Jorraeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction
jorraeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction
terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!
Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 (In Progress!)
Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.
Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.
Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depressive states, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.
“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought forth a period of quiet on the isle of Dragonstone, the years bringing forth further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”
- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn
He is staring again.
You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.
One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.
“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”
“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.
When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.
“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”
Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount a steady reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.
“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”
The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”
Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.
This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?
The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.
Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.
You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.
Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”
“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.
He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.
Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.
“To the Dragonmont.”
You nod. “Ah.”
He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.
And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.
A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.
You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.
Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.
Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?
What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?
“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”
Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.
There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.
No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.
“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”
“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”
“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”
Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.
Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”
“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”
It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.
Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.
“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”
“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”
Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.
“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”
What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.
“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”
“How long will it take to work?”
“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”
You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”
“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”
You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.
But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.
At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.
Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.
All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?
“Your Highness—”
“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”
“But the little pr—”
“I said get out!”
The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.
You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.
All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.
But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.
You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.
Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.
“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.
At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.
You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?
“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”
Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.
You push him away.
“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”
More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.
Useless. It is useless. I am useless.
“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”
Still, tears. And the dam breaks.
They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—
The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.
“What the fuck’s going on here?”
Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.
You do not remember what follows very clearly.
Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.
It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.
You let the darkness swallow you whole.
Of course he is here when you awake.
You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.
Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.
His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.
You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.
“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.
The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.
Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.
For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.
After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.
“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.
You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?
“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.
His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.
You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.
Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.
Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.
It never comes.
His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.
Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”
He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.
“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”
“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.
Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”
His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.
He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”
Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”
“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”
“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”
He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”
An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.
“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”
“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”
“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”
I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.
How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?
When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.
“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”
A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”
“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”
You nod tentatively.
He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”
You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.
“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”
His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.
“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”
The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.
You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.
Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.
You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”
The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.
“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”
Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”
“Fucky.”
Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.
Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.
At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”
“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.
Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”
“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.
He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”
“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.
“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”
“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.
You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.
“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.
“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”
His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.
“If I could just—”
“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.
With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.
Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.
The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!
When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.
You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?
If only Daemon was less observant.
“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”
“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”
“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.
It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.
And there—he has it. You know he knows.
“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”
Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.
“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”
“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”
You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”
“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”
The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.
No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.
Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.
He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.
“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”
You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.
One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.
He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.
In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.
Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room. “Thank you,” you whisper.
His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.
“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.
Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.
You smile.
‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.
But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single malady that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.
As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.
I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.
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More Posts from Dazecrea and Others
I will be a stranger when we meet again…
The Darkness of the night sky (Qimir x reader) - prologue
Summary: Training in the jedi order when you were younger had a lot of perks but also came with disadvantages. When everything was going wrong, meeting him convinced you that the universe was worth living in. All that changed on the wretched night of your birthday. Destruction rattled through your doorstep and many years later, you were found by it once again. With your mind unfocused and your heart in the gutter, the whispers of fate are too influential to be ignored. Pairing: qimir x ex-jedi!female reader Genres: angst, best friends to enemies (i apologize in advance), he fell first and he fell harder, fluff, romance, force-dyad mess Warnings: dark!qimir, yandere!qimir, clueless reader, use of bad language, depression, and anxiety
WC: 1.1k+
——> next part
The day you turned 22 will forever be ingrained into the catacombs of your mind.
It wasn’t a good thing.
Weeks before that wretched night, you passed the Jedi trails and you were finally a Jedi knight. After many failed attempts and tears, you finally felt relieved knowing you were going to be who you wanted to be.
Although deep down, you felt the uncertainty of your thoughts itching at the back of your mind. constantly, reminding you of your doubts and not to trust any of the Jedis and padawans.
Gasoline was added to your thoughts of uncertainty whenever you decided to fall asleep. Every night, you would lay awake, tossing and turning. The thoughts eating away at your brain while you laid restless in bed, afraid to succumb to the darkness that called to you.
An eery voice would creep out of the shadows, steal your breath, and crawl its way up your spin. Whispering about the chaos that was embedded in the lightness. Describing things in nature that always mirrored darkness. Going on and on about the sun that waits for the darkness of the moon.
The softness of light isn't the only way The desire of darkness can keep you at bay
This mantra was being whispered by an unknown individual as soon as you decide to get sleep every night. The voice haunting you in wakefulness and plaguing your dreams.
The only thing that could help even out your breath was thinking about your fellow Jedi, Qimir. The gracefulness and beauty of Qimir lulled you to bed every night, enabling you to get not more than 2 hours of sleep.
Your mind often used Qimir as an escape to hide away from those dark thoughts. In training and on missions, you thought about Qimir, trying to keep the darkness at bay.
Your heart wrenched, your pulse quickening as you blushed against the silk sheets that adorned your bed.
You mind conjuring up the smile Qimir threw your way that morning. God, you would be in deepest trouble if any jedi caught wind of you daydreaming of Qimir.
This morning, he knocked on your living quarters with a badly decorated cake in his hands. Even though the cake wasn't cute, you thought he was. And that’s all that mattered to you. The light smile that graced his features when you let him into your quarters brought sunshine to your darkest thoughts, and made you freeze at your front door.
That moment had been playing in your mind for a few minutes before the dark shadows clouded your consciousness one again. Grabbing one of your pillows, you screeched into it as you let out your frustrations.
Find the key and you will see Darkness will set you free
Having enough of the whispers that only grew louder, you navigated out of your quarters, and walked around the jedi temple on Coruscant for what felt like hours. Stumbling as the shadows continued to find their way towards you.
It was late at night, with dawn no where near the horizon. The night sky doing little to quench the uneasiness within your spirit. You continued to gaze at the moon, puzzled by its purpose as it brought darkness to the planet. You suddenly wondered how lonely the Moon felt knowing that it would never be able to meet the Sun. Knowing that it would never see the light. Knowing that it would only live in darkness for the rest of its days.
Your thoughts grew darker, matching the dark matter that graced the universe. It was minutes before you attempted to shake the destructive thoughts out of your mind. Lightly patting your robes in order to refresh yourself, you sensed a presence sneak its way up behind you.
Turning around, you were stunned by the presence of Qimir making his way through the garden. Seeing him this late at night caused unwarranted feelings to surface once again. The hunger grew restless inside of you, your eyes unable to stop themselves as they traveled down to his chest.
It was then that you felt something was a miss.
Briefly averting your eyes up, your heart wrenched as you saw the uneasiness weep out from his body language. The Qimir you knew always walked around free and never guarded his surroundings unless he was on missions.
This Qimir in front of you had the same attitude and demeanor of the Qimir you would see in battles. This Qimir was fearless and never stopped until he got what he wanted.
Qimir's hands lightly shook at his sides, the veins of his hands more prominent than usual. Your eyes zeroed in to the beads of sweat shedding from his crisp, black hair. The water making contact with the floors of the temple, creating a melodic beat. As if ready to start a song.
Sensing where your eyes were, Qimir’s fingers went up to wipe the sweat beads off of his forehead.
The gasp that escaped your lungs was like an alarm in the gardens. The oxygen in the air flooding your lungs at an alarming rate. Your back and legs freezing as you registered the blood on the sleeves of Qimir's robes.
Your mouth spoke before you could assess the situation.
"What did you do?!"
Your voice sounded foreign to your ears, the calm atmosphere shedding and taking a dark turn. The uneasiness in your voice did nothing to sway the sudden, dark glint in Qimir's eyes. His face transformed. His expression going from collected to smirking as his eyes navigated the features of your face.
The moonlight did little to hide the calculated footsteps Qimir took towards you, his hands crossing behind his back. His footsteps almost marching towards you. Qimir tucked his bottom lip underneath his upper teeth, his pupils relaxing in the moonlight.
The ice in your legs slowly thawed, finding a way to move backwards as Qimir attempted to invade your personal space. Within seconds, your back collided with a random pillar in the courtyard. Your right hand paving its way to your light saber. Knowing you would reach for that first, Qimir snatched the saber out of your hands, a few tsk tsk tsk’s escaping under his breathe.
"I did what I had to do.." His face a few centimeters away from yours. Both of your breaths mingling in the cold night.
Drawed in by your expression, Qimir navigated closer, the tip of your nose lightly brushing against his. Your mouth salivating at the thought of what was about to come.
"After all…. the darkness will set you free."
Note: This is a new fic that I will be starting. If you'd like to be added to the taglist, please comment or send me an ask. Thank you for reading and tell me if i have made any grammar/spelling mistakes.
⟡ ₘₐₓ ᵥₑᵣₛₜₐₚₚₑₙ ⟡
NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME
ᵐʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜˢ ᶠ¹ ʳᵉᶜˢ
— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡
heaven is a place on earth with you - @lumi-nescentt
private professor - @sinofwriting
bow (^)
made for each other (^)
even kiss begins with tabs (^)
raised to love (tw: some dark themes & jos verstappen) (^)
mornings with max - @verstappen-cult
max is the type of guy to... (^)
protective (^)
5 times max refuses to acknowledge he’s sick + 1 time he does (^)
reuniting (^)
pining and yearning - @theemporium
getting spoiled (^)
i pay attention (^)
getting jealous over him (^)
gift giving (^)
distractions - @starlost97
showering max with compliments - @lovings4turn
love at midnight - @unformula1
morning kisses - @adventuringblind
he must be lucky! (^)
matchmaker pets - @the-flaneur
at least for the pictures - @love44lew
cuddle bug - @chrisevansonly
beach read - @monzabee
"i might have had a few shots" - @forzalando
anyone can cook (^)
the ways in which max shows you he loves you - @thatsdemko
— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡
go ahead and smile - @foreveralbon
trust me - @postracehair
a fool's flowers - @leclucklerc
drunk walk home - @everythingne
a second chance - @charlesslut16
navy fury (tw: jos verstappen) - @delulujuls
love me harder - @ynsbarbbb
protective max (tw: jos verstappen) - @formulaa-1
— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡
big 'ole freak - @mariahcarreyyy
can't you see - @cherry-leclerc
flustered tweets (suggestive) - @charles-leclerizz
sultry vindications (^)
needy - @bunnys-kisses
"who's my pretty girl?" (^)
with the red dress on - @aliwritex
thighs (suggestive) - @vivwritesfics
handcuffs (^)
neck kisses (VERY suggestive) - @verstappen-cult
— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡
smitten - @chrisevansonly
finish line - @norris55s
we're on each other's team (^)
do-over - @maplesyrupsainz
just screeching tires & true love (!!!!!!mentions of SA!!!!!!!) (^)
children of divorce - @landonfour
bejeweled - @poetsblvd
thighs don't lie - @thepersonnamedsam
can i call you rose? - @f1version
broken - @onlyangel4
potion (^)
horner!reader - @pucksandpower
ramsay!reader (^)
hamilton!reader (^)
love story - @verstappen-cult
slay intensifies - @vivwritesfics
princess treatment - @natailiatulls07
paint him red ! - @agendabymooner
full of fan behavior - @covenists
new desire - @formulafics
paint me in lovely red - @bth3cowboi
your honor, he's a simp - @httpsserene
— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡
pre-gala the real prize jealousy panties captivity rocky escaping thighs consquences a mile high new beginnings (each part has sexual content) - @dilemmaontwolegs
when i speak, he listens so i'm the villan no point in fixing it winners always win they'll never shut up - @uglyducklingofthe2000s
mouse (^)
hard launch appendix touch - @archiverstappen
one two three (smau) (harry and f1 in one fic is everything) - @alonetimelover
max & the three musketeers (smau) (this is so funny i was hollering) - @verstarppen
strawberry wine - @scuderiahoney
little leclerc gets married to max (smau) - @theemporium
please, oh please two - @sinofwriting
he had it coming (smau) - @youreverydayfangirl
ain’t nothing like an asian wedding! 𖦹 LN4
part one
PAIRINGS: lando norris x female!asian!reader
SUMMARY: you and lando just wanted to make the most of your singapore trip before heading off to the UK, but it seems like everything descended into series of unfortunate events. though maybe, this is also a way to get lando be acquainted with everyone that may or may not drive your whole family crazy and singapore’s social elites on a daily basis.
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: non-use of y/n, reader is asian, foul language, traditional family, asian culture & tradition, food, google translated chinese, mentions of gutted fish, crazy rich asians inspired + plot, heiress reader, named characters (except reader, names are mostly taken from CRA), social status, high society, minor public indecency (not main characters), mentions of marriage & grandchild, mean/bully characters, and minor typographical errors.
WORD COUNT: 18k
AUTHOR’S NOTE: MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!! i hope you are all having a very wonderful holidays! so i have decided to post the part 2 of ‘stickwitu’, ask and you shall receive! lolz but i love crazy rich asians so much and i just can’t let go of this kind of crossover (?). i had decided to chop off this one to three parts, with 20k max of word count since i wanna get it all out there. this one is open for taglist as well since there will be a part 3 of this, so just comment if you wanna be tagged hehe. your comments/reblogs are highly appreciated 🥺 hope you’ll enjoy this second part! <3
The early return was unplanned but felt necessary after everything that happened at Araminta’s bachelorette party. The atmosphere among the girls was tense, full of subtle jabs and veiled competition that you and Rachel simply were not in the mood to tolerate any longer.
On the second day, when you got the chance, over breakfast, you leaned over to Rachel and whispered your plan. She hesitated at first, unsure if Araminta would even believe it, but eventually nodded in agreement, trusting you to handle the situation.
You approached Araminta just before the midday activities, adopting a concerned tone as you told her that Rachel was not really feeling well. You explained how she had been feeling faint and a bit queasy since the night before but had been trying to push through. Araminta’s face immediately fell into worry, and she reached out to Rachel, who played her part perfectly, adding a weak smile and saying she just needed rest.
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel murmured, holding Araminta’s hand. “I really wanted to stay, but I think it’s better if I head back to the city.”
Araminta turned to you, her concern for Rachel deepened. “Do you need me to come with you? I don't want you both traveling alone if she’s not well.”
You shook your head, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “Absolutely not. Minty, this is your bachelorette party, and you shouldn’t leave everyone behind. I’ll take care of everything. We’ll be fine, I promise.”
It took some convincing, but eventually, Araminta relented. She hugged you both tightly, telling Rachel to rest and recover, that she’ll be seeing you both on the wedding day. As you left the island, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the lie, but the overwhelming relief of leaving outweighed it.
The flight back to the city was quiet at first, the two of you decompressing from the tension of the past day. Rachel let out a laugh, shaking her head. “I can’t believe we pulled that off. I feel terrible lying to her, though.”
You sighed, leaning back into the plush seat. “I know. But honestly, that crowd was unbearable. You shouldn’t have had to endure that.”
“Thank you for getting me out of there. I owe you one.” Rachel smiled gratefully at you.
Once you landed, the two of you decided to make the most of the unexpected free day. You took her to some of your favorite spots in Singapore, then introduced her to local dishes and hidden gems around the city. From the bustling hawker centers to the serene gardens, you wanted her to see more than just the usual tourist spots.
“You weren’t kidding when you said Singapore is magical,” she said as she admired the view from Marina Bay Sands.
“It’s home,” you replied with a small smile. “And now you’ve seen a little piece of it.”
By the time you dropped her off at the hotel, it was late, the city lights twinkling against the dark sky. As you hugged her goodbye, Rachel whispered, “thanks again for today. I really needed this.”
“You’re very welcome, and hey, if anyone asks, you’re still recovering from that ‘terrible stomach bug.’”
Your family driver was already waiting as you stepped out of the hotel. You gave Rachel one last wave before sliding into the car, sinking into the leather seat as the city blurred past the window. The relief of being home and away from the chaos of the island was evident, and for the first time in days, you felt at ease.
The house was quiet as you stepped inside, but your mind was already racing with the thought of seeing Lando. The faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft creak of the floor beneath your feet were the only sounds accompanying you as you called out his name. No response.
You wandered from room to room, checking the living room, kitchen, even the study, but there was no sign of him. Then, as you approached the sliding glass doors leading to the patio, you saw him sitting there, phone in hand, smiling and laughing as he talked to someone on facetime.
Lando’s gaze shifted towards the door as you slid it open, and his face lit up when he saw you. He motioned for you to come over, his smile growing even more brighter. You made your way to him, the cool evening breeze brushing against your skin.
As you reached him, you wrapped an arm around his neck, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. His free arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer, and he returned the kiss, deeper and more deliberate. When you pulled away slightly, he looked up at you, his eyes filled with warmth and a hint of surprise.
“You’re back early,” he murmured softly, his thumb grazing your hip.
“I’ll tell you everything later,” you said, glancing toward the phone in his hand. It was that you noticed the familiar face on the screen, Max. “Hi, Max,” you greeted warmly.
“Hey, you,” Max replied with a grin, leaning closer to the camera. “Back already? Thought you were off on some wild bachelorette adventure?”
You laughed softly. “Something like that. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you guys. How have you been? And Pietra? I can’t wait to catch up when we're in the UK for Christmas.”
Max chuckled. “We’re good. Pietra’s already planning the whole holiday—dinner menus, decorations, everything. You’ll have to let her drag you into the chaos.”
Lando shifted slightly, pulling you down onto his lap, his hand resting on your waist as he held his phone with the other. You settled against him, his fingers idly tracing shapes on your side while you continued chatting with Max.
“She doesn’t have to drag me. I’m ready for it,” you replied, smiling. “Tell her to save me a spot in the kitchen, I’m good at taste-testing.”
“I’ll pass that on,” Max and Lando shared a laugh, but then Max’s expression softened. “Honestly though, it’s good seeing you hoth happy. Pietra and I were just talking about how happy you’ve made this muppet. But you know, we were skeptical at first.”
“Oh, I remember,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Something about expecting me to be snobby?”
Max laughed, holding both his hands up in defense. “Hey, it’s not everyday that someone from your background walks into our lives. But you proved us wrong pretty quickly. You’re as down-to-earth as they come, and more importantly, you make little Lando happy. That’s all we care about.”
Your gaze shifted to Lando, whose thumb was tracing idle patterns on your side, a content smile resting on his face. “Well, he makes me happy too,” you said softly.
Max smiled. “Good. That’s all that matters. Anyway, I’ll let you two catch up. Don’t keep him up too late.”
You laughed, nodding. “I’ll make sure he gets some sleep. See you soon, Max.”
“See you soon,” he replied, before ending the call.
As the screen went dark, Lando set his phone down and wrapped both arms around you, holding you close.
“I missed you,” he murmured, voice low and earnest.
“I missed you too,” you whispered, leaning into him, the weight of the past few days melting away in his embrace.
The evening air was cool and crisp as you sat comfortably on Lando’s lap, the soft hum of distant city noise blending with the quiet rustle of leaves. His arm rested securely around your waist while his other hand lazily drummed against the armrest of the chair. He tilted his head slightly to look at you, his expression soft but curious.
“So,” he began, voice low and easy, “why are you back early? I thought you had a few more days of bachelorette shenanigans left.”
You let out a small sigh, glancing at the darkened sky before turning your gaze back to him. “It’s a long story,” you said, trying to suppress the frustration that the memory brought up.
Lando’s brows lifted slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “We’ve got plenty of time and I’m not going anywhere,” he teased, tone light as he tightened his arm around you.
You laughed softly before settling deeper into his embrace. “Okay, so Rachel traveled with Minty and the other girls ahead of me to Samsara, right? I had to leave later because of a meeting, so I got there after everyone else.”
Lando nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on your side, silently encouraging you to continue.
“When I arrived at the villa,” you said, voice dropping slightly, “I saw Rachel speed-walking back from the spa. She was just wearing her robe, and she looked…off. Like she was about to cry, so I went to her and asked what happened, but she didn’t answer me right away. She just kept walking, looking like she wanted to disappear.”
His expression shifted to one of concern, his brows furrowing as he listened intently.
“I followed her back to the villa she was staying,” you continued, tone growing more serious. “And that’s when we saw a huge gutted fish on her bed, with pink lipstick scrawled across the glass window that said, catch this, you gold-digging bitch.”
Lando’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his jaw tensing. “What the hell?” he muttered, his voice edged with disbelief.
“I know,” you said, exhaling sharply at the memory. “I wanted to call security right then and there, but Rachel stopped me—she didn’t want to make a scene. She was so humiliated, Lan. You could see it all over her face.”
He shook his head, voice low. “That’s fucking awful. Who even does something like that?”
“Oh, I know exactly who’s capable of pulling this kind of stunt,” you said scoffing, tone sharp with certainty. “Francesca Shaw. That little bitch.”
“Who’s Francesca Shaw?” Lando asked in curiosity.
You tilted your head, letting out a dry laugh. “She’s Nadine Shaw’s daughter, one of Auntie Eleanor’s closest friends. Francesca used to be an heiress to the Shaw Foods fortune, but her grandfather cut her off completely from the will after waking up from coma. Guess grandpa Shaw didn’t like how little miss two-faced was spending the family money.”
His brows shot up in surprise. “So, she’s broke now?”
“Eh, pretty much,” you said. “And before you ask, yes, she’s also Nicky’s ex. They dated briefly years ago, but it didn’t go anywhere because Nicky didn’t like how her attitude began to change for the worse. Francesca clearly thought she still had shot, but when Rachel came into the picture, that dream was practically over. She’s been a bitter bitch ever since.”
Lando leaned back slightly, grip still firm on your waist. “So, she’s trying to ruin things for them all because of jealousy?”
“Not just jealousy,” you corrected. “Envy. She’s spent her whole life in circles like ours, and now that she’s lost her position, she’s desperate to claw her way back in. She probably sees Rachel as a threat, someone she thinks doesn’t belong.”
He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “That’s pathetic. I can’t believe someone would go that far.”
“I know,” you said softly. “But Rachel didn’t want to make waves, especially not at Minty’s party. It wasn’t the time or place, and honestly, I just wanted to get her out of there. I wasn’t going to let Rachel stay there a second longer, so I told her to act like she was sick, and we left. The toxicity is just too much.”
Lando’s eyes scanned your face, then pressed a soft kiss to your temple, voice filled with reassurance. “You did the right thing. I’m glad that you were there for her.”
You gave him a small smile, “I just couldn’t stand by and let Francesca get to her. Rachel doesn’t deserve any of the shit they’re throwing to her at all.”
“Neither of you do,” Lando said firmly. “But I’m glad you’re back.”
You nodded, feeling the tension in your body ease slightly as you settled back into his embrace, the weight of the day beginning to dissipate.
The next day, you and Lando found yourselves back at your Ah Ma’s estate, where everyone was gathered in the big, spacious dining room that was only reserved for the family. The air was warm with the aroma of fresh dough and seasoned fillings, as half a dozen maids moved seamlessly, rolling small balls of dough into flat circles and forming minced meat into dozens of uniform, expertly shaped balls.
You were seated beside Nick, with Lando on your other side. While this was not Lando’s first time making dumplings, you often found yourself teaching him the technique whenever you were in Monaco. It had become a little tradition between the two of you as well, and you always made sure to leave him with a stack of freshly prepared dumplings to store in his freezer before you fly back to New York.
Lando had a knack for making dumplings by now, though you couldn’t always trust him with all the cooking in general, especially after the time you learned through Max’s stream that he had been running on no sleep for twenty-six hours, eaten out-of-date food, and spent his break before the Las Vegas GP playing call of duty. Dumplings, at least, were something he could handle—trusting not to burn his own kitchen down.
A maid carried a tray of the minced meat balls to the center of the room, where your mother and other family members—Nick, Rachel, Oliver, and your Aunties Alix and Eleanor, were all gathered around a large table. They worked busily, folding dumplings with swift, practiced hands and placing them neatly into stacked bamboo steamers.
This was a cherished family tradition, and your Aunties led the effort with the ease of many years of experience, their hands moving expertly while they kept up a lively flow of conversation. The hum of chatter filled the dining room, blending perfectly with the rhythmic movements of the dumpling-making process.
Your Auntie Eleanor carefully inspected the tray of folded dumplings and gave a satisfactory nod of approval, her sharp eye ensuring every piece was up to standard. Meanwhile, your mother glanced at the dozen trays already filled, her expression betraying a mix of alarm and disbelief.
“This is all too much,” your Auntie Alix remarked, shaking her head as she folded another dumpling with her precise fingers. “We’re only hosting a rehearsal dinner, not feeding an entire army.”
Your Auntie Eleanor countered almost immediately, her tone firm yet practical. “It is better that it’s too much than too little. Imagine people saying we’re stingy, that’s much worse.”
On the other side of the table, Nick was patiently teaching Rachel how to fold her first dumpling. He held the thin dumpling dough in his hand, placed a small ball of minced meat in the center, and carefully folded the edges, sealing it closed with practiced ease.
“It’s like tucking in a baby,” Nick explained, glancing at Rachel with a smile.
Rachel’s face lit up at the analogy. “That’s so cute,” she said, then added with mock horror, “and then you eat the baby.”
Her comment sent everyone into fits of laughter. Then Oliver, always quick to join in on the fun, leaned forward and added his own take on how to fold a dumpling.
“Grand Auntie Mabel taught me that folding dumplings is like getting botox,” he said, picking up dumpling dough. “The filling is the botox, and the wrapper is the face. You pinch it here and here, and voilà! You now have a flawless face.”
The whole table erupted with laughter again, and Rachel, shaking her head at the humor, asked, “did you all learn how to make dumplings when you were kids?”
You turned to her and nodded, folding another dumpling as you replied, “we didn’t exactly have a choice, it was mandatory.”
Then your mother chimed in from across the table, her voice carrying a mix of pride and amusement. “We taught all of you so that you’ll all understand the blood, sweat, and tears it took to raise and feed you monkeys.” she said, folding her dumpling expertly and placing it on the tray.
Your Auntie Alix nodded in agreement with your mother. “Not like the ang-mohs, microwaving everything for their children. No wonder, when their parents grow old, they send them to the old folks’ home.”
Lando turned to you, asking silently that only the two of you could hear, “babe, what’s ang-mohs?”
“Oh, it’s a colloquial expression used to refer to Caucasians or Westerners.” you replied as Lando nodded.
“Exactly. That’s what Ah Ma always says, if we don’t pass down traditions like this, they slowly disappear.” your Auntie Eleanor chimed in, tone firm.
You snickered, rolling your eyes playfully as you murmured loud enough with the intent for everyone to hear, “well, God forbid that we lose the ancient Chinese tradition of guilting your children.”
“Honestly, learning how to make these dumplings is totally worth it. I remember back when I was little, Mom used to wait for me after school with a basket of fresh dumplings.” Nick added, voice softened at the memory, and your Auntie Eleanor smiled, corners of her mouth tugging upward in quiet nostalgia.
“幸運嘅男孩!” (lucky boy!) your Auntie Alix said.
You turned to your mother and teased, “how come I never got after-school dumplings?”
Before your mother could muster out a reply, Oliver had beat her to it, smirking as he quipped, “well, probably because Auntie Elizabeth was busy having an after-school microdermabrasion.”
Your mother gasped, mock-scolding him in rapid Cantonese. “你真系个叻嘅屁股！ 如果你嘅祖父仲在生，佢會直接將你踢到下周.” (you’re such a smart-ass! if your grandfather were still alive, he’d kick you straight into next week) with a quick flick of her wrist, your mother threw a piece of dumpling dough at Oliver, which hit his shirt with a soft plop.
“Auntie!” Oliver looked down at the dough stuck to his chest, brushing it off with an exaggerated pout. “This is Dolce, you know.”
Laugher rippled through the room again, the air filled with warmth, teasing, and the familiar comfort of family banter.
Your Auntie Alix turned to Rachel, her expression curious yet kind. “Rachel, do you speak Cantonese?”
Rachel shook her head, smiling politely. “No, I don’t,” she admitted, then quickly added, “but it’s so great seeing your family bond like this.”
You exchanged a quick glance with Oliver, all of you caught slightly off guard by her statement, except Nick. It was not something you really thought about, it was just how things were.
Rachel seemed to sense everyone’s confusion and explained further, “growing up, it was just me and my Mom. We didn’t have a big family like yours, this is really special.”
“We’re glad that you appreciate it,” Oliver said softly. “You’re right, we’re lucky to have this.”
Your mother and Auntie Alix both smiled, their postures relaxing just a little. Your Auntie Alix even murmured, “it’s nice to hear someone appreciate it.”
Rachel, emboldened by the shift in mood, turned her attention to your Auntie Eleanor, who had been largely quiet, methodically folding dumplings with precision. Her gaze fell on the large emerald ring your Auntie Eleanor was wearing, glinting under the soft light as she carefully placed a dumpling into a bamboo steamer.
“That ring is very stunning, Auntie Eleanor,” Rachel said, voice genuinely admiring. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
You paused mid-fold, glancing at Lando, who was already looking at you, his eyes widening slightly. The conversation from the other night before leaving for Samsara immediately surfaced in your mind.
Your mother and Auntie Alix both turned to look at your Auntie Eleanor, their expressions carefully neutral as they waited to see how she would respond. Your Auntie Eleanor looked genuinely surprised, her delicate hands momentarily pausing their rhythmic folding of dumplings.
“This ring,” she began, glancing at the emerald on her finger, “was made by my husband, Nick’s father, when he proposed to me.”
Rachel’s eyes lit up with interest. “That’s really amazing. Did he design it himself?”
She gave a small node, movements deliberate as she reshmed folding another dumpling. “He did. He wanted it to be one of a kind.”
“That’s incredible! Where did you two meet?” Rachel's eyes lit up with curiosity, leaning slightly forward.
Nick jumped in, tone light and proud. “They met at Cambridge, both are studying law.”
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I didn't know you were a lawyer.” she said, admiration apparent.
Your Auntie Eleanor resumed folding, her expression calm but firm. “I didn’t finish,” she clarified. “When we got married, I chose to withdraw from university.”
Rachel blinked, clearly taken aback. “Oh,” she said softly. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry…”
Noticing the slight tension that was slowly forming, your Auntie Eleanor elaborated, voice steady as she carefully sealed another dumpling.
“I made that decision to help my husband run his business and to raise a family. To me, that was a privilege,” she glanced at Rachel, her gaze sharp yet polite. “But to some others, it might seem old-fashioned.”
Rachel hesitated, not really sure of how to respond, but before she could say anything, your Auntie Eleanor continued.
“It’s nice of you that you appreciate this,” she said, gesturing to the room that was filled with chattering and dumpling-making. “Everyone together, contributing, creating something. But I want you to fully understand that all of this doesn’t happen by accident or with the snap of a finger. It’s because we’ve always prioritized family above all else.”
Her voice took on a slightly sharper edge, though still calm. “Sometimes, that means letting go of personal ambitions for the greater good. It’s a lesson I learned early on and one I hope will never be forgotten.”
A very heavy awkward silence settled over the table. You felt Lando’s hand subtly intertwining your fingers under the table, as you glanced at Rachel. Her smile faltered slightly, and her posture stiffened as though she was not entirely sure how to respond.
Your mother and Auntie Alix remained silent, both just looking at their dumplings, minding their own business, their expressions natural but tense. You knew they were traditional in their own ways, yet far more accepting than your Auntie Eleanor. They were not going to intervene, but their discomfort was apparent.
Rachel finally nodded, voice quiet but steady. “I see. Thank you for sharing that, Auntie Eleanor,” she said, offering a faint smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
Then, the dining room doors opened with a soft creak, and your Ah Ma entered with her Thai maids following closely behind, their presence as graceful and composed as always. She was wearing a beautiful silk blouse in shades of soft jade, with her posture upright and regal despite her old age. Your Ah Ma’s presence immediately shifted the atmosphere in the room, dissolving the lingering tension.
Everyone rose to their feet, a chorus of respectful greetings filling the space. You and Lando followed closely behind Nick and Rachel as you walked toward her, hand firmly clasping Lando’s.
Your Ah Ma’s face lit up when her gaze fell on Lando. “Ah, Lan Lan!” she exclaimed, voice warm and filled with genuine affection. “I’m happy to see you again. Tell me, has your dumpling folding improved since the last time?”
Lando smiled, bowing his head slightly in respect. “I think so, Ah Ma,” he replied, voice steady but tinged with amusement. “But you’ll have to judge for yourself.”
Nick stepped forward, taking your Ah Ma’s arm gently, and you mirrored his action on her other side. Her smile widened as she turned to Nick, patting his hand affectionately. “我很高興你帶瑞秋來了.” (i’m so glad you brought rachel) she said, voice kind but observant.
Your Ah Ma’s sharp eyes landed on Rachel, who stood politely beside Nick. She scrutinized her face for a moment, her expression contemplative before breaking into a small smile. “在白天，我可以清楚地看到她。 非常漂亮的臉蛋.” (ah, in the daylight, i can see her clearly. very nice-looking face)
Rachel’s lips parted slightly, unsure how to react, but she eventually nodded and smiled, choosing to take it as a compliment. “謝謝阿媽.” (thank you, ah ma) she said, in a respectful tone.
With Nick and you guiding her, your Ah Ma walked toward her seat at the head of the table. When you reached the chair, Lando quickly stepped forward, pulling it out for her with fluid motion. Your Ah Ma gave Lando an approving nod before settling into the seat, her movements deliberate but elegant.
Once your Ah Ma was seated, she gestured with a delicate wave of her hand. “坐下，你們所有人.” (sit down, all of you) she instructed, tone commanding but not harsh.
Oliver leaned back slightly and chimed in, tone light and teasing. “We’re almost finished, Ah Ma. Just a few more baskets left.”
“Good, good,” she said, a trace of satisfaction in her voice.
While your Ah Ma was observing everyone, her gaze swept over the trays of folded dumplings, her discerning eyes pausing on a particular set of dumplings that stood out. Without any hesitation, she gestured toward the batch and turned to your Auntie Eleanor.
“埃莉諾，你做了這個批次嗎?” (eleanor, did you make this batch?) her tone was sharp, but not unkind.
You Auntie Eleanor straightened slightly, nodding with a subtle air of pride. “是的，阿媽,” (yes, ah ma) she replied, voice composed but tinged with a hint of accomplishment.
Your Ah Ma’s eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned in for a closer look, inspecting the dumplings with the same scrutiny she might give to a priceless piece of jade. Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly, and she tilted her head, her words carrying a weight of blunt honesty.
”他們看起來不太好,” (they don’t look very good) she remarked, tone in a matter-of-fact but leaving little room for dispute. “你失去了你的觸摸,埃莉諾.” (you’ve lost your touch, eleanor)
The room seemed to pause momentarily, the faintest ripple of tension spreading across the table. You glanced at Rachel, who sat stiffly, her expression carefully neutral, clearly unsure how to react to the sudden critique.
You turned to Lando, who had been watching the exchange with curiosity, leaning slightly toward you as he whispered, “what did Ah Ma say?”
Lowering your voice, you translated quickly but gently, “Ah Ma said the dumplings don’t look good, and that Auntie Eleanor has lost her touch.”
Lando made a face, and though he made no comment, the slight twitch of his lips suggested he was trying not to laugh. You gave him a soft nudge under the table, silently reminding him to keep a straight face.
Even with your Ah Ma’s comment, your Auntie Eleanor maintained her composure, her lips tightening as she focused on folding another dumpling, pretending as though the comment did not bother her at all. But still, you knew that everyone at the table heard everything, and no one was really surprised by your Ah Ma’s brutal honesty.
As the final dumplings were folded and placed neatly into the bamboo steamers, Rachel excused herself, standing from her seat with a polite smile. “I’m just going to the restroom,” she said softly, tone light.
Nick immediately offered, “I'll come with you.”
Rachel just shook her head gently, declining with a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, I can find my way.”
With that, she turned and walked off, navigating through the hallways of the estate, leaving the rest of you to finish arranging the trays.
Meanwhile, your Ah Ma’s sharp eyes scanned the remaining dumplings, her attention landing on the ones Lando had folded. Despite her age, her vision remained sharp as ever, and she leaned forward slightly, inspecting his work. A small but genuine smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
“這些很漂亮,” (these are beautiful) she said, nodding approvingly.
Lando lit up at the compliment—well, he didn’t really understand what your Ah Ma had said, but based on her reaction, it’s a positive one. His cheeks colored faintly as he looked at you for a moment, seeking your silent confirmation that he had done well.
Your Ah Ma then turned to you, tone warm but firm as she continued, “你教他很好,我的孫女。 我可以看到他爲此付出的努力。 你跟他幹得真不錯.” (you’ve taught him well, my granddaughter. I can see the effort he’s put into these. you really did a good job with him)
You smiled, bowing your head slightly in acknowledgment of her praise, but before you could respond, her attention shifted back to Lando. Your Ah Ma’s expression softened, yet her words carried a note of earnestness.
“Lan Lan,” she began, “好好照顧自己，好好吃飯,” (take care of yourself, eat properly) she spoke slowly enough that he could understand the weight of her words even if he did not catch every meaning of it.
Your Ah Ma paused, gaze flicking back to you for a moment, before continuing. “I remember when my granddaughter came back here to Singapore after being in Monaco. She was so worried about you.”
Then she turned again to Lando, tone shifting slightly to a mock-scolding one, though her affection for him was evident. “She told me how you hadn’t slept for twenty-six hours and were eating expired food. How can you not take care of yourself?”
Lando ducked his head slightly, his smile sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks.
Switching to Mandarin, she fired rapidly at Lando, though there was no malice in her tone. “你認爲僅僅因爲你年輕，你的身體會原諒一切嗎？ 不會的 你很幸運，我的孫女飛到摩納哥爲你做飯.” (you think just because you’re young, your body will forgive everything? it won’t. you’re lucky my granddaughter flew to to monaco to cook for you)
You were trying not to laugh as you translated everything your Ah Ma said to him, and Lando nodded earnestly, voice quiet but sincere. “I know, Ah Ma. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Your Ah Ma turned to you with a knowing smile. “我什麼時候能指望你結婚?” (when can i expect you to get married?)
You froze on your seat, eyes widening in disbelief as he words hung in the air. You felt Lando’s hand tense slightly in yours under the table, though you were sure he hadn’t understood any of it.
“我想在我死之前見到我的曾孫們。 我已經沒有多少年時間了.” (i want to see my great-grandchildren before i die. i don’t have that many years left) your Ah Ma continued.
The room erupted into laughter at your Ah Ma’s bluntness, a mix of amused chuckles and good-natured teasing. Even your mother, who rarely join on such jokes, could not help but wink at you across the table.
“Ah Ma,” you began, swallowing hard, trying to find the right words to appease her. “蘭多和我還年輕。 他有一個非常忙碌的職業生涯，我們現在都專注於我們的目標.” (lando and i are still young. he has a very busy career, and we’re both focused on our goals right now)
“太年輕了？ 胡說八道！ 你們兩個都老了，有什麼目標？ 家庭是人生最重要的目標,” (too young? nonsense! you’re both old enough, and what goals? a family is the most important goal in life) she retorted, waving her hand in the air as if brushing aside your excuses.
She leaned slightly forward, her gaze fixed on Lando now, as if silently willing him to understand what she was saying. “我走之前要抱着我的曾孫,” (i need to hold my great-grandchild before i go) she reiterated, as though her insistence alone could make it happen.
Lando, who had been smiling politely, began to glance around the table, sensing that the laughter was at his expense but unable to piece together what was being said.
“What’s going on? What did Ah Ma say?” he said, leaning towards you.
Before you could think of a way to downplay it, Nick—ever the troublemaker, grinned wickedly and leaned over. “Oh, I’ll tell you,” he said, just loud enough for the whole table to hear. “Ah Ma’s asking when you’re getting married. She wants great-grandchildren before she dies.”
His jaw dropped slightly at what Nick said, cheeks already tinged pink. “What?” Lando stammered, glancing at you for confrontation.
The laughter just grew louder as Nick continued, “she’s serious too. She’s already planning your family timeline.”
You groaned inwardly, shooting Nick a sharp look that only made him smirk wider. Meanwhile, Lando’s blush deepend, spreading across his ear and down to his neck. Rubbing the back of his neck nervously, and lips twitching into an embarrassed smile.
“I…uh…” he stuttered, clearly flustered, and you couldn’t help but smile despite the situation.
You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze under the table, leaning closer to whisper, “don’t worry, she just likes to tease. You’re doing great.”
Your Ah Ma smiled warmly at Lando, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening with the kind of affection reserved for those who had truly earned it. She placed her hands gently on the edge of the table, her gaze shifting between you and him as she began to speak again in Mandarin.
“我愛你這個年輕人,” (i love this young man for you) she said, tone resolute yet tender. “我等不及你們倆結婚的那一天了。 當然，這必須在我死之前發生，但沒有壓力.” (i cannot wait for the day you both get married. of course, this must happen before i die, but no pressure)
The table chuckled softly at her words, though you could feel the weight of her underlying sincerity.
“我希望你們的關係最終會導致婚姻。 它必須，我很高興是他。 我認識你以前約會過的所有男孩，但沒有你介紹他們給我,” (i expect your relationship will lead to marriage in the end. it must, and I’m glad it’s him. i knew all the boys you dated before without you introducing them to me) she continued, tone sharpening lightly as she referred to your past. “他們都不值得。 蘭多是。 他是個好人，是個紳士。 我看得出他讓你多麼高興.” (none of them were worthy. but lando is. he is a good man and a gentleman. i can see how happy he makes you)
Her gaze lingered on Lando, eyes bright with approval. “你選的不錯,” (you chose well) she said firmly, her words almost carrying the weight of a blessing.
You glanced at your mother, who was watching the exchange quietly with a soft smile. When your eyes met, she gave you a small nod, as if to echo your Ah Ma’s sentiments. Your heart swelled, knowing that this was not just about Lando being accepted by your family, it was about him being fully embraced in a way that rarely happened in a family as traditional as yours.
“我們的家庭一直重視傳統的重要性，在我們自己的背景，我們自己的文化中結婚。 這就是讓我們堅強的原因。 但有時，當心髒看到什麼是正確的時，必須做出例外.” (our family has always valued the importance of tradition, of marrying within our own background, our own culture. it is what keeps us strong. but sometimes, exceptions must be made when the heart sees what is right) your Ah Ma’s eyes softened further as she looked at you. “你已經看到了什麼是正確的。 我相信你的選擇。 他會給你帶來快樂，你也會給他帶來同樣的快樂.” (and you have seen what’s right. i trust your choice. he will bring you happiness, and you will bring him the same)
Lando, though unable to follow the Mandarin, seemed to understand the atmosphere and the sentiment. He offered a polite smile, his hand tightening slightly around yours under the table.
“你知道，你是第一個正式向我介紹這樣一個人的人。 這不是一件小事。 它表明了對我們家庭的尊重，它表明你是認真的.” (you know, you are the first to formally introduce someone to me like this. it is no small thing. it shows respect for our family, and it shows me that you are serious) she paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “這就是爲什麼我相信這將工作。 你有我的祝福.” (that is why I trust this will work. you have my blessing)
You felt a lump in your throat as you glanced again at your mother, who was still smiling softly. There was no need for words, her expression said it all. The weight of family approval—especially your Ah Ma’s, was very significant. It was not just about you and Lando anymore, it was about the life you were building together, one that your family wholeheartedly supported.
You turned to Lando and gave him a small smile, and squeezed his hand, a private gesture of reassurance for him. Though he could not understand the exact words, you knew he felt the love and acceptance in the room, just as deeply as you did.
While everyone was now immersed in a new topic of conversation, you can’t help but notice that Rachel was taking longer than usual. Rachel hasn’t gone back yet, the same as your Auntie Eleanor. Just before your Ah Ma would say his monologue about family tradition, your Auntie Eleanor had excused herself.
You glanced at the door Rachel and your Auntie Eleanor had exited through earlier, your eyes narrowed slightly in concern. This was a sprawling estate, one where getting turned around was almost inevitable for someone unfamiliar with its labyrinth of hallways and grand rooms. You couldn’t shake the sense that something was amiss.
Minutes passed. Neither Rachel nor your Auntie Eleanor had returned. Your unease deepened. So you leaned slightly toward Lando, your voice low enough not to disrupt the ongoing chatter around the table.
“I think I’ll go check on Rachel,” you murmured. “She’s taking a little too long, and Auntie Eleanor too.”
Lando nodded, his eyes flickering with slight concern. “You think everything’s okay?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” you replied. “But I’ll find out.”
You leaned in, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, the faintest smile touching your lips despite the worry now bubbling beneath the surface. Straightening up, you excused yourself from the table, smoothing down your dress with a quick, practiced motion.
As you step away, the chatter behind you fades, replaced by the muted hum of distant sounds in the house, the faint clatter of dishes being cleared in the kitchen, soft shuffle of footsteps from maids moving about their duties.
You moved quietly, your steps deliberate as you followed the path Rachel had taken earlier. You knew this house like the back of your hand, each twist and turn etched into your memory, but even for you, it was easy to imagine how someone so unfamiliar might lose their way.
Your eyes scanned the hallways as you moved, the ornate decorations and rich furnishings familiar yet suddenly feeling imposing in the quiet. You still could not shake the thought that perhaps your Auntie Eleanor had cornered Rachel somewhere in the house, and the idea made your pace quicken.
The moment you approached the grand staircase, you approached quietly, you heard voices and stopped just short of the landing, hiding yourself out of sight behind the very heavy drapery of a nearby window. You knew it was wrong to eavesdrop on other people, but your concern for Rachel overpowered the voice of reason.
Peeking through the fabric, you saw them. Your Auntie Eleanor stood on the top step of the staircase, her posture sharp and commanding, while Rachel stood two steps below her, visibly uneasy. The height difference only seemed to amplify the imbalance in their dynamic—your Auntie Eleanor looking every bit like a hawk, and Rachel was the unwitting prey.
“I’m glad I found you,” your Auntie Eleanor began, voice low and calm, but laced with a kind of weight that felt impossible to ignore. “I felt…perhaps I was unfair to you earlier.”
Rachel immediately shook her head, her voice soft but apologetic. “No, no, it’s alright. I didn’t mean to offend you, and I’m really sorry if I did.”
“You didn’t offend me, Rachel,” she said quietly, almost too quietly, as though she were weighing each word before releasing it. “But since we’re already here, I feel it’s only fair to share something with you. Something that I don’t often talk about.”
“Alright,” Rachel said, voice barely above whisper.
“The emerald ring,” she began, lifting her hand slightly to glance at the emerald on her finger, “had been customized by my husband, Philip, because Ah Ma didn’t want to give him the family ring.”
“She…refused?” Rachel was clearly surprised.
Your Auntie Eleanor gave a small, humorless smile, the corner of her lips barely turning upward. “She didn’t think I was worthy of it. Didn’t think I was worthy of Philip.”
At that, you felt your breath catch. This was new information, something you had never heard before. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the two of them, even as guilt tugged at you for listening in.
“Why would she think that?” Rachel’s voice was cautious, tentative.
Your Auntie Eleanor’s expression hardened, though her voice remained calm. “Because I didn’t come from the right family. I didn’t have the proper connections, and I was not what Ah Ma envisioned for his eldest son. To her, I was inadequate. Not a suitable wife for the future head of the family.”
Rachel looked stunned, her hands fidgeting slightly at her sides. “I…I didn’t know.”
“No, of course, you wouldn’t,” she said softly. “It’s not the kind of thing people would discuss so openly, and why would they? It’s already humiliating to admit that you weren’t the first choice.”
Rachel’s lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out of her mouth.
“I wasn’t even the second choice. You’re Ah Ma wanted someone else entirely, someone from a family with status and wealth that matched ours. But Philip, he chose me.”
From your hiding spot, you could see the faint sheer in your Auntie Eleanor’s eyes, though her expression remained resolute. You felt your stomach tighten. This was far more personal than the surface-level gossip you and your mother often indulge in about your Auntie Eleanor.
Rachel seemed to struggle to find the right response. “I think that’s very brave of you, to have gone through that.”
“Brave?” she echoed, almost as though testing the word on her tongue. “Perhaps, or perhaps I simply had no choice but to endure it. That’s what women like me are expected to do. Endure. Sometimes, there were days when I wondered if I would ever measure up.”
Another pause filled the air, heavy and suffocating. You glanced back toward the hallway that leads to the dining room, where laughter and conversation continued, oblivious to the tension unfolding right outside.
Your Auntie Eleanor looked down at Rachel, her tone softening just slightly. “I don’t say this to make you uncomfortable, Rachel. I say it because you remind me of someone I once was, a young woman trying to find her place in a family with traditions that can feel suffocating at times. But here’s the thing.”
“To belong here,” your Auntie Eleanor said quietly, “you must learn when to bend and when to stand firm, and above all, you must understand that family will always come first before passion, before dreams. It’s not easy, but it’s the way it is.”
Her words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than anything you had expected. You tightened your grip on the drapery, heart thudding in your chest.
“But Rachel,” she said softly, almost gently, as she took a slow step closer to her. “Having been through it all myself, I can tell you this much…you will never be enough.”
The words hung in the air, deceptively gently, yet sharp enough to pierce. Rachel was eviscerated, as your Auntie Eleanor draws back, placid and calm, as if they were talking about the weather. Her hand lightly touched Rachel’s arm, almost a contradictory gesture to the blow she had just delivered.
“We should head back, I wouldn’t want Nick to worry.” your Auntie Eleanor’s tone did not falter, nor did her gaze waver. She slowly began descending the stairs.
You’re still hidden—more like frozen in place. You watched as Rachel’s expression crumbled ever so slightly, her face a mixture of hurt and confusion, though she tried valiantly to hold her composure. You felt a pang in your chest for her, but before you could decide whether to step out, you felt a presence approaching from behind.
You turned your head quickly, startled to see Lando walking towards you. His lips were already parting, likely to ask what you were doing or what was taking you so long, but you reacted instinctively. You brought a finger to your lips in a sharp shushing motion, then darted towards him as quietly as possible, pressing a hand gently over his mouth before he could make a sound.
Lando’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he obeyed your silent command, his wide eyes flickering between you and the staircase. You both froze as the unmistakable sound of your Auntie Eleanor’s heels began clicking rhythmically against the marble floor, growing louder with each step.
Peeking back around the corner just enough, your Auntie Eleanor was already headed your way, her expression calm and composed, never even looking back at Rachel, who remained standing frozen in place.
Without any second thought, you grabbed Lando’s hand firmly and began pulling him back down the hall, away from the grand staircase. His confusion deepened, but he did not resist, allowing you to guide him. You stopped just short of the door, turning to face him, you placed a hand on his chest and pressed a little to keep him from moving any further. Lando tilted his head slightly, silently asking for an explanation, but you shook your head.
“I’ll tell you everything later,” you whispered firmly, voice barely audible. “When we’re home.”
Lando frowned slightly but nodded in understanding, his gaze softening as he squeezed your hand gently. You exhaled, releasing the tension in your shoulders, and took a moment to steady yourself. Lacing your fingers together, you took one more deep breath, and walked back into the dining room with Lando by your side.
You plastered on a casual smile, even as your thoughts raced, determined to keep up the act for now.
Later that evening, you were now back to the safety and comfort of your home. You and Lando were now settled into the bed, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning. Lando was lying on his back, one arm tucked under his head, while his other arm rested lightly on your arm. The dim glow from the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across his face as you propped yourself up on your elbow, taking a deep breath before speaking.
“Okay, here’s the tea,” you began softly, keeping your voice low in the stillness of the room.
Lando turned his head to look at you, his brows knitting slightly. “What’s the tea?”
You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts, before recounting everything you had overheard between Rachel and your Auntie Eleanor by the grand staircase. You spoke carefully, detailing the conversation, voice growing more serious as you described your Auntie Eleanor’s sharp words, her admission about the family ring, and the way she had undermined Rachel. Lando listened intently, his gaze never leaving yours, expression shifting from concern to quiet disbelief as you continued.
“And then,” you said, voice dropping even lower, “she told Rachel she would never be enough. I just couldn’t believe it, honestly. It was so cruel.”
“That’s awful,” he said firmly. “I can’t imagine how Rachel must’ve felt when she heard that. She must’ve been gutted—no pun intended.”
You chuckled, then suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle between you. “I wanted to step in, but I didn’t know how without actually making it worse. Then I saw you coming,” you paused, sighing. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”
Lando reached out, taking your hands in his, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “It’s not your fault,” he said reassuringly. “Your Auntie Eleanor has her own set of issues. But Rachel seems strong, I’m sure she’ll handle it.”
You nodded, though the worry lingered in your chest. “I just hope my whole family can be as welcoming to Rachel as they’ve been to you. She deserves that. Nick deserves that.”
“Your family has been incredible to me,” he said. “Your Ah Ma, your Mom, even your Auntie Alix, they’ve all made me feel like I belong, even though I’m not from the same background—traditionally, as you. That means everything to me. It’s rare to find that kind of acceptance.”
You felt your chest warm at his words. “I’m so happy they’ve accepted you,” you murmured. “It makes me love them even more, knowing they see how amazing you are.”
He chuckled lightly, ears turning red at your compliment. “Well,” Lando said, tone turning playful, “Ah Ma did say she expects a grandchild, so I guess I’m officially part of the family now.”
You laughed softly, then tension from the earlier conversation easing slightly. But as you rested your head against his chest, you whispered, “I just hope Rachel gets that chance too. To feel what we have with my family.”
Lando pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice gentle as he said, “she will, it might take time, but your family loves deeply. They’ll come around, and if not, well, Nick and Rachel would always have us. That’s a pretty good start, don’t you think?”
You nodded. “But hey,”
“Hmm?” he hummed, looking at the ceiling aimlessly.
“I was thinking,” you started, “tomorrow’s our last free day before Colin and Araminta’s wedding. I was wondering if it’s okay with you if I spend it with Rachel. I feel like she could use some company, and I’d love to catch up with her one-on-one.”
Lando’s lips curved into a small smile as he nodded. “Of course, love. You don’t need to ask, and I think that’s a great idea.”
“Are you sure?” you pressed. “I don’t want to leave you feeling bored or anything.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, take your time. I can keep myself busy.”
At that, you looked at him with curiosity. “Oh? What’s your plan for the day?”
Lando grinned, “actually, I was thinking of hitting up your Dad for a few rounds of golf. He told me during Ah Ma’s dinner party to let him know anytime I wanted to play, so I figured I’d take him up on that offer.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the thought of Lando and your father on the golf course together. “That sounds perfect. I think he’d love that.”
“It’ll be nice to spend some time with him, and,” he added with a playful grin, “it’ll give me a chance to show him I’ve been practicing my swing.”
You chuckled, “well, don’t let him win too easily, or else he’ll never let you live it down.”
Lando laughed along with you, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Go spend the day with Rachel,” he said warmly. “I’ll be fine, and later, you can tell me all about it over dinner.”
“Deal,” you said with a grin.
The warm scent of roasted coffee filled the air as you and Rachel sat across from each other at the small patio table. The sunlight filtered gently through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows on the table between your cups of coffee. Rachel stirred her latte absentmindedly, her eyes occasionally drifting to the street beyond before meeting yours.
“I’m really glad you agreed to meet with me,” you began, voice steady but soft.
Rachel offered a small smile, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “Of course. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk after everything.”
You took a deep breath, setting your coffee cup down carefully. “I wanted to talk because I owe you an apology. For everything.”
She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. But she let you continue speaking.
“I’m sorry for how you were treated at the dinner party by my family,” you continued, gazing at her earnestly. “Especially by my Auntie Eleanor. I know she was cruel, and I won’t make any excuses for her just because she’s family. You didn’t deserve that.”
Rachel let out a shaky breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she leaned back in her chair. “Thank you for saying that, it truly means a lot.”
There was a brief pause before you added, “and I need to come clean about something.”
“I overheard everything Auntie Eleanor said to you by the staircase,” you admitted, glancing down at your hands for a moment before looking back at her. “It wasn’t my intention to eavesdrop, I swear. I was going to get something from the car, and I happened to pass by.”
She studied you for a moment, then let out a soft sigh. “Honestly, I’m not even surprised you overheard. She wasn’t exactly trying to whisper.”
You gave a small, rueful smile. “Still, I should have stepped in sooner. I hate that she made you feel the way you did.”
Rachel’s grip on her coffee cup tightened briefly before she let out a small, humorless laugh. “It was pretty intense, I’ve got to say,” she admitted. “I mean, I felt like I was going to cry and puke all at once.”
The two of you exchange a glance before breaking into laughter. The sound was a relief, breaking the lingering tension like the first warm breeze after a storm.
“Well,” you said. “I bet if you tell her that you’d leave Nick for a million of dollars, she’d write that check on the spot.”
Her eyes widened for a moment before she burst into laughter again, this time louder and freer. “You think so?”
“Oh, absolutely,” you replied, grinning. “It’s a pretty normal thing to do here. A million-dollar breakup is just another Tuesday.”
Rachel shook her head, still laughing, and took a sip of her latte. “That’s terrible.”
“Maybe it is,” you smiled and shrugged. “But I know my Auntie Eleanor.”
She then set her coffee cup down, fingers fiddling with the edge of her napkin as her expression shifted something akin to serious.
“You know, I just…I don’t even know what to do anymore. Whether I will tell Nick everything or not,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “I can see how much Nick practically worships his Mom. I mean, it’s like she can do no wrong in his eyes.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing her words. “I fully understand that,” you said carefully, tone gently. “It’s common, especially with Chinese sons. They hold their mothers on a very high pedestal, and it’s not just cultural, it’s ingrained, passed down through generations. Mothers are revered, respected almost to a fault.”
Rachel let out a small, defeated sigh, leaning back in her chair. “So what am I supposed to do? Compete with that?”
You shook your head, giving her a smile. “No, you don’t need to compete with anyone. Look, on the bright side of all things, Ah Ma loves you. Did you notice how she complimented you yesterday? That’s pretty big.”
Her brow furrowed slightly as she thought back, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “She did, didn’t she? I was not really sure what to make of it at first, but I guess that was her way of showing approval.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Let Auntie Eleanor stew in her own bitterness if she wants to. She can hate you all day long or even her whole life if that’s what she’s determined to do.”
“That’s…comforting?” she raised an eyebrow, her smile wavering.
“Just let Auntie Eleanor be, she has nothing against two thousand years of Chinese filial piety.” you chuckled.
“What do you mean?” Rachel asked, intrigued but unsure.
You gestured gently with your hand, voice steady but light. “At the end of the day, it’s not really about Auntie Eleanor. It’s about what Ah Ma thinks, and in this family, her opinion carries the most weight, and she’s already decided that she likes you. Auntie Eleanor might throw tantrums and make her snide comments, but she can’t overturn the foundation of how this family works. What Ah Ma says, goes.”
Rachel sat back, her lips curving into a small, thoughtful smile. “So, you’re saying that I don’t need to fight back? Just let her do her thing?”
You nodded. “Exactly. She’s not the one you’re trying to win over, and frankly, she doesn’t hold the power she thinks she does. As long as Ah Ma’s around and on your side, you’re practically untouchable.”
“You make it sound so simple.” she let out a soft laugh, her tension finally easing.
“It’s not simple,” you admitted with a small shrug, “but it’s the truth. You’re a part of this family now, Rachel—whether they like it or not, and you’ve already got the most important ally you could ask for.”
Rachel’s smile grew warmer, and for the first time, she looked truly at ease. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I needed to hear that.”
The midday sun cast long shadows over the manicured fairways of Sentosa Golf Club. Lando steadied his swing, aiming for the flag ahead. Your father stood a few paces behind, watching his stance with an appraising eye. The gentle rustling of the trees and occasional chirping of birds provided the only background noise. Lando took the shot—clean, low drive that rolled smoothly onto the green.
“Good shot,” your father remarked, nodding in approval as they walked toward the cart together.
“Thank you,” Lando replied, brushing his hands against his shorts.
As they drove to the next hole, your father leaned back slightly, gaze fixed ahead. “So, Lando,” your father began, his tone casual. “What are your plans?”
Lando glanced at him, slightly startled by the abruptness of the question. “Plans, sir? You mean with golf? Or…generally?”
Your father chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No, no. Not with golf, I meant your plans for the future. It’s a broad question, I know, but I’m curious.”
He straightened. “Oh, well…I’m focused on my career right now, of course. Racing tends to keep me pretty busy, but I try to balance things as best as I can.”
Your father nodded as they both stepped out of the cart. He let a few moments pass before continuing, voice taking on a more serious tone. “When my wife came back from her mother’s estate last night, she mentioned something to me over dinner.”
Lando tilted his head, curious. “What is it?”
“She said that Ah Ma gave you and my daughter her approval,” your father said, eyes steady on Lando. “Ah Ma hopes your relationship will end in marriage someday.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the statement, or just how straightforward your father is. He shifted his weight slightly, unsure of how to respond to your father.
Your father, noticing his hesitation, offered a small smile. “Don’t worry, Lando. I’m not here to pressure or scare you away. But I thought it might be important for you to understand something about how everything goes on around here.”
“In our culture,” your father explained as he placed the golf ball on the tee, “relationships are viewed differently than in the West. They’re not just about love or companionship, they’re built on sacrifice, duty, and responsibility. When you commit to someone, you’re committing to the entirety of it all—even to the family. It’s a partnership that demands effort and selflessness.”
“Now,” your father took his shot—a smooth, powerful drive that sent the ball soaring down the fairway. He straightened and turned back to Lando, resting the driver on his shoulder. “I’m not saying this to intimidate you. It’s far from it. I know how much my daughter cares for you, and from what I’ve seen, you care for her just as much. But I want to make sure you understand what this means to us—our family and her. It’s not just about dating or having fun. It’s about building a life together.”
Lando swallowed, feeling the weight of your father’s words. “I…I get that, sir. I really do, and I want you to know that I take our relationship seriously. She’s,” he paused, searching for the right words. “She’s the most important person in my life. I may not have everything figured out yet, but I’m fully committed to her. I want to make her happy and support her in every way I can.”
Your father studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s good to hear, Lando. You’re a good man, and that’s all I needed to know.”
Lando exhaled softly, relieved but still thoughtful. Your father clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, let’s see if you can make this shot. I’m one up on you, and I don’t plan on losing today.”
”We’ll see about that, sir.” Lando grinned.
The two of them had just finished their round and were sitting in the shaded patio area of the clubhouse, sipping on cold drinks. Your father leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed.
“You know, back in her teens, she was quite the handful.” your father began, voice carrying an edge of humor.
Lando turned to him, intrigued but slightly nervous. “Oh?”
Your father nodded, a sly smile on his face. “She used to escape the house and date boys behind our backs. Thought she was clever about it too.”
Lando’s lips twitched into a smile, imagining you as a teenager, trying to outsmart your parents. “Really? I can’t imagine her sneaking around like that.”
“Oh, she was good,” your father said, in a playful tone. “She never introduced us to those boys, but we always knew who they were. We made it our business to know. Still, we never made a fuss, we figured she’d grow out of it—and she did.”
He just smiles as your father tells these little snippets of anecdotes of your life that you had never told Lando before. Lando just kept silent, and continued listening to your father.
“So when she introduced you to us, we were shocked to be honest.” your father laughed, a deeper, more genuine sound. “It was the first time she brought someone home. That was our first indication that this was serious, different from anything she’d had before.”
“To tell you the truth,” your father continued, tone shifting to something more reflective. “We always thought she’d end up seriously dating one of the sons from our family’s business partners, since that’s how these things tend to go. But looking at it now, we’re thankful that it’s you.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard. “Thankful? Why’s that?”
Your father leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Because those boys, they have big, fragile egos. Pampered from birth, they’ve never had to work for anything, and never had to learn humility. Trust me, there’s nothing worse than a man who can’t admit his faults.” he looked at Lando meaningfully. “You’re nothing like that, you’ve worked hard for everything you’ve achieved. You respect her, and that means a lot to us.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lando replied as he felt a warmth spread through his chest. “That really means a lot to me.”
Your father nodded, a small but approving smile on his face. “Just don’t let her outplay you on the course of life, Lando. She might be silent and reserved most of the time, but she’s competitive.”
Lando laughed. “Oh, I know. She’s already winning in a lot of ways.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” your father regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “Now, shall we see if they have any dessert worth trying here? Golf always leaves me craving something sweet.”
“Sounds good to me, sir.” Lando chuckled.
The house was still dark when you arrived, a quiet stillness greeting you as you set your things down and flicked on the lights. After slipping into more comfortable clothes—a loose white shirt and soft shorts, you made your way to the kitchen.
You had informed Lando earlier that you had decided it would be steak night, so you tied your back and opened the fridge, pulling out the steak to defrost, then setting them on the counter before gathering ingredients for the side dishes. You peeled and chopped the potatoes, boiling them in a pot of salted water, and then turned your attention to the vegetables.
Then you sliced the carrots, zucchini, and bell peppers—the rhythm of chopping and preparing was soothing, you then drizzled them with olive oil, sprinkled them with salt and pepper, then slid the tray into the oven to roast.
By the time the vegetables were roasting and the potatoes were soft, the steaks were now finally defrosted. You began to season them generously with salt, pepper, and a hint of garlic powder, then heated a cast-iron skillet until it was searing hot. The steaks sizzled as they hit the pan, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of cooking meat.
While the steaks rested, you drained the potatoes and mashed them with butter, cream, and a touch of garlic. The creamy texture was perfect, and you set the pot aside before arranging everything on the plate.
Tonight, you wanted to dine outside by the pool deck, where the view of the city lights was nothing short of magical. Grabbing a couple stacks of plates and utensils, you stepped out to the deck and set the table. The air was cool, and the glow from the pool lights danced against the walls, creating a cozy ambiance.
Just as you returned to the kitchen to plate the food, you felt an arm wrapped around your waist and a soft kiss pressed to your cheek. Startled, you spun around to see Lando smiling down at you, hair slightly mussed from the day.
“You scared me!” you said with a laugh, leaning up to kiss him on the lips.
“Sorry,” he murmured, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “It smells amazing in here.”
“So, how was your day with Dad?” you asked smiling, brushing a hand over his arm.
“It was good,” he replied. “Tiring, but good. I think I held my own.”
You smiled at that and patted his chest gently. “Go change into something comfortable and grab a bottle of wine from the rack, we’re eating outside by the pool deck.”
“On it,” Lando said with a quick kiss to your temple before heading off to the bedroom.
You carried the plated food out to the pool deck, setting it down on the table. The city lights twinkled in the distance as you adjusted the chairs and smoothed the tablecloth. Lando soon joined you, a bottle of red wine in hand, dressed in a simple shirt and joggers.
“That looks incredible, love.” he said as he set the wine down and pulled out a chair for you.
“Why thank you,” you smiled, settling in on the chair. “Let’s eat.”
As the two of you began eating, the sound of clinking utensils and the occasional splash of water from the pool filled the serene evening air. You cut into your steak and took a bite before glancing at Lando, who was pouring wine into both of your glasses.
“So, as promised,” you began, setting your form down for a moment. “I wanted to tell you about the conversation that I had with Rachel earlier when I met up with her.”
Lando looked up from his glass, giving you his full attention. “Yeah? How did it go by the way, how’s she holding up?”
”She’s trying, but she’s still shaken from what happened with Auntie Eleanor.” you replied. “She told me that she finds it hard to tell Nick everything because Nicky practically worships her Mom, because well, that’s how Chinese sons are—they think their Moms fart Chanel No.5.”
He froze for a moment, processing what you said, and then burst into laughter. Lando set down his wine glass as he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.
“That’s such an oddly specific comparison, babe. But honestly,” Lando said through his laughter, “it’s kind of perfect. I admit that at times, I notice that’s how Nick acts around Auntie Eleanor, isn’t it?”
“Yup,” you confirmed as you took another bite of your steam. “Rachel feels like Nick would never fully stand up to his mother and I get why she’s worried. But I explained to her how Auntie Eleanor is basically defenseless against two thousand years of Chinese filial piety.”
“Filial piety?” Lando repeated, brows furrowing slightly.
You took a sip of wine, then set the glass down carefully before explaining. “It’s this concept in Chinese culture that emphasizes respect, obedience, and care for your parents and elders.” you continued, “it’s not just about being polite, it’s deeply rooted in our traditions and values. Sons, in particular, are expected to honor their mothers in every way possible. That’s why it sometimes feels like their Moms can do no wrong.”
Lando nodded slowly, taking in your words. “So it’s more than just a family dynamic—it’s cultural, like a duty?”
“Exactly,” you said with a small smile. “It’s why Rachel feels the way she does, but I told her that she shouldn’t worry too much. Ah Ma has taken a liking on her, and that’s already a gold sign. Auntie Eleanor might act high and mighty, but at the end of the day, she doesn’t really have a say in Ah Ma’s decisions.”
“Basically, you’re saying that Auntie Eleanor has no powers here?” he tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully.
“Not over Ah Ma, no. Hell no,” you said, chuckling. “And honestly, I think it’s about time someone stood up to Auntie Eleanor. Rachel is strong, even if she doesn’t always realize it, Nick and her will be fine. It’s just a matter of time she finds her own footing and Nick learning to balance his loyalty to Auntie Eleanor with his commitment to Rachel.”
Lando chuckled softly, raising his wine glass. “Well, here’s to Rachel and Nick figuring it out, and to Ah Ma—who clearly runs the show.”
You clink your wine glass against Lando’s with a grin. “Family is really fucking complicated, but hey, cheers to that.”
When Lando finished the last bite of his steak, he set his fork down with a satisfied sigh. “Speaking of Ah ma,” he began, swirling his wine glass, “you Dad told me something very interesting stuff today.”
You raised an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? What did he say?”
Lando smiled, leaning back in his chair. “He mentioned how he knew that Ah Ma already gave us her blessing and that she’s expecting this relationship to end up in marriage.”
You froze mid-bite, fork hovering above your plate. “Wait,” you said slowly, “did Dad give you the talk?”
His grin widened, and before he could even answer, you groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Oh my fucking god, that’s so embarrassing.” you mumbled, voice muffled.
“It wasn’t bad,” Lando said laughing. “He was just laying it all out on me. Talking about how serious relationships are in your culture and how family values commitment. Honestly, I kind of expected it.”
You peaked through your fingers, cheeks burning. “Still,” you muttered, “he didn’t have to do that.”
Lando leaned forward, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Oh, but that’s not all he told me.”
Your hands dropped from your face, your eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What else did he say?”
He smirked. “Apparently, back then you had a rebellious streak. Sneaking out to go on dates with different boys, huh?”
You groaned, slumping back in your chair. “Nooo. He did not tell you that.”
“Oh, he did,” Lando teased, clearly enjoying himself. “And he said that they knew exactly who those boys were because they were keeping track.”
Your head dropped to the table with a dramatic thud. “Why does Dad always have the need to air my embarrassing phase like that,” you said, voice muffled against the table.
Lando laughed. “Hey, it’s not that bad,” he reassured you.
Lifting your head, you frowned at him, still mortified. “Okay, but in my defense, I always had a feeling that they knew. Especially dad. I wasn’t exactly completely sure, you know? But now…” you sighed, gesturing at him. “Now I know that they know. Great.”
He reached across the table, fingers brushing against yours. “Is that why none of those boys ever made it past your family’s front door?”
“Yup,” you said, nodding. “Not a single one got far enough to meet my parents, I couldn’t really stand the thought of introducing someone who didn’t actually care about me at all.”
You continued, leaning back in your chair. “Along the way, I realized that they only wanted to be with me because of my family. They saw me as some kind of tool…I guess. Like being with me would give them status, connections, or some kind of benefit.”
Lando’s smile faded slightly, his expression turning serious. “I can imagine how tough it must’ve been.”
“I know,” you admitted. “I just wanted genuine connections, but they just saw me as an opportunity. So, before things got messy, I was always the one who ended it first. That’s why none of them ever got through the door of my parent’s house, or let alone set foot on our estate. They weren’t worth it at all.”
Lando reached across the table, hand covering yours. “Well, for the record, I’m glad your Dad approves of me, and I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m here because of you, not anything else.” he then added, “I do hope that I’ve done a better job at proving I’m not one of those boys.”
You smiled, finger tightening around his. “You’re not even close. You’re nothing like them, Lan. You’ve made it more clear, that’s why you’re here now.”
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains as you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing out the delicate fabric of your gown. The gown was breathtaking, every inch was meticulously crafted by Giambattista Valli himself. The subtle shimmer in the fabric caught the light as you moved, and you smiled, tracing your fingers over the discreet initials that had been embroidered near the hem—a personal touch that made the gown uniquely yours. Lando’s suit complemented you perfectly, a sharp, tailored masterpiece with matching initials of his name on the inner lapel.
Lando adjusted the cuffs on his crisp white dress shirt but fumbled slightly with the cuff links. Noticing his struggle, you stepped in closer, gently taking the cuff links from his hands.
“Here, babe, let me,” you said softly, deftly fastening the sleek gold links.
His eyes met yours, a small smile forming on his lips. “Thanks, love. You always know how to save me, huh.”
“You’d manage eventually,” you replied with a teasing smile, your fingers lingering for a moment on his wrist. “But we can’t afford to be late.”
Just as you finished, a soft chime from your phone notified you of the arrival of the car. “The car's here,” you said, stepping back to grab your clutch.
Lando picked up his jacket, slipping it on before crossing the room to you. “Ready?” he asked, offering his arm.
“Ready,” you confirmed, taking his arm as he led you to the door.
The car was waiting at the entrance, its sleek black exterior gleaming in the sunlight. The chauffeur quickly stepped out, opening the door for you, and Lando helped you down the small steps, his hand steady at your back as you navigated the delicate heels you were wearing. He opened the car door, his free hand gently resting on yours as you lowered yourself into the plush interior.
“Careful,” he murmured, making sure you were settled before following after you.
Once he was seated beside you, the car pulled smoothly away, the soft hum of the engine filled the air. You glanced at the matching embroidery on your outfits, a quiet sense of anticipation washing over you as you looked ahead to the day’s events.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the First Methodist Church, the scene outside was a whirlwind of flashing cameras and steady buzz of voices. There was a long line of luxury vehicles stretched down the street, each one spilling out more high-profile guests—foreign dignitaries, government leaders, business tycoons, and a studded lineup of Asia’s brightest stars.
Crowds outside were a sea of media personnel, their cameras aimed and ready to capture every moment of what deemed Singapore’s wedding of the century, akin to Royal Asian Wedding. The chauffeur stepped out and swiftly opened Lando’s door. He exited gracefully, buttoning his tailored suit jacket before turning to offer you a hand. You placed your hand in his, and helped you out of the car.
The moment you fully got out of the car, the flash of the cameras intensified, different photographers yelling questions and calling your names. You paused beside Lando, your arm loosely looped through his, both of you offering calm, poised expressions for the cameras.
“This is a lot,” Lando murmured under his breath, leaning closer so only you could hear.
“Welcome to Singapore’s media circus,” you replied quietly, managing a polite smile as you stood in place for a few more seconds.
The attention was relentless. A few reporters called out to Lando directly, asking for interviews or comments, their voices cutting through the crowd. He shook his head subtly, lifting a hand to politely decline as the two of you turned to make your way towards the church entrance.
You glided across the red carpet, your hand still resting lightly on Lando’s arm. As you approached the grand doors, the tall, ornate arches of the church loomed above, intricate carvings catching the light. The media frenzy continues behind you, but you maintain your composure.
Then, as you entered the threshold, a familiar face came into view, one that is so familiar with you—Francesca Shaw. She stood just off the side, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd as if assessing everyone in attendance. Her pristine gold dress was undoubtedly designer, her hair styled to perfection.
Your expression shifted instantly, a smile vanishing into a deadpan look. Francesca caught your gaze for a moment, her lips twitching as if she might say something, but your firm expression was enough to make her quickly redirect her attention to something, or rather someone else.
Lando noticed the brief exchange as you both walked past her. “Who’s that?” he asked, voice low but curious.
You glanced at him. “Francesca Shaw,” you replied simply, keeping your tone neutral.
He furrowed his brows. “Should I know who she is? Friend of yours?”
“Fuck no,” you answered quickly. “She was the one that’s responsible for the gutted fish in Rachel’s bed during Minty’s bachelorette party.”
Lando blinked, steps faltering for just a moment. “Wait, that’s her?!”
“Mm-hmm,” you confirmed, leading him further into the church. “Best to steer clear. Nothing good comes from her.”
He nodded, expression tightening slightly as he glanced back toward Francesca. “Noted.”
As you and Lando stepped into the main part of the church, the sheer opulence of the space struck you in awe. The vaulted ceilings were adorned with intricate gold details, and the air was filled with soft strains of a live string quartet stationed discreetly in one corner. Every surface seemed to glisten, whether from the polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers, or the hundreds of white orchids cascading over every available surface. It was evident that no expense had been spared—the grandeur practically screamed wealth and power.
Lando’s eyes scanned the space as he whistled low, “this is extravagant.”
You smiled, leaning slightly closer to him as you whispered back, “wait until you see the reception. This is just the warm-up.”
You and Lando moved further into the church, where you caught sight of your family by one of the pews. Your mother stood alongside your Auntie Alix, Auntie Eleanor, and Auntie Jacqueline, their presence commanding attention as they chatted with a group of equally polished society wives. It was a familiar tableau—your aunts all clustered together, forming an impenetrable circle of sharp eyes and even more sharper tongues.
Predictably, your Auntie Eleanor seemed to be critiquing the whole setup. She gestured subtly towards the floral arrangements, her expression a mix of disapproval and thinly veiled judgement. While your Auntie Jacqueline, ever the pragmatist, seemed to be nodding in agreement, and your mother maintained her usual composed smile, occasionally offering diplomatic comments.
You and Lando approached them briefly, exchanging polite greetings. Your mother’s smile softened when she saw you, and she leaned in to kiss your cheek.
“You look very lovely, my darling,” she said, before glancing at Lando and adding, “and the two of you together—perfection, as always!”
After a few moments of pleasantries, you had excused yourselves, knowing the four of them would stick together for the ceremony and be seated in the same pew.
You made your way to the second row, you noted that the first row had been reserved for the Khoos and Lees, with Colin and Araminta’s immediate families already seated. You scanned the room quickly but no sign of Rachel yet, though Nick was near the altar with Colin and the other groomsmen, laughing and chatting. You assumed Rachel must be somewhere nearby.
Upon reaching your seats, you and Lando slid into the second row, settling into the plush velvet cushions. Three rows behind you, your mother and aunts had taken their places, their polished presence unmistakable even without turning around.
You leaned towards Lando, lowering your voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “So, I heard from Auntie Alix,” you began, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, “that Colin and Minty’s family spent sixty-five million dollars on this wedding.”
Lando’s eyes widened slightly, though he managed to keep his expression neutral. “Sixty-five?” he repeated under his breath.
You nodded, biting back a laugh as you added, “and it made me laugh because I heard Auntie Jacqueline said, ‘we’re Methodists, forty million is our maximum budget for a wedding like this.’”
That was enough to make Lando chuckle softly and shake his head in disbelief. “Forty million is the maximum?” he echoed, tone incredulous but amused.
You grinned, leaning back slightly but keeping your voice low. “Apparently, anything above that is considered excessive—even by our standards.”
Then, you turned around discreetly in your seat to scan the church again, searching for Rachel. It didn’t take long to spot her, she had just arrived and was being greeted warmly by Oliver by the entrance. She moved with a quiet confidence, her luminous presence immediately drawing attention. Heads all turning as she walked past, captivated by the stunning dress she wore—a rich light blue that complimented her complexion perfectly and subtly shimmered in the light.
Your aunts, seated a few rows behind you, were visibly taken aback. Auntie Eleanor, who rarely displays much reaction, looked momentarily stunned, her usual sharp expression softening into one of unguarded surprise. Your Auntie Alix leaned closer to whisper something to her, and Auntie Jacqueline adjusted her posture, almost as if reevaluating Rachel in that moment.
Your mother, however, was all warmth. You could see her beaming brightly at Rachel, her smile filled with genuine approval. You knew immediately what she was thinking, she completely adored the dress and the elegance Rachel exuded.
But something else caught your attention. Rachel glanced towards the pew where your mother and aunts were seated, but she didn’t move towards them. It was obvious she had not been invited to sit with them. Likely, they had made some excuses about how their pew was full, even though you could see there was space.
Rachel hesitated for a brief moment, her eyes scanning the room for an empty seat. Without thinking twice, you raised your hand and waved her over, her eyes lighting up when she saw you, and she made her way towards you. When she reached you, you immediately stood up and pulled her into a warm hug.
“You look absolutely incredible,” you whispered, meaning every word. You stepped back slightly to admire the dress. “That color on you, it’s just so perfect.”
Rachel smiled, her cheeks flushing just slightly. “Thank you,” she replied softly, clearly touched by the compliment.
You gestured to the space beside you. “Come, come. Sit with us,” you said, nodding toward the pew. “There’s plenty of room here.”
She hesitated for only a second before accepting. “Thank you,” she said, voice genuine.
Rachel slid into the pew beside you, and you could feel a subtle sense of relief in her presence as she settled into the seat. Lando leaned over slightly to greet Rachel with a polite nod and warm smile, and exchanged a quick look with him, silently acknowledging how significant this small act of kindness was, especially considering the dynamics at play.
Then, the murmur of the crowd faded into silence as Colin, Nick, and the four other groomsmen made their entrance alongside the pastor. Together, they formed an impeccable picture of elegance and charm, with their perfectly tailored suits catching the soft glow of the church lights. They walked with synchronized strides, confident yet there’s a reverent air about them, like a dashing pack.
Your attention drifted to Rachel, seated beside you, and the way her expression softened when her eyes found Nick. You caught the subtle shift in her demeanor as their gazes locked, a quiet exchange of affection that needed no words. There was something magnetic about the way they looked at each other, as though the entire room fell away for just a brief moment.
A hush of anticipation swept over the congregation as Kina Grannis took the stage by the live string quartet. Her voice rose delicately, the familiar strains of I Can’t Help Falling in Love filled the whole church with a dreamy, romantic air. The melody was sweet and tender, it struck a chord deep within, making the atmosphere impossibly more magical.
Two tiny figures appeared at the entrance—adorable flower girls, their tiny hands clasping wicker baskets as they scattered delicate petals along the aisle. They moved in a choreographed sweetness, bright smiles stealing the hearts of everyone in the room.
Behind them, toddled an equally charming ring bearer, clutching the pillow with seriousness that belied his young age. Each careful step he took earned a quiet chuckle from the crowd, his determination clear as he reached the altar. Nick crouched slightly, taking the ring pillow from the boy, and the playful high-five exchanged between them drew a ripple of soft laughter and smiles.
There was a collective gasp echoing through the church. Water began to flow, a gentle cascade spilling onto the aisle, shimmering as it caught the light. It trickled in perfect harmony, creating a luminous, rippling path that stretched from the entrance to the altar. The sound of water intertwined with the stillness of the music, holding everyone in awe.
The lights dimmed suddenly, and the soft flicker of long delicate stems with glowing tips spread through the crowd like fireflies. One by one, everyone in the congregation reached for the stems and held it aloft, their glittery illumination casting a celestial over the church, all eyes turning towards the entrance.
A group of bridesmaids stood poised, holding beautifully decorated large fronds that veiled what could only be Araminta. Their positioning was precise, deliberate, and graceful. With a choreographed motion, the bridesmaids slowly lifted the fronds, revealing Araminta, standing right next to her father. The moment was breathtaking—she radiated an ethereal elegance that made her appear almost otherworldly.
Araminta held her father’s hand as she gracefully stepped out of her towering heels. The hushed audience barely had a chance to react before she stepped forward, placing her bare feet onto the watery aisle. The music resumed, delicate yet triumphant, as she began her slow, graceful walk.
The bridesmaids followed closely behind her, their steps echoing her elegance, as the congregation swayed their glittery lights in unison. It was a scene out of a dream, a river of light and water that guided Araminta towards her future. From your seat, you could see Colin at the altar, his composed demeanor wavered, expression softening as he took in the sight of Araminta, eyes glistening with unshed tears, emotion written plainly on his face.
You didn’t exactly know what came over you, but as you sat there in the church, watching Colin and Araminta exchange glances filled with love and anticipation, a thought took root inside your mind. The entire wedding, its grandeur, intimacy, and the sense of two people stepping into forever had stirred something within you. It was not a matter of envy or longing for the spectacle itself, but it was the way Colin looked at Araminta—the way she smiled back at him, and the unspoken promise that passed between them.
Perhaps, selfishly, you found yourself imagining that kind of future for yourself. Not just marriage for the sake of it, but a marriage with Lando. The idea settled gently, not as a plan or something to be rushed, but as a hope—a quiet wish for someday. Though it was still too early now, you both were at the top of your careers, still growing individually and as a couple. A year of dating was only the beginning, and there was no need to rush, but the seed of the thought was already there, talking with surprising ease.
It made you genuinely happy to see Colin and Araminta standing at the altar. You had been an observer of their relationship from the beginning, a silent witness to the small and significant moments that had brought them to this day.
Growing up, Colin had been a near-constant presence in your family’s life, a fixture at every gathering and celebration. He was practically an honorary member of your family, and it felt like he belonged there just as much as anyone else. You had seen how Colin pined for Araminta, how he had talked Nick’s ear off about her, recounting every detail of their interactions with the kind of fervor only someone deeply in love could manage. Nick had confided that much to you during your conversations over the years, shaking his head fondly at how his best friend could turn any discussion into one about Araminta.
Your relationship with Nick has always been different from that with your other cousins. Despite the age gap, there was a closeness there that came naturally. Unlike many of your other cousins, who were either too competitive or too caught up in their own bubbles, Nick had always been kind, grounded, and someone you can rely on. Growing up, you often found yourself gravitating towards him, trusting him in ways you could not with the others.
So, seeing Colin—Nick’s best friend, your family’s honorary member, now finally standing with Araminta, the woman he had loved for so long, felt like a full circle of something extraordinary. It made you believe in the kind of love that could weather time and challenges, the kind of love that could one day be yours with Lando.
The reception took place at Gardens by the Bay, where the Botanical Gardens had been transformed into a scene straight out of fairytales. It was utterly breathtaking—every detail meticulously designed to create an almost otherworldly atmosphere. The iconic supertrees stretched overhead, illuminated with soft lights that shimmered in sync with the music. A Chinese big band played softly, filling the air with a nostalgic charm, while fireworks erupted in bursts of vibrant color against the dark night sky, casting an ethereal glow over the festivities.
Colin and Araminta were having their first dance at the center of it all, moving effortlessly in harmony. The wedding party stood loosely circled around them, watching the moment in admiration. You stood close to Lando, his arms loosely draped around your waist, holding you gently but securely. Chest pressed against your back as he swayed with you to the rhythm of the music, a silent echo of the couple’s dance.
Lando leaned in closer, voice low and intimate as he said, “you know, I didn’t really get the chance to tell you earlier, but you look absolutely stunning today, baby.”
His words caught you slightly off guard, but the sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten with warmth. Before you could respond, he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, lingering just long enough for his breath to tickle your skin.
“And this dress,” he added, lips brushing against your exposed shoulder now, “it’s beautiful. But it doesn’t even come close to how insanely beautiful you are.”
Your heart raced as Lando shifted, tilting your face gently towards his. His lips captured yours in a kiss, slow and tender, yet filled with a quiet intensity that made the world around you momentarily dissolve. When Lando pulled back, his eyes met yours, a glint of affection and something deeper reflecting in the warm light of the supertrees.
When Colin and Araminta’s first dance came to an end, the band seamlessly transitioned to a lively and upbeat tune. The atmosphere shifted immediately, with laughter bubbling through the crowd, and Araminta, radiant and full of energy, already had an outfit change, began beckoning guests onto the dance floor.
“Come on, come on!” she called out, her voice carrying over the music. “The party isn’t going to dance itself!”
You and Lando exchanged a quick glance, a shared look of amusement and anticipation. Without any single hesitation, he took your hand gently, lacing his fingers through yours.
“Let’s go,” he said, tone light and teasing.
“Lan, babe, I don’t really—” you began, hesitating slightly, but he was already pulling you toward the dance floor.
“You’re with me,” he assured, grinning reassuringly. “I won’t let you look awkward, I promise.”
The music pulsed through the whole garden, and the dance floor was quickly filling with guests, each one letting loose in the joyful chaos of the celebration, singing along with the band. You had never considered yourself much of a dancer, the thought of dancing always made you self-conscious. Your movements felt stiff and unnatural, and the fear of looking out of place usually kept you from even trying. But with Lando, it was different.
Lando kept a firm but gentle grip on your hand, spinning you lightly to the rhythm of Wo Yao Ni De Ai. His energy was very contagious, movements all natural and easy, and he guided you effortlessly, making sure you felt comfortable.
“Just follow my lead,” he said, voice steady over the music. “And don’t think about it too much.”
You did as he said, allowing yourself to let go of the self-consciousness. You focused on him, and only him—Lando’s playful smile, the way his hands steadied you, the warmth of his presence. Soon, the tension that you’re feeling in your body eased, and you found yourself laughing as you moved to the beat.
“I told you you'd be fine,” Lando said, voice filled with a playful confidence.
“I still think I look very ridiculous,” you replied, laughter spilling out.
“You look amazing,” he countered without missing a beat.
The two of you moved seamlessly among the crowd, completely immersed in the music and the moment. Lando twirled you under his arm, making you laugh again as you stumbled slightly, but his steady hands caught you before you could lose balance.
As the music reached its end, he pulled you in closer. Lando’s movements slowed, the lively rhythm fading into the background as his gaze locked with yours. There was an intensity in his eyes, a soft, unspoken emotion that made you breath catch. Without a word, he leaned in, lips capturing yours in a kiss—gentle, tender, and filled with quiet passion that seemed to echo everything unsaid between you.
When he pulled back, a small smile played on his lips. “See? You’re a natural,” he teased, tone soft and warm.
You just rolled your eyes at him, but couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. The music had picked up again, and without hesitation, you two returned to the rhythm of the night, dancing together with an ease and happiness that made the rest of the world fade away, leaving you and Lando in a little bubble that you made yourself.
As the party went on, you and Lando continued swaying to the rhythm of the music, letting the night carry you in its revelry. The energy of the party was contagious, and you both were determined to make the most of it. The crowd around you was lively, a series of laughter and chatter blending into the music.
Suddenly, someone bumped into you, jostling you slightly. Turning to see who it was, you found yourself face-to-face with Rachel, who was looking very upset, her expression disoriented and distressed as she weaved through the throng of dancing guests.
“Rachel?” you called out, instinctively reaching out to her, your brows furrowing with concern.
Lando gently let go of your hand, his expression mirroring yours. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked, his voice laced with worry.
Rachel, however, did not respond. She seemed lost in her thoughts, her gaze darting around as if trying to find something, or someone. Her pace was erratic and quickened as she moved further into the crowd.
You were about to follow her when a piercing scream cut through the music, causing heads to turn. There was laughter and the unmistakable hum of a crowd gathering, phones were raised in unison, their screens glowing as guests pointed toward something, or someone hidden behind the bushes near the edge of the garden.
Your stomach dropped as you and Lando turned to see what the commotion was about. Emerging from the bushes was half-naked Bernard Tai, his shirt already gone and his pants barely clinging to his hips. His movements were chaotic, clearly drunk, and he pawed at Kitty Pong, who struggled to pull herself away.
Kitty, the girlfriend of your cousin Alistair, looked utterly mortified. Her dress was disheveled, and her face was flushed with shame as she desperately tried to cover herself. Bernard, oblivious to the humiliation that they are now facing and radiating off of Kitty, stumbles toward her again, but she shoves him back.
The crowd wasn’t really helping. Instead of intervening, they just stood there, laughing, and some guests outright pointing and jeering, others filming the entire scene as Kitty managed to pull her dress up and flee from the scene, heels clicking sharply against the pavement as she disappeared into the night.
You felt a mix of shock and disgust twist in your stomach, gaze flicking between the fleeing Kitty and the drunken Bernard, who was now slumped against a nearby table, seemingly unaware, or uncaring, of the chaos he had caused. At Colin and Araminta’s wedding, nonetheless.
Lando shook his head in disbelief. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.
Though your attention snapped back to Rachel. She had managed to stop briefly during the commotion, her body all stiff and face unreadable as she watched the scene unfold.
“Rachel!” you called again, but by the time you stepped forward, she was already gone, melting into the crowd and disappearing from view.
A few moments later, Nick came running toward you and Lando, face flushed and breathing uneven. “Have you guys seen Rachel?” he asked urgently, eyes scanning the crowd as though hoping she might reappear.
You glanced back toward the direction Rachel had gone, your worry mounting. “She was just here, but—”
“She already left, mate.” Lando finished, voice somber.
Nick looked around frantically, but it was clear he was too late. Rachel was already nowhere to be found, and whatever had just unfolded seemed to mark the abrupt descent of what had been.
As the night wound down, you and Lando decided it was time to call it a day. The events of the wedding had been unforgettable, but the exhaustion was starting to creep in. Knowing that you only had one day left in Singapore before flying to the UK for Christmas, you both set out to find Colin and Araminta to thank them properly.
After weaving through the remaining guests hand in hand, you finally spotted the newlyweds near the dance floor, glowing with happiness as they spoke to family and friends. When you approached, Colin was the first to notice, greeting you and Lando with a wide smile.
“Hey, you two! Having a good time?” Colin asked, tone warm and genuine.
“A very amazing time,” you replied with a smile. “Thank you so much for inviting us. This was truly the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever been to.”
“Absolutely,” Lando added, nodding. “It was really incredible. Congratulations again to both of you.”
Araminta beamed, her hands resting lightly on Colin’s arm. “Thank you so much for coming. It means the world to us to have you here.”
“Though we wish we could’ve stayed longer,” you said, “but we’re flying back to the UK the day after tomorrow to spend Christmas with Lan’s family.”
Araminta’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s very wonderful! But before you go, we absolutely need a picture together.”
She glanced around and quickly called over a photographer, waving him toward your small group. “We need a picture of the four of us,” she told the photographer with a laugh.
The photographer positioned all of you, and Colin gently placed a hand on Lando’s shoulder while Araminta stood beside you, her arm lightly around your waist. The flash went off, capturing the moment perfectly.
“Wait, wait,” Araminta said after the photographer stepped away. “We need one on your phone too!”
You quickly pulled out your phone, handing it to her so she could take the picture. She directed Colin to pull in a little closer so you could all fit on the frame. This time, the pose was more casual, with everyone leaning in and smiling brightly.
After the pictures were taken, Colin suddenly chimed in. “Oh, by the way, Harrison mentioned the other day that you’re moving to Monaco soon?”
You nodded. “That’s the plan. Everything’s set to go in a few weeks.”
“Then we’ll probably see you in Monaco soon!” Araminta said with a smile. “We’ve got a few trips planned early next year.”
“Definitely! Let us know when you’re coming,” Lando said. “We’ll take you around and catch up.”
“For sure, man! Absolutely.” Colin replied, grinning wide.
You and Lando hugged Colin and Araminta goodbye, exchanging heartfelt well wishes for their honeymoon and married life ahead. As you turned to leave, Araminta gave your hand a quick squeeze.
“Have a safe trip, and Merry Christmas!” she said happily.
“Merry Christmas!” you and Lando said in unison before heading off to find your mother.
Your mother was seated at a table, chatting animatedly with your Auntie Eleanor. When she saw you approach, she stood up and pulled you into a warm embrace.
“You two leaving already?” she asked, tone affectionate.
“We are,” you said softly. “But it was such a beautiful wedding. Everything was perfect.”
“I’m so glad you could be home,” she replied, smoothing a hand over your arm. “Have a safe flight to the UK, and please give my regards to Lando’s family.”
“We will,” you promised, hugging her tightly once more before stepping back. “Lando and I will be back for the New Year’s.”
Your mother stretched out her arms to Lando, giving him a hug. “Thank you for everything.”
“Take good care of her, okay?” your mother reminded, as she smiled at Lando kindly.
“Always,” Lando replied with quiet sincerity.
When you and Lando finally walked through the door of your home, a deep sense of relief washed over you both. The quiet was a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, and you couldn’t help but sigh as you finally slipped off your heels by the entryway. Lando stretched his arms over his head, letting a low groan before giving you a small smile.
“Fucking finally,” he said, voice filled with exhaustion but tinged with amusement. “Home sweet home. That was…something, huh.”
You nodded, placing your clutch by the glass table. “Eventful doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
After settling down on the couch, you pulled out your phone and sent Rachel a quick text:
Hey, Rachel. I hope you’re okay. If you need anything or just want to talk, I’m always here for you.
You stared at the screen for a few moments before putting the phone down. There was a lot on your mind, but Rachel’s well-being was at the top of the list right now. Lando was already seated, leaning back against the cushions with his tie undone and his jacket draped over the armrest. He turned to you with a tired grin.
“That’s got to be the most entertaining wedding reception I’ve ever been to. Not wild, exactly, but definitely eventful. I mean—” he gestured vaguely with his hands. “What even was that? Who are those people?”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You mean Bernard and Kitty?”
“Yeah.” Lando nodded.
You sighed deeply, not really knowing where to begin or how to start the conversation about Bernard and Kitty. “Bernard Tai is…well, where do I even fucking start with that guy? Let’s see…he’s the only son of Dato’ Tai Toh Lui and Carol Tai, an insanely wealthy family. The Tai Fortune is massive, and Bernad’s basically the heir to all of it. He’s a former classmate of Nick and Colin back in the day.”
“And?” Lando prompted, tilting his head.
“And he’s spoiled as fuck,” you said bluntly. “Like, obnoxiously spoiled. He’s been handed everything his entire life and spends his day burning through money on the most ridiculous shit. He lives for excess and has zero accountability for anything he does. Basically, to sum up all of it—he’s a walking disaster who somehow gets away with everything because of daddy’s money and his family’s influence.”
Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by all of it. “Sounds like he’s a real charmer.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s one way to put it.” you hesitated for a moment before continuing. “And then there’s Ms. Kitty Pong.”
“She’s Alistair’s girlfriend, right?” Lando asked, recalling her name from earlier.
“That’s ex-girlfriend now,” you corrected. “Kitty’s…a real piece of work. She used to be a soap opera star who decided to pivot into climbing the social ladder. She’s been trying, well, desperately, to get into the higher social circles here, but that’s not really going well for her.”
You continued, “most people look down on her because they see her as a gold-digger, and honestly, they’re not really wrong. She's always relying on people like Oliver or Corinna Ko-Tung—Fiona’s cousin, to help her navigate these circles.”
Lando frowned slightly. “And Bernard?”
“Not much better, honestly,” you shrugged. “Yes, he’s a part of our circle, but no one takes him seriously because he’s…well, Bernard. After tonight? Him and Kitty just cemented themselves as gossip fodder for weeks, maybe months. What they pulled tonight at Colin and Minty’s wedding reception is only going to add fuel to the fire. Kitty’s already seen as an outsider, and now, people have an excuse to talk, ridicule, and ostracize her even more.”
He let out a low whistle, leaning his head back against the couch. “That’s rough. But honestly, I don’t get why they thought this, of all nights, was the right time to make a scene.”
You exhaled sharply, the frustration you had been holding back starting to bubble up. “Exactly. Colin and Minty’s wedding was supposed to be their moment. They’ve worked so hard to make it perfect, and then Bernard and Kitty come along and turn it into…that.”
Lando reaches over, taking your hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, don’t let them ruin it for you. The wedding was still beautiful, and Colin and Minty looked so happy. That’s what matters, right?”
You nodded slowly, trying to let go of your irritation. “Yeah, you’re right. It's just…makes me mad, you know? They deserved better than that.”
They did,” Lando agreed, voice soft. “But it’s already over now, and you can’t control what other people do. All you can do now is focus on the good parts of the day, and trust me, there were a lot of those.”
You smiled faintly, leaning into him. “Thanks for the reminder. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Lando pressed a light kiss to the top of your head. “Always.”
CARBON COPY | Miguel O'Hara
☆ premise: trying to find miles morales in earth-42, he encounters you. or at least, a version of you.
☆ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!alt universe!reader
☆ warnings: across the spiderverse spoilers, pregnant!reader, clueless!reader, angst, hurt no comfort, miguel's pov, some swearing
☆ a/n: oh my god. across the spiderverse is literally a masterpiece. into the spiderverse already is, but the spiderverse team said, "we can do better." they didn't have to, but they did.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Jessica asked through the commlink. "This is risky, even by your standards."
"It doesn't matter. The quicker we find Miles, the quicker we get out of here." Miguel muttered into his earpiece as he walked through the busy streets of Earth-42's New York.
"Yes, but blending in? For all we know, a version of us exists here."
"Which is why you need to stop talking and start looking, Jess." Miguel hissed a little too loud, earning looks from a few passerbys. He winced. Jessica had a point. If a version of them did exist in this universe, it would be best not to bring attention to themselves.
"Miguel!"
And... that was now thrown out of the window. Cursing under his breath, he turned around reluctantly to face the person who called him—only to find that it was you.
His eyes widened, and his lips parted at the sight of you. Never in a million years did he expect to see her again. But here you were, the absolute spitting image of her. Your clothes were exactly the same things she would wear, your hair and makeup done the same way.
Finding different versions of people in different universes was not uncommon. There's literally a society uniting the different universes' own Spider-people, for God's sake. But Miguel didn't expect this. He didn't expect a carbon copy of his dead wife on a universe where Spider-Man did not exist.
He should've said he wasn't Miguel, that you were mistaking him for someone else. Hell, he shouldn't have stopped and turned around in the first place. He didn't know what came over him, but in a second, he had his arms wrapped around your body.
"Miguel, hon, are you okay?" You asked, your voice laced with surprise and concern. You had no clue that the man who was hugging you was not your husband. At least, not your husband in this universe.
Miguel grunted in response, his ability to string words together to form a sentence rendered broken by your presence. He squeezed you tighter. He couldn't believe he was holding you in his arms.
You weren't the same woman he fell in love with. He knows this. But he couldn't help himself. You looked exactly like her. Felt exactly like her. Sounded exactly like her. Shit, you even smelled like her.
"Damn it, Miguel, keep it together! She's not your wife!"
Hearing Jess' voice snapped Miguel out of his stupor. Remembering his mission, why he was there in the first place, he pulled away from you. He didn't want to. He wanted to hold you longer. But he knew that if he did, he wouldn't have been able to stop.
"Honey, what's wrong?" You asked, cupping his face in your hands. God, how he missed feeling the warmth of your palms. "You're acting weird."
"I'm fine, sweetheart." He gave you a small smile, his hands wrapping around yours and his lips pressing a kiss on each of your wrists. "I just missed you, that's all."
You laughed. "What are you talking about? You saw me this morning."
Miguel could only chuckle in an attempt to hide his sadness. What was only hours for you was months for him. "Right. I did."
"Are you sure you're okay, though?" You asked again, eyebrows furrowing and the corners of your lips downturned.
"Don't worry about it, darling. I am."
He wasn't. But you didn't need to know that. You didn't need to know that in another universe, the two of you were married. You didn't need to know that you had a daughter together. You didn't need to know that he loved you and your daughter more than life itself, only for him to lose you both.
"Listen, I have to go. I'm having lunch with a friend. But I'll see you later at Doctor Nguyen's, okay?" You placed your hands on your stomach, a smile forming on your face. "I can't wait to see her again."
Miguel swallowed the lump in his throat before forcing himself to smile. Only now he noticed the bump on your stomach, carrying a different Miguel's Gabriella. "Yeah, me too."
With a kiss goodbye on his cheek, you walked away, blissfully unaware that he was not your Miguel. He watched as you disappeared around the corner, knowing it was the first and last time he was ever going to see you again.
But that didn't matter. He'll find Miles. He'll make sure the canon isn't destroyed. He'll make sure another version of himself wouldn't have to suffer the loss of his family the same way he did. He'll make sure you and your kid were safe.
From the Ashes Pt.50
Pairing(s): Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, one-sided!Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Cersei Lannister
Warnings: slow burn fic, changing povs, MC POV, long chapter ahead, the big 5-0 :)
Words: 6445
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21
Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44
Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49
When Rhiannon and Ray arrived at Asshai’s harbor, the temple ship was already mostly submerged in the inky black water. A local harbor master had been peering out of his window and saw the whole thing, according to Inniros, who interrogated the slightly scared old man. Darkin didn’t make it a habit to go into the dark city. They stayed in the mountains, but one could tell what they were with one glimpse.
The salted old man told Inniros how giant tentacles pierced through the water and dragged their vessel down, as did whoever was on it. There were no survivors. No planks of wood breached the water's surface in a last-ditch attempt for salvation.
“So it was just some. . . Freak accident?” Jalsolin asks, something of hesitant disbelief crept onto his sharp features.
Loviisa shook her head. “No. It was anything but an accident. The harbor master said there were three hooded figures standing on the dock just before the sea creature awoke. They summoned it.”
Master Batur and Lady Nazneen, who had been sitting next to each other in matching arm chairs, glance at the other. A silent conversation danced in their eyes.
Logs in the fireplace snapped under the intensity of the flames that could never quite warm you enough. Especially now you realize you and everyone else were stranded in the Shadowlands. Unless another ship was procured in the city, if the harbor master had been so hesitant to talk to Inniros and Ray, then others might not be keen to help out foreigners allied with shadow dancers.
“Nothing to note on the way back?” Syzhal asks. The scars that disfigured her face flicker garishly against the orange and yellow afterglow of the flames.
Ray shook his head. “All was quiet. Perhaps a little too quiet but that’s how this whole land seems to be. Like you’re constantly being watched.”
“You are constantly being watched here.” Lady Nazneen taps her ringed fingers against the arm chair’s cushion. Her eyes, the only visible part of her face, are looking far off; like she can see the hidden spy of Asshai that carries whispers and secrets.
Melisandre purses her lips, considering what Lady Nazneen had said. “Do you or Master Batur have an idea of who those cloaked figures were?” She stood next to where Ray sat, her hands clasped in front of her. Weles stands at the fiery priest’s other side, for once biting his tongue. Carefully he observed the master darkins’ faces for any sign of deception.
Batur, with eagle sharp eyes, catch this and he levels his own ice blue eyes against Weles’ ones filled with accusations. “We have an idea of what it can be. Living in the Shadow Hills, we’ve come across many of Asshai’s residences. Both mortal and monsters alike. Creatures like them, they’ve lived here far before us. Far before the city of Stygai’s destruction. Their power is ancient and formidable.”
“From the attack we can ascertain that they know about (y/n). There were other ships still intact in the harbor.” Inniros immediately adds in, circling back to the concern both you and Rhiannon had whispered about before going to tell the masters.
There were many reasons why someone you had never met would want to kill you. Assassins sent by Cersei. Poachers that enviously eyed your beautiful dragon. Terrorists against the Faith of R’hllor. Many more could be added to the list that you weren’t even aware of. These old monsters of the Shadowlands though. . . You wondered what their reason was to maroon you in Asshai.
“Yes, that is certain.” Batur agrees with his pupil’s assessment.
The echoing sound of someone knocking on wood steers attention to mute Ulian. His pale face was full of concern. Right hand in front of face, palm facing him, his index finger and thumb form a small circle. It goes to clench three times before shape shifting with his index and middle finger looking like legs skating on an icy lake.
You still couldn’t decipher what his hand gestures could possibly mean. Always watching intently when he spoke through gestures, you had learned nothing from doing so.
Whatever it was made Syzhal’s nose curl up in disagreement and Qheen straighten his spine like a rod. Syzhal’s small eyes dart to her mistress. “My lady, I understand this girl is Azor Ahai reborn, but to actively go and look for the Morghons-“
“We are well aware of what it means. To make them an enemy would be ill advised but they have threatened the safety of Lady (y/n).” Nazneen silences the argumentative Syzhal.
Morghon. That sounded very close to the Valyrian word for vulture.
Master Batur gets to his feet in such a quick motion that has Inniros, Loviisa and Ulian flinching. His tone is clipped when he announces “The Lady Nazneen and I will search for the three assailants. They couldn’t have gotten very far.”
“Please take one of us with you.” Syzhal hastily looks to Nazneen, not liking the idea of the woman who raised her being in any sort of danger. “While the two of you have more power than any of us, it is still not wise to go in two against three.”
Lady Nazneen regards Syzhal thoughtfully before turning to Batur. “We do lack Ameer’s shadows. It wouldn’t hurt to take two others with us.”
A click of his tongue was the only sign of his acquiescence. Lady Nazneen turns to Syzhal and nods. “You will come along with us. As will Inniros.”
That caused a moment of thick silence as Inniros turns to the darkin masters. “With all due respect, I desire to stay here to protect (y/n).”
Qheen derisively scoffed from under his mask. Batur only stares at the one-eyed darkin. Their pale blue eyes were near identical to the other’s. Their high cheekbones also gave them mirrored features.
Not even Nazneen dares to intervene between master and pupil. Their relationship had always been a tumultuous one since the day Batur pulled Inniros from his dying mother’s arms. It was his mother though to give him up to the darkin master without a fight.
Batur’s lips were pressed hard together as he fought to initially reject this request. He glances over to you though and seems to come to a decision.
All but ignoring Inniros and pretending he had never asked, Batur calls out for Qheen to join them. The masked darkin bows respectfully.
“What do you plan on doing when you find them?” You abruptly ask.
”We will decide when we find them.” Was all Batur had left to say before leaving the room. Lady Nazneen and the picked two follow shortly after.
Weles takes his turn to address who was left, mainly your original group from Volantis. “Are we just supposed to stay here?”
“It’s safer here than out there.” Rhiannon points out. “I’m sure it won’t take long for veteran darkin to find who they’re looking for.”
“We need to send some sort of message to the temple.” Ray murmurs more so to himself but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear. His usual jovial air had dried up leaving his eyes dark and contemplative.
He wouldn’t say what everyone was thinking though: even if a ship was available to them, what would stop the Morghons from doing the same thing.
Jalsolin sighs and leans his head back, making it hang over the chaise lounge. “It’s best to wait for the masters to return. While we haven’t been on friendly terms with them, they respect the power and history of the darkin. There’s a slim chance that Lady Nazneen and Master Batur can talk reasonably with them.”
Ulian grimaces, a flurry of hand motions weaving into a sentence which only the darkin understood. Loviisa offers him a strained smile. “Master Batur knows better than to be surly with them. He can be a diplomat if the occasion calls for it.”
Melisandre’s red skirts flutter as she moves to her feet. “I must look into the flames for guidance.”
The Fiery Priest nods to his female counterpart leaves with her. Melisandre had paused at the door to cast you one last look. You’d been slacking in her training to read flames. You never liked the idea of someone being able to look into the future. Witches in Westeros knew the art of divination and many of those stories never end well for either party. But it was how Thalina found you. R’hllor deemed her worthy and gifted her with the natural born talent of transcribing flames. Her skill was below Alizah’s; the blind girl was able to view full body apparitions, crystal clear.
Turning to the ginger darkin, Loviisa asks him “Any word from Ameer or the other two?”
“You know how long it takes to contact those in the field. They’re good at remaining hidden. I think Syzhal was able to get in touch some way with Osana.” Jalsolin shrugs. “She doesn’t really share any of her methods.”
Loviisa rolls her eyes at Jalsolin and corrects him. “No, you just never paid attention in Master Ameer’s classes.” The darkin, much like the rest of Westeros, used a system of hand raised ravens that lived in one of the towers. These ravens were bred to be specifically larger and more aggressive so that the only people who could ever become into contact with them safely would be other darkin. They wore harnesses with special wards and charms that kept the carnivorous bird on coarse until they reached the destined recipient. To enhance the leather of the harnesses was what took the longest time. A darkin had to bind a bit of their shadow to the leather as well to ensure that they would be alerted when their missive arrived safely. It required patience which Jalsolin had always lacked when it came to his studies.
Ameer wasn’t just a master darkin. Born in the City of the Winged Men. One of Tyrion’s book had mention of the neighboring city and how those who were born there possessed leathery bat wings. His wings, Loviisa stressed, were not the only thing that made him the most prolific darkin in history. Ameer also had a natural talent for magic and alchemy.
Your fingers itch to write to your younger brother. Tell him all the stories he had read as a lonely child were all true.
Weles didn’t care about this legendary darkin. His priorities were to let the Temple know what had transpired. “Then I’ll need to commandeer one of the ravens.”
One of the darkin would need to go with him. Loviisa volunteers and she ushers the Fiery Hand captain down the hall to the set of stairs that led to the ravenry.
Those who had remained in Batur’s sitting room follow you back outside to find Latilth seemingly on edge.
She circled the mountain courtyard, her long neck craning to the sky as if she expected something to pop through the gray clouds. Low trilling noises vibrate deep in her throat. Maybe she was feeding off of your own anxiousness. Whatever it was disturbed the youngling.
When she spots you, she wastes no time in scampering over to you. You hold out your hand and she immediately presses the tip of her snout against your palm. It hadn’t been that long ago that her head had been smaller than your hand. The Asshai’i air seemed to be nourishing her and making her grow exponentially.
“It’s okay.” You tell her. “We’ll find a way back.”
Her startling flame orange eyes close with content and she presses her nose further against your hand.
Smiling, you run your other hand along her sparkling scales of her cheek and along her neck. Latilth shivers in delight, her whole body trembling under your touch.
“She acts like an overgrown dog.” Jalsolin chuckles in amusement. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a dragon do that.”
“But you have seen dragons before?” Rhiannon asks but keeps her golden eyes on you and your dragon.
“From afar yes. Don’t normally make it a habit of getting up close and personal.”
You turn around and grin at him cheekily. “Would you like to?”
All swagger fled from him and Jalsolin swallows hard. Not wanting to look like a coward in front of Rhiannon, Jalsolin nods and with one foot in front of the other he stands a little behind you.
Latilth’s eyes shoot open from the new scent. She pulls away from you and stands tall on her mighty two limbs. Her mouth opens a little bit in a growl, several sharp teeth poking out that gave a slight hint of the terror hiding inside of her beautiful body. The rows of small spikes that ran from the top of her head down to her tail rustle warily as you move and urge Jalsolin forward.
His legs were stiff as he positioned himself next to you. To show Latilth that he was a friend, you put one hand on Jalsolin’s forearm and stroke it gently. “See Latilth? Friend. Jalsolin is a friend.”
You hear Rhiannon giggle from behind you. It was easy to forget that Latilth was a dangerous creature. Your group had been around her since the moment she hatched. Latilth never showed aggression for those she remembered from being a hatchling.
“Hold out your hand.” You instruct Jalsolin. “And breathe. She can tell if you’re nervous.”
“‘Course. Nothing to be worried about right?” Jalsolin dryly forces out a chuckle to overcome his nerves. “It’s just a dragon. A fire breathing dragon who could decide to eat me at any moment.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” You could hear the grin in Inniros’ voice. “Latilth has much finer tastes.”
You saw the a slow, shaky breath leave from his chest as he follows your instructions. he raises his left, freckled hand toward Latilth. Keeping your own on Jalsolin’s arm, you nod toward Latilth. “Māzigon, Latilth. Issa raqiros. (Come, Latilth. He is a friend.)”
In response to your soothing tone, Latilth lowers her body into a less threatening posture. Still, she keeps her wings ready to leap into action if she disagrees with Jalsolin. Inside you knew she wouldn’t hurt Jalsolin, at least not while you stood so close to him.
Her heavy steps could be felt from the soles of your feet. You really got a look of how big she’d grown since Volantis. The horns on her head and jawline weren’t mere stubs anymore. They looked deadly like the tips of swords.
Slitted nostrils inhale his scent before blowing it back out in a hot gust of air making Jalsolin’s bright orange hair sweep back from his face. In the spray of his hair you caught the golden gleam of blonde hair hiding among carnelian. His tan cheeks bloom brightly, heating up from Latilth’s natural body temperature.
Before contact could be made, an ear piercing shriek shakes the trees and has everyone wobbling, struggling to remain upright.
Latilth’s scales lift in agitation and she lets out her own roar although it had no chance in outmatching the first one. The Shadow Hills become deathly silent, not even Latilth appeared to breathe. You doubt for a moment that anything ever happened. Then a familiar flap echos in the clouds like claps of thunder.
So slowly the body of a large shape became clearer to reveal a dragon.
Air hitches in your lungs, unable to escape. An image of Balerion’s skull flashed in your mind. This dragon had to be the same size as the Black Dread. Something was wrong with it though. It didn’t fly straight. Gait wavered as if it was intoxicated and couldn’t see straight.
“Will the barrier hold against a dragon that large?”
A few trees bent in the dragon’s erratic path but it was getting closer until you could see a light purple glow atop of its back.
Seafoam green scales were now distinguishable on the dragon.
“AZOR AHAI REBORN.” Someone’s raspy voice could be heard as the dragon settle among the leaf stripped trees, smashing them into mere splinters. It’s deep set eyes were in a hazy daze, large head bobbing from side to side. Such a magnificent creature reduced to a disgraceful state. A nerve in you flares with indignation as it did in Latilth who let out another wail.
You reach for her, not wanting Latilth to get into a fight she could not possibly win.
The dragon lowers its head and three figures with glowing staffs climb off one by one. Hoods on their cloaks were pulled over their faces. You knew who they were though. The Morghons.
You couldn’t really say that the Morghons had faces. Not exactly. Where there eyes and nose should have been was a smear of molten flesh, disfigured by the fires of the Seven Hells by the looks of it. Lips were also missing or if they did indeed have them, then they were very thin. Black lined their mouth though and pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. Their flesh, gray like a corpse, was pulled tight against their skeletal forms.
“You are forbidden from leaving the lands of Asshai.” One of the rasped out, a crooked finger sticking out in your direction. “For we have seen the chaos you will bring upon the world.”
Chaos? No, you were meant to prevent chaos.
A near identical Morghon steps forward as well to speak. “Thanks to you and your dragon, the magic in the world has been renewed tenfold.”
“That’s good though. Why do you have a qualm against that?” Loviisa shouts. The crawling of darkin shadows make the ground almost pitch black as they lurched and wove into one large expanse. They inch like sharp fingers towards the trio of Morghons and the dazed dragon.
Hisses seethe from them at her impudence. They were ancient and compared to Loviisa, she was just a baby to them. She needed to be careful with the way she spoke to them. “Watch thy tongue girl. We can level this pit in mere seconds.”
Just to prove a point, they stamp their staffs agains the ground and the sea foam colored dragon lolls it’s head up. Everyone took a step back as it aims it’s head at the mountain range behind you and releases a furious stream of flames from it’s mouth. The dead trees that clung to the mountainsides immediately took to the flames. Shrubs and whatever other foliage could thrive were set ablaze.
They kept going until the entire western side of the hills was scorched black.
Latilth moves to lunge, but you put a hand on her heaving chest. Her feral eyes turn and acknowledge you as she lets out a shrill whine.
“Because you have submerged the world into one where magic reigns all powerful, the universal struggles for power will be turned upside down.”
“Not everyone should be able to wield powers that divine those like us.” First Morghon motions to their triad.
You still weren’t seeing what the exact issue was. “I don’t understand.”
Third Morghon cackles cruelly. “You don’t understand because you are but a child playing a game she shouldn’t.”
Chillingly, the Third Morghon sounds like a distorted version of your father’s voice. “I’m meant to stop the Others, meant to stop eternal darkness. How is my presence also doom?”
“You, Azor Ahai Reborn, hatched the first dragon in centuries that was not in the Shadowlands. Not just that, you hatched it with your ethereal flames bequeathed by R’hllor.” Second Morghon points an accusatory finger at you. “A union like that sparked the flame of magic into action. It could be used for wars to come in the future.”
Darkly aware of the implications they were leading up to, you grimace but breathe steadily through your nose. If you freaked out, Latilth would feel it and acct without thinking. She was already chomping at the bit and you were highly aware of how obedient she was being. One thing you were always told in stories about them was how dragons could never truly be tamed. The Targaryens learned that early on in their history. Yet there she was, your Latilth, acting like an anxious pup and not a lethal animal. Easily she could have bitten your arm off at any moment.
Weles mimics your breathing style to slow his racing heart. These ancients beings meant to kill you. Not budging an inch, his fingers incessantly drilled against his leg yet ready to reach for his weapons in seconds.
“Why do you care so much?” Questions Jalsolin.
“The pestilence of selfishness and war will bring them to the shores of Asshai. Magic is a child of the Shadowlands. There is nowhere else where magic has been stronger than here.” The Secong Morghon clicks it’s tongue against fine pointed teeth.
That makes Jalsolin bark out a bitter laugh. “So you figure it’s better for the entire world to end than for others to come to Asshai?”
The primary Morghon, nods. “Yes. Better for the world to end. You have not seen what we have.”
You shake your head, unable to believe their words. If what they said was true, theen it was already too late; even if they did kill you. Magic will have already been felt amplified around the known world. Pointing out this flaw did nothing to persuade them.
“You are a beacon of magic. That’s how we found you so easily when you stepped foot in Stygai. All those monsters sensed it too. Wherever you are is where magic will be strongest. We can’t let you leave Asshai and we cannot let such a pure concentration of power reside in this world.”
Latilth, understanding the tone of the Morghons, angrily screams at the trio before taking off after them; flying above your arm. You fell aside from the gust of wind she sent down with her wings.
A wave of their unified staffs had the dragon behind them rousing back into action.
There’s a ringing in your ears thanks to her earlier shriek preventing you from hearing the others scream after both Latilth and yourself. You were on your feet already and running for Latilth. That dragon could easily rip her apart. Here winning any fight against it was hopeful thinking.
You didn’t want to lose her.
You couldn’t lose her.
Inside you, you felt like if you died alongside her, nothing else would matter. As long as you tried to save her. What did the rest of the world matter to you if the one good thing to happen to you is once again taken away?
She was your greatest accomplishment. Your greatest love.
Morghon controlled, their dragon opens its mouth right in the path of not just Latilth, but everyone else that was standing in horror.
The present darkin grabbed the closest people next to them and disappeared into their shadows seconds before the flames came at them.
All you could manage to do was brace yourself and shield your face from the intensity. Instead you feel a wave a nausea take hold as a cold hand grabs your ankle and drags you down into utter darkness. You tumble around in nothingness as the hand still has a grip on you.
You’re spat back out in a flurry of visual confusion. Inniros is next to you, secure fingers gripping your arms and attempting to steady you.
“Latilth!” You cry, adjusting your eyes back and registering your new surroundings. Slim trees go on relentlessly for miles. You don’t know how far you are from the original sight, but when your gaze wobbles up to the skies, you see the emergence of wings above the tree tops a few feet away.
The flapping wings are desperate though as they messily flap and strike down closeby trees. Under you the ground trembles. Fire was spreading fast and smoke was curling upward.
A horned head could be seen though shaking violently; trying to get something off of it. Pale glinting of her scales verified the nuisance as your Latilth, her talons viciously clawing at the Morghon Dragon’s face. She had managed to make one of their eyes raw and bloody. Too small and too fast Latilth flits around it, the large dragon was unable to shake her off.
Inniros quickly pulls you back when you move to go after her again. When you turn you find that his eyepatch was missing, singed remnants fluttering ash. Where another blue eye should have been was a red, empty socket with thick keloid scaring around the rim.“Wait. Wait (y/n)!”
“I can’t wait!” You shortly snap at him. “Whatever happens to me. . . I just need to get to her! That’s all that matters to me right now.”
He arcs his face above to follow where your eyeline had been so glued to. “Do you have a plan?”
“No.”
You knew the Morghons would probably be waiting for you, lurking and hiding easily with their waif thin bodies. They wouldn’t let you escape with your life. But there was no way you could take on whatever they were. Old masters of the Shadowlands should be feared rightfully so. Even you wouldn’t be able to kill them.
“Alright.” Was all Inniros said. “We better hurry then.”
Fervently nodding, the two of you start running toward the furious roars and screeches that followed random flashes of fire as each tried to maim the other. Inniros hooks his arm with your’s and again, you sink below the surface of the earth.
You full the propulsion of your body flying fast through the depths of the universe. A protective arm loops around your front and instinctively you hold on until the blur of trees rights itself into a clear picture where you could see seafoam wings flail and two clawed feet restricted from any movement by thick, black pools. The other darkin were trying to keep it from causing anymore damage. But while they kept it from moving, they were completely vulnerable to attack from the Morghon, wherever they had run off to. You didn’t doubt that they were nearby. Rhiannon and Weles stood off to the side to let the darkin do their thing while also keeping an eye out for the hooded figures.
When spotting you, she picks up the singed hem of her dress and runs to you. Relief has her face relaxing enough for a smile to prosper. You meet her in the middle, returning her embrace. The smell of smoke was perfumed into her hair. “You’re going after her?”
You nod against her shoulder before both of you release. “Not my best idea. I don’t even have a plan but I can’t let her fend off that dragon by herself.”
Rhiannon looks over her shoulder to the three darkin that were doing their best to contain such a large beast. Their brows twitch from the strain and you even see Ulian’s pale cheeks burning from the effort.
In the distance you could vaguely make out two voices.
“Melisandre and Ray.” Inniros knowingly says as he caught up to you. Giving you and Inniros encouraging pats to the back, she lets you pass to get closer to the large talon feet. The leg mujscles in the magnificent beast quiver with its fury. Latilth was no longer in it’s face but had started to peck at the nape of it’s meaty neck. Was she trying to dislodge something?
Cupping your hands around your mouth, you call out her name as loud as you could. She stops her assault, head shooting up in realization that it was you. Removing her nails from the grip she had, Latilth dodges a leathery wing; swooping underneath it. Her snout was a mess of blood but you didn’t see any wounds that would tell you it was Latilth’s blood.
You’re about to reach a hand out to pet the smooth scales on her forehead until Latilth sweeps you off your feet and onto her back. She barely gives you enough time to register what was happening and cling on to her ivory dorsal horns for dear life. You squeeze your eyes tight at the feeling of your body turning upside down, your weight almost ripping you off from Latilth. Things happened in a matter of seconds, your throat couldn’t even muster up a scream.
Her body was sluggish with the extra added weight, but Latilth struggles on until she reaches the top of the dragon that was still thrashing about but growing weary from its attempts for freedom.
Nails dig into the nape of it’s neck and you finally slide off of her while blindly grasping for some support to prevent you from flying off.
Cracking your eyes open and digging your nails into the massive scale under, in front of you is a raw crystal crudely jammed right into dragon flesh. The stone, at first glance appears black in color, but catching the light it turns out to be a blood red crystal. Torn, pink skin was paired with the fresh red of blood from various deep gashes.
Gritting your teeth, you dig your feet and fingers deeper and make your climb up to it. Was that what Latilth had been trying to get at?
Confirming your suspicion, Latilth is once again pouncing on it in with claws and dragon fire which enraged it even more. The crystal was deeply rooted, all of Latilth’s attacks were futile.
A dark energy pulsates against your fingertips when you brush them out, inches from a mirror-smooth surface that whispered of control and pain. Your arm quakes under the pressure of such an aura.
This reeks of Morghon.
That was how they were controlling this stumbling dragon that was mentally fight against their dark magic.
When you try to force through the barrier, a sharp grip immediately squeezes around your arm and Latilth’s ear splitting shriek nearly has you going deaf. She rips your into the air as pain in both your arm and leg have you crying and clawing at Latilth’s leg as you hold on for dear life. You barely catch the image of two of the Morghons on the seafoam dragon; exactly where you had just been.
Clenching your back molars, you manage to swing yourself up on Latilth’s back; almost slipping when she evades the snapping of jaws.
What should have been a momentous occasion, you couldn’t afford to spare a second thought to the fact that you were riding a dragon. Just like the Targaryens of old. No Lannister ancestor could boast that. You would most likely be not just the first, but the only one of the Lannisters to succeed in such a feat.
All you could focus on was holding on tightly for dear life as Latilth has to make a sharp redirection as the flapping of a colossal wing nearly smacks into the both of you.
She was nowhere near big enough to comfortably ride and Latilth wasn’t accustomed to the added weight of your body.
Past the gaps of wind that hisses past your ears, you hear the warning shouts from down below. You dare to look over the side of Latilth to see three figures being propelled away from the Morghon’s dragon and flat onto their backs.
Now untethered, the large body gains wind and propels itself upward. Right to you and Latilth. Legs curl into it’s torso so that clawed feet are aimed and ready to skewer you.
Latilth roars and lets out a stream of fire. Smart to use the distraction to her advantage, she swoops under it’s belly.
At the speech Latilth was flying at, there would have been no chance for her to come to a quick stop even if she had seen a barbed tail swinging toward her.
In slow motion, a green tail descends upon you and Latilth.
Rhiannon watched the whole thing in horror and felt the guttural scream leave her stomach as she watched both (y/n) and Latilth be struck down by the Morghons’ dragon.
Burning tears spring forth and blur her vision when she starts to run in the direction of where they had fallen. She could just hear herself sobbing violently “PLEASE R’HLLOR” in a repetitive chant.
When pitch black envelops her sight and a coldness crept up on her, she thought it was death itself. Rather it turned out to be Inniros shadow dancing them until they sprung back up to the surface. Latilth’s body lay still in a tumble of branches and broken trunks. Deep gashes leak blood over her normally glittering cream scales.
Both Rhiannon and Inniros hurry to Latilth’s body. Inniros instantly goes to check the young dragon’s breathing. All the while Rhiannon holds her breath, hands stuck to her mouth. Wildly she runs her eyes over their surroundings. The dragonling had wrapped her wings around the front of her body in a protective manner.
Inniros’ shoulders sag in relief. He mumbled something in that weird Asshai’i language before switching to Valyrian. “She’s breathing. Latilth is breathing.”
At the sound of his voice, one of Latilth’s eyes opens. Slowly, she unfurls her wings to reveal (y/n), unconscious but otherwise fine.
“Latilth protected her.” Rhiannon gulps down the gross sob she had nearly let loose into the world. Sinking to her knees, she crawls closer to (y/n) who looked like she was sleeping.
The other darkin, having lost control and needing to evacuate the others, appear. They appeared ragged and drained of color from their face. It had taken a lot out of them trying to wrangle in the charmed dragon. Melisandre and Ray take in the sight in seconds and are already next to Rhiannon.
Weles stared, his dark eyes flicking nervously up to the sky.“We need to move her.”
Melisandre shakes her head. “We can’t-“
Weles snapped his dark gaze at the red woman, his nose crinkling like a feral animal. “If we don’t move her, they will find her and kill her.”
Staggering forward, Loviisa addresses Inniros “Take her back to the manor. She’ll be safer there. The wards are strongest there.” Then she turns to regard Latilth. “I’ll try to shadow dance the youngling.”
Rhiannon helps Inniros gather (y/n) into his arms while overhearing Weles ask Loviisa credulously “Are you able to do that?”
“Can’t say if I am, but I’ll try. Jalsolin, you can handle transferring two people at once, right?”
“Yes but-“
“Good.” Loviisa paid no attention to whatever Jalsolin had to say next as she instructs Ulian next. She realized early on that there weren’t enough darkin to get everyone to safety all at once. Ulian was too young to carry more than one passenger and Inniros had his hands full carrying (y/n). Jalsolin might have to dash to get the rest once he dropped off the first two. “Ulian, escort Lady Rhiannon alongside Inniros.”
(y/n) began to rouse from the fall. Her bruised eyelids flutter lopsidedly in her struggle to gain further consciousness. “L. . .Latilth?” She breathed out.
Inniros’ one blue eye softens. “It’s alright. We’re getting the both of you out of here.”
“Latilth.”
Rhiannon crowded next to Inniros. “Latilth’s breathing. She’s still alive.”
Pulling through, (y/n) successfully keeps her eyes open. “Where. . .”
“My lady, please stop talking. Conserve your strength.” Melisandre begged.
Latilth limps up onto her hind legs and hobbles to (y/n) with a coo. Insisting that she be put down, Inniros gently stabilizes her on the soles of her feet. They met halfway, each half of the soul they shared. (Y/n)’s arms wrap around Latilth’s horned head, pressing her forehead against hot scales. A whisper is shared that Rhiannon couldn’t hear but felt the sentiment.
“Hey guys,” attempts Jalsolin once more “we really should get the hell outta here.”
Ray nodded. “Yes, he’s right. Melisandre and I will go with him. Nuha kosh, Inniros is going to take you back to the Manor of Shades. Loviisa says she can take Latilth.”
She broke contact with her dragon and frowned. “But the Morghons. . .”
“There’s no fighting them. Not while they have both a dragon and powers we cannot even begin to fathom. Darkin are not invincible. We are still human.” Loviisa told her patiently.
“They will keep coming though.” (Y/n) replied quietly. “If their goal is to kill me then they will not stop until it is accomplished.”
Uncertainty has Ulian shifting from foot to foot. His hands anxiously move, catching Loviisa’s attention.
“Maybe. If they were to listen to any of the masters, it would be Master Ameer, but he’s not even here right now. Master Batur and the others must have realized by now that they were misdirected and heading back.”
”We thought you stupid, child, but you speak wise words.”
Latilth opened her jaws in a deadly scream and nearly knocked over (y/n) trying to get in front of her. A rebuke from (y/n) once again has the youngling back in line but her teeth are still bared at the three Morghon that abruptly appeared out of thin air. In immediate response, a ring of protective fire sprung forth from the ground by the praying of Ray even if he knew that any and all endeavors were useless.
To her credit, their champion didn’t cower before the ancient ones. Fear kept no home on her features. Green eyes smolder to a violent firey hue and her skin glowed with whispered of divine flames.
“Hand over Azor Ahai, Children of R’hllor.” Nails of ice run down Rhiannon’s back at such a voice. “In exchange we will spare your lives.”
(y/n) pushed back the protesting hands of those who only desired to keep her safe. They shirk away at the sight of determination blazing about her. “Azor Ahai is right here, Ancient Ones.” Easily she passed through Ray’s flames without a sign of scorching on her. “You, who have foreseen the dread I will spread on the world with magic. Yet where is your proof? I cannot simply take your word for what it is.”
They hiss and almost descend upon her with claw like fingers, but somehow they restrain that indignant part of themselves. “You doubt our power?”
“Of course I do. You say one thing while those who have similar powers as yourselves say something entirely different. And so far from what I’ve experienced, they seem to be right on a lot of things.” A risky move to be saying such disrespectful things to the Morghon. Taunting their power was unwise. (Y/n) stood off against them. “Show me then this future that you see.”
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ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta
pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader
summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.
➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius
A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx
warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!
w/c: 5.9k
latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady
As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.
Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.
As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.
From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.
Fatum.
You had first learnt the word as a little one.
You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.
Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.
She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”
And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.
Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?
And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.
“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”
Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.
As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.
You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.
On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.
You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.
As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.
At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.
So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.
Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.
And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.
A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.
But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.
Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?
Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.
Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.
After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.
Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.
After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.
Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.
“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”
You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.
What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.
The hands fastening the brooch falter as she gathers a response.
“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.
The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.
But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.
You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.
“Please, Domina.”
She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.
Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.
Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.
Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.
Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.
“It appears your outfit is missing something.”
You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.
In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.
Your mother’s favourite veil.
Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.
What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.
Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.
Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.
He wanted something from you.
Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.
You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”
Unphased, he stepped further into the room. “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.
“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”
You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.
“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.”
After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.
“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced.
As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”
You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”
His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.
Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words.
One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.
“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”
“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”
His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued.
“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”
With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”
You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”
Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.
“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”
“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”
“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”
Again with the cryptic words.
“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.”
Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.
“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”
There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.
“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”
“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”
While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.
There may be greater things in store for you yet.
And those greater things began with this banquet.
Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you.
Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.
As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.
But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second, you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.
You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.
Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.
Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”
You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like.
With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed.
“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”
“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.
More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow.
“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.
“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”
You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.
A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.
Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin.
Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.
But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you.
And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.
Well-suited to be Empress.
Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.
He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult.
“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”
“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”
Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”
At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.
There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile.
“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.”
Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.
For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.
Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”
You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.
Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.
“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…”
With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak.
“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”
His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”
With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.
“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”
“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.
“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.
The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.
But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.
With swan-like grace you knelt before him and take his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.
“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”
Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.
“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze.
“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.
With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.
You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention.
“And what power would that be?”
Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”
See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background. The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Ares, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.
Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.
“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.
“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.
“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.
His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”
“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”
Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.
“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”
“Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”
Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.
You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.
Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla.
At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.
The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.
Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.
The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.
Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.
“Break the spell! Break the spell!”
Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor.
Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow. Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo.
From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be. Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room.
The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned.
Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable.
Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face.
“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”
Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”
“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”
The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours.
He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup.
His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.
“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.”
As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving. Gods help you.
A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3
likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x
© onyxstyx tumblr 2025
me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*
𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧: The Masterlist
Thomas Shelby x F!Reader
Having a relationship with the leader of the Peaky Blinders was complicated in a world full of business and dark secrets, but that didn't mean the love between you was weak. One night in the Garrison pub, however, everything changes, and the next day Thomas Shelby accuses you of something that will change absolutely everything between you, and the consequences will be so severe that not even in your worst nightmares could you have imagined the betrayal and disappointment you will feel for the man you swore to love forever.
𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱: A mini-series full of emotions, anguish, betrayal, weapons, ghosts of the past and broken hearts. Mentions of sensitive topics such as miscarriage, suicide and murder.
Chapter One 3.9k
Chapter Two 3.3k
Chapter Three 2.1k
Chapter Four 4.6k
Last Chapter 3.4k
The Epilogue 5.4k
𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Rockabye Baby (j.ww)
Wonwoo x fem!Reader
"First-time dad Wonwoo trying to navigate the ropes of parenting while missing you"
genre: fluff, humor; rating : 16+ word count: 2.1k warnings: none! credits: the littol menace @svtiddiess for helping me with the banner and beta reading author's note: this is set in the same universe as 'Bun In The Oven', but it can be read independently. written from wonwoo's pov! send an ask to be added to the tag list (better see an age in the bio)! tagging : @jenoslutie, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, @gyubakeries , @skzbangchanniee, @ariananotgrandeee, @wonufos masterlist here, domestic seventeen masterlist here
If at first he fainted upon hearing the news of the soon-to-be arrival of his offspring, he is now beyond frantic, doom scrolling in the wee hours of the morning on Reddit through multiple ‘First Time Dad’ posts. When he thinks Y/N can’t hear him, he lifts her shirt and begins to talk to his baby, he cannot be caught alive thinking he believes that shit and lose his ‘macho man’ facade. All lies, Y/N can never sleep at night, and is desperately holding her giggles at her husband’s constant whining to their baby about how mean their mom is to him.
His aunt has given him some herbal medicine that runs in the family, vital for new mothers and despite Y/N’s bemoaning, he holds her by the neck and forces that ‘disgusting shit’ down her throat. ‘It’s for the baby Y/N’ he reminds her for the umpteenth time although he gags a little at the odd smell, that stuff is not for him, no thank you.
At work, he is frantic, nervous, and excited all in one. When Jeonghan caught him tearing up at the back of the makeup room, rocking himself, arms tightly wound around, trying to stop his steady flow of tears, he finally confesses that he doesn’t think he will be a good father. “I never cared for children much hyung, I don’t think I have those paternal instincts to look after a newborn. I am scared I will run out on my child.” He sobs into his hyung’s arms who holds him tight and consoles him.
“When the little one comes, you will forget all your fears. You’re not the type of person to give up on something you care about, especially not your child.” Jeonghan rubs his back gently, trying to soothe his distress. “You may not feel ready now, but you’ll rise to the occasion. Every parent has doubts, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re not going to be an amazing dad. You’ll figure it out as you go, and your love for your child will guide you through it.”
Wonwoo freaks out when his wife thinks she is some sort of daredevil, trying to climb on the countertop to grab a jar. “Are you crazy?” he shrieks out.
“I can’t always keep asking you to attend to every beck and call of mine. Besides, it’s not that high,” you try to reason with him, but he has no chill, pushing you gently toward the bedroom and getting you back in bed, propping your feet up on the extra set of cushions he ordered from Amazon just for you.
“I don’t care,” he counters firmly. “Until you pop out that baby, you are on lockdown. No leaving the bed, and absolutely no scaling countertops for a mason jar of pickles. I’ll get it for you—just call me. That’s why I took time off, so you don’t have to risk anything, especially not now,” he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. He smooths the blanket over you, making sure you're comfortable before settling beside you with a deep sigh.
It seems the baby isn’t the only thing he’s freaking out about—he’s also on high alert to make sure you’re okay, every step of the way. Why must you do dangerous acts this far in your pregnancy?
“I am pregnant Wonwoo, I can still walk and do things, ‘m not a doll.”
“Never said you can’t do things, baby,” he says softly, smoothing the crease in your brow with a gentle peck. “It’s just to reassure me, for my peace of mind. I don’t want you pulling any stuntwoman moves just days before Little Bun gets here. So please, for me, at least?”
He looks at you with those pleading eyes, the ones that always seem to get to you. Till the baby comes, he’s hopefully the cutest person you’ve ever seen, the one you can never say no to.
“Fine.” You huff out. “But grab me a jar of mayonnaise to go with the pickles.”
“Mayo-? With pickles? H-ho?” he sputters, absolutely stumped at your taste buds.
“Is there a problem Mr Jeon?” your brow is quirked, amusedly staring at your befuddled husband's face.
“No, no, stay right there. Mayonnaise with pickles coming right up,” he says, still in shock, but resigned. He silently prays that Little Bun arrives quickly, before his wife loses herself in yet another round of bizarre food combinations.
“And sprinkles too!” you holler from the bedroom, your voice carrying.
“Lord, give me strength,” Wonwoo mutters to himself, shaking his head as he makes his way to the kitchen, shuddering at the disgusting combo.
The day of your labor arrived very anticlimactically, if Wonwoo could call it that. There was no sudden gush of water, no dramatic screams or threats hurled at him. Just a quiet morning, like any other day. If not for him glued to your side, he daresay he might have missed it altogether. The moment you felt discomfort, he was already rushing you to the ER, completely ignoring your reassurances that it was just a false alarm.
He probably needed to celebrate this victory with a cake that said, “I Told You So,” because, yes, he was right—the little one did arrive that very day, though not without a few bumps along the way. None of the dad books had prepared him for the fact that the scrubs handed to him in the labor room were supposed to go over his clothes. After a certain amount of confused stripping, a shrieking nurse, and a hollering wife, he learned a very important lesson. There can only be one naked person in the OR—and that person was definitely not him.
The jitters came when his daughter came into the world, unperturbed and squinting angrily at him, like she didn’t want to be there. He can pity her sentiments. But the baby was not crying. Sure she was breathing, but where is that high-pitched wail the books taught him?
No amount of parenting manuals could prepare him for this moment, to see his little one clutching tightly to his pinky finger, staring at him with your eyes and his nose, and the feeling of love encompasses him. Is this someone he created? He holds you extra close, trying to hold the tears at bay. Gratitude, pure and raw, fills him—thankful for you, for this little one, for the family he has.
Some sort of humor is brought in by his mate Soonyoung who arrives at the hospital, all ready to see the newborn in a new tuxedo to make ‘ a good impression’ “This is a baby Soonie”. “First impressions matter Won-Won.” He leaves it at that, knowing deep down his mate's plan was to bag the ‘best uncle’ title.
It’s never without its mishaps however- he cannot understand the hospital staff when they give him the green light that it's time to go home.
“Are you sure?” He persistently asks, there is no way he can ensure the safety of a being that came into the world just a few hours ago and now he is entrusted to make sure this thing is alive and flourish. What are they thinking?
Seeing that familiar tick of annoyance on your face, he supposes he has been asking that question way too many times and reluctantly picks up the baby carrier, although he is scared shitless, out of his mind with fear. He does not want to place the baby in a car seat, to your utter confusion.
“She was slimy and squiggly, what if she slid right out? He ponders.
Assuring him that the baby will be “fine and protected,” and to further calm his nerves, you sit in the backseat too, keeping a watchful eye on your little one as Wonwoo starts the engine for the long drive home. He is not the only first-time parent here.
It took a whole day and a half before the secret was out in the open. “Wonwoo, I need to grab a bite, here hold Nabi for a second.” You hold the child in mid-air expectantly waiting for her father to pick her up.
“Just place her in the crib, she's safer there.”
“Wons, that’s in the other room, what are you so afraid of holding your child?”
He waits for the realization to dawn on you. “Wait a minute, have you held her even once?”
“I brought her here in a baby carrier?”
I meant holding her Wonwoo, not in a carrier or rocking the crib.”
His guilty face speaks enough. “She’s just so tiny Y/N! And her head is wobbly. What if I drop her?” Why can’t you understand his sentiment? He will move heaven and earth for his daughter except maybe hold her and risk dropping her.
"Wonwoo, you're not going to drop her. Babies are fragile, but you're not going to break her just by holding her," you explain, taking a deep breath to stay patient with his nerves. You reach out, gently placing your hands on his shoulders, making him look at you. “Extend your arms”
He does, in slight trepidation.
“Wonwoo, Nabi is a full-grown newborn now, not a watermelon! Seriously, how small do you think she is? A little bigger gap won't hurt. Just trust yourself," you soothe, noticing his hesitation.
Very gently, you place the tiny baby into his arms, and he holds his breath, afraid that if he so much as breathes, Nabi will blow away. This time, he cannot stop the tears that fall freely, privileged at the fact that she made him a father.
Yes, he knew about the lack of sleep and the constant need to change his baby. But what he did not know was that he would miss you this much. Around the clock, you both took shifts to watch the baby and rock the baby to sleep.But nothing prepared him for how much he’d miss you. The number of times he’s woken up in a state of panic because you weren’t there when he felt around to bring you closer and into his arms, only to be comforted when he switches on the night lamp and watches you half asleep, feeding his little girl. On tiptoes, he’ll pick his daughter up, the little gremlin who’s staring wide-eyed at him, and walk around the room with her, to give you a moment to rest. When you wake up in pursuit of your husband and child you see a snoring Wonwoo, holding little Nabi to his chest, both blissfully unaware of the mini heart attack they’d given you.
Wonwoo has come to the conclusion that it's in those little moments—those quiet, fleeting moments—when he gets to have you all to himself. Three months after Nabi's arrival, he finally gets a taste of that luxury, when the little one is fast asleep, her soft breaths the only sound filling the room. Nabi is finally sticking to sleeping through the night, after listening to his fathers croons. When he returns to the living room, he finds you slumped against the couch, utterly exhausted. Your hair is stuck to your forehead, and the exhaustion is clear on your face, but there's something else there too—a quiet peace that tells him the chaos of midnight feedings and diaper changes has finally settled into a rhythm... for now. He’s not going to jinx it.
Silently moving you, hushing down your sleepy murmurs, gently lifting you, and placing you against his chest, he starts to rub your head in hopes you get back to sleep, a trick he learned early on to calm his daughter down. In this quiet, he can finally hear himself think, something he has never been able to do the past few months. His heart still thumps excitedly like it did the first time he laid eyes on you. To watch as the girl he once fell for, eons ago is now his wife and he gets to share a child with you, with the promise of having eternity by your side, he sleeps easy tonight, murmuring a quick ‘I love you’ and thank you’ as he places one more soft kiss on your cheek, forever elated that you’re his.
Alas, rest is not for the wicked. A sudden phone call on his cell has you both startled and wide awake as you rush to silence his phone.
“Why is it not on vibrate Wonwoo?” You start, angrily scrambling to sit on the phone in hopes of shutting it off, all rationality flying out the window in your sleep-deprived state.
“Shh, Nabi has still not woken up, which means she probably didn’t hear the phone ring,” he whispers as you both hold hands and painstakingly wait in agony for the jurisdiction of your child’s wailing. You are in luck, after all, she has still not woken up.
A glance at his phone has him jump up excitedly, “Yes, I won the bet to Mingyu, he owes me two tickets to see IU next month.” Unfortunately for him, his enthusiasm runs short tonight, for there comes the familiar cry from your baby’s room and a murderous look from you. “JEON WONWOO”
Uh.Oh.
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