. Stay here.

Charles: I’ll do the driving if we road trip. I promise. Just no hiking.

Arthur: What do you mean no hiking?? The whole point of the mountains is the hiking.

Charlotte: I hate hiking.

Alexandra: I like hiking if there’s a spa and wine afterward.

Charlotte: Someone pick a destination by tomorrow morning or I swear I will book all of us into a nudist yoga retreat in the Pyrenees.

Arthur: That’s a threat?

Charlotte: It’s a promise.

Lorenzo: You know what? Pyrenees might be peaceful after all.

Charles: Guys. What about Sardinia?

Arthur: Only if I don’t have to share a room with you again.

Charles: YOU SNORED THROUGH A THUNDERSTORM.

Pascale: Isabelle made this look easy.

***

Group Chat: Summer Sanity Squad

Members: Belle, Alexandra and Charlotte 

Charlotte: HOW. THE. HELL. Did you survive this every year.

Alexandra: No seriously. How did you not murder all of us?!

I’m five minutes away from dropkicking Charles into the nearest ocean and letting Poseidon sort it out.

Charlotte: Arthur just suggested a road trip with no itinerary. Like this is a vibe and not a logistical death sentence.

Alexandra: Charles vetoed Greece because “the lighting was bad last time”????

Charlotte: And Pascale just said you used to do spreadsheets.

Girl. GIRL. Why did you not set something on fire.

Belle: I considered it. Then I realized fire wouldn’t fix stupid.

Charlotte: Help us. They are incapable of decision-making.

We are two inches away from a nudist yoga retreat.

Alexandra: We are serious. That was not a bluff.

Belle: Okay. Breathe. Here’s what you do:

Give them exactly three options. No more. Let them vote. Majority wins. End of discussion.

Assign one person to book. If you say “we’ll book it together,” they will vanish like raccoons when the lights turn on.

Do not let them make you the default planner. They will act helpless once, and then forever. Learn from my pain.

Charlotte: This is like talking to a vacation war veteran.

Alexandra: She has seen things.

Belle: I have.

I’ve organized numerous Leclerc holidays, one trip that turned into an accidental mountain survival situation, and a Monaco Christmas where Charles forgot to buy the duck to roast, which was the main dish. 

Charlotte: No wonder you married Max.

Alexandra: Was it the man or the functional holiday planning?

Belle: Both. He books villas in advance and brings snacks.

Charlotte: God-tier husband behavior.

Alexandra: I’m starting a support group for people forced to plan a vacation with Leclerc men.

Belle: You can call it “Itinerary? I hardly know her.”

Charlotte: I hate how good that is.

Belle: You’re welcome. Be ruthless.

***

Belle had never understood what people meant when they said they could feel their shoulders unclench.

Not until now.

The villa was quiet in the soft, golden way of late afternoon. The kind of quiet filled with clinking glasses and distant giggles from the pool, the hum of cicadas, the scent of sunscreen and fresh basil and baked stone. It had taken Belle three days to believe it was real. To believe she didn’t have to earn it. That she was allowed to just be.

She lay stretched on a sun lounger in the shade, a linen cover-up slipping off one shoulder, one hand lazily resting on the curve of her bump. Max sat beside her on the deck, legs stretched out, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and one hand absently tracing slow circles along her calf.

Lio was giggling somewhere behind them — something about “beach crab dance” and “Uncle Max said no rules today.” Victoria had abandoned her book to go sort it out, muttering something about “chaos on stilts.” 

Luka had declared war on the inflatable swan and was currently trying to stand on its head while Sophie laughed so hard she cried.

It should’ve been overwhelming.

But it wasn’t.

Because nobody expected Belle to fix it. Nobody was asking her to hold the day together. Nobody was waiting for her to smooth things over or play mediator or pretend she wasn’t tired when she was.

The villa was perfect. Secluded. Gated. Peaceful. The air smelled like sunscreen and rosemary, and the only sounds were water, laughter, and the faint hum of a playlist Max had made the night before — a mix of Dutch indie, lazy French jazz, and Belle’s favorite soft piano tracks.

They took turns prepping meals and doing dishes. Nobody raised their voice unless it was because Luka cannonballed too close to the cheese board. 

She belonged here.

Not because she was useful.

Not because she planned everything.

Just because she was.

She could just… exist.

“Baby’s kicking again,” she murmured, watching Max’s hand shift instinctively to rest over her stomach.

He didn’t say anything — just grinned, wide and boyish, and leaned forward like he could hear through skin and sun and breath. Belle reached out, tucked a hand into his hair, thumb brushing gently over his temple.

“I think he likes the sound of your voice,” she said softly.

“He’s got good taste.”

She smiled. “He also tried to kick the sunscreen bottle off my belly this morning, so.”

Max shrugged. “Already has priorities.”

The sun filtered through the trees in hazy gold stripes. Belle tilted her head back and let it warm her face.

Victoria padded over a moment later with a bowl of watermelon and a “did someone say hydration,” plopped it between them and flopped into the lounger beside Belle with a sigh.

“Tom says we’re doing a family dinner tonight,” she said. “Outside. Grilled everything.”

“I’ll help,” Belle said instinctively, sitting up.

“Nope,” Victoria said immediately. “You’re pregnant. Your job is to float in the pool and let everyone bring you things.”

Belle hesitated.

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to call Mom? Because she’ll bring out the mom voice and you will be told to sit down.”

Belle held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I surrender.”

Max smirked. “That’s a first.”

Belle kicked him lightly in the ankle. “Don’t make me weaponize the baby.”

Victoria cackled. “Show him, Belle.”

***

The afternoon sun had started to dip, casting everything in that rich, golden glow that made even the garden hose look romantic. The cicadas were loud, the air was soft, and Belle had escaped the chaos of the pool by claiming a lounger on the far end of the terrace with a bowl of grapes and a sunhat that was slightly too large for her head.

She didn’t even flinch when someone dropped onto the lounger beside her.

“I come bearing sunscreen and gossip,” Victoria said, holding up the bottle like a peace offering. “Mostly because Luka told Lio that the baby is probably going to come out wearing a racing suit and now Max is pacing around the kitchen saying, ‘He’s not wrong.’”

Belle laughed, soft and low. “He’s not wrong.”

Victoria began reapplying sunscreen to her shoulders with one hand, the other holding her phone to send somebody yet another photo of her sons face-planting into a bucket of sand.

“You’re glowing,” Victoria said after a moment, without teasing. “Like actually. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s the watermelon,” Belle said, tilting her head. “And the fact that no one here expects me to plan their travel logistics or moderate an argument about hiking versus beach chairs.”

Victoria chuckled. “Ah, yes. A vacation where you’re not everyone’s emotional support sibling. Revolutionary.”

Belle paused. Looked down at her bump.

Then: “It’s a boy.”

The words came out softer than she expected. Not secretive, just sacred.

Victoria’s head whipped toward her. “What?”

Belle smiled. “We found out before we came. He was being very cooperative on the ultrasound. Max almost cried.”

“Almost?” Victoria said, scandalized.

Belle grinned. “His eyes were suspiciously red when we left.”

Victoria blinked hard, then reached out — no hesitation, just instinct — and rested a hand over Belle’s bump.

“A boy,” she whispered. “Oh, Belle.”

Belle’s throat tightened. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.

Victoria looked at her then, full of emotion, her voice warm and unwavering. “He is going to be so loved. He has the best parents. And I’m already preparing a list of ridiculous Dutch baby nicknames.”

Belle’s eyes welled up before she could stop them. “I think I was scared to say it out loud. Like it would make it too real. Too fragile.”

Victoria squeezed her hand. “It’s not fragile. It’s yours. That makes it strong.”

Belle wiped under her eyes and laughed. “Hormones. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m crying too, so you’re not special,” Victoria said, dabbing at her own cheek. “I just can’t believe… my brother. A dad. And you—you’re going to be someone’s mom.”

Belle looked out toward the pool, where Max was now being used as a human surfboard by both Luka and Lio. “I know,” she whispered. “It feels like the start of something good.”

Victoria smiled. “It is good.”

She pulled Belle into a side hug, sunhat and all.

“A little Verstappen boy,” Victoria said. “We’re going to spoil him so much.”

Belle laughed into her shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridsightings: OKAY I WASN’T GOING TO POST THIS

but I just saw Max Verstappen and Belle Leclerc—I mean Belle Verstappen (still not over that) at a baby boutique in the South of France and I’m actually not okay???

A THREAD 🧵

@/gridsightings:  So I’m in this tiny boutique near the coast — like, one of those aesthetic French shops with linen everything and hand-stitched baby blankets.  — and I’m flipping through said baby blankets because my cousin just had a kid, right?

@/gridsightings: AND THEN I HEAR THE VOICE.

Like that voice.

The grumpy Dutch one from the paddock radios.

I look up and Max Verstappen is just… standing there. In a linen shirt. Holding a swaddle.

@/gridsightings: Belle was glowing. Like, not influencer-glowing. Real glowing. Hair braided, long dress, bump visible.

She laughed when Max tried to fold a swaddle and failed spectacularly.

He said, “It’s like tire warmers but worse.”

I almost blacked out.

@/gridsightings: At one point Max is carrying four things at once because “you liked them all, Belle, we’re getting them all.”

And she just laughs like this is normal behavior.

@/gridsightings:  Max just… rested his hand on her belly and went completely still.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

Then Belle kissed his cheek and whispered something I couldn’t hear but he smiled so big my heart grew three sizes.

@/gridsightings: They were talking about colors for the nursery.

Max: “We can do navy and white.”

Belle: “Because you��re emotionally bonded to the Red Bull color palette?”

Max: “No, because you look really pretty in navy.”

ME. ON. THE. FLOOR.

@/gridsightings:  A little old woman complimented Belle’s dress and asked when the baby was due.

Belle said, “December.”

The woman said, “A winter baby — strong and stubborn.”

Max said, “So… just like their mother then.”

BELLE LAUGHED AND SMACKED HIS ARM.

@/gridsightings: I was trying to be normal and leave them alone but Belle caught me STARING and smiled and said “Hi!” like she wasn’t the most radiant person to ever exist.

And Max??? Max gave me a little nod and a “have a good day.”

@/gridsightings:  Max carried all the bags. Belle held his free hand.

They walked out of the shop smiling like they already knew they were the luckiest people on Earth.

And honestly?

They might be.

@/formulafemmes: “it’s like tire warmers but worse” MAX PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU STOP BEING ADORABLE I CAN’T HANDLE IT 😭😭😭

@/1babyverstappenfan: they’re so married married. like old-married-couple-but-make-it-sexy married. i’m spiraling

@/chaoscar_piastri: her: “navy and white??”  him: “no, because you look pretty in navy” ME: SOBBING INTO A BIB I DON’T EVEN NEED

@/mclareninlaws: no but imagine being casually complimented by an old lady and max verstappen immediately goes “just like their mother” like sir please keep that mushy soft husband energy AWAY FROM ME i’m WEAK

@/gridghost: max holding her belly and going completely still like he’s listening for the future i am going to EAT WALLS

@/charleslefreaked: friendly reminder this woman’s family forgot her birthday this year and now she’s married to a man who buys her every swaddle she glances at. karma is REAL and she rides in a Verstappen-branded stroller.

@/babyverstappenupdates: ok but DECEMBER BABY CONFIRMED 🍼 let the countdown begin. i’m making a onesie that says “i survived the Verstappen family Christmas”

@/emotionalslipstream: i want whatever max and belle have. except i want it immediately. and i want it delivered to my door like prime shipping.

@/emotionaldnf: max verstappen in a linen shirt holding a swaddle is not something i was emotionally prepared for today

@/catdadchampion: he carried the bags she held his hand they smiled at each other like idiots i’m gonna eat drywall

@/gridbabywatch: i don’t even CARE that it’s only august baby verstappen is already winning rookie of the year 💙💙💙

@/tifosiferal:  also can we talk about how BELLE caught the fan staring and just went “hi!” like she’s not the most ethereal pregnant goddess on Earth? she is sunshine incarnate and I love her.

@/wifeyverstappen “you liked them all, we’re getting them all.” i’m sorry. max verstappen is peak husband material. nobody speak to me ever again.

@/tracksideoracle: honestly? max is 100% going to cry in the delivery room and belle will be like “you’re doing amazing, sweetie” while in active labor.

***

Belle was lying on a sun-dappled lounger near the edge of the villa’s garden, her legs stretched out, a straw hat tilted to shield her eyes. The air was warm, still, soft with the sound of waves crashing in the distance and Max trying to convince Lio that pool floaties worked better when you didn’t bite them.

Belle's phone buzzed on the little table beside her.

Daniel Moreau She blinked at the name for a second before answering. “Daniel! Hi—how are you? Is the kitchen island still intact?”

“Still the star of the house,” Daniel said, his voice warm and amused. “Jules won’t stop hosting dinner parties just so he can show it off. I told him if he breaks the lighting fixture I’m calling you to scold him personally.”

Belle laughed. “Please do. I’ll fly in with a stern face and a clipboard.”

“Listen,” Daniel said, his tone shifting slightly. “I didn’t just call to gush. Well, I did. But not only.”

Belle sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”

“So, Jules’ friend Laurent—He’s an editor for Architectural Digest. And he came by last week for dinner, took one look at the house and lost his mind. He said it was one of the most thoughtful spaces he’s seen in years.”

Belle blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“Belle,” Daniel said, “he wants to feature the house. Full spread. Name in print. Photos. Interview. The whole deal.”

There was a pause. The kind that filled every space inside her chest and made it hard to breathe.

“He said,” Daniel continued, quieter now, “that your work feels like it was designed by someone who understands how people live. Not just how they want to look. That it’s intelligent and emotional.”

Belle pressed a hand to her stomach, heart racing. The baby shifted slightly, as if sensing the moment.

“I—Daniel,” she said, stunned. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he said simply. “You deserve this. Let the world see what we already know.”

Another pause.

This time, Belle let herself feel it.

Not just surprise. Not just pride. But validation.

Her name. Her work. Hers.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Daniel whooped on the other end. “Jules just screamed. We’re already picking out your best angles for the photos.”

Belle laughed, breathless, and wiped at her eyes with the corner of her towel. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Daniel said. “I just know talent when I see it.”

They said their goodbyes, promised to loop in her Studio_B email, and hung up.

Belle sat there for a long moment, the phone still warm in her hand.

She had a baby on the way. A partner who loved her. A family who saw her. And now?

Her work — her name — was about to be in Architectural Digest.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t chasing worth.

She was living in it.

***

“Is that the ‘I just got good news’ face?” Sophie’s voice came from the side doorway, gentle and amused.

Belle looked up, startled, then smiled. “Was I that obvious?”

Sophie crossed the patio with a slow grace that Belle always admired — the kind of elegance that came from being certain of your place in a room, but never needing to announce it. She leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Come on then. What is it?”

Belle hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to tell her — but because somewhere, deep in the layers she hadn’t yet fully shed, there was a part of her still afraid to shine too brightly in front of a mother figure.

She swallowed that part down.

“I got a call from a client,” Belle said slowly. “One of my favorites — Daniel Moreau.”

Sophie nodded encouragingly.

“His house. The one I designed this year — it’s going to be featured in Architectural Digest.”

Sophie blinked.

Belle rushed to fill the silence, nerves creeping in despite herself. “His husband’s friend is an editor there. He saw it and said it felt like someone designed it for the way people actually live, not just… for show. And he wants to do a full spread. Photos. Interview. Name in print.”

Sophie said nothing at first.

Then she reached out and took Belle’s hands, slowly, gently, like holding something precious. Her fingers were warm.

“Oh, darling,” Sophie breathed.

And then Belle saw it — that spark in her eyes. Real pride. Real joy. Unfiltered.

“I always knew,” Sophie said, voice thickening. “From the first time I saw how you talked about your work. The way you light up when you describe materials. The way you feel spaces before you even sketch them.”

Belle’s throat ached. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Sophie said. “For not shrinking. For continuing to build beauty even when no one gave you the space for it. You’ve created things people live their lives in, Belle. That matters. You matter.”

Belle blinked fast.

“I’m proud of you,” Sophie whispered. “I hope you know that. Not because you married Max. Not because of the baby. Because of you. What you’ve done. Who you’ve become.”

And that?

That undid her.

Not in a falling apart kind of way — but in a finally letting go kind of way.

Belle leaned forward and hugged her. Properly. Fully. The way she’d wanted to be held after every university critique, every silent family dinner where her designs went unmentioned, every “what exactly is it that you do again?” masked as curiosity.

Sophie held her like she knew.

Because she did.

***

Max hadn’t expected the patio to go quiet when he rounded the corner.

He was still a little sandy from the beach, his shirt stuck damply to his back, a sunburnt rubber duck in one hand and a pair of tiny, abandoned flip-flops in the other. Lio had declared himself “retired from walking,” and Luka had started building a moat around Max’s ankles with plastic shovels. Chaos, as usual.

But here—on the terrace—it was still.

Belle stood in the golden light, barefoot, her linen dress catching the breeze, arms wrapped around Sophie in a way that made Max’s heart lurch. They weren’t just hugging. They were holding. Like something had been stitched together midair between them.

Sophie’s hand was in her hair, gentle. Belle’s shoulders trembled — not with grief, but with something Max had only ever seen in private. Release. Relief. Real softness.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just took it in.

Then: “Should I come back later or…?”

Sophie looked up at him with a faint smile, hand still at Belle’s back. “Only if you’re going to cry, too.”

Max raised a brow. “I don’t cry. I just get something in my eye when people I love do emotional things in nice lighting.”

Belle turned toward him, her voice already laughing. “Well, prepare to blink a lot.”

He walked closer, stepping carefully over the stray flip-flops, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. She smelled like sunscreen and mint tea. “What’d I miss?”

Sophie stepped back, just a little, giving Belle space. “You tell him,” she said.

Belle looked up at him, eyes still glossy. “Remember Daniel’s house? It’s going to be in Architectural Digest.”

He blinked. Thought he misheard. “Wait… seriously?”

Belle nodded. “Full feature. Interview. Photos. My name in print.”

For a second, he couldn’t speak.

And then the duck and flip-flops were forgotten — he dropped them both on the table and pulled her in, arms around her, forehead pressed to hers like she’d just won the world title.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “You deserve this. All of it.”

Belle’s smile wobbled. “I think I believe that now.”

Sophie wiped discreetly at her eyes behind them, and Max turned to catch her just as she said, “And if you didn’t before, you will by the time that magazine hits shelves. I’m framing it for every hallway I have access to.”

Still holding Belle, Max said, “Can we send copies to every single person who ever asked if she ‘still does decorating’?”

Belle laughed — full and loud and radiant — the kind of laugh that knocked him out every time. “I like you both when you’re dramatic.”

Max looked down at the swell of her belly, already cradling his palm over it. “You hear that, little one? Your mum��s about to be famous.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Internationally respected. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then her bump. “Same thing.”

And he meant it.

Because it wasn’t just a magazine.

It was Belle being seen — truly seen — for who she was and what she built, long before anyone else thought to look. And Max?

Max had known all along.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: EM EMILIE EM ARE YOU NEAR YOUR PHONE I NEED YOU TO BE NEAR YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW

Emilie: I AM I’M LITERALLY IN LINE FOR GELATO DO I NEED TO ABANDON GELATO DID MAX DO SOMETHING IS THE BABY OKAY DO I NEED TO FLY IN

Belle: DANIEL MOREAU CALLED THE HOUSE I DESIGNED FOR HIM IS GETTING FEATURED IN ARCHITECTURAL FUCKING DIGEST

Emilie: SCREAMING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET A CHILD JUST LOOKED AT ME LIKE I’M POSSESSED I DON’T EVEN CARE

Belle:THEY WANT TO DO A FULL SPREAD PHOTOS INTERVIEW NAME IN PRINT

Emilie: I AM GOING TO FAINT I’M GOING TO VOMIT IN JOY I NEED TO SIT DOWN I NEED TO LIE DOWN I’M SO PROUD I’M ACTUALLY SHORT-CIRCUITING

Belle: Sophie cried Max carried me around the terrace like I won a Grand Prix Lio offered me a soggy pool noodle as tribute It was perfect

Emilie: I’M CRYING YOU’RE AN ICON YOU’RE A VISIONARY YOU’RE A STYLISH, PREGNANT, ARCHITECTURAL GODDESS AND IF THE LECLERCS DON’T FRAME THIS MAGAZINE COVER I WILL FIGHT THEM

Belle: You’ll have to get in line Victoria already claimed five copies

Emilie: My queen My muse My favorite internationally recognized interior architect Do you need me to write your AD profile??? Because I WILL.

Belle: Only if you put “was never appreciated enough by her own family but is now thriving and glowing under the South of France sun while married to a barbecue-loving Dutchman” in the first paragraph

Emilie: Done. Signed. Submitted. Pulitzer incoming.

Belle: I love you.

Emilie: I love you more. I’m buying this gelato in your honor. (And also screaming about you to the very confused Italian man behind the counter.)

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments: 

@/victoriaverstappen: THIS is what peak romance looks like. Also, Lio is FUMING 😂

@/emilie_abadie: I am SOBBING. Why is he like this. Why are you like this. Why is this the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my LIFE.

@/studio_b: Form. Balance. Texture. 10/10 artistic vision. (Even if it was technically theft.)

@/maxverstappen1:  The client was kicking for artistic direction. Creative differences were resolved. 🐚✅

@/redbullracing: Max Verstappen, World Champion, Seashell Stylist, Full-Time Soft Dad.

@/f1softlaunches: Forget soft launch. This is a full cinematic debut. Best picture. Best soundtrack. Best supporting actor: the bump.

@/paddockpoetry: he’s not just building a heart. he’s building a home 😭

@/gridgirlfriendz: max. verstappen. crafting. a seashell. heart. on. his. pregnant. wife. I did not have this on my 2024 bingo card but it’s the only thing I care about now

@/sunsetandsectors: there are romcoms with less plot and less chemistry than this photo

@/belletheblueprint: belle’s bump being a canvas for max’s seashell love letters is the kind of content i never knew i needed and now cannot live without

@/charlesleclercfanaccidentally: i don’t even LIKE max like that but i’m gonna need someone to look at me the way he looks at her bump while placing decorative ocean fragments

@/formulafeels: from "I don’t care about Instagram" to “I built a seashell heart on my wife’s stomach at golden hour” character development. emotional development. dad arc unlocked.

@/lando.jpg: bro are you good??? you’re gonna make the whole grid cry into their sim rigs 😭

@/emotionaldnf: me: i’m emotionally stable belle: posts max turning her bump into a love letter me: okay cool cool cool i’m going to cry into a bucket now

@/wagsupreme: this is not just love. this is “you were always meant to be mine and now i build seashell altars to our unborn child” kind of love.

@/cursedf1: i thought he only did tire strategy and intense podium glares but no. he’s also capable of seashell poetry.

@/carlossainzsmileclub: “we’re awaiting trial” belle posting baby bump thirst traps AND committing tiny beach crimes??? ICONIC.

***

Instagram Post: @/maxverstappen1

Comments: @/victoriaverstappen: ❤️❤️❤️

@/danielricciardo: You’ve gone soft and I LOVE IT.

@/redbullracing: Do we send tiny fireproof race suits now or later?

@/jessicaracing: This isn’t just soft. This is core memory, I-believe-in-love-again levels of soft.

@/f1gossipgirl: Baby Verstappen hasn’t even arrived yet and is already more photogenic than me.

@/catdadchamp1: Belle: glowing Max: in love Sunset: blushing Me: dehydrated from crying

@/flamedonfridays: Raise your hand if this post made you reevaluate every man you’ve ever known 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

@/twogirlsonepodium: I clicked on this post expecting soft domestic vibes and instead got hit with an emotional freight train.

@/leclercupdates: Imagine being the guy who made fun of Max for being grumpy in 2019 and now seeing him post this like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

@/danielricciardo: Slow claps in emotional support uncle.

@/georgerussell63: Okay but seriously — congrats, you two. This is beautiful. Genuinely.

@mclarenf1intern: One day that child is going to see this photo and realize he was loved from the very first sunset.

@/belleandmax_updates: They went from secret wedding to building a future in ten business days and I STILL HAVEN’T RECOVERED.

@/maxiel_shippers_unhinged: Imagine being the baby inside that belly and hearing your dad say “this is my future.” I’m sobbing in fetal position on the floor.

@/thef1oracle: Bookmarking this post for every time someone says Max doesn’t have emotions. LOOK AT IT.

@/emilie_abadie: Excuse us while we collectively melt into the floor.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridtears: max verstappen putting seashells on his pregnant wife’s bump in a heart shape i’m sorry i thought this man was built from carbon fiber and spite

@/drivertohusbandpipeline: everyone shut up. max verstappen is making art on belle’s stomach like it’s a goddamn canvas. he’s in his dad era. he’s in his devotion era.

@/formulafairytales: they’re literally on vacation and he’s still building shrines to her with seashells with seashells if that isn’t love i don’t know what is

@/gridwivesclub: if your man doesn’t kneel at your feet and make beach art on your baby bump, leave him. max verstappen has raised the bar to the stratosphere

@/tracksideemotions: you know what? i forgive max for everything he’s ever done yells at an engineer? fine tells lando to shut up in a press conference someday? whatever because THIS. this post has healed me.

@/maxverstappenswifeinmydreams: do you think he collected the shells himself do you think he was like “i need the perfect ones. only the soft round ones. she deserves the best.” do you think i’m unwell?

@/gridsideemotions: not to be dramatic but i would let max and belle run me over with a stroller and then thank them

@/danielricchaotic: max: quiet, serious, brooding also max: arranges seashells on his pregnant wife’s belly like he’s building an altar to love me: is this growth??? is this peace???

@/burntclutchsmoke: belle’s caption being “he said the little one deserved a masterpiece” is so insane like WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S A WORLD CHAMPION AND A ROMANTIC POET NOW

@/verstappenf1daily: max: building red bull strategy also max: building a seashell heart multifaceted king

@/drsandreverence: belle fell in love with a man who saw her, built a future with her, and now hand-places seashells on the curve of their shared life. i want what they have.

@/paddockwivesanon: MAX POSTING THE BUMP. MAX. POSTED. THE. BUMP. I’m on the floor. I’m in the sea. I’m gone.

@/formula1babygossip: we went from “no one knows he’s married” to “here is the mother of my child, bathed in golden light, embodying eternity” in ONE summer

@/notbellamy: me, crying in traffic: I want to be softly adored by Max Verstappen too

@/verstappenteamupdates: Max: casually ends everyone on a Wednesday night with a bump carousel The rest of us: ☠️☠️☠️

@/larriedbutverstappened: sunsets hit different??? you know what hits different?? THIS EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

@/rb_family_fangirl: I knew Max was a family man. I knew he had softness in him. But THIS?? This is poetry in pixels.

@/babyverstappenupdates: The way Belle is glowing. The way he LOOKS at her through the lens. This isn’t content. This is art.

@/alonsohive: just to be clear… max verstappen went from “no public info on his relationship” to “here’s my wife, my unborn baby, and my emotional vulnerability lit by golden hour” in less than a year???

@/gridromance: MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED A BELLE BUMP PHOTO I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR

@/paddockpoetry: “Building a future” Sir. Sir, I am feral. That is your WIFE and your BABY and your EMOTIONAL GROWTH.

@/tearsontrack:  Belle really went from forgotten middle child to being soft-launched into emotionally intelligent domestic bliss. A win for the quiet girls.

@/teamverstappen94: "Sunsets hit different when you're building a future." WHO GAVE HIM PERMISSION TO BE THIS SOFT 😭😭😭😭

@/charlesleclercfan13: me: i don’t even like max verstappen like that also me: prints out his post and frames it above my bed

@/emotionaltyres: max verstappen once said “my dream is to have a family one day” and now he’s out here whispering poetry in the captions of his wife's pregnancy photos yes i’m sobbing. mind your business.

@/bellesblueprint: “building a future” oh he meant that. he really meant that.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HELLO??? HAVE YOU SEEN MAX’S POST IS EVERYONE OKAY I AM NOT OKAY

Oscar: He was supposed to be our emotionally unavailable champion And now he’s posting poetic bump pics in golden hour??

Carlos: Sunsets hit different when you’re building a future Who gave him permission to be a POET

George: I literally thought he was going to post a barbecue grill or a tire. Not a declaration of love and legacy. What is this development arc?

Pierre: I need someone to hold me like Max holds Belle’s pregnancy. Seriously. I’m spiraling.

Yuki: You think the baby can feel the soft energy through the skin?? Like “ah yes, my father is emotionally stable now. Nice.”

Checo: Honestly proud of him. Did I cry? Maybe. Is that my business? No.

Lewis: Okay but on a scale of 1 to “Max in a linen shirt arranging seashells on Belle’s belly,” how high are our expectations now for announcing anything in the future?

Carlos: He’s setting the bar in the clouds. I can’t even post a vacation selfie without feeling inadequate now.

George: Does this mean he’s soft-launching Dad Verstappen™ era?? Because I’m ready. I’m emotionally prepared. I have snacks.

Lando: I'm starting a petition to get the baby an Instagram account. @BabyVerstappen. Someone secure the handle.

Nico R.: I’m just going to say it. I love Soft Max.

Yuki: 😭👶🧡

Zhou: who taught him to be like this

Lando: this man used to fight journalists for breathing wrong now he’s out here writing haikus on the bump 😭

Oscar: Anyway. When’s the baby shower. Do we wear white.

***

Lorenzo had always considered himself a patient man.

Oldest sibling. Mediator. Calm in a crisis. He had survived karting weekends, Charles’ existential meltdowns, and Arthur’s teenage skateboarding phase. He’d balanced career and family, built a life, stayed out of drama.

But this?

This vacation?

Was going to break him.

He sat on the edge of a crooked plastic deck chair in the backyard of a house Charlotte had booked last-minute out of desperation. A goat bleated in the distance. Charles and Arthur were arguing in what could generously be called a pool. Pascale was trying to figure out how the coffee machine worked with the kind of intensity usually reserved for international diplomacy.

And Charlotte…

 Charlotte had gone very still.

 The kind of still that meant she was seconds from throwing someone into the aforementioned pool.

 Fully clothed.

“Arthur,” she said, voice deceptively pleasant, “if you say the words ‘group hike’ one more time, I will stab you with this baguette.”

Arthur blinked. “Is it fresh?”

Alexandra sighed from where she sat beside Lorenzo, tapping away on her phone. “Belle warned us.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

She had.

Every year, Belle used to quietly coordinate everything. Bookings, confirmations, backup plans, spreadsheets. And they’d all just… let her. Without ever asking how exhausting it must’ve been.

And now?

Now they were on day four of “improvised family bonding” and Lorenzo was starting to see God.

Charles stomped out of the pool, dripping, holding his phone upside down. “The Wi-Fi’s down again.”

“It’s rural France, Charles,” Alexandra said, unfazed. “What did you expect?”

“Functioning infrastructure.”

Pascale appeared with a tangled extension cord and what looked like a rice cooker. “I think I’ve figured out how to make espresso.”

“God,” Lorenzo muttered, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “We don’t deserve her.”

“Pascale?” Charlotte said dryly.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said. “We don’t deserve Isabelle.”

Everyone fell quiet.

Because it was true.

“Do you remember the summer in Florence?” Arthur said. “We all thought it went perfectly.”

“Because Belle stayed up until 3AM for four nights in a row dealing with the owner about plumbing issues,” Charlotte replied. “She told me a year later.”

“And the amalfi trip?” Charles added, slowly. “She canceled the boat tour and rebooked everything because someone forgot sunscreen and got heatstroke.”

Arthur looked at him. “That was you.”

“I’m aware.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, looking out over the lawn, which was mostly weeds and chaos and half a volleyball net.

“How the fuck,” he said, “did she not kill us all years ago?”

There was no answer.

***

The room was warm. Not hot, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.

Like it remembered things.

Camille’s office always felt a little like that — soft chairs, gentle lighting, a pitcher of lemon water on the table. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and patience.

Belle sat quietly in her usual place on the couch, one hand resting over the curve of her belly, the other loosely intertwined with Max’s. He was calm beside her, but there was a tension in his jaw — the kind that came when he was waiting for someone to say something too late.

Across from her, Pascale sat with a tissue already crushed in one hand. Arthur and Lorenzo looked vaguely shellshocked. And Charles — Charles looked like he’d aged five years in the last ten days.

Camille folded her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you all again,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I heard your family vacation was… eventful.”

That might’ve been the kindest possible way to describe it.

Lorenzo let out a long breath. “We fell apart.”

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Belle. How did you not kill us every year?”

The room fell quiet.

Belle blinked once. Twice. “Because I didn’t think I was allowed to fall apart.”

Charles flinched.

“I thought,” Belle continued, voice calm and terrifyingly clear, “that if I just stayed quiet and useful, maybe I’d matter. Maybe I’d earn a seat at the table.”

“You did,” Pascale whispered, eyes shining. “You always mattered.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “Then why did I have to prove it every year?”

Silence again. Heavier, sharper.

“Vacation planning was never just vacation planning,” she said, softer now. “It was peacekeeping. It was translation. It was remembering who hated what and who wouldn’t speak to whom. It was the only way I could feel needed.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. “We didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Belle said. “That’s the point.”

Max shifted beside her, eyes still on her face. Then he looked at the rest of the room, his voice low and steady.

“What about birthdays?”

The question landed like a pin dropped in a cathedral.

He didn’t stop.

“Or Christmas?” he added. “Or restaurant reservations? Or coordinating travel so you wouldn’t sit near someone you were annoyed with? Or making sure Pascale got flowers even when you all forgot?”

Charles blinked fast.

Max leaned forward slightly, not angry — just precise. “Belle planned all of it. All the time. And no one thought to ask how much it cost her. Because it was easier to just… let her do it.”

“She was so good at it,” Lorenzo said quietly.

Max gave a humorless smile. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t drowning.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “You all thought I was quiet because I was peaceful. I was quiet because I didn’t think I was allowed to need anything.”

Arthur looked up. “And now?”

Belle took a breath. “Now I’m trying to learn that I don’t have to prove I belong.”

Camille nodded slowly. “And the rest of you — what’s your part in that?”

Pascale wiped at her eyes. “To stop letting her disappear behind us.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “To start remembering birthdays ourselves.”

Charles swallowed hard. “To stop thinking silence means someone’s okay.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “To say thank you. Out loud. Even if it’s years too late.”

Max reached over and pressed a kiss to Belle’s temple.

Camille smiled gently. “Then maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, Belle didn’t brace herself for disappointment.

She just breathed.

***

[rootedinrevisions]

Through the Wreckage

SUMMARY: When a devastating tornado tears through town, Tyler Owens faces his worst nightmare: the woman he loves is missing. Tyler is thrust into a desperate search through the wreckage to find her. As the storm's aftermath unfolds, it forces him to confront his fears, regrets, and hopes for the future.

A/N: So got inspired for this after watching Twisters earlier today. Just the anguish that we saw from Tyler when he realized Kate was driving into the tornado made me wonder what would happen if the person he loved was missing or in danger. Hence where we ended up here.

WARNINGS: Destruction (ie: a tornado hit so damaged buildings, smoke, dust, sparks, etc.), Blood, Minor Injuries.

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The tires screeched as Tyler pulled up to the scene, gravel crunching beneath his truck. He barely shifted into park before throwing the door open and jumping out. His boots hit the ground with a thud, and the first thing his eyes locked on was the building—partially collapsed, its front wall completely gone. The inside was exposed like a broken shell, with beams hanging at jagged angles and smoke or dust curling into the air from where drywall and bricks had crumbled. His heart sank like a stone in his chest. This wasn’t good.

Behind him, Boone’s truck came to a stop, followed by Dani, Dexter, and Lily piling out of their vehicles. Tyler barely registered the sound of their voices calling his name as they ran toward him. His world had narrowed to the destruction in front of him, and one thought pounded in his mind: She’s in there.

Pulling his phone from his pocket with shaking hands, Tyler checked the last location pinged from your phone. His stomach twisted. It matched this address. He swallowed hard, the weight of dread pressing down on him as his eyes scanned the crowd of people that had been pulled from the building and huddled together on the other side of the street. His pulse quickened as he searched for you, desperate for even a glimpse of your face. But you weren’t there.

“Tyler, man, slow down,” Boone said, gripping his shoulder as he came up beside him. “Let’s figure out what’s going on—”

“She’s not out here,” Tyler cut him off, his voice tight and raw. “She’s not with them.” He gestured toward the crowd of people being tended to by paramedics. 

His chest heaved as the realization hit him like a freight train: You were still inside.

Without another word, he turned and made a beeline toward the first responders standing near the edge of the debris. His strides were long and determined, his jaw set in grim determination as he ignored Boone’s calls to slow down. 

The closer he got, the more chaos surrounded him. The air smelled of smoke and damp concrete, and the sound of crackling debris mixed with shouts from firefighters. But none of it mattered.

“Did everyone get out?” Tyler shouted, his voice hoarse as he reached the nearest firefighter. “Did you see a woman—about this tall, light hair?” He motioned frantically, his green eyes darting around. 

He already knew the answer from their hesitant expressions, but he refused to accept it.

“Sir,” one of them started, stepping forward, “it’s not safe—we weren’t able to get to everyone.”

“Where. Is. She?” Tyler growled, his frustration boiling over. His voice cracked, raw with fear and desperation. “Her phone’s still pinging from here! I need to know if she made it out!”

Another firefighter shook his head grimly. “We’re still doing sweeps, but the building’s unstable. Most of the front wall came down in the collapse. We can’t risk—”

“Bullshit!” Tyler snapped, cutting him off as he took a step toward the wreckage.

Boone and Dexter were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms to hold him back.

“Tyler, don’t,” Boone urged, his voice low and firm. “You can’t go in there, man. It’s not safe. They’ll handle it.”

“She’s in there!” Tyler shouted, wrenching free from their grip. His voice cracked as he pointed toward the ruined building. “I know she is, Boone! I’m not waiting around while they do their sweeps!” His voice was shaking now, and for a moment, the raw emotion broke through his resolve. His chest heaved, his shoulders trembling as he ran a hand over his face, trying to block out the fear clawing at his mind.

The building groaned, a deep, unsettling sound that warned of further collapse. Tyler’s eyes darted toward it, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. 

If you were inside, he wasn’t about to stand by and let the clock run out.

“I’m going in,” he muttered under his breath, and before anyone could stop him, he broke into a sprint toward the wreckage.

“Sir! Stop! You can’t go in there!” a firefighter yelled, his voice sharp with authority.

Another called out, “It’s too dangerous! The structure’s not stable!”

But Tyler didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. The sound of boots pounding behind him told him Boone or Dexter was probably trying to catch him, but he didn’t care. All he could see was the shattered entrance ahead, the gaping maw of destruction that had swallowed you whole.

As he crossed the threshold, the air inside hit him like a wall—thick with dust and smoke, making it hard to breathe. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, squinting to see through the haze. The floor was littered with debris—chunks of drywall, splintered wood, and jagged shards of glass. Wires hung loose from the ceiling, some sparking as they dangled.

The creak of shifting metal echoed through the space, and Tyler froze for a moment, his eyes darting upward. A beam groaned overhead, threatening to give way. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to move, stepping carefully over a fallen section of wall.

“Darlin’,” he shouted, his voice hoarse and strained. “Where are you?”

His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the wreckage, his eyes darting from one pile of debris to the next. The oppressive silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of sparks or the distant shouts of first responders outside.

“Come on, darlin’. Give me something,” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. He tried to focus, to ignore the dread clawing at the edges of his mind.

Tyler’s boot crunched on something, and he looked down to see a broken picture frame, the glass shattered across the floor. Around it were scattered papers, children’s drawings, and a few books covered in dust. He swallowed hard, the small remnants of normal life a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him.

Pushing forward, he weaved through the destruction, stepping over overturned chairs and avoiding the sharp edges of broken furniture. The air grew hotter the deeper he went, the faint smell of something burning making his stomach churn.

And then he saw it.

A shoe.

Tyler’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized it—your shoe, half-buried beneath a pile of rubble. He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees as his shaking hands reached for it.

“Sweetheart?” he called, his voice breaking. He tossed aside chunks of drywall and splintered wood, the sharp edges cutting into his palms. Blood smeared across the debris as he worked, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to you.

Finally, he uncovered your leg, and his heart seized. You were pinned beneath the debris, your body motionless. Dust and grime streaked your face, and your hair was tangled with bits of plaster.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers were gentle, but his hands shook uncontrollably.

Leaning closer, he pressed his fingers to the side of your neck, searching desperately for a pulse. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. And then he felt it—a faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips.

Relief flooded him, and a choked sob escaped his lips. 

“Thank God,” he breathed. “I’ve got you, darlin’. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

At the sound of his voice, you stirred faintly, your head shifting against the debris that cradled it. The faintest groan escaped your lips, so quiet he almost missed it. Tyler froze, his heart skipping a beat as his eyes shot to your face.

“Darlin’?” He said, his voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear. He cupped your face with one dirt-streaked hand, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Hey, hey, it’s me. Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Your brow furrowed slightly, and your lips moved, though no sound came out at first. He leaned closer, his ear inches from your face.

“Ty...” The broken syllable fell from your lips like a lifeline, and his chest ached at the sound of it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly, just barely cracking open, but it was enough. Enough to send relief crashing over him in a wave so powerful it left him dizzy.

“Oh, thank God,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip yours. He squeezed it gently, willing his strength into you. “Stay with me. Keep those eyes on me, okay? You’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

You tried to say something else, your voice a faint whisper he couldn’t quite make out. He shook his head, tears pricking his eyes as he crouched lower to meet your gaze.

“Don’t try to talk,” he urged softly. “Just save your strength, darlin’. I’m getting you out of here. Just stay with me, okay? That’s all I need you to do. Stay with me.”

The faintest flicker of a nod came from you, but it was enough to shatter the fragile composure he’d been clinging to. His free hand pressed to his mouth as he choked back a sob, his chest heaving with the weight of his fear and relief.

The building groaned again, a deep, ominous sound that sent a shiver down his spine. He knew he didn’t have much time. He slid his arms beneath you, cradling you against his chest as he stood.

With you in his arms, Tyler turned toward the exit, his focus unwavering despite the chaos around him. All that mattered was getting you out of here alive.

Tyler adjusted his grip on you, holding you closer as he stepped carefully over the uneven ground. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The air inside the building was suffocating. Smoke and dust hung thick like a heavy fog, clawing at his lungs with every breath. His throat burned, and each inhale felt like dragging sandpaper across raw skin. He coughed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before forcing them open again. He couldn’t lose focus—not now.

Sparks rained down from a severed electrical wire overhead, the sharp sting biting into the exposed skin of his arms. He flinched, gritting his teeth as the acrid smell of singed fabric filled the air. 

“Stay with me, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough and desperate as he looked down at you. “We’re almost out of here.”

Your body shifted slightly in his arms, and a soft, raspy cough escaped your lips. Tyler’s heart jumped at the sound. Panic surged through him, as he saw how shallow your breathing was.

“You still with me?” He called, his voice cracking. “Hey, can you hear me? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You coughed again, your eyelids fluttering briefly but not opening. A weak, almost inaudible groan escaped you.

“That’s it,” Tyler said, his tone urgent but soft like he was coaxing you back to him. “You’re doing good. Just keep breathing for me, okay? We’re getting out of here.”

He stumbled slightly as the ground beneath him shifted—a section of flooring sagging under the weight of the debris. Tyler’s knees buckled for a moment, and he tightened his grip on you, his heart racing.

“Dammit,” he muttered, steadying himself before pressing forward.

The building groaned around him, the sound of metal twisting and concrete cracking growing louder. He could feel time running out.

Another section of ceiling collapsed behind him, sending a fresh plume of dust into the air. Tyler ducked instinctively, shielding you as debris rained down. A sharp edge grazed the back of his neck, and he winced, but he didn’t stop moving.

The exit was just ahead—a faint sliver of light visible through the haze. Tyler pushed toward it, his legs trembling with exertion. His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges as the lack of clean air began to take its toll.

His steps faltered, and he coughed violently, nearly doubling over. For a moment, he thought his legs might give out, but then he felt a small, trembling hand against his chest. Your hand gripped weakly at his shirt, your head lolling slightly against his shoulder.

“T-Tyler...” you rasped, your voice barely audible. 

His breath hitched, and he forced himself to keep moving. 

“I’m here,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ve got you, darlin’. Just hang on.”

The exit grew closer, but the smoke thickened, clawing at his throat and lungs. Tyler stumbled again, his knees hitting the floor as his body screamed for oxygen.

“No,” he growled, shaking his head as he clutched you tighter. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the way his legs trembled beneath him.

The light from the exit grew brighter, and he could hear the distant shouts of first responders outside. They sounded muffled like he was underwater, but it gave him just enough hope to keep going.

Sparks rained down again, burning his exposed arms and neck, but Tyler turned his body to shield you, hunching over as he pushed through the final stretch. His back felt like it was on fire, the fabric of his shirt sticking to blistering skin, but he didn’t slow down.

Finally, he broke through the haze, stumbling out onto the pavement. The fresh air hit him like a punch to the chest, and he gasped, his knees giving out as he sank to the ground.

“Help! Somebody—” he coughed violently, his voice raw and barely audible. “Somebody help her!”

Paramedics rushed toward him, but Tyler’s focus was on you. Your face was pale, streaked with dust and sweat, but your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. He reached up to brush a trembling hand against your cheek, his fingers stained with soot and blood.

“Stay with me, sweetheart. You’re safe now.” He whispered, his voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes. 

Tyler cradled you in his arms, his knees rooted to the pavement as the chaos of the world around him blurred into background noise. His only focus was you.

Your head lolled weakly against his chest, and your breaths were growing more shallow and uneven by the minute. A fresh wave of panic crashed over him as your eyelids fluttered, threatening to close.

“Hey,” he called softly, his voice trembling. “No, no, darlin’, stay with me. Look at me.”

Your eyes opened slightly, your gaze unfocused as you struggled to lift your head.

“I… can’t,” you murmured, the words barely audible.

“Yes, you can,” he said, his tone firm but full of emotion. “You’re not quittin’ on me now, you hear me?”

You coughed softly, your body trembling in his arms. Tyler adjusted his grip, pulling you closer as if he could shield you from the pain and the fear.

“We have plans, remember?” His voice cracked as he spoke, tears welling in his eyes. “Dinner tonight, just you and me. You told me you wanted to get dressed up, and said I needed to wear that tie you like. I’m not lettin’ you out of that, sweetheart. You still owe me a dance.”

A weak smile tugged at the corners of your lips, but it quickly faded as your eyelids grew heavier.

“And the church,” he continued, desperation lacing his words. “The little church your parents got married in. We’ll get married there, just like you’ve always wanted. You can wear that lace dress you talked about, the one you saw at the boutique last spring.”

You made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and your fingers twitched weakly against his chest.

“And kids,” Tyler added, his voice breaking completely now. “Two��hell, however many you want. We’ll give ‘em the best damn life, I promise you that. Just… just stay with me, darlin’. Please.”

Your eyes fluttered open again, glassy but fixed on him.

“Three or four?” you rasped, a faint hint of amusement in your tone.

Tyler let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over him like a flood. He cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dirt from your cheek.

“Yeah, three or four is perfect, darlin’,,” he said, his forehead pressing against yours as his tears mingled with the soot on his face. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Just tell me the names you’ve got picked out, and I’ll make it happen.”

You gave a weak, tired smile, and he could feel the slight rise and fall of your chest against his. But your body still felt too limp, too fragile in his arms.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Stay with me.”

Your gaze flickered once more, but before he could plead again, the paramedics swarmed around you.

“Sir, we need to take her now,” one of them said urgently, but Tyler’s arms tightened instinctively around you.

“I’m not leavin’ her,” he said fiercely, his eyes wild as he looked up at them.

“We need space to help her,” the paramedic insisted, their tone gentle but firm.

Tyler hesitated, his heart warring with his head as he realized he had no choice. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“You hang on, you hear me?” he whispered, his voice shaking.

Reluctantly, he let them take you from his arms, his hands trembling as he watched them load you onto the stretcher. His heart clenched painfully as he saw your pale, dust-streaked face disappear behind the blur of paramedics working to save you.

* * * *

The waiting room of the hospital felt like a void. Time moved differently here, stretching out each second into an eternity. Tyler sat hunched over in a plastic chair, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. Boone, Dani, Dexter, and Lily sat nearby, their voices low and subdued as they tried to offer support. But Tyler didn’t hear them. His mind was stuck in the chaos of the collapsed building, the sound of your ragged breaths, the weight of your fragile body in his arms.

He stared at the double doors down the hallway, willing someone to come through them with news. Good news. Any news. His burned skin throbbed beneath the bandages the ER nurses had wrapped around him, but he didn’t care. The only pain that mattered was the fear clawing at his chest. The fear of losing you.

“T,” Boone said quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong. She’s gonna pull through.”

Tyler nodded absently, his throat too tight to respond. He wanted to believe Boone, but the image of you lying so still, your face pale and streaked with dust, was seared into his mind.

The doors finally swung open, and a doctor stepped into the waiting room. Tyler shot to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Tyler Owens?” the doctor asked, glancing around the room.

“That’s me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The doctor smiled softly, and Tyler’s knees nearly buckled with relief.

“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “She inhaled a lot of smoke, and there’s some bruising from the debris, but no major injuries. She’s going to be okay.”

Tyler exhaled a shaky breath, his hands dragging down his face as the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

“Can I see her?” Tyler asked, his voice cracking.

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “She’s awake, but she’s still weak. Try to keep it short for now.”

Tyler nodded, barely hearing the last part as he followed the doctor down the hallway. His boots echoed on the tile floor, the sound somehow both grounding and surreal.

When he stepped into your room, his chest tightened at the sight of you. You were propped up in the hospital bed, an oxygen mask resting lightly over your nose and mouth. The faint beeping of the monitors was a comforting reminder that you were still here, still breathing.

Your eyes fluttered open when you heard him, and despite the exhaustion etched into your face, you managed a small smile.

“Hey, cowboy,” you whispered, your voice muffled by the mask.

Tyler’s lips curved into a smile, and he pulled a chair up to your bedside, sitting down with a sigh of relief. He reached for your hand, his fingers curling gently around yours.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“I’ll try,” you teased weakly, your fingers giving his hand the faintest squeeze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Tyler’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, his eyes drinking in the sight of you as if to convince himself you were really okay.

“I meant what I said out there,” he finally murmured, his gaze locking with yours.

You frowned slightly in confusion. “What part?”

“All of it,” he said. “The church, the kids, everything. I want it all with you, darlin’. I want to marry you, and I’ll wear whatever you tell me to.”

You laughed softly, the sound raspy but real, and Tyler’s heart swelled.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you said, your smile softening as tears welled in your eyes. “I want it all too, Tyler. I always have.”

Tyler leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Then let’s start with dinner,” he said. “Soon as you’re out of here, I’m takin’ you to the nicest place in town. No storms, no distractions, just you and me.”

Your fingers tightened around his as you nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Deal. Can we have Italian?”

For the first time in hours, Tyler let himself relax, a small smile playing on his lips as he whispered, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

[hellowoolf]

something, somehow, someday

chapter 3: sun stall | prev | next | series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, a lot of yearning :P

a/n: i have a poll up on chapter length so if you have an opinion please vote! it's been tied up almost the whole way, and the poll will end around sunday. also, as always, feel free to send asks about context/content, i know i can be...sparse sometimes >:) i love you all

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

SATORU, for his part, never resented you for leaving. he missed you almost masochistically: he dreamt of you on purpose, refused outright to forget, dragged your memory behind him, the whole comatose body of it. but soon after your leaving he failed so spectacularly at protecting amanai, and suguru defected not long after. he lost that year in totality to his own failure, to a boundless and indiscriminate wash of waste and desecration. it was everywhere. and so covered in it as he was, it was impossible to discern the particulars; your disappearance was a limb to a much larger, beastly thing. 

for a time he hated himself for losing two of the most important people in his life, though even that he had to abandon for megumi and tsumiki’s sake. by the time he had enough clarity to truly wonder why you left, he had the sense to recognize that returning to 2006 could do him no good. so no, there has been no hatred—in fact, he doesn’t think he could ever hate you—only a quiet wanting, the remainder of the ways he once loved you, and your koi fish in the stream. 

he hasn’t spent much time in this part of tokyo. shoko seems to have crested her temporary calm and dissolved again into a tremor satoru pretends not to see. she scans the neighborhood with fear and appetite in equal measure and he finds himself doing the same. she stops suddenly, remembering something.

“you should take off your blindfold.”

his brows pinch together. “ha?” it doesn’t come out cruel so much as confused.

shoko makes an expectant face: you are at my mercy. satoru continues walking as he slips a finger behind the fabric and pulls it off. “you know, it’s cruel to string me along in the dark like this. just because you know something i don’t doesn’t mean you can prey on me,” he mutters.

shoko scoffs. “you think i’m enjoying this?”

“yeah, actually, i think you are at least a little bit,” he bites.

“gojo, i have scanned medical records, cctv footage, eye witness accounts—god i got teachers at the kyoto school involved for this—”

a small grin slides over satoru’s face. “utahime?”

shoko’s annoyance persists. “i’ve put years into doing this for you and you can’t offer me the courtesy of trusting me? this one time? after i’ve done something so monumental on your behalf? jesus, gojo, you really are—”

something behind satoru’s ribs turns over once, twice, snaps open. there are teeth in his sternum. he feels it all before he sees it, the tug to square his shoulders towards something, the echo of the person he used to be bellowing something inside of him, but he can’t make any of it out. he sees his eyes first, they’re his eyes, looking over your shoulder. they look frightened; he’s never seen his own eyes so afraid before.

there are a few things satoru knows immediately and a few others that are slower on the uptake. that is his child—this point is undeniable, though there isn’t much internalization that can happen right at this moment—and you are his mother. he would know you anywhere, he would know you in the dark, he would know you senseless, and he certainly knows you like this, eyes wide open and ten yards away. your back is turned and satoru also knows, right then, that you cannot sense him yet.

the kid does, though. he looks like a ghost, embraced in your arms, an eerie reconstruction of himself at that age. satoru wonders now if everyone found him as incandescently striking looking as he now finds this child, or whether it’s because it’s his. his child. there are no words or musings in him, only this feeling, the bite of wonderment and love and hurt. the latter, he thinks, wins out on his face.

the child whispers something in your ear and your back straightens. you shake your head a little, and the movement lets satoru see the side of your face for a brief and monumental second. god, you are just as terribly lovely as the day you left. there are more whispers between you and you stand, slowly, and satoru sees that you are now terrified, too. you come all the way up before you turn.

there is only a deep breath’s worth of time spent like this: satoru, frozen on the sidewalk and as helpless as he’s ever been, you, eyes wide, refusing to panic but nonetheless knowing that everything has changed, and your baby, the siphoning of each of you, stepped now in front of your legs. and that’s the worst part, satoru thinks. yes, it may be the most awful thing to have ever happened to him that this child worries satoru may hurt you. shoko and the neighborhood fade, blurred on the periphery of this little massacre shared among the three of you.

satoru moves first. a step towards you, and then another. you don’t make to protect your son, he knows you know that you don’t have to, but the boy clings to your knee behind him, so furious somehow and so petrified, and most of all determined to keep you safe. for one of the first times in his life satoru is glad for his six eyes; he can look at you both at once.

when he arrives at the altar of your feet satoru squats to his son’s level. it occurs to him only then that he must recognize satoru as his father; if he knows at all what his own face looks like then it would be impossible to miss it. 

the belated circumstances arrive in satoru’s head; this child has cursed energy, he has a cursed technique, he’s using it right now. satoru extends a hand towards the boy slowly, pauses each time he flinches, until suddenly his palm just…stops. whatever was left holding him upright leaks out his ears now as satoru sinks all the way to his knees.

your voice, against all odds, is even. “it’s okay, takara.” takara. he slumps a little as he relaxes, but keeps a chubby arm barring your legs from moving forward. you drop to the ground anyway, tears streaming down your face, and they look like they burn.

“say something,” you plead quietly.

satoru wrenches your name from his mouth like a death rattle. “what can i say? what do you want me to say?”

you shake your head, “i don’t know, i—i’m sorry. i can’t—you were never meant to meet him.”

“and what? you were just gonna keep him from me forever?”

you almost look confused as to how he couldn’t understand. “of course i was. he is your son, satoru. if people knew they would take him,” your voice raises only a fraction, “nobody could protect him from the onslaught of people who would use him to hurt you,” your words sound like sobs, they are heartbreaking, but you continue, “it was all i could do to protect you both.”

“and what about you? what about your protection? i could have been there for you and for him—”

“satoru, stop.”

“no, be serious with me. be honest with me. don’t you owe me that?” he’s almost manic now, so angry and so devastated and it bares itself in his voice, “how could you have decided without me?”

satoru wonders if you’d be yelling at him if takara wasn’t between you, but as it is you keep two hands on your volume. “i was practically a child! and so were you! i did what i thought was best. i did it for you. how could you ever be a father? i couldn’t burden you with that responsibility, there was too much on you already!”

satoru shakes with a terrible laughter. “and yet i ended up halfway to parenthood anyway!” he exclaims.

you suck in a breath. “what does that mean?”

where does he even begin? he tries his best to keep himself human but god how could you rob him of this? “i took in two zenin kids around when suguru defected.”

this information only slows you down for a moment before your face twists again. you had heard about suguru’s defection; yaga left you a voicemail, worried he’d seek you out. it’s one of the only times you had to well and fully restrain yourself from reaching out to satoru, who had loved geto voraciously, you think. you cast the thought aside and say again, slower, “i felt like i had no options. no way out but…away. i knew what you’d do if i told you.” 

and this is by far the most devastating thing you’d said to him so far. to acknowledge how deeply he cared for you seared you both, each of you shuddering with the memory. satoru practically whispers, “i can’t believe you took this from me…took him from me.”

the words rush out of your lips faster now. “i never wanted to hurt you, not ever, and that’s why i left. i stand by that choice.” you poke your pointer finger into his chest and he lets you. “he’s gotten to live free from us.” 

satoru grabs your wrist and keeps it close, firm but gentle, still. even feeling so betrayed by a version of you gone by he seeks your touch for comfort: his fingers wrap around to your pulse to feel you living. neither of you think much about how physically familiar you remain to one another. “he has my technique.” 

you both look at takara now, the first time since you began arguing. he looks even smaller up close, satoru thinks. his hands are wrung behind his back and his toes point in but he does not look at all confused. it’s clear to the both of you that he’s understood every word, or at least the meaning, and his eyes well with the knowing but he refuses to loosen. he stands stiff as satoru tilts his head and holds his hand out, releasing your wrist.

“my name is satoru.”

~~~~~~~

YOU cannot, try as you might, reconcile satoru gojo in your living room. takara points out his various toys at your request, and satoru watches him intently, nods when takara glances up at him. shoko had slipped quietly away watching the tableau of the three of you at the park, and against your better judgment you had let satoru through your front door; the two of them are blinding, beaming in each others company despite takara’s trepidation and satoru’s lingering hurt. they kneel together on the floor while you watch from the couch, witness now to a sacred moment, trying not to move.

you’re only mildly alarmed that you still know satoru’s posture enough to know he is trying to consume as much of takara’s presence as he possibly can. he’s hunched the way he is when he eats, ingesting the sight of his son who he’s known less than an hour. and you have so much left to say to him but you are not so cruel as to rip from him this time, too.

takara is sharp, too. in between turning his wooden trains upside down and sideways in this strange, stilted performance, he asks satoru enough questions to make a running catalogue in his mind: where do you live? do you have a job? do you have parents? how long did it take to get here? and satoru’s smile, already fond, nearly takes you to an early grave.

at least, you think to yourself, you can at last put to bed your questioning: you are still in love with satoru. watching them acclimate to each other's company, for the first time in a long time, you remember what it is you gave up for takara’s sake. in taking takara from satoru you forsake him, yes, but you denied yourself these moments, too. and part of you dreads the conversations with gojo that are sure to follow, but the rest opens itself to the warmth of the two of them, splayed unceremoniously across your carpet.

still, you meant what you said before; you don’t regret your decisions. the world of jujutsu asks for takara now, and you find a small comfort in the fact that he knows, to some degree, what he would lose if he took up the post of his lineage. 

takara’s eyes are sleepy as you glance at him now.

“bubba why don’t you say goodnight to satoru and i’ll come help you wash up in a few minutes?” 

takara hesitates. “will i see him again?”

you refuse to look at gojo when he asks. “yes,” you assure him, “i promise you will.” you mean it in a way takara can feel. he drags himself away and down the hall, leaving you alone with…what would you call your relationship now?

satoru takes his time situating himself on the couch next to you. how strange it is to see him again, to be thrust into such devastating conflict, to miss him so strongly at an arm’s length. he’s more stunning than you’ve ever seen him, blindfold still off and unfurled on your coffee table.

“he’s amazing,” he breathes. 

you can’t help the small smile that makes its way onto your face. “yeah, i know.”

satoru chews a moment on his question before he asks it. “did he ever ask about me?”

you deflate a little. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what? don’t ask? don’t i deserve to know about my son?” his hands gesticulate ahead of him. you suppose the both of you are as angry at the other as you were earlier today, which is to say not very much, you think. mostly he is hurt—he cannot hide this from you—and you, somehow, are wounded, too, and you’re both floundering watching the other lick their blood dry. satoru continues, “don’t i deserve to know whether my son needed his father?”

“needed you? i assure you, satoru, i have been more than enough for him. i’ve given up the rest of my life in service of—”

“—that’s not what i meant—”

“isn’t it?” his eyes flit across your face, he’s looking for something and you’re unsure whether he’ll find it. “aren’t you asking me how often i’ve left a gap big enough for him to miss a man he never met? how often i failed?”

“no! i—no,” gojo reaches for you on instinct but leaves his palms hovering an inch from your forearms. “it’s obvious you’ve done an amazing job with him, especially given the circumstances, but—”

“and what circumstances would those be, exactly?” you ask with no small amount of cruelty. the funny thing is, you know exactly to which realities he is referring—your financial and familial solitude—but still it stings to feel questioned by this heir to a very real monetary fortune, beyond the immense power already bequeathed to him. “i may have wanted for things, gojo, but takara never has.”

bluer than anything human, satoru’s eyes look devastated, taken by gravity down his face. “don’t call me that.”

you purse your lips. “i just…” something vicious and sharp dissipates into the air, the both of you taking a breath, softly. “i’ve worked so hard to be proud of the way i have parented him.” satoru nods you on. “it’s not that i don’t want you in his life, i mean—i don’t think there was ever a moment when i didn’t want that at least a little bit. i can’t tell you how many times i wanted you to be there. but i feel…” you reach for him this time, resting a palm lightly on the back of his hand. “a little afraid, i guess,” you whisper.

satoru lets your admission flower in the silence a moment before he smiles, tiny and wry. “afraid of me?”

“yes,” you breathe. the white gleam of his hair bounces in the lamplight. “because everything is different.” you feel the steeled tension melt a little; you want to be honest with him, more than anything. “it feels a little bit like you’ve spoiled everything.”

satoru nods a little again, sober. “maybe i have.”

and your next confession will sound to satoru like a promise, you know it will, but it finds its way out anyway: “i can’t deny you him now, can i?”

“not without being terrible.”

you laugh something watery and real. “yeah, i guess not.” 

a silence consumes you both again, but it’s no longer hostile, the both of you too exhaustedly malleable  for anything more charged now. 

in the soft sounds of your apartment you are given the space to notice that you have an urge to ask about satoru’s life now. you don’t think you are capable of philosophizing more on your choices and the unyielding consequences tonight, and he’s seen now—at the cost, maybe, of your sanity—what your life has been in your six years away. and you suspect it may hurt you somehow to know more concretely how he’s lived in your absence, but the day has been long. you are tired. you allow yourself this luxury.

“you said you…adopted two kids? is that right?”

“i—yeah,” satoru says, surprised in a gentle sort of way, “they were collateral from a mission that summer.”

you soften even further at the thought of satoru growing into guardianship at the same time you did. something catches in your lungs. “how old are they now?”

satoru smiles at the thought of them. “the little one, megumi—a pain, honestly, and so mean to me—will be ten this year. tsumiki is three years older. i sometimes forget it, though. she acts so much like a little adult,” he laughs softly.

“i’d like to meet them,” you admit.

“i want you to, too,” satoru says, almost too fondly. you preen a little in it anyway.

“do they live on campus with you?”

“no, no. i tried that at the beginning but it felt…i don’t know, inappropriate? i got an apartment as close by as i could, and i stay there as often as i can.”

you hum. “you seem…” you have to look for the right words, “suited to this.”

“are you surprised?” he scoffs, not unkindly.

“i don’t know, i guess so,” you admit with a grin. a little teasing. a time capsule.

“i’m very mature now,” satoru says back.

and because the only secret you could ever keep from satoru was ruined this afternoon, you confess: “the you i have in my head has been from when you were 18. all this time has passed and—” you tilt your head back and forth slightly, “—and you haven’t aged in my mind at all. not until today, all at once.”

satoru’s eyes on you warm your cheeks and you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed, not really for anything. “and?”

you narrow your eyes. “and what?”

“am i still as wonderful all grown up?”

the laugh that comes from you is real. “that’s yet to be determined, actually.”

“smart girl,” he says, you hope without thinking. the quiet asserts itself again.

all these years later, you find yourself still intimately familiar with the choices satoru makes in your company. when he moves, and how: all of it has been in his own image, a predictable force. you have never flinched when he has reached for you, in part because you are unafraid, but also because you have always seemed to know when he wanted to move his hands.

but you are rendered entirely still as you realize—your mind is a moment behind you—that satoru is holding you, now. 

his arms are so warm you almost want to tear them from your body. instead—fool and terminally lovesick that you are—you press your forehead to the cradle of his neck and breathe the scent of him in. nothing has been settled tonight, not really, but neither of you move to acknowledge it, lest this sacrosanct handful of seconds be broken. you merely allow the bruising grip of his elbows around your biceps, the claw of your fingers around his sides, to hold.

tomorrow teases you from below the skyline. it’s only beginning to darken to evening but still you are confronted with the passing of time, with the reality of today. 

though you remember, here in his grasp, one of the things you used to love so much about pressing up against a supernova like satoru; all other light fades, and the darkness, too, is gobbled up. time stops for a moment, you think, a withholding of breath as the sun stalls in its burial below the city. you allow yourself to forget temporarily about the fact that you have no idea what to do, of how to continue living on top of the remains of this life you crafted so carefully, and push your nose further into satoru’s shoulder.  he whispers into your hair, so quiet you wonder if it isn’t meant for you: “i missed you.”

~~~~~~~

a/n: i feel SO eternally grateful as the taglist for this series continues to grow. i can't tell you all how much it means to me that you keep reading. i adore you <3 also, if you're interested in having a say on my chapter length in the future, vote in the poll i posted on sunday hehe. as always, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

taglist: @emochosoluvr @por0u @vraiao @voidfulcrumdilemma @vaniyeiszero @missingnozw @crowroakchi @seikamuzu @anonymous-3846 @asahinasstuff @kunisnaomi @bl6o6dy @meanderingwistera @lilac-heartz @acowboykisser @miiikooooooo @missingnozw @heiranni @sadmonke @alicebleu @sanchann @splinx04real @lolllllllllllllliiiiiii @eggrollforyou @updated-version @yaurss @khaleesihavilliard @mizzowizzo @mierins @eolivy @spencerreidisagorgman @dahliadaenerys @cantchooseanctbias @fallenfromgrxce @theclassbookworm @liestel @jiasdream @maddy24207 @valoriya @19catspiledontopofeachother @hbhbhbhbhby @bijuu-naginata @jv5t4g1rl @bobagang @thraxpatty @muscovitechick

[xaviesstarlight]

Blind as a Bat

Synopsis: MC has astigmatism, making her extremely nearsighted and loses her contacts in the N-109 Zone. Note: I have astigmatism, so there’s a good chance I’ll write about it again soon in the future.

The wind is a girl’s worst enemy. Not only does the whirling current cause your hair to fly into your face at the worst possible times, but it can also dry out your eyes when hunting wanderers, causing you to lose your eye contacts. You curse under your breath as your vision suddenly becomes blurry after dodging a wanderer’s attack one night.

In the N-109 Zone.

The N-109 Zone isn’t usually so windy, but a storm is currently on its way. You duck behind a dumpster to hide from the wanderer as you assess just how much you can see in the darkness. You have severe astigmatism, so lights are especially blurry. You can see just fine with your contacts, much better with glasses, but the contacts have never caused you issues before. If it wasn’t for this wind… The wanderer howls, its roar breaking through your thoughts. You can still see the large blurry body like a black mass. As long as you aim at that, you shouldn’t miss. You quickly aim your gun and shoot. The wanderer dissolves into dust.

Smiling, you rush from behind your temporary shelter to grab the wanderer’s protocore for the Association. Your eyes search for colors that stand out among the gritty gunk that covers the N-109 Zone. The protocore should sparkle. You stumble as you look for it when something catches you before you land face-first onto the pavement.

“Careful, kitten,” a familiar, sultry voice says from the darkness. “I thought all cats land on their feet after falling, but I suppose that rule doesn’t apply to you.” Sylus. His energy manipulation evol is what caught you.

You whip your head in the direction of his voice to see a tall figure. Unfortunately, you couldn’t make out any details. If you squint, you could notice his white hair and black clothing, but that’s about it. “Sylus? Do you see the protocore? I can’t find it.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Stop playing games, sweetie. It’s right in front of you.”

“Where?”

Sylus freezes. He studies you as you stand before him scanning the ground for the shiny red protocore just a few feet in front of you. You squint your eyes, quickly looking left to right, a restlessness stemming from your frustration. Also when you look in his direction, there’s no focus, no softening of your features that usually occurs when you see him. Sylus waves his hand in front of your face. “Can you not see? What happened to your contacts?”

You fill Sylus in on your situation. “It just so happens,” Sylus responds, “you left a spare pair of glasses at the base. You’re coming back with me.” He grabs your wrist to lead you to his bike before snatching up the protocore using his evol. “You should be grateful I found you before something really bad happened.”

“Worse than being captured by Onychinus after being rendered blind?” you giggle, happily following him. You attempt to make the best of the situation, and going home with your boyfriend after a mission is the best possible outcome on a night like this, but the grip on your wrist tightens.

You couldn’t see Sylus’s expression, but you could hear the fear in his voice as he speaks lower, almost as if through his teeth. “You are fortunate it was me who found you in this state. If anyone else did…” Sylus doesn’t finish his thought.

You gulp, a sense of guilt weighing down on your heart. It wasn’t your fault for losing your contacts, especially at night in the most dangerous area in the country, but you don’t like the idea of making Sylus worry about you. You don’t say another word until you are safely back at the base.

Even though you are more than capable of taking a shower without any type of vision aide, Sylus insists on helping you. “You may have trouble reading the bottles, and how will you know which is the shampoo and which is the conditioner?”

You sigh. Fatigue overtakes your body, so you indulge your boyfriend. You want more than anything to hurry up and finish the shower, so you can put your glasses on after getting washed up. You still haven’t clearly seen Sylus’s face, and the idea of not being able to see him makes you restless.

Once you finish the shower, Sylus dries your hair and hands you your glasses. You put on the black square frames and immediately cup Sylus’s face in your hands, giving him a good look. His crimson eyes soften as they meet your gaze, his lips slightly curving upward. You grin, your shoulders relaxing in relief.

“There you are. It bothered me that I couldn’t see you properly until now. I missed you.”

Sylus chuckles. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear before caressing your cheek. “You couldn’t see me this whole time? That won’t do, kitten. You really are as blind as a bat.”

“That may be, but I have my crow to see for me.” You boop Sylus’s nose.

Sylus chuckles. “Though I hope this doesn’t happen again, I would gladly be your eyes.”

[leighsartworks216]

You make me feel like a fool (Waiting for you)

Sylus x gn!Reader

Thank you @comatosebunny09 for encouraging me to keep writing this fic!! I'm really glad I was able to finish it. That being said, I have not proofread it at all so lmk if something is weird or messed up 👍

Title from "Fool" by Frankie Cosmos

Warnings: fluff, light angst, kissing, sleepiness, literal sleeping together, established relationship, cuddling, injury, bruises, soft + kinda clingy Sylus

Word Count: 1,418

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form (fill this out to be tagged in future fics)

You’ve been away on mission after mission for almost an entire month. You have had no time to look at your phone; any spare moment you can find goes toward sleeping or eating a protein bar. Messages go unread and unanswered.

When the day finally comes that you get to go home, you have to put what lingering remnants of your energy into remembering how to live in your apartment again. You’re battered and bruised, worn to the bone, physically and mentally exhausted. It’s all you can do to drag yourself all the way to your bed before you pass out, fully dressed and all.

You wake up to insistent knocking on your door. You have no idea what time it is. It could be extremely late, or absurdly early. Time is a concept for people who can process it, and you definitely cannot.

You stumble, wincing the whole way, to the door. The knocking is really starting to give you a headache. You’d be shocked if it didn’t wake anybody else up.

You’ve barely unlocked the door when it’s being shoved open, and suddenly a mouth is slanted firmly over yours.

Sleep vanishes for the moment to provide stark clarity to what’s going on. The flurry of white hair and the leather gloves that hold your face assure you that this isn’t some random guy off the street. Sylus’s lips press against yours desperately, passionate but not heated, like he needs to just feel you there. Before you even get a chance to respond, he pulls away. His hands fall from your face in favor of holding your waist. Red eyes scan your body, latching onto every inch of exposed skin; he frowns deeper with every bandage and bruise he sees.

“You look like hell, sweetie.”

You blink up at him. “So, you’re just not gonna tell me what that was all about?”

You catch a glimpse of a smirk as he turns away to shut the door, clicking the locks into place to play off the rampant energy that vibrates in his entire body. “Mephisto said you got back. I just wanted to check up on you.”

“Some check-up,” you giggle. He faces you once more with a soft grin. How he missed that sweet sound. “Is my mouth okay?”

“With that sharp tongue of yours? I never had any doubts.” He lightly touches a butterfly bandage on your forehead, observing the cut underneath. “The rest of you could use some attention.”

As the fear of his entrance wears off, the exhaustion begins settling back in. You’re suddenly aware of the tremble in your legs, the weight of your arms, and the chill in the air. You hum noncommittally as you lean into his body for support. He hugs you to him without question. “What time is it?”

“Almost 9 in the morning,” he answers. “You didn’t notice?”

He rests his cheek on top of your head. His hand cradles your neck, affectionately thumbing at the baby hairs there. You feel more of the cold apartment air as he lifts the hem of your shirt (definitely not suitable for sleeping in) to reveal more of the dark purple marks littering your body. He covers it back up when he feels you shiver.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime…?”

“All the more reason to take you to bed. Can you walk?”

You nod against him. His shirt is cold from the drive. He smells like gasoline and open roads, undoubtedly from riding his motorcycle. You smell like sweat and disinfectant. A shower is not feasible right now when you’re so precariously two seconds from collapsing.

He gently pries you from his body, just to turn you around and tuck you against his side. His arm wraps around your waist, trying his best - and failing - to avoid your injuries as he keeps you standing. He leads you deeper into the apartment. “How much time off did they give you?”

“Couple weeks, I think.”

He scoffs, sounding offended. “Ask for more time. They’re going to bury you in the ground if they put you back into the field so soon.” With all the familiarity of someone who lived here - as opposed to someone who’d only been allowed to visit enough times to count on one hand - Sylus pushes open your bedroom door and helps you over to the bed.

You wince as you slide under the covers. He supports your back to ease some of the pressure off your spine, and slips it out from under you once you’re laid down. You sigh heavily. “I didn’t break anything this time,” you mutter.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Your glare is harmless with the exhaustion dulling your eyes. You watch through the growing haze of sleep as Sylus strips off his jacket, boots and gloves, leaving them in a pile by your desk.

“You’re gonna sleep in those pants?”

He chuckles, smirking at you as he rounds the bed. “I figure we should both have some modicum of discomfort, given you’re still in your uniform. Besides,” he continues as he slips under the blankets, head propped up on his elbow, “I wouldn’t want to give you any ideas with the state you’re in.”

You giggle stupidly. You can’t be embarrassed right now. Your blankets block out the cold air as you draw them weakly up to your chin. Your pillow cradles your head just how you like it. And if you shift your legs a foot to the side, you bump into his, that tangle and trap yours, socked feet keeping yours warm.

“What if I asked you to kiss me like that again?” Your words are slurring with exhaustion. You’re fighting to stay awake, to keep looking at him even though he has no intentions of leaving anytime soon.

“Any time, sweetie,” he answers surely, seemingly unaffected by his own sleep schedule catching up to him. Not that you could tell in this state, anyhow. “Just say the word.”

You flick a smile back his way. “Right now?”

Sylus’s smirk is softer than usual as he adjusts his body to lean over yours, arms on either side of you to keep him from crushing you under his weight. His face hovers just over yours, the perfect position to admire you in.

You can barely keep your eyes open even a sliver, and here you are asking for him to kiss you again. If you were conscious enough to feel his heart since he stepped into your place, you’d be amazed over the effect you have on him.

Truly, this month has been agony. He knew of your missions, knew why you weren’t answering his messages, and yet each day stretched on into an eternity just waiting to hear a word from you. When Mephisto saw you get back, he’d, frustratingly enough, been in the middle of important negotiations with the territories surrounding the N109 Zone. He would have been here much sooner if that weren’t the case. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have been so overwhelmed with relief when you opened the door that he could have contained himself behind a smirk and a teasing remark.

Though, if that were the case, he wouldn’t be here, would he?

“Of course,” he whispers.

Your eyes slip closed when his face gets close. His breath caresses your skin as he watches the flutter of your eyelids, as he gently kisses your upper lip. That minor caress alone draws out a quiet sigh from your mouth. It’s an addicting sound, reaching deep into his chest and strangling his rapid heart.

Your lips part, welcoming him in further. He breaths his own sigh, trembling at the edges as he finally allows his eyes to close and fully slots his mouth with yours again.

It’s languid this time. There’s no need to rush, no need to let his desperation or fears take a hold of him. He adjusts his weight to cup your jaw with one hand, to greedily keep you there, to selfishly steal more time to savor the warmth of your mouth and the heat of your body beneath him.

He pulls away slowly, reluctantly. He opens his eyes again, and chuckles to himself.

You’re fast asleep. Maybe you have been since he first leaned in, or maybe it was in the middle of the kiss. It doesn’t matter. He brushes his nose against yours with a smile, then leans down to brush one last, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Sleep well, kitten.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy

[miihho]

"𝑫𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆"

— 𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: If you don't want your butler to reach a breaking point and take matters into his own hands by 'disciplining' you, perhaps refrain from behaving like a spoiled brat next time.

— 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: rough sex , unprotected sex , brat!reader , overstimulation , bttm male reader , blowjob , smacking , swearing , dirtytalk , praise , manhandling , dirty talk , age gap , virgin!reader , making out , degradation , petnames , non con , public sex.

PART 1 , PART 2

You were furious. Shattering objects around your room, you turned your once pristine chamber into a chaotic mess. Your anger overflowed onto everyone around you, shouting and unleashing abuse.

After that, you broke down. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you gripped the bed sheets, sprawled on your royal bed still clad in your sleepwear.

You were M/n, the prince! How could you have stooped so low as to beg someone, especially a butler? It was utterly humiliating! What would your father and mother say if they discovered your shameful behavior?

Your father had placed a heavy burden upon your shoulders, entrusting you with the future of the empire. He had envisioned you as a paragon of strength, resilience, and dominance. However, you found yourself succumbing to the influence of a mere butler. His admonitions reverberated in your mind like a relentless echo.

"Do not disappoint me. Be strong and wield the sword with skill, just as your brother does. My time wanes, and the throne shall be yours upon my passing. Fail me not, M/n, lest I consider another heir."

These words were etched into your very being, a constant weight upon your conscience. You vowed not to falter. You would rise above this moment of weakness and prove yourself worthy of the crown he had bestowed upon you.

Your cries were silent, hidden from the world. You couldn't bear the thought of anyone discovering your weakness, fearing it would tarnish your reputation and redefine how others perceived you. You couldn't afford to be seen as anything less than the strong and dominant M/n they expected.

You couldn't let your mother and father see this side of you. No one could know your vulnerability. But that butler had already glimpsed your submissive nature, a betrayal you couldn't forgive.

Clutching the bedsheets tighter, you vowed to exact punishment upon him. But how? The question gnawed at you as you plotted your next move.

"Your Highness?"

Your eyes widened as you recognized that voice. It was that damned butler! Quickly, you got up from your bed and hurried to the door without thinking. With a rush of irritation, you swung it open and came face-to-face with that annoying face you despised.

"You asshole! How dare you show your face in front of me!? Get out of my sight, I never wish to see you here ever again!" you yelled, your voice trembling with anger.

He stared down at you, his yellow eyes cold and calculating as they scanned your face. "That's such a shame, Your Highness," he replied, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "You'll be seeing me more often."

"W—what the heck do you mean by that!?" you demanded, your bewilderment evident in your tone.

"Your mother," he began, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction, "heard about your recent behavior and was quite shocked. When she saw that I possess the proper manners and decorum you seem to lack, she decided I would be the perfect candidate to be your new etiquette teacher." His words hung in the air, leaving you stunned and speechless.

You chuckled nervously, hoping it was some twisted joke. "H-hey... Tell me you're joking. Y-you're joking, right!?" Desperation seeped into your voice as you grabbed his collar harshly, trying to shake the truth out of him.

"I'm afraid not," he replied calmly, his smirk unwavering. "She found out about your behavior towards the maids and your lack of manners, Your Highness."

Anger flared within you at his words, and you tightened your grip on his collar. "So what if I have no manners!? I couldn't care less about those worthless maids! Those 'foods' are nothing but garbage. We don't eat slop like that; it's disgusting! They should've been kicked out of this castle ages ago! Just like you! Just a lowly butler who's probably good at nothing, maybe just some trash my father picked up!" you spat.

"Your words only confirm why I'm here. Perhaps it's time you learned the value of respect and humility your highness."

"No! Fuck off asshole!" you exclaimed, but he paid no heed to your protests. With a swift motion, he forcefully removed your grip on his collar and seized your wrist in a tight grip, his hold unyielding.

You struggled against his grasp, but it was futile. With a determined stride, he barged into your room, his grip still firm as he flung you to the unforgiving floor. A sharp hiss escaped your lips as pain shot through your body upon impact.

As you lay there, vulnerable and in pain, you watched helplessly as he closed the door behind him and locked it, sealing you both in.

He glared down at you, his eyes a piercing yellow that sent shivers down your spine.

"Shall we begin the lesson with your mouth, Your Highness?" His words were laced with a commanding tone as he strode towards you.

"My mouth!? What do you mean by my mouth? Stay away, you filthy vermin!" You attempted to rise, but your legs failed you, leaving you vulnerable on the floor.

With a smirk that sent a chill down your spine, he loomed over you, seizing your chin to meet his gaze forcibly.

"You have such beautiful eyes your highness. Staring at me like that turns me on." he declared, as your gaze involuntarily dropped to his pants, where a noticeable bulge had formed.

"Do you want to see it? See how I'm going to lecture that mouth of yours?" His tone was both mocking and tantalizing as he began to undo his belt, the metallic clink resonating in the tense silence of the room.

"N-no, no! I don't want to see your icky meat!" you protested, but your words fell on deaf ears as he proceeded to remove his belt and push down his underwear.

Your eyes widened in shock as his erect member was revealed before you, Tall and pale white with a crimson hue at the tip, it stood proudly before you, veins pulsing along its length as it throbbed with anticipation.

"It's yours," he declared, his voice thick with desire, "all yours for you to see anytime and anywhere, Your Highness."

"W-wha—?" Your attempt at a coherent response was abruptly stifled as he seized your head, thrusting his cock into your mouth with an aggressive force that left you gasping for air. The sudden intrusion hit the back of your throat, eliciting a choked gurgle of surprise as your eyes widened in shock.

Instinctively, you reached out, grasping onto his thighs for support as you struggled to accommodate his size. Sweat beaded on his brow as he grunted in satisfaction, relishing the sight of you adjusting to his relentless penetration. His grip tightened on your hair, adding to the sensation of his control over you.

"Mhmm, that's a good boy... Taking me all in," he murmured, his voice thick with lust as he watched you with a predatory gaze.

"Ngh... Let's begin the lesson, Your Highness." With a deliberate motion, he began to withdraw his cock from your mouth, only to slam it back in with a force that stole your breath away. Your grip on his thighs tightened as tears welled in your eyes, a mixture of pain and submission washing over you as you surrendered to his will.

He moaned in ecstasy, throwing his head back as the overwhelming sensations consumed him. The warmth of your mouth enveloped him, the slickness of your saliva adding to the intensity of his pleasure. With each thrust, he felt himself sinking deeper into bliss, utterly lost in the euphoria of the moment.

As he gazed down at you, he couldn't help but marvel at the sight before him. Your furrowed brows, the blush that painted your cheeks, the subtle bulge he noticed in your pants – it was all too much, too perfect. In this moment, you belonged to him and him alone.

"Kick and claw all you like. Scream. Hit me. Curse the fuck out of me. Only you can do that to me and not to anyone else, i don't want your attention to go to anyone but me. You don't belong to anyone but me, M/n. Only me." he declared, his words laced with a possessive fervor as he continued to thrust into your mouth, each motion driving him closer to the edge.

As you gasped for breath, he withdrew his cock from your mouth allowing you a moment to recover. Relief flooded through you as you gulped in air, your chest heaving with the effort while a smirk was playing on his lips as he observed your struggle.

With a cruel chuckle, he grasped his cock firmly in his hand and lightly slapped your flushed cheeks with it, Your glare met his amused gaze. Chuckling softly as he seemed to revel in your reaction.

"Day to dusk, I'm going to fuck that bratty attitude out of you, so you better be ready, your Highness."

[vampzity]

neglectful | FL

“It always goes like this, could’ve predicted it. I’m so naive to think you loved me for me.” — goddess, laufey

pairing: bf! felix x reader

after a rough disagreement with your boyfriend, you can’t help but feel like a terrible parter to him. he does his best to go out his way to show you you’re more than enough but unbeknownst to him, it was already too late.

[warnings]: slight arguing? self-consciousness. this is far from fluff i fear…! angst only hehe

word count: 1.5k

“You just don’t seem to care! All you’ve been doing is pushing me aside and I’m tired.”

You stormed out of the house, completely forgetting the lunch that Felix had packed for you. You’ve had enough of the excuses, of the silence whenever you were right, the “ifs ands and buts.” Felix stood there in disbelief, your plate of breakfast still in his hand as he hoped you would just come back through the door.

Except you wouldn’t, not this time.

There was going to be no more, “letting him off the hook.” Every time you argued, you’d let him have the last word— you’d forgive him so easily and let it go as if it wouldn’t continue again in the future. You were exhausted and you just wanted him to listen.

Felix wasn’t always this way, oh no. He was a completely different person back then, but it just left you with the many wonders of what had changed. When did he become so cold, so distant and why? For some odd reason he didn’t want to talk about his feelings toward you and that bothered you. Relationships should be all about being open with each other, communicating.. he was doing the exact opposite.

The cycle was the same, he’s cold, he’s distant, you comment about it, he brushes it off as nothing and then you argue. With him moving on like it was nothing hours later. It hurt you to see someone who you still cherish so deeply, switch a flip on you unexpectedly.

Felix placed your plate on the table, staring with a blank expression. There wasn’t a single day that you’d go without eating breakfast, especially not before work. It shouldn’t have. bothered him, but it left a heavy weight on his shoulders that he didn’t like. He sat at the table, pushing the food on his own plate around with a fork as his mind raced.

Was he really as neglectful as you made it out to be?

He glanced over to your plate across the table, full and missing your presence. An empty feeling washed over him— it was odd to be eating breakfast without you, as it was something you two have done every morning for the last 2 years. For once, there were left overs. Your untouched leftovers.

A frown painted his face as he got up to clear the table. He searched through the cabinets for a container to save your food in, but to his surprise there was none. How far in the gutter was his mind? Did you ever mention anything about needing more containers before?

Felix glanced around the kitchen, his eyes catching a small list against the fridge. He walked over to it and pulled it down, scanning it for a moment. Milk, eggs, cereal, and there it was.

Storage containers.

“A grocery list, for me?” He tilted his head in confusion, his eyes catching the date of the note.

1/03/25.

That was nearly a whole week and a half ago. A sighed escaped him as he imagined the many times you had told him to bring back groceries on his way home, or simply go and get them on his days off.

It all made sense now— why you came home furiously carrying multiple bags of groceries the other day. Why you gave him the cold shoulder whenever he cooked for you. He was neglecting you without noticing and didn’t even bother to see the signs you threw his way. Felix’s heart sank at the realization, feeling horrible for the way he let you feel. He loved you, he always did, however it was clear you felt that he didn’t anymore. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel less than enough.

How could he make it up to you?

— ✧⁂✬ —

You pulled into the driveway of your shared home, groaning as you turned off the car. You sat in your seat for a minute, contemplating if you even wanted to walk inside— it’s not like you’d be greeted with any warm welcome. A useless argument seemed more likely to occur the that at this point, and you weren’t exactly looking forward to it.

You got out of your car, locking it as you walked over to the door. You fumbled with the keys for a moment before the door swung open in front of you. Startled you jumped back, being greeted with a guilty look from Felix. You looked at him for a second, before brushing past him to take off your coat and shoes.

“Can we talk?”

Felix closed the door, trailing behind you as you switched into your house slippers. You ignored him, walking over to the kitchen to spot a small plate of brownies on the table. You raised your eyebrow, giving him a quick glance only to be met with a half smile. Sending the cold shoulder his way, you grabbed a drink out of the fridge and walked toward the stairs.

It’s been months since he’s made you anything, let alone brownies. Though to make brownies all of a sudden, especially knowing you were upset with him? It was unusual.

“Hey,” he grabbed your hand, tugging on it slightly. You turned your head to look at him, sighing as you pulled your hand out from his grasp.

“Please talk to me, I’m sorry.” he mumbled, searching for even the slightest bit of light in your eyes.

“Talk about what, Felix? I’ve said more than enough to you yet time and time again you don’t care. Why waste my breath?”

He gave you a small frown, accepting the harsh truth that you had every right to be upset with him. All he wanted to do was fix things and make you happy— was it too late for that?

“I’m just, I feel horrible. I spent so much time in my work, I neglected you and.. that’s not right.”

He looked away from your cold gaze, picking at his chipped nail polish. You sighed heavily, turning away from him and walking back up the steps to your shared bedroom. You dug through the closet and pulled out a suitcase, soon fumbling through the closet and drawers for clothes. Felix watched from the doorway, eyebrows furrowed.

“What are you doing?”

You ignored him once again, walking into the bathroom to grab things and soon placing them in the stuffed luggage. You closed the suitcase, pulling it off the bed. Felix walked into the room, grabbing the suitcase from your hands and pulling it to him.

“Hey, give me that back!” You tugged at the handle that he held a firm grip on. “I’m serious Felix, I’m done here.”

“So you’re just going to leave like that? After everything? Where are you even going to go?”

His questions felt like knives, turning and twisting inside of you. Still, you ignored them, yanking the suitcase from his hold and walking down the steps. You changed back into your sneakers, Felix standing a good distance away from you. You glanced over to him, watching as tears escaped his eyes.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to you. Brownies doesn’t fix anything, especially this and you know that.” You put on your jacket, pulling the car keys out from the pocket.

“I’ve fought, I’ve communicated, I even thrown hints at you and still you pushed them aside as nothing. Can’t you see it Felix? I loved you more than I loved myself, more than you even loved me.”

Felix stood there still, his face covered in tears as he wiped them away. He couldn’t respond to you, he wouldn’t. There was nothing for him to say when you were right. He had to bring himself to see the harsh reality of it all— he hurt you, put you last, every feeling you had at this moment was valid.

He wasn’t always cold, he was never the cold mean guy toward you, and the tears may have proven it, but a part of you couldn’t bear with it anymore. He showed you his true colors without a warning. He was more passionate about his work than he was of your relationship, and it tore you apart.

“Felix..” your voice broke, tears rolling down your face as you walked up to him.

You held his hands in your own, bringing them up to your face before you placed a soft kiss against them. You gave him a small frown as you wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I love you, but I deserve better. I’m sorry.”

His heart shattered at your words. He subconsciously pulled you into a hug, squeezing you softly as if he didn’t want to let go. You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing his head gently before pulling yourself away from his hug.

“Please don’t go, I can do better. I promise.” His doe eyes met your own, making you look away.

You walked back to your suitcase, holding it tightly as you made your way to the door. You stopped suddenly, taking in a deep breath before looking back at his fragile gaze. It hurt you to see him like this, but that was only part of the extent that he ever made you feel. He may not ever know how you truly felt.

“You’re too late.”

You shut the door behind you, tears streaming down your cheeks as you made your way to the car. The worst part was over— at least for you, unlucky for Felix, it was just beginning.

uh, i’m sorry for this LMAO. part 2 maybe?

taglist: @dvrktvnnel @scarfac3 @h4untedgrl @jjongibears @rvereri

@kittykat-25 @sundaybossanova @yyaurii @hwasddeongbyeoli @vnessalau

@tiredlittlevirgo @roomsofangel @joonezra @honeyhwaaa @minghaoslatina

[moonlight-joy]

The Queen’s Flame

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Your marriage to Daemon Targaryen reshaped Westeros, bringing balance and stability to his fiery nature and securing his place as King. While Daemon commanded respect with dragonfire and ambition, you proved that strength lay in unyielding resolve, diplomacy, and loyalty. Together, you forged a reign that united the Targaryens and established a legacy of power, love, and stability, remembered as one of the most celebrated in the realm’s history.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

Your marriage to Daemon Targaryen was a union that altered the course of Westeros forever. Daemon, the fiery and unpredictable Rogue Prince, had found in you not a dragonrider but a partner of unshakable resolve and intelligence. Where others bent to his will or recoiled from his tempestuous nature, you stood firm, becoming his equal and complement. Though you had no dragon of your own, your influence was undeniable, and together, you proved that strength could take many forms.

King Viserys, observing the balance you brought to Daemon’s life and rule, made a decision that shocked the realm. Against the expectations of the court, he reaffirmed Daemon as his heir, declaring that the line of succession would pass through Daemon and you. The announcement sent ripples through Westeros, and while some welcomed it, others bristled at the idea of the once-reckless prince taking the throne. Yet, your partnership with Daemon began to silence even the harshest critics, cementing your place as the future queen.

The day of the proclamation was one of grandeur and tension. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was filled with lords and ladies, their whispers echoing as they speculated on the King’s intentions. You stood beside Daemon, his hand resting at the small of your back, a subtle but powerful gesture of support. His violet eyes scanned the room, and a faint smirk played on his lips as though he found their unease amusing.

When Viserys rose from the Iron Throne, silence swept through the hall. His voice, steady and commanding, carried to every corner of the chamber. “The realm has faced its share of challenges,” he began, “and it is my duty as your king to ensure its stability for generations to come.” His gaze swept the gathered nobles before settling on you and Daemon. “My brother, Daemon Targaryen, has long been my chosen heir. Though some have doubted his worthiness, I have seen his loyalty, his strength, and his commitment to this realm. With his marriage to Lady Y/N, their union has brought wisdom, balance, and stability to House Targaryen.”

Daemon’s hand on your back tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his pride in this moment. “Today,” Viserys continued, “I reaffirm my decision. Daemon Targaryen shall remain my heir, and his line will inherit the Iron Throne.”

The hall erupted into murmurs. Some lords exchanged wary glances, while others bowed their heads in reluctant acceptance. You stood tall, your composure unshaken. As the lords began pledging their fealty, Daemon leaned close to you, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Let them whisper,” he said, his tone edged with amusement. “Soon, they will kneel.”

Though you lacked a dragon of your own, your presence at Daemon’s side was a power unto itself. In a realm where fire and blood commanded respect, you proved that strength could be found in diplomacy, intelligence, and unyielding resolve. Daemon often teased you about it. “How is it,” he asked one evening as you walked together along the battlements of the Red Keep, “that you, without a dragon, command more fear and respect than half the lords in Westeros?”

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t need a dragon to remind them of my strength.”

He laughed, pulling you close. “And perhaps that’s why you’re the only one who can tame me.”

Your bond with Daemon became the foundation of a renewed Targaryen dynasty. While he ruled the skies with Caraxes, you ruled the court, weaving alliances and extinguishing rivalries with quiet precision. Together, you presented an image of unity and strength that silenced dissent and inspired loyalty. The smallfolk began to speak of your influence in reverent tones, calling you the “Queen of the Hearth,” a symbol of fire’s enduring warmth rather than its destructive force.

Even Rhaenyra, once her uncle’s closest confidante, struggled with the changes your presence brought. Though she respected you, the bond she had shared with Daemon had been replaced by your unshakable connection. During one rare moment of shared company, she raised her goblet with a faint smile. “It seems you’ve managed what none of us could,” she said, her tone half admiring, half begrudging. “You’ve turned my uncle into a man of reason.”

You returned her smile, sensing the truth behind her words. “He has always had the capacity for reason,” you replied lightly. “He just needed the right cause.”

Daemon smirked, raising his goblet. “Or the right woman.”

As the years passed, your partnership with Daemon became the cornerstone of House Targaryen’s stability. When King Viserys’ health began to decline, the court braced for Daemon’s ascension. By then, even the most reluctant lords had come to accept the inevitability of his rule—and with you by his side, the realm began to anticipate a golden age.

On the day of Viserys’ passing, the court gathered to witness Daemon’s coronation. Standing before the Iron Throne, his hand in yours, Daemon addressed the realm. “We are the blood of the dragon,” he declared, his voice resonating through the Great Hall. “And together, we will forge a future worthy of our ancestors.”

As the lords and ladies knelt before their new king and queen, Daemon turned to you, his violet eyes burning with the intensity that had drawn you to him from the start. “You are my crown, my love,” he murmured. “And with you, we will rule the world.”

Though you lacked dragonfire, you proved that strength was not born of fire alone but forged in love, loyalty, and resolve. Together, you and Daemon reshaped the fate of Westeros, your reign remembered as a time when the blood of the dragon burned bright and unbroken. Your legacy, built on unity and ambition, became one of the most celebrated in the realm’s history—a testament to the power of fire tempered by unyielding strength.

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[monzamash]

easy to please lando norris x you rating – mature (sexual themes, coarse language) blurb for ✨monzamusings✨

thinking about u, the text read. above it, there was a photo – dark, a little bit blurry, possibly a figment of your weary imagination. a hand pressing down on black cotton, tanned and veiny – a hand you immediately recognised. fingers too, gripping the thin material and an outline that had you sitting up in bed, lazy smile slipping across your flushed cheeks as the picture came into focus. lip bitten. baby, was all you sent in reply. your eyelids fluttered shut momentarily, loosing the battle to sleep until you felt your phone buzzing, resting in your slack hand. they were coming thick and fast and bringing you back into the present. your fingers tingled from the sensation when you held it up and nearly dropped the bright screen on your squinting forehead. don’t baby me i miss u can i call please???? winky face emoji.

you sighed sharply into the plush pillow beside your head, wondering whether or not you had the energy for it. the appetite was always there. hell – all you could think about was him; even in the mundane moments, he was everywhere you looked – your work, your friends, the cheesy rom com that made you cry before wrapping yourself up in a blanket and falling asleep. you missed him. the back and forth, the will they won’t they bullshit nearly sending you into a spiral of complete and utter confusion. the future was uncertain; the distance between where you were and wherever he was in the world unbearable but what you did know was that you loved him, missed him. and he was yours.

heartbreakingly so. alright romeo but make it quick always am hehe. dickhead.

the phone call connected after one, maybe half a ring – there was no pretence anymore with you and lando. this was routine now, the late night calls across oceans, and it was always the same. whispered, i miss you's and i love you's, strangled moans, hands frantically chasing the high of what you knew felt like heaven together, by whatever means necessary, the best dirty talk you could ever imagine, barely tiding you over until you could be close enough to feel each other again.

“hi pretty girl.”

“hi boyfriend”

“ugh, i love it when you call me that. say it again…”

and you did, over and over until the late night giggles took hold and lando couldn’t breathe – the goofy smile scrunching the corners of his dry eyes, fatigue and exhaustion lingering in his hoarse voice.

“you should be sleeping.”

“i would be if you were here,” he stated matter of fact, not even a blinking, “i think i got used to having you with me over winter break… spoiled me too much and now i'm ruined for life.”

“so dramatic.”

“i’m being so real,” he yawned and by the soft grumble on the other end, he was definitely stretching out his sore, weary muscles like cat. there was a beat and a click of the tongue before lando spoke again, the ominous silence already making your eyes playfully roll.

“so… what are you wearing right now?”

“unbelievable…”

“you cant blame a man for asking, especially in my hour of need… show me pleeeeease” lando whined, toothy smile no doubt lining his chapped lips.

“what if I’m not wearing anything?” you taunted, snapping a quick photo and sending it through without a second thought.

lando quickly peaked, side-eyeing the screen sneakily and sighed when he realised you were pulling his chain, “i'm wearing some shirt you left behind because it’s hotter than satan's asshole here in london at the moment.”

he groaned more to himself than to you, eyes scanning your curves under the thin material, fixated on how unconstricted you were under the shirt he recognised, breasts pert. lando was restless and you really did deserve more than the desperado ‘what are you wearing’ pick up line but god, he wanted to know, no, he needed to know because if he didn't find out, he feared he may never recover.

after all, it was you that had him sick in love. and perpetually horny.

“think i might like you in my clothes more than naked…"

“you’re a sicko.”

“mmm you make me like this… and no bra, like are you trying to kill me?”

“always.”

you cupped your chest over his shirt and took another photo, teasing the gorgeous man waiting for your every move with bated breath. he’d sucked in his bottom lip, you could hear by how shallow his breathing had become, reminiscent of a panting dog – the sound alone quickened your heart rate. the image of him sitting in a hotel room alone, hand pressed to his aching cock thinking about you, parched to the point of a sleepless night was dizzying.

and it was easy with lando, the familiarity of his voice and the rhythm you effortlessly fell into. all remnants of consciousness melted away with him.

“wish i was there with you baby,” he whispered and you nodded, smiling, even though he couldn’t see how happy it made you to hear him say it.

“me too,” you sighed, relaxing into the stillness until your loud, obnoxious doorbell shook you from the peaceful silence.

“fuck!” you cursed, frozen in place.

“what?” 

“someones at the door…”

“what time is it there?”

“like 11pm… should i ignore it?” you were already grabbing the cardigan you'd thrown over the end of your bed and halfway to the door, curiosity winning out.

“nah, nah. you’re on the phone with me – answer it,” he encouraged, “i wanna make sure it isn’t your side piece coming ‘round when i’m not there.”

“ha-ha, actually my other boyfriend is already here, i've been trying to get you off the phone this whole time...”

"hmm, lucky cunt." he mumbled.

lando made you brave, stupidly brave so you swung the door open without hesitation, locked and loaded with a line of interrogating questions for the person interrupting the precious time you had with the man you love.

but you were hearing double as you held the phone to your ear and looked up – you knew that mess of frazzled curls and tired eyes anywhere, peering back with a smile the size of the moon curling at the corners of his lips. he was bundled up in a hoodie, one you knew would feel warm to the touch and smelled like him.

you had to be dreaming.

“better go tell your other boyfriend to pack his shit and get the fuck out of our house.”

“lando…” tears welled in your eyes as you lunged into his open arms.

“hi pretty girl…” he chuckled, picking you up without hesitation and hooked your legs around his waist, carrying you over the threshold.

“why didn’t you say you were coming home?”

“surprises are sexy, no?” he asked, voice deliciously low. he knew your answer.

“very sexy.” you moaned and pressed firm, fiery kisses into his strong neck, “you’re so sexy – all of this is sexy… god, i love you.”

“love you too sweetheart – let’s go to bed.”

“to sleep?” you asked, with doe-eyes and a devilish grin.

“yeah, i flew eleven fuckin' hours to just sleep… oh and by the way," lando narrowed his eyes and pointed to the crinkled shirt hanging from your shoulders, you looked a mess.

"i want my shirt back right now.”

you hummed and twirled down the hallway, “you’re gonna have to pry it off my cold, horny body, norris…”

“mission accepted,” lando confidently stated, chest puffed as he started stripping his hoodie from his body and inched closer and closer to where you were stood and all you could do was admire the gorgeous man stalking towards you.

oh, and blink a few times to make sure you definitely weren't dreaming, "i can't believe you were sexting me in the back of a cab."

“i know," he chuckled, "it was getting a bit much by the end there, so i walked the last couple of blocks to calm myself down."

you couldn't suppress the moan building in your throat at his touch and his confession – your mind was running wild, "that's so hot."

"you are." he quipped, hands slowly tracing your sides and cupping your chest in his warm palms.

"this is way better than phone sex.”

lando shrugged as you ran your hands down his toned stomach, thumbs circling the indents just above his hips, “i’ll take anything with you – it’s all good to me.”

“you’re easy to please.”

“well, you make it easy – god, look at you,” he exhaled, brushing the loose strands of hair from your face and all you could do was smile.

“i’m glad you’re home, ya goof. it doesn't feel right without you here."

“me too, baby. meee too.” lando smiled and planted a longing kiss to your pouty lips.

more writing...

bit of backstory with this blurb; it was originally going to be a follow up to another fic i wrote called lost in japan and then got buried in the wip graveyard. somehow it resurfaced in my doc folder right when i needed it and i feel like it still kinda fits in the lost in japan universe - selfishly i love those characters. anyways, i hope you enjoyed it 💋

[magic-shop-stories]

hiya I love your style of writing !!

Could you write a pregnancy yoongi headcannon , like add in the negatives and positives of going through a pregnancy with him etc :) and could you include how his idol life would affect it aswell please

hope you’re well 😊

💌 Reply:

AHAHHAHHHHH! THIS REQUEST IS GOING TO BE MY ROMAN EMPIRE FOR A WHILE - I SWEAR... I LOVE YOU! and THANK YOU And i really tried my best... hoping it's what you wanted 💜 PLS TELL ME IF I CAN WRITE A SHORT FIC OUT OF IT BECAUSE DAMN!!!!!!!!!! I OWE YOU! - c -

Min Yoongi (Suga) Pregnancy Headcanons x Reader

Warning: added a short mention of complication/ loss during pregnancy

🌙 How He Finds Out

you take the test alone first

needing to process it

when the second line appears, you sit on the bathroom floor for 20 minutes

staring at the wall for minutes

Yoongi knocks, worried

at first strained humor through the door

"Did tteokbokki kill you?"

you’ve been quiet too long

bobby pin lockpick (tour-prank skill)

finds you clutching the test (tears streaming)

his first words? 

“Is that… ours?” 

voice shaky

= like he’s afraid to hope

sinks beside you when you nod

forehead pressed to yours

thumbs brushing tears

“Okay. Okay.”

🌅 Initial Reaction

Panic

spends the first night researching everything

= prenatal vitamins, OB-GYNs in Seoul, safest baby monitors...

3 a.m.: muttering about “cord blood banking” and “hypoallergenic cribs”

"Newborns can’t regulate heat... adjust the thermostat!"

overprepared rants about blueberry-sized humans

Hidden Excitement

find him humming “Sweet Night” while washing dishes the next day

when you catch him, he scowls

blushing over secret excitement

“Don’t look at me.”

🌧️ Worries

Fatherhood Fears

his relationship with his dad haunts him

confesses at 2 a.m.

raw-voiced 

“What if I’m… like him? What if I don’t know how to be there?”

Dad’s voice in his head, doubting his own readiness

reads “The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read” in secret

highlights passages about “breaking cycles”

Idol Life Stress

agonizes over balancing tours and prenatal appointments

“I don’t want to miss a single scan. But if I cancel Osaka…”

🍲What He Does (Early Days)

Spoiling You

buys a Japanese kotatsu for the living room

"...so you’re always warm."

stocks the fridge with your cravings

hides your aversions in the back

Overprepared

creates a shared calendar labeled “Bun in Oven”

color-coded doctor visits, vitamin reminders, and “Y/N Nap Time”

finger brushing dates, secretly smiling

💜 Telling BTS

waits until the 12-week mark

invites them over for “casual dinner”

spends hours prepping japchae (your current craving)

hiding ultrasound printouts under napkins

Jungkook notices his trembling hands

"Hyung, did you poison the food?"

clears his throat, after dessert

“We, uh… made something.”

plays a voice memo of the baby’s heartbeat on the speaker

recorded secretly at the last scan

Reactions:

SILENCE

then CHAOS

Jin

“Finally! Our grandpa is gonna be a dad!” 

immediately starts planning a diaper cake

Jungkook

cries silently

“Can I be the godfather? I’ll teach them...!”

Yoongi rolls his eyes but smiles

“Yeah, fine. Just… just... don’t drop them.”

Jimin

sob-hugs you

“I’m teaching them all the choreo. All of it.”

Taehyung

stares at the ultrasound

“It looks like a space alien. I love it.” 

Namjoon

nods sagely

“Life’s most beautiful paradox... creation amid chaos.” 

later slips Yoongi a parenting philosophy book titled “Raising Humans Without Losing Your Damn Mind”

Hobi

already reorganizing your pantry “for efficiency!” 

tearfully rambling about “our baby’s first dance steps”

Yoongi’s Quiet Moment

leans against the kitchen counter

watching the chaos

you catch his faint smile

You: “They’re gonna spoil it rotten...” Yoongi: “…Good.”

Bonus:

“Project Blueberry” is the baby’s code name in the BTS group chat

Jin/ Jungkook changes it to “Golden Maknae 2.0.”

🖤 Telling His Family

after the 20-week anatomy scan

visits Daegu with ultrasound photos

buys a onesie that says “Future CEO of Daegu” 

His Mom

opens the door, sees your bump

immediately bursts into tears/ sobs

hugs you

drags you to the kitchen

force-feeds you seaweed soup

then scolds Yoongi for “not feeding you enough”

“Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Why is she so pale?!”

His Dad

stiff handshake

avoids eye contact (at first)

awkward silence

later, his dad pulls him aside

“You’ll be better than me.” 

Yoongi cries in the car afterward

Hidden Detail

finds an old mixtape in his childhood room

songs he made at 14

angry and unheard

slides it into the glove compartment

“Not passing that shit on” 

tossing it in a Daegu dumpster on the drive home

🌼Daily Life

Routine & Rituals:

6:30 AM

unusually wakes before dawn to prep kimchi jjigae (iron-rich obsession)

leaves sticky notes: “EAT. OR ELSE.” 

including doodles of frowning carrots

Post-Lunch Massages

teaches himself prenatal yoga via questionable YouTube tutorials

“Turn over. No... gently, you menace.” 

his hands are surprisingly warm

kneading your lower back while muttering about “gluteus medius tension.”

Idol-Life Adjustments

converts his studio closet into a snack arsenal

= seaweed chips, honey butter almonds, and a secret Tteokbokki thermos for midnight cravings

texts producers: “No collabs after 8 PM. Family hours.”

Chores

takes over laundry

insists on fragrance-free detergent

fights Jungkook over detergent brands 

“Mint scent? Are you trying to kill her? Fragrance-FREE ONLY.”

becomes a kimchi jjigae master to combat your anemia

recipe is his mom’s (smuggled during the Daegu trip)

builds the crib himself

“Ikea is a conspiracy.” 

Taehyung helps by painting constellations on the wall

Idol Life Impact

skips late-night studio sessions to rub your feet

writes lullabies instead of diss tracks

secretly practices swaddling with a stuffed tiger

Quiet Moments

3 AM Playlist Curating

creates a “Calm the Fuck Down”* playlist for your anxiety

SEA, Winter Bear, Seesaw, and hidden track “Noori’s Lullaby” 

=his first composition for the baby

samples your heartbeat from the first ultrasound

Voice Memos

records himself reading The Little Prince for days he’s on tour

“You think they can hear me? …Stupid question. Forget it.”

📸  Public Announcement

Lead-Up

Media Lockdown:

hires cybersecurity team to scrub your address from forums

changes your code name to “Meteor” (after Jungkook’s “it’s a star baby!” slip-up)

ARMY Hints

wears a silver bracelet engraved with “Noori” during a Live

Army's zoom in

crashing Weverse with theories

Reveal

after birth

via a handwritten letter on Weverse

 smudged ink (from your tears, denies it's his)

Text: “ARMY, you’ve been my light, you gave me light when I was shadows. Now I have a new one, a new sun to protect. Please protect their privacy, love them quietly, as I do. – SUGA”

posts a black-and-white photo of the baby’s hand gripping his pinky

Aftermath:

ARMY Reactions

#Noori trends for 72 hours

ARMY floods donation sites in the baby’s name

$500k to children’s hospitals in under a day

Paparazzi Countermeasures

releases a diss track snippet targeting tabloids

“Snap a pic, I snap your lens. Try me.” 

billboards drop by 80%

🌀 When You Panic

Trigger

a What to Expect chapter about birth defects

you drop the book, gasping for air

Calm Facade, storm inside

voice steady, hands grounding yours

“Breathe. We’ve got this.”

Secret Meltdowns

texts Namjoon at 4 a.m.

“What if I’m terrible at this?” 

gets a thesis-length reply about “the ontology of parenthood”

Acts of Service

makes citrus tea in his studio mug (the one chipped from your first fight

distracts you with “urgent” decisions

“Which onesie is less cursed? Dinosaur or broccoli?”

Idol-Life Impact

cancels a radio appearance to stay home

tells Bang PD: “Family emergency” 

later writes a ballad to process the guilt

🕯️If Something Goes Wrong (+ Loss)

Hospital Vigils

refuses to leave your side

snaps at nurses who downplay your pain

or who call it “common”

“Not to us.”

washes your hair in the hospital sink, fingers trembling

 “I’ve got you. Always.”

Guilt/ Aftermath

blames himself

“I should’ve canceled the tour. Should’ve noticed sooner.” 

you find him asleep in the nursery rocker

tear tracks dried on his cheeks

clutching the “Future CEO of Daegu” onesie

writes “Noori (Unsung Verse)”

no lyrics, just piano

plays it once, then locks the file

postpones tour indefinitely

releases a vague statement: “Health hiatus” 

ARMY floods Weverse with support

Support System

Jin forces you both to his cabin

“No talking. Just eat and stare at the river.”

Jungkook leaves a stuffed tiger on your doorstep

note: “For when you’re ready”

Bonus

"Noori (Unsung Verse)” is played once

years later, at his child’s first piano recital

brings your child on tour in noise-canceling headset

"Their first concert better be mine!"

🎉Gender Reveal

Reaction

“A girl? Fuck. Fuck. She’s gonna wreck me.” 

immediately buys tiny Converse and a BTS World plush set

ultrasound tech says “It’s a boy!”

Yoongi freezes

voice cracks

“…A boy?” “Fuck. Fuck.”

buys tiny headphones the next day

“For studio time. Gotta start early.”

gender-neutral nursery anyway

soft grays, muted mint, and a framed lyric: 

“You’re my eternal moment”

 whispering to your bump at night

 “You can be anything. Artist, engineer, anything. I’ll never say ‘phase.’”

 teaches the baby “Daechwita” beats via belly taps

 “Rhythm’s in their blood, huh?”

🏥 Labor & Delivery

Prep

packs a hospital bag

weeks early

= your favorite hoodie, his AirPods (for your playlist), and a stress ball shaped like a bear*

*Jin’s gift: “For when you wanna murder him mid-contraction”

memorizes your birth plan like a rap verse

argues with a nurse about  “delayed cord clamping”

you have to tell him to breathe

During Labor

holds your hand

cracks terrible dad jokes to distract you

“Hey, at least the kid’s got my timing... fashionably late.” “Kid’s already stubborn. Must get it from you.”

becomes your human anchor

counts breaths in rhythm

white-knuckles the bedrail

tears in his eye

“You’re doing so good. So fucking good.”

First Hold

cutting the cord

hands shake, but he does it

freezes when the nurse hands him the baby

“They're… so small”  “Strongest thing I’ve ever held.”

cradles them like glass, lyric notebook (reverent, awed)

whispering 

“Hi, little shadow"

Namjoon snaps a pic of Yoongi asleep in a chair

baby on his chest

both swaddled in the Agust D merch

= becomes his lockscreen

🌐 Idol Life Challenges

Touring/ Tour Adjustments

negotiates shorter legs of tours

2-week tour blocks max

 “I’ll livestream concerts if I have to. Not missing first steps/ birth!”

FaceTimes you during soundcheck

camera angled at your belly

“Tell them Appa’s coming home soon.”

brings them in a soundproof bassinet backstage

staff find Yoongi humming “Spring Day” during diaper changes

baby monitor on his desk

producers hear gurgles during track reviews

“New focus tester. Baby hates trap beats.”

Privacy

hires extra security

insists on code names (“Project Blueberry”) in group chat

threatens to write a diss track about any paparazzi who snap bump pics

wears a “F** Off”* face mask in baby-outing pics

archives old posts

New IG bio: “Not a role model. Just a dad.”

BONUS - BTS Support System

Jin’s Uncle Duties

babysits with RJ plushie tutorials

“Lesson one: How to side-eye haters and still be handsome.”

Hobi’s Playdates

teaches them “micro-dancing” (tiny foot wiggles)

Yoongi films it

saves it as “future blackmail”

🎁 Bonus Headcanons

Nicknames/ Nonsense

calls the baby “Noori” (meaning “world”) until you both decide on a name

denies it’s sentimental

calls them “Shadow” when they toddle after him

“Like father, like menace.”

secretly thrilled when their first word is “Appa”

 claims it was “aggressive babbling”

Late Nights

falls asleep reading parenting forums

bookmarks: “How to Apologize to Your Kid (Even When You’re Scared).”

First Birthday

hosts a private party with BTS/ private zoo trip

baby tries to hug a baby goat

Yoongi’s face softens

“Cursed. They're cursed.” (Takes 100 photos.)

Jungkook faceplants into the smash cake

Yoongi saves a frosting-smudged photo in his “Hidden” album

First Studio Visit

lets them mash piano keys

samples it into a track titled “Noori’s Chaos Theory”

[thekinslayed]

You Adored Me Before

summary | Aemond comes to claim what has always been his.

warning | 18+, minors dni

tags | oral sex (f), mentions of war, death, and injury, infidelity, aemond is the king of consent and pussy eating champ

wordcount | 4.9k

note | this is my first fic in almost 4 yrs, so i'm still a little rusty! i had tried to make aemond a little dark but i am a hopeless romantic at heart and this is super self indulgent oopsie :D part 2 is in the works, but i am debating whether i should write more parts bc i do have some ideas! i would love to know what you think <3

song rec | Good Looking - Suki Waterhouse

(dividers by @targaryen-dynasty)

1/2

She had been on her knees for hours when she had heard it. Thunderous flapping, the wind picking up speed as a shadow covered the light streaming into the small window of the dark castle’s own sept. 

It couldn’t be.

She had heard of her old friend’s infamy as he spread havoc throughout the realm. Kinslayer. Terror of the Trident. Every time she heard word of a new catastrophe the young prince had brought upon innocents, she thought back to the day she had left him. Biting back tears, he held her hands in a vice-like grip. Promises of their reunion fell from their lips before she was pulled away by her then future husband into a carriage, snatching her away to a new life without him. 

From her place in front of the altar, she looked upon the face of the Seven. She could hear the panicked pattering of feet in the halls. He has come for us! One had said, as though he were the Stranger himself come down on to soil. Her knees bid her to get up. Her eyes begged to turn to the window to catch a glimpse of a head of silver hair. Her ears strained to hear any sign that his monstrous mount had landed, and he had crossed their gates. Though, she moved not an inch, and merely closed her eyes once more in prayer. 

He could feel the fear upon the eyes that stared at him as he made his way through the fortress. A low chuckle escaped his lips at the pitiful sight. As war waged on, Aemond had learned how much he liked instilling this fear into people. It made claiming what he desired all the more easier. 

The Prince Regent was led to the vast hall, where lords of the smaller houses in the region had gathered to welcome him, and to discuss the matter which required his attention. A young man was sat upon the high table in the hall, one reserved for the members of the great house Aemond was called to. It was an old house, closely connected to the crown and loyal for many years, up until the war. Their Lord Paramount had bent the knee to Rhaenyra and had been part of the thousands that marched for her cause. Now, the highly respectable lord laid injured in a tent, hanging onto a thin line between life and death. As his health dwindled, the matter of his succession came to question. 

The Lord Paramount had left behind a daughter, merely a child of five namedays. It wasn’t hers, no, but from his first wife that died bringing the babe in the birthing bed. His brother, the young man stood beside Aemond before the men, had contested on the child’s claim to power for the reasons of her age and sex, arguing that their house would not survive with a babe as its head during a time of war. This had brought about much discourse among the men, those fiercely loyal to their previous lord pushing for the fact that the child had every right to become lady of the House, others agreed with the second son. 

As a form of good governance, the Prince Regent took it upon himself to solve this matter. The lord’s brother had promised Aemond that he shall bend the knee to Aegon should he become lord of the house, and she shall free to be his once more. And so, as Aemond sat in front of the old, dull faces of the lords that had argued and argued upon the matter, he had turned his head to the man beside him ever so slightly. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Where is she?” Aemond demanded. His lone eye scanned through the room for any glimpse of her, but to no avail. 

“I was told she is in prayer, your grace. It is how she spends her days as of late, ever since she had heard of my brother’s condition.” The young man explained, uneasy eyes studying the prince’s reaction. The last thing he wanted was a knife through his skull before he could become Lord Paramount, all because his good sister would not stop praying for the life of a dead man. 

Aemond pretended to attentively listen to whatever the lords had droned about for what felt like hours more. A finger tapped against the armrest of his chair, his patience dwindling the longer this farce continued, when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. 

She had slipped into the hall quietly, discreet, like a mouse. The lady stood behind some of the men that had crowded along the sides of the hall. Aemond’s eye widened as he caught sight of her, having to move his head to get a proper glimpse of her in between the bodies that covered her. His throat had suddenly felt so dry, prompting him to take a sip of the wine that had sat there, previously untouched, before turning his attention back to her once more. Their eyes had met, and she had given him a meek smile. 

“Your grace, if I may…” said another, standing up to say his piece of the matter still at hand. Aemond was snapped out of his reverie, turning back to the center of the room once more. Having ran out of what little patience he had in the first place, the Prince Regent stood from his seat, silencing the last lord that had spoken. 

“I appreciate hearing all of your thoughts on this matter, but as your Prince Regent, I believe it in your best interests to have a figure of leadership that shall serve you during these precarious times. There are no exemptions in war, and your lands, your people, shall benefit with having a capable Lord Paramount to protect you all.” Aemond said, an air of finality in his words. The young lord beside him smirked in victory, before bowing to the prince. Before the new Lord Paramount could express his words of gratitude, the prince turned to him once more, speaking low enough only for them to hear, “And might I suggest sending the girl to a sept as soon as possible, my lord, to prevent further… disagreements.” 

All the while, a pair of curious eyes had stayed on Aemond. Her eyes scanned down his form as he spoke to the people. It seemed not much has changed about him; it had only been less than 3 years since she had last seen him after all. However, the more she studied him the subtle changes upon his form became apparent to her. His form, lithe and slender, had become quite hardened as his body became exposed to battle. His face had lost most of the plumpness from his youth, shedding away to reveal the sculptured structure of his handsome face. Her Aemond, who had always carried himself with pride, had taken on a different aura to him. A sense of authority now surrounded him, one that came with taking on the weight of the crown, she figured. Like a true Targaryen prince, Aemond was the image of regality, and of power that can only come from dragon blood. 

As the crowd dispersed and the matter had been settled, Aemond’s eye searched for her once more. Though as the hall emptied, she was not to be found. She had slipped through the figures that crowded her, leaving behind a dumbfounded prince still standing in the great hall. 

Her handmaidens had only left merely a few moments before the door to her chambers opened, startling her. 

“Gods.” She said, turning to the figure standing in the doorway. “I am aware you have just become Lord Paramount, dear brother, but you are still required to knock upon entering my chambers.” The lady chastised him, pulling her robe tighter around her figure to protect her modesty. 

“Do not start with me tonight.” Her brother-in-law warned her, coming to stand before her seated figure on her chaise. “You have embarrassed me with your shamelessness. Your husband may have allowed for this kind of behavior, but I shall not allow you to continue with this insolence.” He chastised, angrily pointing a finger at her. The lady watched as he paced in front of her. Her eyes caught the way a vein pulsed upon his temple as he clenched his jaw. 

“What have I done to anger you so?” She asked, confused as to why he has come to her with such vexation. Her husband’s brother stopped pacing in front of her, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. 

“You are no fool, girl. Do not start acting like one now!” He berated her. The lady only furrowed her brows at him further. “Do you know why he has come here? Did you really think the Prince Regent would take the time in the middle of this hellish war to settle an affair between mere lords?” He sneered at her. In his indignation, spit flew from his lips as he spoke, some landing on her which made her frown in disgust. 

“He has come for you. He has asked for you, yet you act like a child and ran away hiding doing gods know what!” He exclaimed, wild hands moving around in the air. She only looked at him, not uttering a word as he continued to pace once more. 

The lady knew. Of course, she knew. Before she had left King’s Landing, before she left Aemond, she had promised him she shall return to him once more. A married woman she shall be, but they shall see each other again. And now, she found herself almost a widow, and her prince had come to fulfill his end of their promises. He had come for her. 

The lady was snapped out of her reverie when the Lord Paramount ordered her to visit him in his chambers. “W-what? My lord, as much as my husband’s conditions worsen, I am still a married woman!” She rebutted, standing up from the chaise to face him. “Do you consider me for a whore?”

“My brother is almost as good as dead, dear sister, and the Prince Regent has requested for you, in return for making me Lord Paramount. I shall not have you denying him.” The young lord declared, leaving no room for the lady to argue. “You know what he has done to the Riverlands, my lady. There is not much preventing him from burning my house once we displease him, and you will not be the cause of my demise.” He warned, pointing his finger at his face once more. She resisted slapping his hand away from her face, her blood starting to boil as he looked at her with such disdain. The lady had never gotten along well with her brother-in-law, only tolerating each other in her husband’s presence. With him gone, there was no point in pretending to be in good spirits with each other. 

“That hardly seems to be my problem when I am soon to be widowed, my lord.” She countered defiantly, though she had been taken aback when he had laughed darkly in her face. 

“Deny the dragon and my house will burn, yes, but so shall yours, good sister. I am aware you have been looking forward to reuniting with family once your husband has passed, but believe me, you and I will not be saved once dragonfire starts to rain from the sky.” He spoke. The young lord approached her, watching as uncertainty began to cloud her eyes. “Your home shall perish in flames, taking with it your father, your brother, sister, and everyone you have ever cared about.” Her eyes turned away from him at his words, looking towards the ground as her confidence dwindled.

“You are all he wants. Do not deny him, and you may just be the person to save us all.” 

Aemond had been staring at the flames upon the hearth, lost in thought, when a knock sounded from the door to his guest chambers. “Come in.” He had muttered, and the door open to reveal the very person he had come for. His dear lady. 

His heart swelled at the sight of her, though his face concealed his feelings well as he stayed seated on the settee. “My lady.” He said, watching as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. 

“Prince Aemond.” She curtsied to him. It was then Aemond noticed she only donned a nightgown, covered by a robe that was tied around her waist. The gown did little to hide her figure, her curves accentuated by the tightness of the rope. He could see the swells of her breasts that dared to peeked through, the sight making his cock stir as a warmth grew in his belly. For three years, he had dreamed of this very moment, of her standing in front of him once more, for him to take as he pleased. He had imagined all the ways he would take her, how he would show her his affection which he never had the chance to make her feel. He would show her what she had missed out on all these years. She would be his, and his only. No husband to stand in between them.

“You have called for me, my prince.” She said softly. The air in his chambers carried a tranquil feeling, and she dared not to disrupt it. Aemond merely nodded at her words, before getting up from his seat to walk to the serving table where a pitcher of wine and some glasses sat. "I have, my lady." He affirmed, pouring two glasses of wine before turning back to approach her. She fiddled with the hem of her robe, her eyes trained on her slippers as she felt him stand before her.

"I had been hoping to have a moment alone with you, but I have been told you are quite preoccupied during the day." Aemond said, voice as gentle as always with her. A cup of wine came into her view, making her let go of the fabric her fingers toyed with to accept the drink he held out to her. He led her to sit on the settee, before settling down on the chaise opposite her where he could take a good look at her. Anxiously, she took a sip of the red liquid in her cup, hoping it would help her feel more at ease. 

"My apologies, my prince. I have been spending most of my hours in prayer as of late. With my husband's condition turning for the worse, I can only pray to the Seven to help him when I cannot." The lady explained, a rueful smile on her lips as she met his eye. Aemond sucked in a deep breath at the mention of her husband and nodded in understanding. 

"It is a shame what has befallen a respectable lord like him, my lady. You have my sympathy." The prince sympathized, silently observing as her eyes left his gaze and focused on the cup in her lap instead. A silence passed through the two, the only sound being the crackling of the burning wood in the hearth. It wasn't as unpleasant as she had expected, rather it was almost comfortable, familiar. Aemond's eye stayed on her figure, taking in as much of her as he could lest she slipped away from him again. He wanted to hear her speak more, to hear the voice he had started to forget as time kept them further apart. 

"Was he good to you?" Aemond asked, breaking the silence. His lady looked up from her lap and met his gaze. Her eyes shone as the fire danced in the reflection of her irises. 

"Yes, he was." She responded, a sad smile on her wine-stained lips. "He never lifted his hand to hurt me. He was never cruel."

The one-eyed prince couldn't deny the relief he felt upon hearing her words. Aemond had worried for her well-being ever since she had been whisked away to be married off and had only hoped she was being treated decently. “Good.” He nodded.

"I never... It was not love, but we had respect for each other. That is much more than a woman could ever ask for in her marriage and he was gracious enough to grant me this kindness." She spoke. The lady’s lord husband was a good man, that she could not deny. He had been distraught over the loss of his first wife on the birthing bed and was merely pressured by his men to take another wife in hopes of birthing a son. She was almost twenty years younger than him. He thought her kind, sweet, and well-mannered, hence the reason he had made the marriage proposal to her father. Though the young lady’s womb never bore fruit, her lord husband had treated her well, making sure she was well taken care of before he left to fight for his queen. The lady felt indebted to him, for he might have just saved her from a life of misery and heartache, bound to a lord who treated her as a mere broodmare.

Aemond swallowed down the envy that bubbled in his chest as his lady smiled fondly as she remembered her husband. Perhaps he should feel at least a sliver of shame course through him, but none ever came. Here he was, in another man's house, coveting his wife as the lord laid wounded in a tent somewhere. However, he had stopped feeling shame for his actions a long time ago, right when Vhagar had swallowed Lucerys and his minuscule dragon whole and he had accepted the person the realm would come to know him as.

I have only come to claim what has always been mine. He thought.

“And you, my prince? I hear you are betrothed to a Baratheon girl.” The lady mentioned. It was her turn to ask the questions that plagued her mind about him, the wine and the growing warmth in the room making her feel more at ease in his presence. Though I had heard more talks of a bastard witch, she wanted to say. 

Aemond hummed at her words, a slender finger tracing the rim of his cup as he listened to her. “I was. Though there has been a change of plans.” He admitted. It was technically the truth. Borros Baratheon did not appreciate having been the host to the two princes when Aemond had killed Lucerys in the sky. The lord of Storm’s End most certainly did not appreciate when Aemond offered one of the Four Storms his nephew’s eyes when he returned, drenched from the rain and a bloodlust in his amethyst eye. “If the time came for me to marry, it would be after the war, but there is someone in my mind I plan to ask.” He stated, looking at her in the eye as he spoke. Aemond wasn’t one to play games, he wanted to get straight to the point. There was a reason for his being here, and they both knew the reason why. 

“Aemond…” She trailed, understanding what he was hinting to. Her prince stood from his seat, walking over to stand before her seated form. A hand cupped her jaw, making her look up at him with big, shining eyes. His thumb caressed her skin, gooseflesh rising everywhere as he did so. 

“Do you have any idea how much I have longed for you, hm? How much agony your absence has brought upon me?” The prince queried. His hand upon her jaw trailed down her neck, pushing past the hair that covered her skin. Fingertips traced her collarbones, before toying with the hem of her robe. Her hand covered his, stopping its ministrations.

“My prince, please, I am a married woman.” There was a slight crack in her voice as she spoke. Aemond could see the inner struggle in her eyes. Honor begged her to remember her vows, but the aching desire her heart only felt for the man before her threatened to spill through and overtake any sense of integrity she had.

“What use is a husband if he lay on a cot in a tent somewhere, rotting away? He has one hand in the Stranger’s grasp now, my lady. Let us not keep up this folly any further.” Her prince refuted, his eye darkening.

“That is not fair.”  She argued, yet her tone was as weak as her resolve. It was not fair to her, not when the reason her husband is dying because of him, of a war he started. 

“You must know by now little is fair in these games we play, my lady. If one wishes to survive, he must have the wit and the will to take what is his, lest he allows it to be taken away from him. I had been a fool to let him take you from me, now I shall take back what is rightfully mine.” His hand returned to her face, grasping it to prevent her from looking away. She could see how his pupil dilated as he emphasized his words, instilling a strange feeling in her belly. It was in this moment she saw a glimpse of the man he has become. The Kinslayer. Terror of the Trident. This was a man she did not know, yet was familiar. The prince studied her face as she starts to frown, feeling her start to pull away from him. His hand softened its grip on her face, thumb caressing the soft plump of her cheek. 

Her heart thumped in her chest as Aemond lowered to kneel before her. A breath hitched in her throat as his hands gripped the fabric covering her. His face lowers to kiss her thighs, almost in reverence, before nuzzling his face into her lap. Tears started to well up in her eyes, though she did not know why. To feel his touch upon her flesh once more tugged on her heartstrings, the benevolent devotion she held for him buried deep now threatened to make itself known. 

“Aemond.” The lady had whispered; he whispered her name in return. Rough, calloused hands found her waist, squeezing her gently as his lips continued to pepper ardent kisses on her thighs. A shaking hand came to caress his head, feeling the soft silver tresses she had longed to feel under her fingertips once more. She cupped his jaw, urging him to lift his head so she may gaze upon his face. 

In the privacy of the walls that enclosed the pair, it was then she was able to see her old friend, the prince that she knew. As he looked at her with adoration and a glimmer of sadness for what should have been, she is reminded of the young princeling that followed her and Helaena around the gardens in their foolish youth, hoping to spend any waking moment with her as much as he could. 

Keeping his lone eye on hers, his hands left her waist to caress her ankles, dipping past the fabric of her nightgown to trail his touch up her legs. His lady let him lift the fabric to her knees, revealing her flesh to his eye. Their eyes stay locked on each other, Aemond’s silently asking. When no rejection came from her, the prince’s lips return to her thighs, now on her exposed flesh. Kisses course upwards, but a hand comes to his shoulder, halting his trail as she stops him. With his eye trained on her, his warm, larger hand covers hers, lifting it to breathe in the scent of her flesh before planting a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. 

“Will you let me?” He asked, his words a soft whisper. She was barely able to squeak “yes” as a shudder passed through her spine, her resolve long crumbled into pieces since he kneeled before her. She allowed him, of course, she allowed him. The young woman would let him devour her entire being, soul and flesh, if he asked to. She knew in her heart she had no will to deny him, as weak for him as he is to her.

She held her breath as her nightgown is further lifted, baring her core. The air feels cold on her center, despite the fire that continued to rage on the hearth. Aemond’s lips descended down once more, kissing, and sucking on the meaty flesh of her thighs. Small marks started to litter her skin, marking her as his. Warm breath blows on her center, making her clench involuntarily. She gripped onto the fabric pooled on her sides as two fingers spread her folds, exposing her arousal.

“Fuck…” She heard him murmur, a gasp left her lips as his tongue licks a stripe up her slit, catching her off-guard.

“You taste divine.” He marveled, leaving her no opportunity to respond as he tastes her once more, relishing in the small whimpers that started to leave her lips. His tongue continued to lick her folds, giving an occasional deeper dip into her core. Aemond pulled his face away from in between her thighs momentarily to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed as her chest started to heave. Before he could admire her flustered state any further, her hand came up to the back of his head, urging him back down to her center. He smirked against her skin, before continuing his ministrations against her folds. A thumb gathered some of her essence before spreading it on her pearl, rubbing it in circles. It was then she began to moan in earnest, the grip on his hair tightening as her hips started to cant against his face. 

His finger prodded against her slit, switching out his tongue to breech her entrance. Aemond almost moaned as his middle finger was enveloped by warm, wet, muscle that clenched as he curved it upwards. His name left her pretty lips, whining as he found a rough patch, sparking a sure of pleasure in her belly as he continued to massage it. Another finger soon joined, and Aemond’s lips sucked on her pearl. Pulling away, he watched as her face contorted in pleasure, eyes rolled back and brows furrowed as moans openly fell from her lips. A flush had spread on her cheeks, down her neck, and some of her chest that was exposed from where her robe didn’t cover her. Aemond committed the sight to memory, wishing he could paint this moment on a canvas to immortalize it.

“Do you like this?” He cooed, though he needed no answer. Her grip on his tightened, making him groan as she lost herself to utter bliss.

“I—Oh, Aemond…” She moaned out, making Aemond’s cock strain against his breeches at the sweet sound. Selfish as he may be, the focus would solely be on her tonight. There would be more opportunities for them to explore each other’s flesh, this he was sure of. For now, he needed her to give in to the desire that threatened to overwhelm them both, so she may be free from the restraints impeded on her by her marriage. 

His mouth and fingers alternated in pleasuring her core, though Aemond had found that she seemed to enjoy his tongue on her more, the tighter grip on his hair and the louder moans echoing through his guest chambers were enough proof. With his finger circling her pearl, he led her to the precipice of her release. Her thighs quivered as her peak overcame her. A warmth spread through her whole body as she spilled on his tongue, her core pulsing as he continued to catch every drop of her essence until she was oversensitive. She had never been so overcome with such fire, had never found herself so lost in the throes of pleasure. Her husband had touched her before, but not like this. Regaining her senses, she looked down at the one-eyed prince who was already looking at her with a look filled with ardor. His chin still had trails of her essence which she wiped with her thumb. Her hand stayed on his face as their eyes met, communicating with their gazes, before pulling him in to seal her lips against his. He kissed her back hungrily, teeth clashing as their tongues danced. Her hand pulled on his doublet, urging him from his knees. A hand leaned on the back of the seat, the other on the back of her neck. 

She had trailed her hands down his chest to cup his cock that bulged from his trousers, but he had stopped her, his hand gripping her wrist before she could do so. Their lips pulled away, his lady looking at him in confusion. “What is it? Is something wrong?” She had asked, a worried look on her sweet face. Aemond caressed the side of her head comfortingly, his nose breathing in the scent of her hair.

“Not tonight.” The prince said, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. If he were to take her now, while she remained someone’s wife, Aemond knew this would weigh heavily on her conscience. He dared not to push her to do anything that she would regret and made her pull away from him. Aemond would have to be patient, though he knew he would not have to wait long. He had ideas on how to free her from the vows that prevented her from fully being his, but for now, he would have to wait.

His lady would be all his for the taking soon enough.

[markster666]

Every Thought, You. (SFW)

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Flirting, SFW, Romance

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: 958

A/N: Thank you to @persephoneblck for this base writing prompt suggestion (with my own tweaks/spin). Unedited. Requests are open.

Ever since coming to the hotel, you have felt much less alone than you have ever felt in the duration of your life in Hell. Charlie was the first to greet you with open arms before you could even knock twice on the big, wooden doors. Vaggie was aprehensive about your arrival at first but quickly grew accustomed to you, mostly for Charlie's sake. Husk simply tolerated you and Angel Dust constantly flaunted his figure to... everyone. It made you chuckle sometimes but more out of pity. Every day and night, like clockwork, you did your exercises for supposed future rehabilitation and sometimes they made you feel more alone than ever, but you never felt judged by anybody there.

Not even Alastor.

The first time you two met, he was sitting at the bar, annoying Husk for another drink. You had arrived a couple days prior and had already settled in a good amount. You walked past the bar, not even paying attention to the deer demon staring at you, wide grinned. You almost reached your room before you heard a booming radio-esque voice behind you,

"Well HELLO there my dear! Haven't seen you around!"

You felt your heart skip a beat at the sudden noise and quickly turned around, taking in Alastor's features. His eyes reflected the red of the hotel walls, beaming at you. His ears twitched a bit at the sight of you, but his wide grin didn't falter even for a millisecond. He was dramatically hunched over with his hand out to shake yours. You stared at his hand for a bit until he retreated it as a sign that he caught on to your discomfort and he stood up straight.

"Apologies my dear, your look of fear is something I am graciously used to. I just wanted to extend my welcomes to you. Please indulge in my presence if you feel it necessary, I would LOVE to know what makes you tick!"

His head ticked to the side at the final word before turning on his heel and walking off.

As the weeks turned into months, Alastor's voice no longer startled you and his presence became comfort. You thought him charming and he thought you riveting. He allowed you access into his radio tower, even on his recording days. He had memorized your favorite song and learned it on every instruement and how pancakes make you nauseous in the mornings so you prefer oatmeal for breakfast. You once told him a new cologne of his smelled like all the good things in life, so now that's all he cares to wear. He learned that you have trouble sleeping without white noise, so he'll sit for hours next to your bed, gently humming in his radio voice your favorite songs. Your heart was pure and his heart was warm.

Alastor decided that tonight was the night that he was going to be open about his continuously growing feelings for you. He had gone through several sheets of paper in an attempt to write the perfect confession note and he finally settled on one. Earlier that afternoon, he had invited you to his room to talk and you said you'd be there. You have only been in his room once before because you went in with Val to ask Alastor to get rid of Sir Pentious's Egg Bois.

He heard a knock on the door and took one last deep breath before locking in his smile again and slamming the door open before you could knock again.

"Why hello there Darling, you look absolutely ravishing as usual my Dear!"

He gave you a quick kiss on your hand before leading you into his room and shutting the door behind him, helping you shrug off your jacket before hanging it up on a nearby hook.

"Please, My Dear, make yourself comfortable!"

You walked further into his room, scanning your surroundings before stopping right in front of the undefined line of where his physical room and the forest meet. Your eyes sparkled as you gazed up at the skyline.

"Alastor, your forest is absolutely beautiful."

He walked briskly to join you.

"Ah, yes, isn't it? I imported it myself. I delight in many meals here."

The sky stunned your senses. There were fireflies flying around the trees that rose submissively to the vast sky. The lavish green of the trees complimented well with the hues of blue shading above, the glow of the fireflies adding a etherial touch to it all. The thick fog made the sky's autonomy seem endless.

"It may just be the most beautiful thing i've seen in all of Hell."

Alastors eye twitches very slightly and his ears furrow backwards.

"I have to strongly agree with you, my Dear. Every time I gift my eyes with the sight of this, it helps me remember that there are still some fine things down here with me. I may be a connoisseur in all things audio, but nothing beats this kind of visual. I would relish in it for eternity if I could."

You glanced at him to show him that you were listening, only to have your eyes make direct contact with each other. Your heart skipped a beat as you felt his gaze penetrate you.

He was staring at me while he was saying that.

You smiled at him warmly as it finally clicked. He walked behind you and places his hands on your shoulders, gently massaging them as you both turned your gazes back to the forest.

"You, mon cher, are allowed to stay in my dreams every night. Always."

You took a deep breathe and closed your eyes, enjoying all of the sensations around you.

"And you in mine, Alastor."

[painted-flag]

From Eden. Benjicot Blackwood

✧.* masterlist (Part two here)

✧.* pairing: benjicot blackwood x velaryon!oc

✧.* summary: caught in the brewing of war, Daenys Velaryon must forge alliances for her mother's claim to the throne. The Riverlands are paramount and she had the inexplicable luck of meeting Benjicot Blackwood.

✧.* word count: 11k.

✧.* note: this is a whopping long imagine. thank you all for the support on the preview. this is brought to you by instant ramen and my inability to focus on coursework. no beta reader as I live life on the edge (truthfully i do not have any)

A loud clap of thunder followed in succession by the flashing of lightning illuminated the library of Dragonstone. In the late hour of the wolf, Daenys found herself entombed within the walls of parchment, scanning drawn-up battle plans and strategies written by maesters who had nary seen a single battle. The feeling of ever-present stress loomed over her, creeping from the shadows that were not illuminated by scattered candles. That feeling of anxiety - pressing down harshly on her chest - had been a footnote in her life. 

Daenys did not need to be a dragon dreamer, like her namesake, to see the future of her house. War was coming, that much was obvious. She knew at the age of nine that her mother’s claim would be challenged and since then her life had been spent preparing. The intensity of conflict did not matter, Daenys would be prepared regardless. So, like most nights, she had settled herself among the pages of books. Her body, worn from training all day, had relished in the feeling of sitting down in a plush chair. 

The book in her lap, An Analysis of Ground Moves of the First Dornish War, had begun to kill her mood. The maestor who wrote it had no skill of explanation, nor seemed to have care for fighting in general. She cursed his weak analyses on certain moves and more outwardly she cursed the tone in which he wrote when speaking of her Targaryen ancestors - in particular the women. Daenys leaned back in her chair and repressed the urge to chuck to tome across the room. All that access to knowledge and training yet maesters still seemed to fall short. 

The echoes of footsteps sounded between claps of thunder. Daenys glanced up to see her mother. Rhaenyra had her hair down in light waves. The nightclothes she wore were made from black and red fabrics and stitched in the fashion of dragon-influenced style, part of a matching set that the two women shared. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth set in a line. The heir apparent sat down in the chair beside her daughter and glanced at the book in Daenys lap. 

“The hour is late, yet you are out of bed?” 

Daenys’ arms rested on the book, “Sleep could not come.” 

“Or have you run from sleep? Increasingly so, as of late.” Her mother’s observation cut deep. It was true, for Daenys had become antsy. More and more nights were spent reading, and even more days training with the sword. Exhaustion had become her friend and respite her enemy. She felt behind, as her training had only started a few years prior - after years of requesting to learn. Any day a war could break, yet she sat about for most of her life doing nothing but sewing and other pointless tasks to be a good wife.

“Don’t you feel it, mother? That sinking feeling of... something clawing at your feet for that damned throne.” Daenys’ gaze rose to meet Rhaenyra. As her mother's only daughter by birth, they held a certain bond. The ability to understand what one another wished to say without so much as a word. A twitch of the brow, a quiver of the lip, or the tilt of their head was worth more than what any uttered words could convey. Mother and daughter, one unable to live without the other. Like bees and flowers or the moon and sun. A push and pull of exchange. Rhaenyra knew her daughter wanted to help, and it crushed her. She wanted Daenys to live without that fear - to relish in her days as a princess. 

“The burden is not yours to bear alone,” Daenys spoke after a minute of silence. Rhaenyra sported a fleeting smile at her daughter's words. 

“I know, but it does not pain me any less,” Rhaenyra adjusted in her seat, “Is there anything you wish to discuss about it?” 

“We need the Riverlands.” There was not a moment of pause between her mother's question and the answer. “There is loyalty secured in many regions, especially the North, but the Riverlands are important. We do not have a strong enough hold there.” 

Rhaenyra resisted smiling at Daenys eagerness in politics. Had she been born minutes before Jacaerys instead of afterwards, Rhaenyra would have been confident in claiming her as heir. Jacaerys, as dutiful as he could be, was still lagging in comparison to his twin regarding diplomacy. 

“And how do you propose to remedy this?” 

Daenys paused, reluctance flashed across her face for a moment but she pushed it down. “I have to marry.” Rhaenyra tilted her head in a questioning manner but Danys continued, “I know I have been against it, but you need a strong foothold in those lands. Many major battles in history are fought there and if our house is to remain strong, we must command as much of it as possible.” 

“The Tully’s have no available members to marry.” 

“We needn't rely on House Tully. There are other houses there that are sure to have available sons. House Frey, Mooton, Bracken, Mudd, Blackwood, Lothston, and many more. One that is as close to the Tully’s as possible and stocked with a good amount of soldiers.” Daenys’ gaze swept along the darkened room, the bookshelves being illuminated by a small number of candles and the raging storm outside. 

“I want you to be happy-” 

“My happiness is seeing you on that throne. Mother, you deserve it more than any other fat and drunk lord who lives on the continent.” The women giggled, and for a brief moment the storm outside - political and natural - ceased to exist. 

“This is what you want?” Rhaenyra held her breath after she asked. Daenys nodded gently. They once again settled into a silence, their eyes focused on the flames inside the hearth. More thunderous roars from outside continued to assail Dragonstone. “I have some news, of which only a few know.” 

Daenys sat up straighter, intrigued with what her mother had brought up. She marked her spot in the book and placed it on the small table beside her chair. Her body turned to see her mother more clearly. 

“I am with child.” Rhaenyra’s words echoed in the room, “It was just confirmed this morning with the maester.” 

“That’s good news, mother, truly.” Daenys reached out to hold Rhaenyra’s hand. They both smiled, content to last in their bubble.

“I think it's a girl. There is something about this pregnancy that feels different than all the rest.” The heir to the Iron Throne spoke softly, but loud enough to be heard above the raging storm. 

“Good. We’ve been dreadfully lacking women in the family. We are outnumbered.” Daenys looked back at her book, the title of the First Dornish War embossed into the leather binding, “Visenya.” 

Rhaenyra looked at her quizzically, and Daenys continued, “You should name her Visenya.” 

Her mother smiled gently and nodded, “I shall take that to heart. Now,” She got out of her seat, “Get to bed, ñuha prūmia.” Rhaenyra gave Daenys a gentle kiss on her forehead before walking away and out of the library. 

Daenys stayed in her seat, gazing mindlessly into the fireplace. Her heart was heavy. The prospect of marriage never worried her much. Any suitor that wished to court her quickly ran upon seeing her stepfather Daemon, who always seemed to grip Dark Sister tightly when they approached - a signal of warning. She never had to worry about ending up with a foul lord, or even end up marrying any time soon. Yet, her allegiance to her mother was stronger than any distaste for being wed. She got up and blew out some of the candles around her. 

She made her way across the library, down the many winding halls of Dragonstone, and into her bedchamber. Once settled at her vanity, she put her hair in a simple braid to protect it while she slept. Turning towards her bed, she spotted her sword resting against the chest placed at its foot. She walked over and unsheathed the steel. It was not Valyrian steel, unfortunately. But, the piece was expertly crafted at the behest of Daemon. Her hand gripped the hilt and the other gently traced the centre of the blade. 

Daenys swore that she would not make the task of gaining her hand easy for the Riverland lords. If her mother were to gain an ally, he would need to prove his worth. She had built up a reputation over the years. A beauty, that much is true, and the ability to charm members of the court easily, despite what some gossip about her parentage may say. However, upon being taught to fight by Daemon, she had managed to also build up a reputation for sharp wit and even sharper fighting skills. 

Exhaustion had finally caught up to her, so she moved to put the sword away and crawl into bed. Once settled, Daenys fell into a world of dreams. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys wished, with all her heart, that she could go back in time and club herself over the head for even suggesting a search for a husband in the Riverlands. The conversation with her mother two weeks ago quickly led to plans being laid. Daenys, on the back of her dragon Suneater, and her brother Jacaerys on the back of Vermax, had arrived at Riverrun to be greeted by Lord Elmo Tully. A kind old man, with dark red hair, streaked with the white of age. Daenys did not wish for her brother to accompany her, but Rhaenyra was adamant that she have a member of the family there to make sure she was not completely alone. Rhaenyra also added that it would help Jace’s claim to the throne more if he met and treated the lords of the Riverlands. 

However, the trip to the Riverlands quickly became sour. On the third day there after settling in, the petitions began. She was only a few hours in, and Daenys had already grown frightfully bored by the endless men - young and very much old - that made their case. Lord of this castle or that holdfast, it did not matter. All the men started to blend into one, with a few that managed to stand out. She sat on a raised dias in the grand hall of Riverrun, with Lord Tully to her right and Jace to her left. Occasionally, after a particularly awkward or gross petition, Jace and Daenys would glance at one another in complete awe. Daenys had underestimated the audacity of some men and now she finally understood why Rhaenyra had so many wild stories of overzealous lords making their petitions to her. At first, her stories seemed too odd to be fully real, but now in Daenys’ own few hours of experience, there was no doubt left in her. 

She leaned back and stifled a yawn as the old man in front of her droned on about his experience in some battle long ago. Lord Tully saw the princess's mood and leaned forward, “Thank you, Lord Ryger, for your attendance. It appears we shall end the petitions for the day and continue on the morrow.” 

Daenys resisted letting out a sigh of relief, though the look on Jace’s face showed he was just as relieved as her. Many men in the hall said their proper goodbyes, bowing to them before exiting. 

“Thank you, Lord Tully. It seems that I have many people to consider.” Daenys gave him a flattering smile, hoping that it could mask her previous displays of indifference. 

“That is good,” Lord Tully stood up and bowed to both her and Jace, “I shall you both at the feast tonight.” 

Once gone, Daenys sat up straighter in her seat and turned her torso towards her brother, “There’s to be a feast?” 

“Of course there is.” Jace smiled at the exasperated look on his sister's face. Truly, the whole time he had been rather entertained. A little bored, but ultimately found humour in his sister's expressions throughout the morning of lords' petitions. 

She leaned back in her seat and slid down slightly, sighing loudly. “A whole bloody feast.” Jace began to laugh, but Daenys would have none of it. “Don’t be too quick to humour, brother. All the lords who are already married are bound to have daughters, and as the future heir to the throne, I do believe they will flock to you like flies to shit.” 

“Are you saying I am the shit in your comparison?” The smile on Jace’s face faded. 

“You said it, Jace, not I.” She bounced to her feet and made her way towards the exit. 

Jace called out as she left, “And where are you off to?” 

“To Suneater,” Daenys responded while looking over her shoulder, “Lords cannot follow me into the sky.” She walked away to the sound of her brother's light chuckles. The dress she was wearing had begun to feel heavy on her, the weight of her mission to gain a good husband to aid in any possible future challenges to her mother seemed impossible. From the men she met so far… the outcome was looking bleak. There was one man who was closer to her age, yet every detail about him escaped her. Was it Aken… perhaps Barken… Breaker? The only detail worth noting about him was the garish yellow shade he wore, the rest was all exactly like every other man before. 

Daenys had changed into her riding leathers and gleefully made her way through the halls and to the courtyard. Upon exiting the castle, she glanced around the yard full of many men who were talking and sparring. The bustling laughter continued, with some lords near her choosing to greet her. Daenys pushed off many wishing to start a conversation with the excuse of going to visit her dragon. At the mere mention of her companion, the lords backed off. They are too fearful at the thought of a dragon, why do they think they are fit to marry one?

Glancing around at the fighting people while proceeding through the courtyard, she looked at a group. They were sporting red and black, and a feeling of homesickness washed over her. House Targaryen colours were familiar to her, mixed with Velaryon colours of course - for her father. The hushed voices of her uncles echoed in her mind; Bastard. 

Brushing that thought away, she decided to watch the group. The men dressed in those colours were sparring. A blond struggled against the blows from a dark-haired man, his lean and built form assailing with strength. 

It seemed that whenever the blond one got the upper hand, it only lasted for a short time. Daenys slowed her walking as she passed. While she was many metres away, she could still hear the words of encouragement and jest by the other men around them - dressed in the same colours of black and red. The blond man was facing her, and upon seeing the Princess, got momentarily distracted. The dark-haired man moved quickly, knocking his opponent to the ground in one fell swoop of his legs. The blond crashed to the ground and let out a string of curses, his clothes muddied. 

“Is the ground comfortable, Rickard?” The dark-haired man joked. The men around would have laughed, but their eyes moved to where the blond, Rickard, had his eyes. They all seemed frightened. Daenys could tell they were all around her age and most likely had never seen a member of the Royal family, given the fact that they were frozen on the spot. Rickard got up, albeit in a clumsy manner, and tilted his head down in a subtle bow with the rest of the men following. 

The dark-haired man turned and his eyes met hers. She could not gauge their colour, as she was standing a good few feet away. The grip on his sword slacked. He seemed stunned and a faint red coated his face. Daenys could not tell if it was from his training or her presence. He nodded to her and she hummed gently before nodding back to him and the other men. 

While Daenys was intrigued by those men, all she wanted was a reprieve from the men around her. She turned her body and continued on her previous course, oblivious to the stares that followed. On the other side of a hill - a fair distance from the gates of Riverrun - lay Suneater and Vermax. The two were beside one another, as their personalities blended. Occasionally, the two would clash much like her and Jace, but truly acted as siblings. Daenys felt the weight on her chest that accumulated throughout the day disappear. Finally, she could be free, even just for a while. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The hours had passed in mere moments. Daenys had begun her flight midday and had landed as the sun began to set, giving her just enough time to get to her chambers and have the maids prepare her for the feast. She was delighted that the courtyard was relatively empty, save for a few servants mulling about. No pesky conversations to derail her. 

However, Daenys heard the sound of grunting and the beating of a sword. She turned to a corner of the yard to see the same dark-haired man still training. The others had left, but he lingered on. His back was to her, but she doubted he would even notice her if he was facing in her direction. He seemed completely enraptured in the swings of his sword, as if the world had disappeared and here he remained. 

Daenys recognized this focus. She too felt that, albeit when riding her dragon. It was a feeling of belonging like there was nothing else meant for her to do. No more masking and pretending to feel like the people around her, just free to get lost in something she loved. The process of becoming a different person and getting lost in the way it makes you feel. She believed it must be a similar thing to the way he was fighting. She paused for a moment to study his form. Strong, but sly. With each stroke of the sword, images of the royal painters appeared in her mind. The art of their brush strokes mirrored that of the steel he swung. Calculated and precise, but free. Each time the steel met the straw dummy, it looked like paint hitting a canvas. 

Daenys did not wish to disturb his focus, but the burning intrigue of who this man was had overpowered that wish, “I do believe he is dead.” The man stopped with a jump and swung his body around in quick succession, his eyes alert. It was only upon seeing Daenys and assessing her as no immediate threat that he let his guard down. 

“Yes, princess, um… indeed.” His response made Daenys almost wish she did not disturb him. It was clear that he appeared slightly shy when not engrossed in combat. A part of her related to it. 

“I apologize for my earlier interruption. It was not my intention to have distracted your friend.” Daenys stepped close and leaned against a fence that connected to the large stables. She was within just a metre or two of the man and could now finally see him more clearly. He was a pleasant sight, exceedingly so compared to the dozens of men she met that morning. 

“You need not apologize, princess. It was his fault, he should have been focusing on the fight.” 

“Well, I hope he is alright from the fall, Lord…” Daenys trailed off, hoping to know his name. She thought back to her morning in the hall and meeting all the lords who contended for her hand. She could not remember him. That could not be right, she would remember a man who looked like that. It seemed that he was not there in the morning, most likely to see her in the days to come. 

“Benjicot Blackwood, your grace.” He nodded at her, his dark hair moved gently in the subtle breeze. 

“It is nice meeting you, Lord Blackwood.” Daenys smiled at him. She felt unusual, to be taken by charm so quickly and with so few words. She searched within her brain for any knowledge regarding the family. It was an old house, with roots deep within Westeros spanning back to the first men. Kings during the Age of Heroes. She remembered reading about their ability to field an army larger than that of House Tully, yet still bent the knee to them. 

“You flatter me, princess, but I am not Lord Blackwood yet. My father still presides over Raventree Hall.” Benjicot’s voice was calm, despite his appearance coming off as slightly nervous. 

“I am sorry, Lord Benjicot, for the misunderstanding.”

Ben broke eye contact and gazed around the courtyard for a moment before returning to her, “We seem to be apologizing repeatedly to one another, your grace.” 

“Yes, let us end that,” Daenys situated herself to sit on the fence, a rather unladylike action. She found that she could get away with that type of behaviour the further she was from the court of Kings Landing and Dragonstone. “What brings a member of House Blackwood to Riverrun at this time?” 

“Well, the crown princess happens to be visiting,” Ben answered. 

“I heard she is spoilt and vain.” Daenys joked.

Ben seemed to loosen up just slightly at her friendliness, “She is not so bad. Rather pleasant if you ask me.” The two stare at one another for a few moments, wondering which one would break the jest first. In a display of synchrony, they both smiled and let out a short burst of laughter. 

Daenys spoke after calming down, “So I am just pleasant, my lord?” 

“Yes, your grace, incredibly so.” Ben’s words sounded more sincere than expected and it caught Daenys slightly off guard. 

“You are not so bad, as well, Lord Benjicot. Incredibly so.” Daenys jumped down from the fence and brushed off her hands that were resting along the wood. “I hope you are not absent from the feast tonight as you were this morning. I should like to speak to you more, my lord.”

“I will be there princess.” 

The two both nodded to one another before Daenys began to walk away. As she retreated, she could not help but feel a little less stressed about the feast. Maybe the idea of being surrounded by boisterous lords, many eager to dance with her, would not be so bad if Benjicot Blackwood was there. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The band was in full swing. The echoes of their instruments, playing a quick jig, bounced off the vaulted walls of the great hall. People sat at multiple long tables and ate from the vast amounts of plated food. There were others out of their seats, conversing with groups or dancing in the centre of the room. Lord Tully was at the centre of a table position in front of all the others. The Velaryon twins sat on either side of him. Jacaerys and Lord Tully were engaged in deep conversation on a topic Daenys had little care for. She stared at her plate of food. No matter how hard she tried, Daenys could not will herself to eat. The nerves of this night and having countless men stare at her made her stomach ache and turn. 

A figure stood up at the table, bowing to all three of them. He was adorned in brown and a muted yellow colour, with the sigil of a red stallion on his chest. While Daenys did think it ugly, she could not say the same for his appearance. He had a slender figure, and his facial structure was pretty for a man. His brown hair reached just past his shoulders, most of it pulled into a tie at the back with some loose strands. 

“Lord Tully, Prince Jacaerys, Princess Daenys,” He started, “It would be an honour to ask the princess if she should like to dance.” 

“I believe my sister would love to join you,” Jace answered. 

Daenys kept her head facing the man while her eyes turned to the side. Jacaerys was looking at her, an amused smile on his face. She focused back on the man and put on a pleasant smile, “It would be my pleasure.” She slowly got out of her chair, hoping for some miracle to prevent their dance. A fire set in the hall, or perhaps the gods could shake the earth and swallow her whole. 

When the man took hold of her arm to escort her, Daenys turned around and mouthed to her brother: traitor. Jace just waved slightly and picked up a mug of ale. The two made their way to the dance floor and joined many others. Her hands clasped hers as they faced one another and began moving. Daenys had to concentrate on her footwork, as her dancing skills were never the greatest.

“Aeron Bracken, your grace. I am sure you remember me from this morning.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget such a memorable petition… with ah… great accomplishments.” Daenys gave him a fake smile. She hoped that response would satisfy Aeron, as she truthfully had no memory of what his petition was. The words he had said sounded the same as all the rest, so despite not remembering, she could guess that they revolved around their accomplishments and house. 

“It gladens me that you have been thinking about me, your grace.” 

Daenys almost scoffed. Where did she ever mention thinking about him? Why would she think of him of all men? There was a brief flash of red and black in her vision, accompanied by a blur of dark hair. Swallowing her frustration down, she continued her womanly facade. 

“Yes, House Bracken is wonderful in their abilities and longstanding position in history.” The few things she knew about the house were their origins with the first men, and their proclivity to engage in petty disputes with other houses. She thought it best to not bring up the latter information. However, it did not seem that she would not have to bring it up as Aeron began to rant.

“There are some houses here that are not as fortunate or kind as mine. Some that are no good to be around, your grace.” Aeron’s face darkened slightly as his vision zeroed in on a group across the hall. Daenys turned and strained her eyes, for she was not as tall as him. Upon seeing through the crowd who he was looking at, her brows furrowed. Benjicot Blackwood stood conversing with a group of men at one of the tables. 

Aeron looked away and back at the princess, “I caution you with keeping the company of Blackwoods. They can be savage and cruel.” 

A flood of information swooped over her mind. A week prior to leaving for the Riverlands, she had tirelessly scanned through books on their history. She suddenly realized why both of the Houses sounded familiar. Out of the countless battles she read about, House Blackwood and Bracken were frequently are the forefront and more often than not the ones that started those conflicts. 

Daenys felt an odd urge to defend Benjicot, “You do not think I did my research before coming here, Lord Aeron?” 

“No, princess, that was not my intention,” He seemed to stumble over his words and his face flushed, “I just wish to protect you.” 

“I do not need your protection, my lord. I do believe having a dragon does that for me.” Daenys was thankful that the song was coming to a close. They separated and both bowed to one another like all the other partners on the floor. “Your baseless attempt at character assassination is just that, baseless. Thank you for the dance, Lord Aeron, but I think I will take my company elsewhere.”

Daenys gave him one last nod and walked away. She wanted to get away from Aeron quickly. She walked in the direction of Ben and his company of men, but an old lord stepped out in front of her just as she made it to him. The lord was old and greying, his wrinkled skin sagged against his stern face. Daenys never gagged at the sight of a person before, but she found herself almost doing so. 

“Princess Daenys, would you care for a dance?” His shrewd voice shattered her temporary relief. 

“Oh Lord–” She began, but was swiftly interrupted.

“Lord Mooton,” Benjicot had spotted her approaching and saw the lord moving her way and quickly lept to action, “It is good to see you. I believe it was your great grandson's twentieth nameday celebration that we last saw on another. I have heard that your wife was looking for you.” Ben had his shoulders squared and towered over the old man's form. Daenys and Ben exchanged looks, resisting the urge to laugh in the lord's face at this awkward exchange. 

“Oh, yes, Lord Benjicot. Apologies princess, for I must go.” The man bowed and moved away, his old form moving slowly. 

“I owe you, Lord Benjicot, for saving me.” Daenys smiled at him. Her arms joined behind her back as she swayed side to side. 

“You need not thank me, your grace. Though, I would appreciate it if you would do me the favour of joining me on the floor?” Ben held out his hand. While he seemed confident, Daenys could tell there was still a shy nature being hidden - it was clear in his eyes. The hand that was outstretched shook so slightly it was hard to catch, but she did. Just a few minutes ago she wanted nothing more than to stop dancing, but in this case, she did not mind it. She had just found the right partner. 

Daenys took his hand in hers and the shaking ceased, “I shall.” Ben escorted her to the floor and they began to dance. She was even more nervous, as her lack of talent in dance may embarrass her in front of him. Ben did not seem to mind for he guided her gently before she could make any mistakes. 

“You should have seen the look on your face when Lord Mooton spoke to you. Pure befuddlement, your grace, possible disgust as well.” Ben quickly turned her to the pace of the music. 

“Do not jest of that, my lord. I felt like I would die.” Daenys retorted. 

“You would die? I think it would be Lord Mooton that goes first, considering his age.” 

Daenys let out a short laugh, “I do not know what I would have done if I had to suffer a dance with him.” She almost shivered at the thought of that lord's eyes scanning her body in such a predatory way. 

“Do not worry about it, your grace. All it would take is a stiff breeze to knock him over and it would no longer be your problem. Perhaps I could jump out of nowhere and startle him to death for you?” The dance had Ben pulling her closer with both of their hands connected. 

“I did not take you as a man quick to murder.” 

“Ah, but for you, dear princess, I would not hesitate.” Ben’s words sounded incredibly sincere and he made sure to be looking right at her when he said them. 

“You flatter me, my lord,” Daenys said, “I wanted to mention it earlier, but I must compliment your skills in fighting. Watching you train was engaging.” 

Ben spun them around and kept pace with those around them, “I shall hold those words with me for life, your grace.” 

“I also wished to ask if we could spar together.” Daenys raised her brow at him, hoping that he would like the same as well. 

“I can not even think about attacking you, princess. It would be improper.” 

Daenys knew he would not relent so easily, “I have been learning for a few years now, you need not worry about it.”

One of Ben’s hands reached down to her waist as they had to start walking to the right in a circle with others dancing. “Princess, the moment I even go in to swing at you, regardless of practicing, every lord in the castle would hunt me down.” 

“Then we shall make sure nobody sees. After the morning petitions on the morrow, we can meet up outside the gates and find a clearing somewhere.” Daenys tried to distract herself from the way his hand felt on her waist.  

“After you have been driven to frustration by all the lords? I should be worried you may take that anger out on me.” Ben spun her around again. The two of them released their grip on one another, stepping back a few paces and turning before finally coming back together again.

“With the skills I saw today, I do believe you can handle it,” Daenys said.

“I can handle that and more, princess,” Ben responded and his grip on her hand and waist tightened slightly. Daenys blushed heavily and hoped that it would not be too noticeable. She paused momentarily to figure out how to retort, but no words came to her. They settled into silence for a moment. The music died down and the dance came to a close. Daenys and Ben released their hold on each other and took a step back. 

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Benjicot. You need not worry about attending the petitions tomorrow and putting forth your name. I do not need to hear your case as I already favour your company.” Daenys tried to say what she wanted to say without making it too obvious or breaking any rules of propriety. It would be unseemly for a woman to actively pursue someone, but that would not stop her from voicing her opinion. 

“I favour your company as well, princess,” Ben responded, though he seemed slightly stunned. Daenys smiled at him and went back to the main dining table. 

Lord Tully had left, most likely off speaking to some guests, but Jace still sat at the table. He was nursing a mug of ale in his hand and sent her a large grin. 

“What have you done now, dear brother?” 

“Nothing, sister, however, I must admit I did not take you as one who liked to dance.” 

Daenys sat down in the seat beside him. She reached out for some of the ale and swallowed it down. “I don’t like dancing.” 

“Then why did you spend five dances with the same man?” Jace asked. He gave off a tone of innocence to his question, but she could sense the subtle tease.

She paused for a moment to load some food on a plate. It was five dances? She could have sworn it was only for a minute or two. Deciding not to voice that, she continued. “Why did you care to count?” 

“Because you are my sister and it is my job to watch out for you. Tell me, who is he?” 

Daenys was almost reluctant to answer but knew Jace would continue to pry until he got one. “Benjicot Blackwood.” 

“...So?” Jace placed his ale down and showed her his full attention. 

“Pardon?” 

“What do you think of him? You seem quite taken.” Jace nudged her shoulder gently. 

“We met earlier in the day. He seems nice and is easy to converse with. However, the manner of me being taken by him is none of your concern.” 

Jace leaned back in his seat and laughed, “Ah, okay. So it is not my concern that this whole time we have been talking, Lord Benjicot has not stopped looking at you.” 

Daenys froze. Jace held his gaze to her side, where other people were, and must have been looking at Ben. She knew he was there. Now that she was told, she could practically feel Ben’s gaze on the side of her face. She felt herself getting flushed again. That whole night, she felt like she was on the verge of a meltdown with all of the lords looking at her. Their greedy gazes wished to have her solely to claim her blood for their children. Yet, Daenys could not help but crave the gaze of that dark-haired man. She shook her head gently and stood up abruptly. 

“I have become tired, Jace. I shall retire for the night.” Daenys did not wait for her brother's response before she scrambled to get out of the hall. Her feet carried her swiftly out of the large doors and down the stone hallway. She picked up her pace once away from the prying eyes of people. Her hands gripped the skirt of her dress, the palms clammed up.

Upon reaching her guest chamber, Daenys threw the door open before shutting it quickly. Her chest rose up and down with each breath and the bodice felt tighter than it was just minutes ago. Her actions of the day quickly came flooding back at her. This was not supposed to happen. This was never part of the plan. 

Daenys somehow felt like she had failed her mother. She came to the Riverlands to find a strategic match, not find herself relishing in the company of some man. She was no believer. The princess knew from a young age that any sort of marriage was to be one of convenience, one arranged. She felt better having some bit of freedom in choice, but that choice was still dictated by what would be best for securing her mother’s throne if it were to come to war. 

Now, she found herself waiting with bated breath for her sparring session with Ben. As if counting the minutes would make the time go by faster. Logically, House Blackwood would be a great house to align with. They can handle more soldiers than the Tullys despite the Tullys being liege lords of the Riverlands. There is an extensive history of military triumph and a fair amount of wealth - not just monetarily - connected to Raventree Hall. It would be completely fine to connect their two houses, yet her budding feelings for Ben made her feel as though that decision was biased. 

Mother would know what to do. She always does. 

Daenys sat on the end of her bed, gazing out of the opened shutters of a window and staring into the night. The stars looked beautiful, but she missed the familiar sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores of Dragonstone. Homesickness washed over her. She went to the desk in a corner of the room and retired some parchment. The inkwell was full and a quill lay next to it. If there was one person she could vent to and get advice, it would be her mother. 

 ───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The next day, Daenys found herself in the same spot she was in the previous day. In the great hall, with Lord Tully and Jace, watching as dozens of men spoke about themselves. How great their houses are, how great they are, and how extensive their coffers are. Except today felt different than previously. She was more impatient. All she focused on was her meeting with Ben later. The ability to speak to him more freely outside of the prying watch of others. 

To be caught would be scandalous, however, that thought made it more thrilling. 

Once Lord Tully concluded the gathering, Daenys quickly left her chair. She did not run, as it would be unladylike, but she moved as fast as was socially accepted. She went back to her room to dress in the proper attire and retrieve her sword. Once finished, Daenys opened her door and crashed into someone's chest. Jacaerys stood there, barely having been knocked by her slamming into him. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” 

Danys adjusted her clothing, “Out to train.” 

“Alone?” Jace raised his brow. Although he asked the question, it was as if he already knew the answer. 

“Must I even entertain such a question?” Daaenys sighed. 

“Don’t do anything Mother would not approve,” Jace told her. Daenys resisted the urge to laugh. While Rhaenyra did not speak to her sons about her youth, she spoke to Daenys about it. The stories of her sneaking away with Daemon and later her trysts with Sir Harwin were mentioned in hushed voices over tea times. Gossiping together was one of Daenys’ favourite pastimes. 

“Of course, Jace. I will be as pious as Mother.” Daenys answered before moving down the hallway. She was almost skipping with joy at the prospect of spending the rest of the day with Ben. 

Outside the gates of Riverrun, Ben was leaning against a tree as he waited for her. When she came in sight, she sent him a smile and a slight wave. He got off the tree and walked to her as well. Once close, they began moving in the direction of the dense forest. 

“Are you well rested, your grace? You left the feast early last night.” 

She paused before responding. “If I am entirely honest, I miss my home. I left to write a letter to my mother.” She did not feel it necessary to touch on the fact that the very nature of that letter was primarily centred around him. 

“I am sorry to hear that princess. The Riverlands can be overwhelming for those not born here.” Ben paused to step over a high fallen tree trunk. On the other side, he offered his hand to her. 

“I did not mean it as a slight. I’ve found myself to be quite fond of these lands, my lord. It's beautiful here, truly.” Daenys tried not to think about how warm his hand was in hers. How the callouses were strangely comforting despite their roughness. She gently stepped on and over the trunk before coming back down. Her arm went down to her side, but their hands were still joined. She cleared her throat gently and Ben dropped her hand, coming back from wherever his mind wandered. They continued on their way under the canopy of trees. 

“Can I ask you something?” Daenys questioned. 

“Anything, your grace.” 

“Must we exhaust our title in conversation with one another? It would be much better, and easier if I may add, if you just called me Daenys.” 

Ben remained silent for a moment, his vision focused on the ground below him to not trip over a root. “That would not be appropriate, princess.” 

“At the very least, we can do so when we are alone?” Daenys awaited his answer. 

“Then just call me Ben or Benji. Benjicot can be a mouthful.” 

Daenys giggled, “Sounds good, Ben.” 

They both exchanged quick looks and then focused their attention back on where they were going. After walking for a while, they hit a small clearing. The grass was low and there were no objects around that they could trip on. 

“How much do you know of sparring, Daenys?” Hearing her name come from his voice had her dazed for a moment. It sounded good. 

Deciding to deceive him for a moment, she responded. “Only a little bit. Some basic offensive and defensive moves.” 

“Then we shall have a round to see where you are at. We will start with the wooden swords.” 

With his words, they moved into starting positions. Ben lunged first and his strike was blocked. She moved around him, turning quickly and striking him. He too managed to block it, but before he could make another move, Daenys swung again and hit his bicep. It was quick and unexpected, revealing that she may know more than what she stated. He was shocked for a moment and caught off guard. Ben smiled. He was excited by her quick thinking ability. 

“Were you telling the truth?” 

“Not quite, but the look on your face was worth it.” Daenys adjusted her stance, with the wooden sword still in her grip. 

“Who taught you? Many men seem reluctant to teach women these sorts of things.” 

“I begged for years. I was told it was not ladylike and surely not something a potential husband would accept in a wife. But, many months after my mother married my stepfather, I decided to ask one more time. I was ten and three when I did. I marched right up to Daemon and asked him. It felt inevitable that he would deny my request, but he just laughed and told me to be ready on the morrow in the sparring yard. I joined my brothers in their training.”

Daenys remembered that day vividly. She was scared out of her wits. Until then, she never really bonded much with Daemon and was terrified by his reputation. She had clasped her hands behind her back in an attempt to hide their shaking. Her small frame, made even smaller in his presence, stood tall. Years later, Daenys would be confident in saying that her relationship with her stepfather was solid. 

“As in Prince Daemon?” Ben was bewildered, “Like the Rogue Prince?” 

“Yes, him.” 

Ben shrugged his shoulders, “I doubt you could learn anything from me then.” 

“Are you the one of those men who are ‘reluctant to teach women these sorts of things’?” Daenys used his words against him. 

“There are many things I could teach you.” Daenys pretended not to catch on to the other meaning of his words. She did not even know if that was intended by him. 

The two resumed their stances before going back to fighting. It was amazing how quickly time flew afterwards. Their bodies moved together in tandem. One moved forward, the other moved back. They bumped into one another multiple times. Daenys struggled to keep her beating heart under control when they would brush. It was occasionally hard to focus, as Ben looked increasingly better when he was in his element. She also pretended to not see the somewhat longing gaze he would send her way occasionally. 

During a moment when he was particularly distracted, she used it to her advantage. She swung forward, moving her wooden sword in a circle and disarming him. The move caused her body to be closer to him, and his reflexive move grabbed onto her wrist holding her sword and pulled her close in a grip hold. 

They were exhausted from the hours of movement. Daenys chest moved up and down at a rapid rate. The fog from their breaths intertwined in the air as their faces got close. Her free hand had somehow landed on his chest. There was no denying the lean muscle under his tunic and vest. 

“I thought you did not like it when people got easily distracted?” Daenys teased him. 

“Well, it is hard not to with you here,” Ben responded. His eyes stared into hers, an intensity hidden in them. 

Daenys could not for the sake of her life find a response. It was bold, his compliment. It would not be considered appropriate had they been anywhere else, but they were alone. The realization of that struck her. They were completely alone. Ben leaned in slightly but stopped. Due to their height difference, his nose brushed the top of her cheek. His breath was haggard. 

“Please tell me if I have misinterpreted any of your advances. Tell me and I swear I will leave you alone. I will go back to Raventree Hall and give you peace.” He voiced in a low whisper.

Ben began to pull away, but Daenys used her free hand resting on his chest to grip the fabric and hold him in place. 

“Don't go,” She began, “You have not misinterpreted me.”

“I will not do anything without your permission, my princess.” Daenys did not wish to correct him on addressing her by her title, for the use of the word ‘my’ before it lit something in her chest. He leaned back to where he previously was, his breath fanning her face. She nodded to him before leaning in and connecting their lips. 

It felt feverish, the unbridled heat that surged through her. She had the blood of the dragon, yes, but this was something else entirely. The wooden sword in her other hand, which was held at the wrist by his, dropped to the ground. He moved his hands, one going to her waist to pull her close and the other settling on the small of her back. His lips were chapped but felt soft nonetheless. His nose pressed into her cheek as he deepened the kiss. They both were unskilled in it, and they were slightly out of sink, but the passion was there. Daenys hands moved to his face, cupping it. Her thumbs brushed over his high cheekbones. The kiss gave her more warmth from the mild frigid weather around than any coat she could wear. There was a safety to it, an assurance of protection. 

For a brief moment in this foreign piece of land, Daenys felt at home. 

They pulled away, but only slightly so. Their noses still touched and she was grateful to feel any part of him. His hands squeezed gently, giving her some positive affirmation. 

“You are better at this than your swordsmanship.” Daenys joked. 

“You speak as if you have experience, Dany.” Her heart stopped for a moment at his nickname. 

She breathed in and out slowly, “You’re the first.” Ben nodded at her words, a breathless smile sweeping across his face. 

“For me as well.” They both were stuck in an embrace, eyes staring back at one another. 

“I…” Daenys paused to gain courage, “I would not mind if we could do that again.” She felt terribly shy by her request, and images of her younger self being rejected whenever she asked to learn how to fight flashed in her mind. Ben leaned forward and rested his forehead against her. An amused groan left his lips. 

“You will be the death of me, my princess.” He leaned forward and kissed her again.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys sat in her bedchamber with a parchment scroll gripped in her hands. It had been a few days since she sent her letter to her mother and she had finally received a response. The petitions only lasted two days, with the rest being spent mingling among the lords during the day and feasts at night. It was the early hours of the morning and she had just finished bathing. She lounged in her room in a robe and ate from a platter of meats and cheeses to break her fast. 

The letter she had sent her mother had been filled with her worries. How she had met many lords of the Riverlands and some that may be of help. Largely, the contents centred around her blooming companionship with Benjicot Blackwood. Daenys revealed her troubles about feeling that she would be failing if she found herself attached unnecessarily. She felt that her judgement had been compromised by her affinity to Benjicot’s company. She may be overlooking another house that may be better for them come the outbreak of war. 

Rhaenyra’s response was just what she needed. Despite her mother not physically being there, her words soothed Daenys. The heir assured her that House Blackwood would be a good fit, not just strategically but for her happiness as well. She kept reading a section of the response over and over. 

I was never fully happy with your plan. Sending my only daughter off to pick an arrangement that would surely make her miserable. I of all people can relate. Let yourself feel, ñuha prūmia. You are allowed happiness, so pursue it. Many women of the realm would give anything to be in your position. Do not waste it for me and my troubles. 

Daenys sighed. It was the confirmation she had been waiting for. Over the last few days, she had slipped away from Riverrun and joined Benjicot in the woods to spar. Though, more often than not, the sparing would be accompanied by fleeting touches and fevered kisses. Despite the dropping of formalities, he still treated her as his princess. Which, if Daenys was honest, was not a bad thing.

All the time spent with him, the voice in the back of her head had filled her with worries about failing her mother. Now, with confirmation that her choice was not wrong, Daenys felt the urge to rise from her chair and keep running until she found him. Jump in his arms perhaps. But that would not be appropriate and she cursed the realm for their stupid rules. 

Daenys got up and changed into her gown for the day. She had dismissed the maids earlier, wishing to have some semblance of peace. When she was situated in her attire and sat at her vanity to style her hair, a knock sounded on the door. 

“Come in!” Daenys called out gently as her fingers moved to meticulously form a braid. 

Jace walked in. His hand rested on the sword at his hip as he sauntered over to her vanity. “Good morrow, sister.” 

“Good morrow to you,” Daenys pinned up the finished braid and moved to work on another, “What brings you to my chambers this morning? Normally you would be out hunting with one of the lords.” 

“While that is true, I did just have to most interesting conversation while I broke fast,” Jace paused, “With Benjicot Blackwood.” 

Her fingers halted their movement and she looked at him through the large mirror positioned in front of her. Jace was smiling, but it was not the usual smirk as a warning of him teasing her. It looked genuine. She tilted her head in curiosity. 

“And, pray tell, what were you two meeting for?” Daenys feigned a casual attitude. She did not want to reveal her nerves.

“He invited me to break fast together. It would be rude of me to deny him.” Jace answered. 

Daenys pinned another braid up, “You did not answer my question, brother.” 

“I believe it is Ben’s right to share.” 

She finished her hair and turned in her seat to face her brother. She narrowed her eyes at him. Why did Jace address him so informally? Her hands rested on the seat and she resisted the urge to grip them tightly. Daenys was confused and she did not like it one bit. She relaxed her shoulders and maintained a pleasant resting face. 

“I did not know you two were so close.” 

Jace was picking up and inspecting the bottles of oils and serums on her table, displaying a sense of casualty. “Oh yes, one may say we could be brothers.” 

“Enough, Jacaerys. Tell me now.” 

Her brother set a glass vial down and backed away. He continued to smile while going to her door. “I will be out riding for the morning. Have a good day, sister.” Jace then opened the door and left Daenys to sit and mull over their conversation. 

“Bloody halfwit.” Daenys huffed. 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The princess found herself strolling through the halls of Riverrun. There were no particular activities she planned for the day, so her mind was distracted. It was near an alcove that a hand shot out and grabbed her forearm. She was pulled in with another hand covering her mouth. Her shout of surprise was muffled. Daenys found herself in a secluded area with her back against the stone. There was a tiny window giving the area a hint of morning glow. 

 Fear flooded her veins and she cursed herself for leaving any means of a weapon in her room. She brought her leg up to knee the assailant in the crouch. A shout of pain came from the figure, a voice so familiar. When the man crouched over the ease the pain, the streaks of light from the window illuminated his face.

“Ben! Oh, I am so sorry.” 

Daenys moved to hold his shoulders but he just held up his arms while still in visible pain, “No, Dany, this was my doing. Not the wisest decision to sneak up on you like this.” Benjicot was doing everything to show he was not in pain, but failing. He breathed in deeply. 

“Great strength and good form, my princess.” Ben tried to laugh it off, but his chest still heaved. 

“Dearest, what in the seven hells was that?” Daenys crossed her arms. 

“Oh, if I knew what it would take to be called such a sweet nickname by you, Dany, then I would have injured myself sooner.” Ben beamed at her. He managed to get over the pain quickly and stood straight. His arms moved to wrap around her waist and pull her from the wall towards his chest. 

Daenys arms rested on his shoulders. “What if I had my knife on me?” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d have been stabbed,” Ben responded. 

“It is not funny. I could have seriously hurt you.” Daenys felt his thumbs making circles as he held her hips. 

Ben kissed the crown of her head, “I have no doubt you would have done serious damage, my princess.” 

They stood in their embrace in the dimly lit alcove. It seemed as though the only time they could spend together was during fleeting moments of isolation. Despite the worry of being caught, Daenys would not wish it to be any different. 

“My brother visited me this morning.” She began speaking, “Jace informed me of your shared meal.” 

Ben’s face dropped. Nervousness etched its way across it. “He told you what we spoke about?” 

“No,” Daenys answered. His unease cleared at her confirmation, “It was rather aggravating, what little information he gave. Is it something I should be worried about?” 

“Nothing to worry about, Dany.” One of his hands lifted to cup her face. He moved his thumb up and down her cheek.

“Can I be privy to it? Or is it some man thing?” Her hands, which were resting on his shoulders, moved lower to settle on his chest.

“No. I planned on making a show of this, but truly I cannot wait any further.” 

Daenys tilted her head, “And what can’t you wait for?” 

“Well, I went to ask your brother first, as I am a gentleman who does not wish to compromise you and-” Ben began, but was swiftly cut off by Daenys.

“You? A gentleman? You may not have compromised my maidenhood, but that thing you did with your tong-”

“My love, please, I cannot be distracted by such a memory.” Ben closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to calm down. “I wished to ask your brother for permission to court you.” 

Daenys waited with bated breath. “And my brother?” 

“He is a very agreeable man. He acquiesced but noted that ultimately, the decision remains with you.” Ben tightened his hold on her. 

She smiled widely, “I believe you already know my answer.” 

The two broke into laughter before quickly leaning in to kiss. They pushed against one another. Desperation, earnestness, and care poured out of them. Most of all, pure relief. Daenys shivered at the intimacy of his hold on her. One of Ben’s hands cradled the back of her head as he pushed them back to the wall, cushioning her from the jagged stone. A groan slipped from his mouth as Daenys opened hers. The kiss was possessive, and his grip tightened. The hold on her waist warmed, and his fingers threaded through her hair. 

“You are so beautiful.” Ben voiced between kisses before moving back to devour her again. His lips trailed from her mouth, across her cheek and to her neck. He stopped at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Daenys sighed at the contact, heat flaming through her body. 

“Ben, someone may come.” 

“Damn them. I do not care.” He seemed intent on kissing her, with his mouth moving to her collarbone. 

“I would rather not have my honour questioned, my love.” 

He paused and lifted his head to look at her. His eyes held an intensity she had scarcely seen from him before, “Say the word and any man who questions you will be dead.” 

“As much as your words are comforting, I could not put you in such a position,” Daenys gave him a chaste kiss, “I am just happy my brother gave his approval.” 

“If you were only there. He did try his best to be intimidating.” Ben said. 

“Jace was never good at threatening people. Were you scared?” She joked. 

“I feigned some bit of fear,” He began, “I find men to be more pliable when they feel better about themselves.” Ben stood proud of himself. He grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth to lay small kisses on her knuckles. 

“So you manipulated my bother?” 

“I would not call it that. Moreso gentle encouragement to achieve the answer I so desired.” Ben skirted her question and began to rock them gently side to side, “But even if he did manage to scare me, no amount of fear would stop me.”

Daenys pulled back from his embrace, “No amount of fear would stop you?” 

Ben paused his movements and looked her in the eyes, “I don’t like that look on your face, my dear. You’re up to something.” 

“Well, since you wish to court me, there is one such condition from me.” Daenys tried to ease his piqued curiosity. Ben awaited her explanation. “Meet Suneater.” 

His face fell immediately. His eyes darkened and the muscles in his body tightened. Daenys saw his reaction and worked to soothe him by grabbing his hands and rubbing them. 

His voice came out strained, “You want me to meet your dragon?” 

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys giggled as she led Ben through the muddy pathway outside of Riverrun. Her dragon and Vermax were perched outside the castle, as it was not a large enough estate to hold the both of them. She held his hand clasped in hers as the two made their way to the sleeping dragon. They came across a clearing that was surrounded by a low stone wall. Jace had taken Vermax for a flight, so Suneater was alone. She lay curled and sleeping peacefully. Her strong breath came out of her nose. 

Suneater had dark grey scales. However, upon closer inspection, there were subtle gold flakes throughout her body, intensifying at the base of the scales before being covered by the black of a next one layered above. Daenys had never known a bond such as the one she held with her dragon. Her closeness to her family was strong- especially Jace since they were twins. But her dragon was entirely something else. 

Now that Benjicot wished to be with her, he must know all of her. Suneater was the other part of her soul. Despite hatching in her cradle and being of the same age, Daenys view her as a daughter. 

Daenys let go of Ben’s hand and walked to her dragon, “Sȳz ñāqes, Suneater.” Good morrow. Suneater’s eyes blinked open and her head lifted to see her rider approaching. Ben had stopped walking and stood by the entrance, unsure of whether or not he should get closer. “Hilago, sagon sȳz. Nyke hae bisa vala.” Please, be good. I like this man.

She reached out to scratch Suneater’s chin. The dragon let out a near purring sound at the contact and closed her eyes. Daenys continued her movements and turned to Ben. 

“Come here. She won’t hurt you.” Upon seeing Ben still standing, Daenys continued. “I swear she will not do anything. You have my word.” 

After that, Ben moved towards her. His steps were slow and calculated as he wadded through the low grass. Once he was about a metre near her, Suneater’s eyes snapped open to stare him down. A puff of air left her nostrils and Ben seized his movements to a halt. 

“Gīda. Rȳbagon.” Calm. Listen. Daenys assured her. Suneater calmed down but kept her eyes on Ben. He was an unknown man who stood too close to her rider. Daenys used her other hand to grab Ben and pull him closer. Once he was beside her, she spoke up, “You can touch her.” 

Ben swerved his head and gave her a look muddled with alarm and uncertainty. He breathed in and out slowly to stay calm next to such an intimidating beast. 

“Touch her?” His voice dripped with fear. 

“Calm down, Ben, its not like I am asking you to fly with me.” He seemed to ease at her words, “Not yet, at least.” 

Ben sputtered but went completely silent when Daenys grabbed his hand and placed it on the dragon's side. Her hand, in its small size, barely covered his. Ben felt the scales and the subtle breathing of the beast. His fear swept away and was replaced with awe. As a boy, he had heard of many older men around him who had seen dragons, but never himself had he ever seen one. The stories in his books growing up were filled with him, the history books even more so when covering events after the Conquest. In all his dreams, never did he think he would be standing so close to one and touching it. 

“See, it is not so bad.” Daenys laughed gently. She grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it gently. 

“Yes. It is not so bad.” Ben was still breathless. 

He removed his hand after a while and, with a surge of confidence, leaned down to kiss Daenys. It was a calm one, not as heated and passionate as the others. His strong arms pulled her against his chest. Daenys melted in his hold and kissed him back. She did not believe she could ever tire from kissing him. Her heart swelled. 

For the first time in many years, Daenys prioritized her own happiness. 

Ben pulled back and looked her in the eyes, “You are a wonder.” Their foreheads connected. The two closed their eyes and relished the sounds of nature around them. The steady breeze brushed the branches of trees and the crows spoke as they flew around. The rumbling of breath from Suneater produced a steady beat to focus on. 

The lovers stood in that field, each far from their homes - one more so than the other - and felt nothing but a sense of belonging. 

A budding love became solidified in their bond that day. Each mirrored the other. Their gentle demeanours were undercut by their cunning in the ways of fighting. Both a ticking bomb of violence, who would gladly follow the other into any battle. 

_______________

✧.* endnote: apologies for any typos or terrible grammar. i did come up with a couple more ideas centred around these two, so if it is wanted i could write (much shorter) pieces about these two. thank you all for the support that has been given. i appreciate it more than you know <3

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (3)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 8k

Warnings: knife throwing; Bucky being infuriating; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, dead parents, sexism

Author’s Note: Third part here y’all!! I’m getting excited! Hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It has only been a week since the attack on the palace, but it feels like the span of an eternity unfolded between the life you once knew and the one you are now stumbling through.

Each day adds years to your soul, leaving you brittle and burdened. It feels like you are carrying the ashes of your old life in your lungs. They seem to cough up black dust every time you breathe.

Bucky - as you’ve tried to remind yourself to call him, though it feels strange - is a ghost at your side.

Sturdy and inflexible, but strangely distant.

He barely speaks. And when he does, his words are clipped and sparse.

You match his silence with your own, the quiet between you thick as the mist that lingers in the trees each morning.

But something has shifted, ever so slightly, in the way he speaks to you but also in the way you speak to him.

A spark of resistance broke through the exhaustion and fear you have been feeling ever since meeting the man.

You couldn’t explain it. Still can’t. The sudden surge of boldness that had begun to creep into your tone. You’re not sure where it came from - perhaps it’s the sheer strain of everything you had to experience in such a short amount of time, or maybe it’s his relentless stoicism, his refusal to bend or break.

You discovered something in that defiance. It wasn’t control - not over him, nor over the tides of your life - but it was enough to reclaim the smallest piece of yourself.

And it worked.

He didn’t raise his voice again. Hasn't allowed the intensity of his temper to affect you once more. His words maintain their typical roughness, but he appears to have eased the impact behind them just a little.

He even let you take a bath.

It took some time for him to relent, some persuading, but with a grumbled sigh and a muttered “Don’t take too long. We got ground to cover,” he let you chase the faint glimmer of a stream in the distance, even giving you a small bar of soap he had stored in his pack.

He didn’t follow you but you knew he wasn’t far.

The stream was small but clear and looked utterly enticing. The icy water shocked you back into yourself as you washed your hands and drank some of it. First, you splashed your face, gasping as the cold seeped into your pores, washing away the dirt and sweat that had accumulated over the days.

Glancing over your shoulder, you scanned the treeline. No sign of him. No sound of him either, but you still didn’t trust that he wasn’t near.

You stripped off your gown and the underdress, shedding some weight on your shoulders with it, thread by thread. You would have some problems putting it back on without your maids but it’s ruined anyway. It’s not like you would look like the perfect storybook princess anyway even if you’d have some help.

When you sank down into the water, you closed your eyes. To be honest with yourself, you tried to scrub and wash away more than just the dirt on your skin. You wanted to get rid of it all - the guilt, the grief, the rage. The memories of your parent’s voices, now silenced forever. The sight of your castle in flames. The ache of being pushed forward into an unknown future you had no say in.

Nails bit into your flesh as you scrubbed at your skin. But there was no point. You were well aware you could not just scrape away the person you had been to become someone else. Anyone else. But you still tried. Because the invisible tiara atop your head is pressing against your skull, unwelcome and unrelenting. And there is no way to get it off.

After emerging, pulling yourself out of the water, and ungracefully slipping your underdress over your head you even thought of leaving the gown behind, letting it wither on the forest floor and just continuing in your underdress when his voice startled you enough to make your heart lurch.

“Are you done yet?”

Bucky stood at the edge of the clearing, leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was neutral, rather bored, but his tone held a composed hint of impatience.

“You-” The words died on your lips, replaced by a flush of heat that spread across your cheeks. “Were you watching me?”

He snorted. “I’ve got better things to do than spy on you playin’ in the water, princess.”

“I was not-” You cut your protest off, biting down on your lip. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you turned away, reaching for your gown and clutching it to your chest. You wouldn’t leave it behind after all. “Granting me a little bit of privacy would not kill you, you know.”

“No. But it might kill you,” he stated flatly, pushing off the tree, uncrossing his arms, and stepping closer. “Now let’s move. We’re wasting daylight.”

You grumbled under your breath as you threw on your gown without a care in the world how you looked like and stomped over to him.

A slow smirk played with the corner of his mouth as you stalked passed him and you even heard him breathe a suppressed laugh.

You don’t know what had shifted, but you remember the moment it began.

It was the morning after your argument. Actually, it was barely even morning. The sun was still missing and the cold of the night was tormenting you.

You woke up to a rustle. You didn’t notice anything at first, too groggy from sleep to process much beyond the aching stiffness in your joints and the cool fabric draped across your body. It took you a second to realize that what was covering you was Bucky’s bedroll.

Though what jolted you awake in an instant was the fact that he was still crouching beside you, carefully trying to cover your whole form with the fabric to ward off the chill of the night.

He was so close - too close - his broad frame towering even in his lowered position. The morning light filtered faintly through the trees, casting fragmented shadows across his face.

But it was the gleam of metal in his hand that drew your attention. His knife. He always seems to have it in his hand, always present, always ready.

But in that moment, after the things he said the day before, and with his presence in the dark now looming over your vulnerable position, it terrified you.

Every nerve in your body seized. The rough bark of a tree collided with your back as you scrambled backward, your heart racing and breath hitching as you stared at him with wide, panicked eyes. Your gaze darted between his face, the blade in his hand, and the many trees surrounding you. Already making escape plans due to the fear that clawed its way up your throat. It almost urged a scream out of you. But nobody would hear it.

You didn’t trust this man who wielded weapons so casually, who barely spared you more than a few begrudging words since he’d been tasked with your life and basically admitted to you being an inconvenience to him the day before.

And for a brief, horrifying instant, the image seared itself into your mind; the knife flashing toward you, the finality of it. Because why wouldn’t he? Why should you trust that he wouldn’t?

He saw it. Your fear. Because the moment your eyes locked, something shifted in his expression. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to speak, but no words came.

It even seemed to take him a second to realize that the cause of your fear was actually him.

And immediately, his jaw tightened, his lips twitched, his shoulders stiffened - and then slowly, he lowered the knife. Placed it on the ground beside him with a deliberate motion that spoke of careful control. With his eyes on you, he let his hands rise, palms open and unarmed, and he leaned back just enough to create space between you.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, roughened not by irritation but something closer to regret. “You were shiverin’.” He shot a brief look at the material draped over your shoulders that he had placed there to explain himself.

You didn’t move, couldn’t move, the tension still coiled in your chest and ready to make you bolt through the trees if he were to pick up the knife again.

But the look on his face struck you hard.

And it made you pause ever so slowly.

Since his expression didn’t convey anger, frustration, or the typical facade of indifference he carried so convincingly. No, this was unlike anything else. This was suffering. Pain. Concealed beneath the unsmiling features of his face was an emotion that appeared to be painfully close to remorse.

He hated it, you realized. He hated that you were afraid of him.

The thought left you reeling. You were unsure how to handle the vulnerability reflected in his eyes, contrasting so starkly with the man you had grown familiar with.

For a moment, you almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But the fear still twisted your stomach, unseen hands wringing it and wringing it until everything felt dry. And you couldn��t bring yourself to move any closer or open your mouth.

He didn’t speak, didn’t offer an apology or anything more. Instead, he turned away. Jaw still clenched so hard, dark brows lowered deeply, eyes moving to the ground, hands in tight fists, shoulders painfully tense. He shifted to busy himself with something at the border of your clearing and then vanished for a few minutes into the forest. It seemed he couldn’t bear to remain in the same space.

You stayed where you were, back pressed against the tree, his bedroll still draped over your shoulders and you clutched it so tightly with your hands, you were surprised later that the fabric withstood your grasp.

He didn’t look at you when he came back. Didn’t talk. He was so quiet, his movements more subdued, and when he glanced at you briefly, his expression was on the verge of careful. To you, it seemed something had chipped away at some part of him.

He hadn’t wanted your fear, didn’t mean to inspire it. That much was clear. And it made you breathe a little easier.

Since then, he had softened in small, almost imperceptible ways. He no longer dismisses everything you say with the same outright disdain. His tone carries an edge of restraint, as though he’s making a conscious effort to temper himself.

You’re not sure if it’s because of what happened or if he simply grows tired of you, but the change is there, subtle but undeniable.

And that is what has you thinking as you lie there, staring at the interwoven branches above, their gnarled silhouettes jagged against the pale light of the moon.

The bedroll beneath you is threadbare, offering little comfort against the damp, uneven forest floor. Bucky carries it throughout the day but always throws it your way when you settle in for the night, accompanied by a warning glare not to argue with him.

You don’t. You’re tired of talking to him. And if he willingly chooses to deny himself the smallest comfort possible and instead allows you to have it, then hell, you won't argue.

But sleep eludes you, slipping through your grasp no matter how tightly you try to force it upon you.

Your body aches. Usually, exhaustion is able to pull you under, but not today.

Today you took care of your own sleeping area, ignoring Bucky’s raised eyebrow and missing the amusement in his expression by discharging your chosen spot of stones and sticks. But you guess you didn’t do a good enough job.

The hard surface of the ground pushes back against you in all the wrong ways, sharp edges and dips pressing into your back. You try to adjust, twisting your spine subtly, but your shoulder only digs into a rough patch of dirt or an unseen stone under the thin fabric. You sigh.

Turning your head involuntarily, your eyes search the dark for Bucky.

He’s not far, just a few feet away, sprawled near the gone cold fireplace, his back against a tree, head tipped slightly to the side.

For once, he’s still.

Not standing, not pacing, not sharpening that ever-present knife. Just lying there.

Never before have you seen him like this - at rest, or at least something close to it.

He’s always been awake when you drifted into uneasy slumber. And when morning came, he was already up. Sometimes at night, when you would wake up shortly after falling asleep, you would hear him pace, or light the fire.

You had questioned, more than once, whether he ever slept at all and what kinds of things might keep him awake through the hours of the night.

But now, here he is, his body splayed out, one hand resting on his abdomen, the other loosely at his side. His knife lay within arm’s reach, but his hand doesn’t grip it.

The moonlight catches on the sharp angles of his face, softening them in a way that almost makes him look peaceful. Relaxed. But not quite as much as you’d expect somebody dead asleep to be. There is still tension in his posture, a readiness that doesn’t seem to leave him even in rest. You wonder what it would take for him to let go completely.

Your gaze lingers on him longer than it should. Taking your time, you trace the softened lines of his face you are able to make out, the rise and fall of his chest.

It feels intrusive, almost, to watch him like this, but you can’t help yourself.

There is something about seeing him vulnerable - unguarded - that draws you in, even as it makes you feel unsteady, treading on sacred ground.

It makes you wonder who he has been before all this. Before the wariness, the stoicism, the constant presence of that damn knife. You don’t think you’ll ever get an answer.

But you won’t ever stop questioning him. Even if you can’t voice them out loud.

You wonder if he ever watched you sleep like that in the time you have traveled together.

You’ve definitely caught him watching you in daytime more often than not, his eyes intense and assessing and it is always enough to set your teeth on edge. You ask yourself what it is he sees. A burden, surely. A task he never wanted. He’s made that clear enough already.

But sometimes - just sometimes - you think there is something else in the way he keeps you in his sights, in the way he now moves through the woods with you always in his peripheral vision. It’s a kind of vigilance, that feels different than disdain. Protective, almost. Not kind, but not cruel either.

You don’t know what to make of it.

Another sharp forest object digs into your shoulder and you sigh again.

Your stomach is growling.

Thankfully, your bladder is empty.

Basically the second you noticed Bucky going still and breathing evenly, you got up to take a bathroom break. Admittedly, that’s not what you can call relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, but it is the only way for you to keep a sense of dignity.

Because managing this kind of thing in such a gown usually takes time.

And Bucky doesn’t want you taking your time when you aren’t in his sight.

So you always try to make yourself quick, fumbling with the layers of folds, muttering curses under your breath that would have left your parents embarrassed and shocked.

Still, he came calling for you just yesterday when your heavy gown wasn’t compliant.

“Hey!” he barked, sharp and commanding. “What’s takin’ so long? Where are you?”

You’d frozen, pulse hammering and cheeks flooding with embarrassment. “I’ll be just a moment,” you called back, voice high and thin.

“That’s what you said five minutes ago,” he snapped, the note of urgency in his tone carrying over to you through the trees. “Answer me properly. Where are you?”

You surely wouldn’t let him see you in such a degrading position, so you just shot back that you were fine and just needed a second.

His reply had been terse. “Just hurry the hell up!”

You finished quickly after that, stumbling back onto the path where he stood waiting - his arms crossed, face stoic.

He didn’t say anything when you rejoined him, only giving you a once over with those piercing eyes of his before turning on his heel and continuing forward.

But something about the way he’d looked at you in that moment stayed with you. Like he was measuring your well-being. Like he was ready to drag you back to him if he had to.

You also don’t know what to make of that.

Sighing softly into the night air and listening to the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze, your hand moves almost instinctively to the hollow of your throat, searching for the familiar feeling of your necklace. But your fingers only meet the fabric of your gown. You remember you tucked the jewelry into the folds of it after offering it to Bucky.

But you know it’s not there either.

It’s not yours anymore.

You turn your head to glance back at Bucky’s sleeping form.

You pressed the necklace into his hand just two days ago, along with the handful of jewels that had adorned you - rings, bracelets, earrings. All ornaments of a life that felt no longer like yours.

“I don’t want them,” you said to him then, voice steadier and more resolute than you expected. He looked at you so intensely but you didn’t falter. “I never cared for them. They mean nothing to me now.”

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you for a while and then at the glittering heap in his hand.

They were undimmed even in the shadowed forest, but they looked out of place against his rough and calloused skin. He didn’t know what to do with them. That much was clear in the way his fingers curled and uncurled around them.

You planned on shoving the jewels into his hand and retreating to your little sleeping area, but he looked so utterly stunned, it was almost endearing.

“Take them,” you insisted with a softer voice. “You can sell them, trade them - do whatever you want with them. They will be more useful to you than they ever were to me.”

His chin dipped. His adams apple bobbed with a swallow that seemed to stay stuck in his throat for a second too long. His brow was furrowed. So tightly. So conflicted. So immensely confused.

You could sense his question in the way he looked. The huge why.

Because you did acknowledge that giving those jewels, the symbol of wealth and privilege to him with nothing but a shrug, was something tremendous.

But you could not tell him that they reminded you of everything you’ve lost. That they are a relic of a life you always took for granted and now never get back. That they felt like chains on your skin, not treasures. That they made you want to vomit.

Bucky glanced back up at you then, really looked at you like he had all the time in the world. For a moment, you thought he might argue. But he didn’t. Instead, he closed his hand around the jewels, his knuckles whitening as though the act of accepting them cost him something.

A tremor passed through his clenched jaw. His lips were a thin line and you heard his teeth grind ever so slightly.

And his eyes. His eyes were full of disbelief. At the way you could give away something so valuable. To someone like him.

“You’re givin’ this to me,” he said slowly, voice low and hinting at something far more difficult to make sense of than the incredulity that lay in his tone. “Just like that.”

“Yes,” you replied simply, yet hoping to put an end to this. “Just like that.”

He still stared at you for a long moment. There wasn’t exactly gratitude in his expression but you guessed there was no place for it yet since his confusion outweighed everything else. He almost looked soft. Younger, with the way he was studying you with a face so open with emotion.

But then, without another word, he turned away, slipping the jewels into his brown leather armor with a swiftness that suggested he didn’t want to linger on the act.

And you didn’t.

You don’t even know if he still carries them with him right now and what exactly he will do with them.

Your hand falls back to your side, fingers curling into the fabric of Bucky’s bedroll. They are so bare now. And it makes you realize how smooth your skin is. Never knowing, never finding out what it means to shape, to hold, to build a life out of what is given.

With your eyes back on Bucky you let out a shaky breath.

The forest feels too big, the night feels too quiet, and the questions in your mind feel too loud.

But you lay still, your gaze lingering on him. You just can’t look away.

You don’t know what you’re searching for as you watch him. He doesn’t give you any answers when he’s awake and he sure as devil can’t give you any answers when he’s asleep.

His face is as unreadable now as it was when he told you the only reason you’re still breathing is him.

The memory of the argument you had a week ago just doesn’t want to ease. Your mind is still crowded with his words.

“The only thing that matters is who’s still standin’ at the end of the day. And the only reason you are is because I’ve decided to keep you that way.”

Your fists clench against the bedroll.

To him, you are just another spoiled noble, another fragile thing too soft for the world.

He doesn’t see you. Not the way you crave to be seen. He strips your identity down to a title and a crown just like everybody else.

And yet, even as you hate him, even as your knuckles turn white against the thin fabric surrounding you, you hate yourself more.

Hate how dependent you’ve become, how easily your existence has been reduced to his choices, his skills, his protection.

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to. Being a princess hasn’t made you feel special in years. It made you feel small, invisible, a thing rather than a person.

Your life has always been defined by what you represented to others, by how useful you could be in their schemes and alliances. A crown on a pedestal. A name on a contract.

You told him that. Or at least you tried to. You tried telling him that you spent your life being seen as something to be bartered, to be taken, to be used. You tried to tell him what it was like to be alive without truly living, to have no say in the course of your own existence.

But he didn’t listen.

He dismissed everything. Your grief. Your fear. Your anger at being dragged into this brutal, endless survival without so much as a choice.

And yet, there is something curdling in your stomach. It starts in your mouth, sour and bitter, and you swallow it down like poison.

Because no matter how much his words still sting, how much you want to prove him wrong, you can’t deny the truth his words held.

You would not have survived without him.

You wouldn’t even have survived the first night. The night your palace burned to the ground. You could never have fought your way through whoever attacked your home and the hunger and cold out here would have shoved you toward your grave. A princess left to rot on the forest floor.

You’ve never been taught how to hold a blade, how to navigate the wilderness, how to keep yourself alive in a world that doesn’t care about your bloodline. Your education has been in curtsies and pleasantries and how to sit still while men twice your age drank in the sight of you as if you were something to be won.

And now you are nothing more than a heavy and useless stone thrown into Bucky’s pack he’s forced to carry around and can’t toss out.

Out here, in the shadows of the world, you are useless. He knows it. You know it. It makes you feel like some fragile porcelain doll that has no business pretending she can stand on her own.

You will fight him again, eventually. You will find the words to break through whatever barriers he built to shield himself and make him understand. Make him care.

Perhaps he will forever meet you with the same infuriating indifference. But you’ve seen his walls crack for a second. The one second of vulnerability when he saw the fear in your eyes that night. The fear caused by him. The fear of him, and what he might do to you. And the way he seemed to hate it.

You wonder if it haunts him as much as it haunts you.

Bucky stirs slightly in his sleep. His fingers twitch faintly, a short grunt leaves his lips as he adjusts his back against the bark and your breath catches. You stare at him until he lays still once again.

Slowly, your gaze flickers to his knife. Always within reach. Always a reminder of who he is. What he is. You wonder if he dreams about it, about the blood it has spilled. Or if he dreams at all.

You bite the inside of your cheek, recalling the rest of the argument. The way his face turned dangerously solemn when you mentioned the oath he swore to your mother. You’d struck a nerve. Unfortunately, he cut you off before you could complete the question.

It certainly would have been a mistake, but you still wished you had pressed on.

You want to know what your mother - your gentle, loving, humane mother - had done to bind this ruthless man to her, to you. What did she do to earn his loyalty when no one else seemed capable of reaching him?

You hate him for silencing you, stomping on the last thing that ties you to a world where your mother still exists, even in memory.

You feel so small.

He dismisses you in everything you do and it seems so easy for him. So unbothered.

The life you lost, the identity you try to keep hold of, is nothing to him. A crown isn’t armor, he said. It’s not worth anything out here.

But it was. It has been. It has been your whole world, for better or for worse. And now it’s a pile of ash alongside everything else.

You don’t even know who you are without it.

And that terrifies you more than anything.

Your gaze is still drawn to Bucky.

You should definitely be concerned at the way your eyes can’t seem to find something else to look at, but the faint glint of his knife in the pale moonlight catches your attention again.

You wonder what kind of hold it has on him. What makes him carry it around like a child.

And then a thought passes your mind. A thought you definitely should ignore. You should ban it. You should have pushed it out the second it came up. But it’s still there.

Your skin tingles and your heart quickens, but you don’t know if it is out of fear or giddy recklessness.

The thought thumbs its nose at the rules you’ve been taught your whole life. It whispers of something that might even come close to the freedom you always wanted to explore, of stepping beyond boundaries, of tasting what you never have before. Because you are a princess.

Before you know it, you sit up. The soft rustle of the fabric of your gown blends with the sounds of the forest. The rustle of leaves.

Your heart pounds as you crawl toward him. You watch him closely.

Bucky doesn’t stir. His chest continues to rise and fall with each deep breath. His eyes remain closed.

Your fingers hover over the knife's hilt. You try to remind yourself that breathing is important and take a tight breath.

Taking his knife feels like a line you shouldn’t cross, a violation of something unspoken. But the thought of staying a burden for who knows how much longer spurs you on.

Your fingers close around the hilt.

You lift the knife.

And for a moment, you just hold it. It feels weird, really. So foreign. A little heavier than you expected. But maybe you’re just weak.

You turn it in your hand, marveling at the balance of the design. The way it feels almost powerful, dangerous, like a piece of the world you’ve never been allowed to touch.

Your gaze flickers between the knife in your hand, Bucky’s sleeping body, and the dark stretch of forest beyond.

And then you turn.

Your feet carry you a few steps away, to a fallen log that seems perfectly aligned for what you plan to do. The end of the log is smooth enough.

You square your shoulders, gripping the knife with a small tremble in your hands.

You’d seen soldiers practice with blades before, seen the way they moved with so much precision and grace. But watching is one thing. Doing is another.

You draw your arm back with a motion that feels so unnaturally wrong and let the blade fly.

It doesn’t stick. The knife doesn’t even reach the wood and rather clatters to the ground so far off, it makes you wince. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment even though nobody else saw. Bucky is still where you saw him last, his form undisturbed, and you exhale slowly.

Your second try is no better. Still awkward and hesitant. Still far off.

You retrieve the knife, the hilt cool against your palm, and try again.

It misses.

And it misses again. And again.

And it misses another time.

Again and again, you throw the knife. It feels like a small rebellion against the helplessness that has defined your life.

The blade flies from your hand and wobbles midair before it bounces off the edge of the wood with a thud that sounds so dull and sad, you groan under your breath.

Another throw. Another miss.

Another throw. Another miss.

Another throw. Another groan, because you missed again.

The knife thuds to the ground with an undignified thwack.

Sweat beads on your forehead, and your arm aches, but you don’t stop.

If Bucky can hurl this thing like it’s an extension of his arm, surely you can manage to land one throw on a stationary target.

Then, the knife grazes the wood slightly before landing in the dirt.

It gives you a glimmer of hope.

After trying another few times, the blade lodges in the edge of the log, its point biting into the wood with a satisfying thunk.

A spark of triumph flares in you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you smile. It’s small. But you can’t suppress it, so it feels like a victory.

Until the blade slowly falls off and lands in the dirt underneath.

You groan.

And then you freeze.

Because there is a sound coming from the camp.

A low, rumbling chuckle.

Your shoulders stiffen and heat rushes to your face.

You straighten, winding your arms around your body. Slowly, you turn to find Bucky with his back leaning against the tree he’s been sleeping against earlier. His arms are crossed lazily over his chest, Bizeps bulging.

His lips are curved in a faint smirk, eyes glinting with unmistakable amusement.

“Practicin’ to stab me in my sleep, princess?” he drawls, his tone warm with dry humor.

Your stance grows defensive. Your mouth opens and closes and you look over at his knife lying in the mud. He won’t kill you for taking it, will he?

Bucky pushes off the trunk and takes a step closer, arms uncrossing. His boots are silent against the earth. “You should know,” he hums lowly, though with that hint of humor in his tone. “I don’t go down that easily, darlin’.”

Your head snaps over to him in an instant. You meet his almost lazy smirk that curls the corner of his mouth. He isn’t mocking, exactly. He is teasing.

“I am learning,” you ground out, though your voice is rather weak.

A dark eyebrow shoots up. His smirk deepens. “Learning,” he repeats, his voice smooth. “Right. That’s what you call this?”

Heat settles high on your cheekbones.

“Yes.” You try - and fail - not to sound defensive. “I am teaching myself.”

For a moment he just stares at you, his head tilting slightly, eyes trying to puzzle you out. Then he lets out a huff of laughter. “Like that?” He nods vaguely to the fallen log and the knife that lay beneath it, eyebrows high up his forehead. “You’re highly unlikely to achieve anything. Except maybe stabbin’ your own damn foot.”

Your fingers grasp your gown tightly. Irritation coils low in your gut. “I am trying,” you snap.

“Trying’s fine,” he eases, though his tone is maddeningly indifferent. He clicks his tongue. A small shake of his head. “But tryin’ without knowing what you’re doing? That’s just gonna get you killed.”

You press your lips together. You have to, because your mind is telling you to scream him in the face. And that might get you killed.

With a sharply released breath, you stalk over to retrieve Bucky’s knife off the ground and walk back to your sleeping area, where you sink down. Still in your defensive stance, you pull your knees up to your chest. You use the fabric of your gown to clean the knife off the dirt.

“It is my own problem if I end up dead,” you murmur bitterly, quietly, but he hears it.

Bucky is quiet for a few moments. But you have him in sight in your peripheral vision, standing there and looking over at you.

“I’m kind of tasked to prevent that,” he then mutters, also quietly, but with a profound sigh in his voice.

You huff..

It’s silence for a while longer.

You are still busy with cleaning the hilt of his knife, not caring about the fact that it only worsens the state of your gown. It was ruined the day you left your palace.

But then, with a sigh that feels pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, Bucky crosses the small space to stand over you.

You don’t look up.

“Stand up,” he says simply.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Get up,” he repeats, not unkindly, but losing patience.

You hesitate, searching his face for a trap hidden beneath his words, but he only raises a dark brow, waiting.

Slowly, you rise with the knife heavy in your hand.

When you are fully standing before him, he holds out his hand, gesturing for his knife.

With a wary glance up at him, you lay the knife into his waiting palm, the blade gleaming just a little bit in the pale light.

He then walks past you without a word, but you know he expects you to follow him.

Bucky positions himself on the spot you stood before, turned in the direction of the fallen log you had tried to hit.

You watch him reluctantly.

He flips the knife in his hand - just for show, you guess, and suppress an eye roll. Then, he glances back at you. “First of all, don’t throw it like it’s a rock,” he says, tone light enough to count as teasing, but still tinged with seriousness. It’s not cruel though.“You’ve got to let the knife do the work. It’s about control, not brute force.”

Your teeth grind together, pride smarting under his casual critique. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he only throws you a challenging look.

“Watch,” he cuts in before anything could come of you.

And, albeit reluctantly, you do watch the way he draws his arm back in one fluid motion, so smooth and precise, it’s actually interesting. When he releases the knife, it spins through the air before burying itself dead center in the target.

You stare at the blade, trying to hide your emotions from your expression, guessing it would inflate his ego.

He still turns to you with an expression that is just pure insufferable smugness.

“Your turn,” he drones out, as he goes to retrieve the knife.

You take the knife from him, the handle warm from his touch. You position yourself in front of the log again, but before you can do anything, he stops you with a shake of his head.

“No.” He moves closer. “Hold it like this.” His voice drops into something focused. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours when he adjusts your grip on the hilt. You let him guide your hand the way he wants it and try to bring yourself to ignore what his touch is doing to you. It’s fleeting, almost clinical, but it makes you feel like you’re sweating more.

“Your stance is all wrong,” he continues and moves to stand behind you. Big hands settle lightly on your shoulders, bringing them back, adapting your stiff posture. His boot lightly taps your heel to bring your foot further forward. “You need balance. If you’re off-center, you’re dead.”

He talks to you as if he really cares about you learning and remembering those things.

You follow his instructions despite yourself.

With a satisfying nod you can’t see, Bucky takes a step away from you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Now, throw it again,” he instructs. “Aim for the tree this time.”

You bristle at the boldness of his amusement that makes room in his voice. It seeps through his tone so smoothly, fits there so nicely, as if he’s been talking to you like that the whole time.

You try to send him a glare, but it lacks the real heat since your nervousness doesn’t allow for anything else. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough in front of him.

You throw the knife.

It still leaves your hand with a clumsy arc and misses the tree by several inches, embedding itself into the dirt.

“Not exactly inspirin’ confidence,” he remarks dryly, but there is no malice in his voice. No judgment either.

Still, your chest is tight with frustration and you turn to him with a glare. “Maybe if you weren’t watching me so-”

“What, now you don’t like me watchin’ you?” He interrupts you, stepping forward to retrieve the knife. His back is to you but you hear the smirk in his voice.

“It’s distracting-”

“Ah, now you’re just blamin’ me for your bad aim,” he cuts in again easily, making his way back to you.

He holds it out to you, just as you release a huffed breath. His fingers brush yours once more when you take it.

“Try again.” He says it almost gently, stepping back again to give you some space.

The knife hits the dirt again and a loud groan tears from your throat, not caring about your company. Your hand aches from the repeated attempts, frustration is boiling underneath your skin, and your pride - what little of it remains - is crumbling fast.

“Damned knife,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him, but he stands close enough to hear it. He’s always close enough.

An amused chuckle follows. Bucky’s smirk tilts enough to be maddening. His eyes glint with curiosity, brows arched. “That’s high profanity for a lady like yourself, darlin’.”

You throw him a heated glance, chest rising and falling with breaths that are a little too uneven. “Do you ever not have something to say?” you snap, the sharpness in your voice as much from embarrassment as from irritation.

His grin spreads, slow and wolfish. He takes a step forward, unhurried and languid. He seems entirely entertained by you and it fuels the heat climbing higher inside your throat, over your skin, spreading with every heartbeat.

“You’re makin’ it quite easy for me, your Highness.” He does not regard you with a mocking tone, but his words are still said with half a chuckle, half a taunt.

His gaze flicks to the knife buried in the earth a few meters away and then back to you, taking you in with those studying eyes.

“No need to get frustrated,” he states after a few silent moments. “That’s only gonna hold you back.”

His tone makes you pause. You stiffen at the way he almost said it gently again. Voice underlying something akin to understanding, or sympathy.

It makes your head buzz.

It feels strange. As though this moment got just a little too intimate. Your skin begins to flush for whole other reasons now. Perhaps you liked his harsh tone more than whatever this is.

Because you don’t like the way you’re feeling right now.

It’s like he is seeing right through you. It’s still dark, but you feel like every shadow around you dissolved in the blinding light of his gaze. Of his voice.

It’s like he reached out his hand and clawed something out of your chest, unearthing a part of you even you were afraid to look at.

It’s like he sees that it’s not the knife or the fallen log or even him that has you bubbling with exasperation. No, it’s the helplessness. The feeling of trying and failing and being reminded, over and over again, how much you don’t know - how little you’ve been taught to fend for yourself and how much you took for granted that people were around to care for you.

And somehow, for reasons you can’t explain, he doesn’t try to make you feel bad about it. Not more than you already do.

Bucky went to pick up the knife again while you were lost in thought for a second and you take it from him again. Fingers brush. You feel like he does that on purpose. For whatever reason. Maybe to distract you more.

“You’re holding it wrong again,” he says, voice quieter, though there’s still that amusement dancing in the lines of his face.

You sigh profoundly, gripping the knife with a force that turns your knuckles white. Ignoring his words, you throw it again, only to make the blade clank against another tree before falling to the ground with a sad thud.

Bucks tsks, shaking his head with his arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth.

But you just stomp forward and get the knife yourself this time.

“This won’t be gettin’ any better until you’re done sulking,” he tells you with that teasing edge when you reach him again.

“Sulking?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head, eyes on you. His smile is a little softer. “That little tantrum just now? That was sulking.”

You get in position again, huff out a scoff. “Bloody bastard,” you mutter under your breath.

Bucky snickers. It’s a sound stemming from surprise. Still with his arms crossed, he leans closer to you, something delightful glinting in his eyes. “Careful, princess,” he drawls, voice dipping low and sly, smirk in his tone. “Keep callin’ me names like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

Your focus is on the tree, but you feel your breath hitch and your hand turn clammy around the hilt of the knife. “I do not,” you retort half-heartedly. Rather lamely. His response is a huffed laugh that brushes over your cheek. You do your best to ignore him.

This time, you adjust your grip as he has shown you earlier, fingers tightening.

“Good.” He nods, but he’s not really looking at the knife in your hand.

Bucky brushes his hand over your shoulder to adapt your arm and lightly taps your heel again for you to move your leg forward for better balance. His chest almost brushes against your shoulder.

“Now, plant your feet. Keep your weight balanced. And aim where you want it to go, not where you think it’s gonna end up.”

Again, you follow his instructions, narrowing your eyes in concentration.

Drawing your arm back the way you had seen Bucky do it, you focus on the target, on the way the blade should arc through the air. And then you throw.

The knife sticks. Barely - it’s wedged at an awkward angle near the edge of the log - but it sticks. It doesn’t fall off.

A breath escapes in a rush, a small flare of triumph sparking in your belly, your chest heaving. You swirl to Bucky.

He gives you a small nod, the grin on his face is sincere and there is something in his eyes that speaks of approval.

Perhaps not for the way it landed, but for the way you tried until it did.

“Not bad.”

And something in the way he says it makes you turn away out of the fear he sees what it does to you. Because he means it. His tone doesn’t follow a tease. He is genuine.

You’re not sure when it started - when his opinion of you began to matter. But it does. It matters in a way that makes thousand tiny fingertips press against your chest in an almost tender way, but only to remind you of your cage of ribs that don’t seem to let you breathe the way you should.

Approval. Slight satisfaction. That’s all it is. So simple, so small, and yet it crushes you. How he looks at you with a softened expression, his sincere tone, his thoughtful eyes as he watches you. It makes you feel like you just conquered something monumental, something larger than just a knife hitting wood.

It terrifies you.

Because for so long, you have been measured by others. Your worth weighed against expectations, traditions, titles. You were the sum of what you represented, never who you were. Approval, in those circles, was currency. And you hated it. Hated the way it chained you.

But this is not just a curtly nod or a murmured compliment laced with ulterior motives. This is earnest. And it makes you feel like another blade is thrown, but this time, the target is you and it’s not known for missing. It hits dead in the center of something inside you, a place you don’t want to consider, a place that wants to earn it again.

You don’t look at him when you walk to yank the knife free.

You hate this feeling. Hate that you crave this so much. Hate that you crave it from him of all people. He has insulted you, dismissed you, reduced your struggles to trivialities. He’s been cruel and sharp and unbothered.

But he also keeps you alive, even when you never want to admit how much you actually need him.

His insufferable smirk, his barbs, the way he calls you princess as if it’s a burden and a joke all at once - they should only spur on the disdain you felt for him at the beginning. And you still want to feel.

But somehow you are desperate for his regard, for his respect.

He still stands there, brown leather engulfing his chest, worn trousers hanging from his hips, dark strands framing his face haphazardly, broad shoulders almost relaxed, the grey shirt under his armor rolled up to his elbows as if it isn’t the middle of the night and damned cold.

And he is looking at you.

Focused and almost bold in the way he doesn’t take his gaze off you.

You stalk over to him and hold out the blade for him to take, eyes not meeting his. You barely hold onto the knife, but still, his fingers manage to touch yours again.

“I am sorry for taking your knife,” you say quietly and turn to your sleeping spot before he can respond.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

- Samuel Beckett

Part four

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret

[devildomwriter]

Mammon Birthday Special 100 Fun Facts

1. Mammon states that he sleeps in the nude

2. Mammon despises witches and was nearly chopped into pieces by them once but Lucifer rescued him (although Lucifer was also the one to recommend they cut him into pieces)

3. When Levi tried attacking Mammon in his sleep, before he could even bring his foot down on Mammon, Mammon had him in a headlock

4. Mammon has a habit of stripping while drunk

5. Mammon does not like it when bath’s smell like flowers

6. Mammon’s dream for the future is having a carefree and playful life

7. Mammon starts his baths by washing his head

8. Mammon’s fear of ghosts and monsters originates a little after a year of living in the Devildom when he is possessed by a ghost

9. Mammon hates a Devildom song called “Corpse Rock”

10. Karasu refers to Mammon as noodle-boy

11. In earlier chats and Devilgrams Mammon is said to be a cat person, in later stories he is said to be a dog person, but his birthday information card again states he is more of a cat person

12. Mammon’s motto is “Money will makes the Devil turn millstones.”

13. Mammon’s daily activity is procrastinating in MC’s room

14. Mammon is obsessed with his shades and when he accidentally breaks them he’s devastated

15. According to Beelzebub, Mammon is bad at cooking and doesn’t make good peanut butter sandwiches

16. When Belphie and Beel helped Mammon pick out his human world outfit, he was so touched he bought them their human world clothes

17. Mammon states if the Devildom disappeared tomorrow he’d borrow as much money as he wanted to spend and not have to pay any of it back

18. Mammon’s favorite food in hell is Soy Sauce flavored cup ramen

19. In a love survey in B’s log, Mammin is said to be the active one pursuing love

20. Mammon is said to attract the “sassy and outgoing” types

21. The first thing Mammon does in the morning is check his stocks

22. In the love survey in B’s log when asked if he’d want to be bound by or bind his lover his response was “what do you want me to do? What did you say? Idiot!”

23. Mammon’s car is a Demonio 666 Lexura. The specific type was very rare and (unbeknownst to him originally) only with Lucifer and Diavolo’s help was he able to get it

24. Mammon easily forgets anniversaries and special dates of remembrance

25. Mammon is unable to express himself frankly

26. Mammon likes R&B music

27. Mammon is not a morning demon

28. One of the first things in the game said about Mammon by his brothers is that he’s a masochist

29. The results of a demon brain scanning app showed that Mammon’s thoughts are 90% money

30. Mammon’s worst RAD subject is Hexes and Curses

31. Mammon became Lucifer’s attendant in the Celestial Realm before Leviathan had even been born

32. Mammon was once almost roasted alive by hellfire

33. Mammon is a very bad liar and often admits exactly what he did when explaining that’s not what he did

34. Mammon was almost the one to tame Cerberus but Lucifer rushed in as he was about to confront the dog

35. Mammon is extremely protective of his little brothers

36. When forced to be honest, Mammon admits how much he admires and respects Lucifer

37. When Lucifer has a bad day, Mammon will bring him a drink and sandwich without being asked

38. Mammon was almost kicked out of the celestial realm thousands of years before the fall until Lucifer got through to him

39. Besides the people who were told what Simeon was going through in season 4, Mammon was the first one to notice something was wrong with him

40. Once Mammon was punished by Lucifer by being tickled until he laughed so hard he was humiliated

41. Mammon was given a serum with unknown results that caused him to tell MC he wanted to do many explicit things with them

42. Even Michael was unable to handle Mammon as an angel

43. Mammon is so fast that not even Diavolo and Lucifer can catch up to him

44. It’s been mentioned multiple times that Mammon uses crows as familiars

45. When Lucifer cannot trust Diavolo, he turns to Mammon

46. Mammon once called up Simeon to ask about significant lines in the TSL series so he could successfully hack into Leviathan’s akuzon account

47. Levi and Mammon sometimes perform standup comedy

48. When Mammon tried making a cake for Lucifer on his birthday in the Celestial Realm, he accidentally destroyed the kitchen, infuriating Michael

49. Mammon works as a model occasionally

50. In lesson 11 of the game Mammon claims he is well over 5,000 years old

51. In the celestial realm Mammon would often watch over the younger angels

52. Mammon once tried selling bird feathers to the lesser angels, claiming they were seraph feathers

53. In the celestial realm, Mammon once used the lesser angels to play a game of life-size chess

54. Mammon is said to have been the one who rallied and encouraged the angels in the Celestial war

55. Unlike his brothers, Mammon doesn’t often lose control of his powers

56. Whenever Mammon comes up with solutions to a crisis, they usually make things worse

57. Mammon struggles with math unless he thinks about it as calculating money

58. Mammon loves pandas because they’re profitable

59. Mammon always lets his brothers know about sales and deals going on

60. Mammon is the one who told Lucifer to always have pride and not regret his decision about the war

61. Mammon was cursed to speak like a cat during season 4 and Satan was unable to leave his side even getting Mammon to play with cat toys.

62. The first time Mammon lost control of his powers and transformed into a demon in the game is when he misunderstood a conversation between Levi and MC and assumed they had “relations”

63. Mammon is one of the only people who will indulge Asmodeus and watch his one-man fashion shows

64. When Mammon put too many meals on Satan’s tab, Satan called up Solomon and told him Mammon wanted to try his new recipe

65. Mammon has kidnapped MC multiple times

66. Mammon sometimes goes clubbing with Asmo after part time jobs

67. After Mammon sold all of their silverware he was fired from Ristorante Six

68. Mammon is sometimes referred to as MC’s pet

69. Mammon continues to insist he’s MC’s master not the other way around

70. Mammon sees Luke as his little brother

71. Student council members used to oversee detention until Mammon kept getting detention himself

72. Mammon once accidentally cast a spell on himself that made him burst into song

73. Mammon once accidentally turned himself into a dog

74. Mammon accidentally cursed himself and became extremely small. He was scared of how Beel was looking at him

75. When Mammon made the Miss’em dolls he became extremely wealthy but later blew it all on gambling

76. Mammon is too scared to watch horror movies alone and asks Lucifer to watch them with him

77. Mammon once attacked Lucifer with a three-prong pitch fork when he embarrassed him

78. Mammon has cried from fear of Simeon multiple times

79. Mammon was unable to even pretend to break up with MC

80. Mammon is one of the reasons you need a permit to get to the human world rather than do so freely

81. Mammon got a Mohawk once but his brothers teased him so much he immediately got rid of it

82. Mammon loves the Devildom version of Harry Potter

83. Mammon often threatens lesser/younger demons to hand over all their money

84. Mammon once stopped a bank robbery and demanded the money as compensation

85. Mammon accidentally cut down a Christmas tree gifted to Lucifer from Diavolo

86. Mammon was tricked by Lucifer to gamble against everyone he’d ever screwed over all at once

87. Mammon calls going to the horse races “seeing the horsies” to try and convince MC to tag along

88. When he was Lucifer’s attendant, Mammon sought for a rare Crystal Lily flower to gift him but got lost and Lucifer had to come find him

89. Mammon used Serenity Manor as collateral in gambling as soon as he got to the human world, almost forcing everyone to go right back to the Devildom

90. When coming up with proposal’s Mammon forced Simeon, Solomon, and Luke to participate in a flash mob

91. Mammon has a blood oath with MC and Leviathan

92. Mammon accidentally won Henry 1.0 while trying his first Devildom ice cream. He was nearly eaten.

93. Mammon owns an AK-47 after winning it over in a game against Leviathan

94. Mammon fees guilty that he didn’t have a grand reason to follow Lucifer to hell rather than just feeling like it

95. Mammon once lost a bet to a bunch of rabbits

96. Mammon prefers spicy foods to sweets

97. Mammon extorted Satan for 50,000 Grimm in exchange for throwing him a baseball

98. Mammon’s highest known rank in the celestial realm within the game is a Throne

99. When Mammon was turned into a Test Name box he got used to it immediately, disappointing Beelzebub

100. Mammon died in season 4 for a few minutes but was brought back by Barbatos