scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you super nanny phil coulson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
doesn’t have to be too long but dottore and baizhu with reader in pain from menstruation? (shamelessly will admit im on mine rn) They’re both doctors but their differences might be funny bc of their personalities lol (like man instead of certain charas who might tease pregnancy as a joke solution for the pain dottore would genuinely suggest having ur uterus removed or something )
stay strong 💔
Dottore is standing up from his chair so fast it gets knocked over the moment you stumble into his lab with a pained groan and clutching at your abdomen. He knows the most likely cause, so he briefly apologizes before he forces you to straighten up just so he can check there’s no bleeding wound, no object stabbed into your body, and to also pin you to the nearest surface and check your appendix while he’s at it. As he suspected, it’s only nature taking its course.
“Cut it out,” you wheeze once he relents and lets you curl on yourself again, sliding down towards the floor like a wilting flower before he grabs your arm and guides it over his shoulders, “I don’t need it that much. Get it out of me.”
“I need to advise conservative ways of treatment first,” he entertains you while guiding you towards the nearest chair, “Painkillers, perhaps?”
“Not enough,” you growl, “And then it’ll repeat itself next month.”
“Precisely why it’s called a cycle,” he agrees. And yet Dottore lowers you to the chair with utmost patience and doesn’t comment on your dramatics, having long since learned which battles are worth it and which are not. “But if you’re sure, it is not the most invasive of procedures. Given that you agree to a thorough testing and examination first.”
“Do what you have to,” you whine as another flash of pain seizes your muscles, “I don’t care.”
He huffs. It seems you’re stable enough to sit still and so he turns away, taking out the vial he’s had at the ready since yesterday evening, preparing the injection.
“I’d have 25 assist me,” he informs you, “And I don’t mean to upset you but we’d need to inflate your abdomen if all was good.”
“No,” you glare at him with enough conviction that he pauses in preparing the medication.
“If too much air is pumped into your body, your whole self might get inflated. Not substantially, not enough to cause embolism, of course, but you might feel it. And neither 25, nor me have experience with this kind of procedure,” he carries on regardless, “I thought you disliked staying bedridden. This is your chance at relative quick recovery.”
“You won’t make me look like a balloon!” you whimper.
Dottore’s smile provides little comfort. Still you do as he expects of you and force yourself into a position that allows him to comfortably administer the injection. Unmoved by your sulking, he helps you get up on the hospital bed closeby. It’s harder to move with every step, you find, your body growing heavier as if the pain was replaced with lead.
He pulls the blanket over you once you’re lying down, humming a tune as he tucks you in. Sitting down on the side of the bed, he strokes your hair. What an amusing pastime, to watch the uncertainty in your eyes, the inner conflict between trust and panic.
“A muscle relaxant,” he explains finally, “Works wonderfully, doesn’t it?”
It does. The pain is gone but so is your ability to move and your energy it seems.
“You need to rest,” he informs you, “And iron. Fret not, we’ll get you some after you sleep.”
“Why?” you mumble. He smirks, clearly making out what you mean even from a single word.
“I have work to do,” his hand slips to your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin, “And you’d be distracting. Sleep while I finish.”
Baizhu gives you his most sympathetic smile, somehow even sweeter and gentler than he gives his actual patients, and patiently puts the food back on the place and sets the chopsticks down. Without pressuring you, he offers you the cup of murky liquid with a strong herbal scent again. Not too unpleasant, but a little suspicious. If it was anyone but him, you’d believe they were trying to poison you.
“You need to drink,” he reminds you, “And you need to eat. No medicine before you eat.”
You whimper and try to summon tears to your eyes. You doubt he’d crack if you cried, too infuriatingly meticulous to abandon caution, but it’s worth a try. Would be if you could do it.
“I don’t feel well,” you protest. Like he’s not aware. Like he’s not currently rubbing your abdomen with his warm hand, waiting for the hot water bottle he brought to cool down enough that it wouldn’t be causing damage to your tissues.
“If I give you the medicine now, you’ll be even more nauseous and it’s gonna be worse than the pain,” he explains gently, with the patience of a saint considering how you have this exact conversation every time, “And you’d still need to eat.”
“Can’t you just remove it?” you whine, throwing your head back. Immediately you’re tempted to do it with more force, just so that your body maybe focuses on that instead of trying to strangle the traitorous organ low in your belly.
“No unnecessary procedures,” Baizhu says sternly. His eyes remain gentle, however, and you think maybe you could push out some tears now if you put your mind to it.
“Please?” you try.
His face softens even more, if possible, and he reaches over the tray to cup your face.
“There’s a risk you won’t wake up with every procedure,” he talks quietly, almost like he doesn’t want to consider the possibility, “And I’m not one to do a surgery on a patient while they’re fully aware and awake.”
“There wouldn’t be much difference from how I feel now,” you grumble, biting your lip at yet another wave of fresh cramps, “I can handle it.”
“But your physician unfortunately can’t,” he chuckles, picking up the chopsticks and splitting the bite he offered you into two.
He picks up one of the pieces and tries again, pressing the food against your lips. You’re too distracted and agonized to pay attention to what it is even as you finally give up and eat it.
“There we go,” he smiles, picking the other half and feeding it to you too.
“Painkiller now?” you ask hopefully.
Baizhu shakes his head, has the audacity to remove the hand from your abdomen too - even if just to check the water bottle.
“First this,” he hums, handing the item to you. The heat does wonders for your comfort, although it could do more for the pain. “You need to fill your stomach, love. Eat a little more, hm?”
You’re too drained to argue with him. And while you think he’s taking advantage of that, you know it’s coming from a place of concern and medical expertise.
Notes: Holy hell how do I have 50 followers??? THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR SUPPORTING MY SILLY MUSINGS. This literally was just my way to learn how to write smut and post self-indulgent head canons but I’m glad people are enjoying this with me :DDDD
𝐙𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈 ᥫ᭡
Yes, 100%. He will deny it every time but lay on this man’s chest, maybe press a kiss to his jaw, and his chest is going like a fucking engine. He will insist that it’s not a purr, it’s simply a content growl— or perhaps a rumble, at most. He isn’t some measly cat, after all, he is a mighty dragon, the Prime Adeptus—
It’s definitely a purr.
Get him a cat ear hairband. He will give you the most long-suffering, unamused look while he wears them, but he will wear them. Anything for his beloved ♡~
𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 ᥫ᭡
No, unfortunately. You have found no evidence that your stone-faced Yaksha is capable of emitting a purr, or purr-like sound (though certainly not for lacking of trying).
However… there is the matter of whether he is able to trill or coo like a bird, given that is his true nature.
He gets annoyed when you ask him, adamant that is not something he can do, and how dare you even entertain such a notion. Have you no respect for the adepti? Hmph.
…but you swear you’ve heard him chirp when you catch him off guard: kissing him without warning or praising him unabashedly.
It seems this will require further investigation.
𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 ᥫ᭡
Not purring, but whirring!! Got this idea from @seabirdtxt ‘s Glitch in Irminsul fic (it’s SAGAU focused on the diff vers of scara existing at the same time, go read it it’s great) and it just makes so much sense to me.
As a mechanical puppet, and an advanced one at that, Scara has tons of machinery going on inside of him. Though it usually can’t be heard, if you get especially close to his chest— a privilege only reserved for you and maybe Nahida during hugs —you can hear the whirring and clicking of his moving parts inside. It doesn’t sound the same as a purr, not exactly, but it’s pretty damn close.
Most of the time it’s pretty faint, but sometimes Scara might just make it louder— it’s got nothing to do with the way your face lights up or how you smile when you hear it, don’t be stupid.
Of course, the only way he can make the noise louder is by overworking his system, making the parts inside move faster than they’re supposed to. If he does it too much or for too long, well…
You’ll know it’s time to lecture him on taking better care of himself when he starts burning up. Overheating is the first sign he’s about to overload his system and shut down (or from everyone else’s perspective: pass out).
You’re the only one who can make him stupid enough to be willing to break his own mechanisms just to see that adorable ridiculous expression on your face. (He might come back to his senses in a petulant huff if you start calling him a cat, tho)
𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐎 ᥫ᭡
Sadly, purring is not a feature homunculi come with. But this is Albedo we’re talking about, he can definitely figure it out.
He won’t tell you just what idea you’ve sparked with your question— you always worry when he starts self-experimenting —but it’ll be fine! He takes all the necessary precautions, limits any risk, because there’s always some risk in life, and downs a concoction or two in his quest to see if he can change the makeup of his own body. As an artificial life form, he’s less delicate than an organic one, so he doesn’t need to worry about pesky issues like rearranging his (non-existent) organs in a fatal manner.
And it works! Well, sort of. You come back home to a boyfriend that is fully capable of purring!! And also!! Has, uh, cat ears…
Albedo would consider it a success— he accomplished his goal, even if there were a few side effects. And you get a pretty catboy equipped with the cute, twitching ears and a fuzzy blonde tail; everybody wins! ♡
Of course, there’s always the chance his experiment just turns him into a cat entirely… but it wears off after a day or so, so it’s not the worst thing Albedo’s done to himself.
Either way, congratulations, he can now purr for the next 24 hours. And regardless of his cat-to-boy ratio, he will be expecting pets. Get to it~
𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 ᥫ᭡
He has bird vocalisations! Except he’s worse at hiding it then Xiao may or may not be. It’s not outright chirping, but it is a cooing trill in the back of his throat, too vibrational to be a regular hum.
It’s the sound he makes when he’s perfectly content, laying in a warm patch of sun on the soft grass, sat atop a roof with alcohol warming his veins, and curled up in your arms, round cheek smushed against your chest. He takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with your scent, and then releasing it in a sigh, accompanied by the musical tones of his little trill.
He makes shorter ones when he’s pleasantly surprised; when you unexpectedly toss him an apple or pat his head. He’ll grin or lean into the touch and make that sound in his throat. Too quiet to be heard by the people around you over the din of the town, but you’ll hear it. It’s a sound just for you ♡
Appearing on Brittany's youtube show The Royal Court, Harry cracks under pressure when confronted with a blurry, late-night paparazzi photo of the two of you at a diner.
MATERIALIST
The studio set for The Royal Court was an absolute masterpiece of a medieval court meeting the internet. Plush velvet thrones sat awkwardly beside modern studio lighting, cardboard shields hung precariously on the walls, and the entire room smelled faintly of the high-end catering pastries Brittany had been aggressively eating during the sound check.
As the digital series' reigning monarch, Brittany was in her absolute element. Wearing a massive, heavily jeweled plastic crown tilted slightly to the left, a velvet robe, and a pair of fuzzy slippers, she sat atop her central throne. Tonight, she had a single guest captured in her sight.
Harry sat in the lone hot seat beside her. He was doing a solo promotional run for the new season, and your publicists had explicitly warned him before he walked on set.
“Okay, Brittany is a wild card. She is the internet personified, literally. Harry, If you give her a single crumb of the romance rumors, she will build a thirty minute commentary video out of it, and believe me she will.”
For the first half of the episode, Harry was doing surprisingly well. He looked effortlessly charming in a relaxed linen shirt, playing along with the medieval bit by pretending to be a low-born squire answering to his queen.
Then it came, Harry’s doom, Brittany leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her heavy plastic rings clinking together as she narrowed her eyes at him.
"Alright, look," Brittany said, her recognizable Texas drawl cutting entirely through the playful bit. She gestured towards him with a heavy jeweled scepter. "We’ve done the courtly jests. We’ve talked about the boring swords and the dragons. But I need to talk about the little game happening in this room right now."
Harry blinked, his polite, public-facing smile freezing instantly. “Little game, Your Grace?"
"Don't 'Your Grace' me, Collett, I see right through the velvet," Brittany declared, slamming the scepter down onto the arm of her throne with a dramatic thud. "I am a woman of the internet. I have read the scrolls. I have seen edits.” She mentioned pointing at him with her finger. “And I am currently sitting five feet away from a man who is radiating the kind of unspoken guilty energy that usually precedes a civilian uprising."
The studio crew behind the cameras let out a collective, muffled laugh. Harry shifted slightly in his seat, trying to maintain his composure.
"Brittany, I promise the rumors aren't true," Harry tried, offering a perfectly rehearsed, media-trained smile. “She and I’ve worked together for three years now, very very close friends, so of course our chemistry on screen is jus--"
"Sir. Sir." Brittany cut him off completely, throwing her hands up in the air, her crown slipping slightly over her eyebrow. She looked directly into the main camera lens, her face twisted into a look of pure disbelief. "Do you hear this? Camera three, get a close-up of my face.” She deadpans. “He thinks I’m a fool. He thinks the Court is blind." She mentions pausing between every word.
Turning her attention entirely back to Harry, Brittany leaned back in her throne, crossing her legs. She didn't say a word as she picked up a large, ornate tablet that had been hidden beneath her velvet robes.
"Harry, Harry… If you are just 'very, very close friends,' explain this piece of royal evidence recently intercepted by one of the kingdom’s scouts"
Brittany spun the tablet around. Displayed on the screen was a slightly blurry photo taken at a tiny, late-night diner down by Harry’s old flat at four in the morning. The lighting was dim, the streets outside completely dead, but the subjects in the booth were clear as day. It was you and Harry. You were wearing his oversized, very wrinkled hoodie, completely laughing at something he'd said, while Harry was leaning entirely across the laminate table, his hand warmly and securely cupping your cheek as he smiled back at you. There were plates of half-eaten takeaway pastries between you. It was a scene of pure and undeniable domesticity.
Harry completely disintegrated.
He buried his face entirely into his hands, his shoulders shaking with helpless, mortified laughter as a spectacular, unmistakable shade of deep crimson flush traveled all the way down his neck. "Oh my god," he groaned into his palms, his voice muffled. "Where did you even get that? It was four in the morning. There was literally no one else in the diner" He mentioned with wide eyes, not believing what he was seeing.
"AHA!" Brittany shrieked, jumping up from her throne, her velvet robe billowing behind her as she pointed her scepter wildly at Harry like a judge closing a case. "THE SQUIRE HAS CRACKED! HE ADMITTED THE DINER IS REAL! LOOK AT THE HAND, THE HAND COLLETT! CAMERA THREE, ZOOM IN ON THE HAND POSITIONING! That is not very “coworker” of you Harold huh?!”
Harry dropped his hands, his face completely flushed and his eyes shining with a mixture of sheer panic and intense amusement. He realized he had just entirely bypassed two years of strict PR training with a single, unguarded sigh. He let out a breathless laugh, throwing his hands up in total surrender.
"Alright, fine! Yes! We went to diner!" Harry protested, his voice cracking slightly as a massive, defeated grin broke across his face. "We were hungry, the streets were empty, and I wanted to take her out like a normal person! Are you happy, Your Grace? Is the court happy now?”
Brittany froze mid-stride. She slowly lowered her scepter, her jaw dropping as she stared at him. For the first time in the entire shoot, the loud, boisterous Internet Mom was completely struck dumb by the sheer honesty of the confession.
She slowly walked back to her throne, sat down and adjusted her crown with a trembling hand, she looked dead into the camera lens with an expression of profound, spiritual climax.
"My fellow peasants," Brittany whispered into her lapel microphone, her voice trembling with theatrical reverence. "We did it. We broke him. The public relations department is currently on fire in the hall, but the Royal Court has delivered justice. Put it in the edit. Print the scrolls. The date is indeed canon”
The studio was completely dead for a beat, the crew behind the cameras staring in a mix of pure shock and hysterical entertainment before the director finally yelled, "And... cut!"
The heavy silence instantly shattered. Harry slumped forward in his throne, burying his face back in his hands as a long, theatrical groan escaped him. "Oh my god. My publicist is going to behead e in the courtyard. I’m going to be exiled to the colonies."
"Exiled?!" Brittany shouted, ripping her heavy plastic crown off her head and tossing it onto the velvet cushions of her throne. She scrambled down the steps of the stage, her fuzzy slippers clicking frantically against the studio floor until she was standing directly over him. "Harry. Look at me. Look into my eyes. You just gave the internet the holy grail. Do you know what the edits are going to look like tomorrow? They’re going to put medieval court music over your face turning into a tomato”
Harry finally looked up, his cheeks still fiercely pink, a sheepish but entirely content grin breaking through his panic. "I didn't mean to blurt it out! It’s just... there was a fucking photo. We really thought we were the only ones awake in London at that hour. What the fuck”
"The internet notices everything, darling," Brittany said, her voice dropping from her loud internet persona into a tone of pure calmness. She clapped a hand onto his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "But for real, I am so incredibly happy for you two. The entire fandom is about to throw a festival in the town square. We’ve been fighting in the trenches for two years defending the 'platonic chemistry,' and you just ended the war”
Before Harry could answer, the heavy double doors at the back of the soundstage swung open with a violent thud.
Sarah, his poor publicist, marched down the dark corridor of the studio, her phone clutched in her hand like a weapon. The expression on her face was a terrifying cross between utter exhaustion and professional calculation. The studio crew instinctively parted for her like the Red Sea.
"Harry," Sarah said, her voice dangerously calm as she stopped at the edge of the stage. "I have exactly four minutes before the network calls me to ask why our kid just admitted to a full romantic relationship on a digital comedy show. Do you want to perhaps, explain yourself? Mhm?”
Harry rose from his throne, offering her his most winning, boyish smile, the one that usually got him out of trouble on set. "Sarah. It was a tactical confession. Brittany had the evidence. She had a fucking photo, a photo Sarah, it was unblockable."
"The photo was blurry Harry, you could have claimed it was a trick of the light or a very intensive rehearsal!" Sarah sighed, though she couldn't completely hide the small, defeated smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She tapped her phone screen. "The producers are already asking if they can keep the confession in the final cut. They say the engagement metrics are going to be amazing”
Harry’s expression softened, the playful defense melting away into something much more sincere. He looked from Sarah back to Brittany, stepping down from the stage.
"Keep it in," Harry said quietly, his voice steady and completely unbothered by the corporate panic. "We've been hiding it for months, sneaking around London and sitting five feet apart at panels. If the world finds out because I couldn't deny how happy I looked holding her face at a diner... well, it’s a better story than a boring press release anyway."
Brittany let out a dramatic, breathless gasp, clutching her chest. "Oh, stop it. Stop being a romantic squire, my heart cannot take it"
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, finally letting out a massive, heavy sigh that signaled her total surrender. "Fine. We keep it in. But you are calling them right now to explain why their notifications are about to explode. And Harry?"
Harry paused, looking back at her. "Yeah?"
"Next time you want to take her out for midnight pastries," Sarah warned, pointing a accusatory finger at him, "sit on the same side of the booth so the paparazzi can't get both of your faces in the frame."
As Harry walked off the set toward the dressing rooms, already pulling out his phone to call you and confess his absolute failure at media training, Brittany looked back at the main camera lens one last time, raising her scepter in a final, triumphant salute.
"Long live the diner date," she whispered.
The second Harry cleared the soundstage doors and made it to the quiet, dimly lit concrete corridor of the studio lot, he didn’t even wait to reach his dressing room. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers flying across the screen as he hit your contact.
He didn't even give you a chance to say hello when you picked up.
"Right, so before you check literally any corner of the internet, please…,” Harry rushed out, his voice a breathless, high-pitched tumble of words as he paced the length of the hallway, "I need to explicitly state that I was under extreme, medieval-grade psychological torture.”
On the other end of the line, you paused, the distant sound of your own trailer's coffee maker humming in the background. "Harry... what did you do?"
Harry closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool concrete wall, a helpless, incredibly sheepish smile taking over his face. "You know how Sarah told me to keep my guard up because Brittany Broski was a tactical mastermind?"
"Yes..."
"Right. Well. She had a damn photo," Harry confessed, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears flared up to that familiar crimson shade all over again. "The one from our date, four in the morning down by the flat. The one where I looked like a completely besotted idiot while we ate those stale croissants."
You let out a stunned, breathless laugh on the other end of the line. "Harry, no” You rubbed your temple. “Please tell me you lied like a criminal”
“Lie? Y/n I completely disintegrated," he groaned, throwing his head back and looking up at the studio rafters. "I buried my face in my hands, I turned the color of a fire engine, and then...” He groaned “then, because I entirely forgot how to fucking lie, I- I just told her I wanted to take you out like a normal person. I basically looked dead into the lens and handed the kingdom the keys to our castle."
"Oh my god," you gasped, your laughter bubbling through the line, completely unbothered by the sheer corporate catastrophe of it all. "Sarah is going to murder you. We are dead. Our PR team is currently organizing a hunt party… Actualy I hear them knocking at my door.” You teased him.
“Oh stop it, Sarah already found me," Harry murmured, his tone dropping from frantic panic into that low, incredibly soft register he usually reserved for when the cameras were completely off. He finally stopped pacing, his chest rising and falling as a massive wave of pure relief washed over him. "But... we're keeping it in the edit. I told her that we were done hiding. I told her I'm tired of sitting five feet apart from you on panels."
The line went quiet for a heartbeat, the casual, easy warmth of your shared reality settling over the phone.
"You really told her that?" you asked softly.
"Word for word," Harry said, his voice steady, a brilliant, proud grin breaking across his face in the quiet corridor. "So... prepare your notifications. Within about forty eight hours or so, the entire internet is going to know that you are officially stuck with me and my horrendous taste in midnight cravings.”
"I think I can live with that," you teased, a soft smile evident in your voice. "Just make sure you buy the next round of croissants, squire."
"Consider it done, your grace” Harry chuckled, finally walking toward his dressing room door, entirely ready to face the beautiful, viral chaos heading your way.
Synopsis: He's been sneaking around for weeks. Late nights, mystery calls, unexplained perfume and you’re convinced he's cheating. Turns out he's just secretly a masked DJ who never worked up the nerve to tell you.
⤷ Based on THIS request
Word Count: 5.3k
Pairing: Modern!Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader
Genre: Modern au, dj jace, established relationship
Warning: themes of infidelity (don’t worry it doesn’t happen), a little angst but not too much, Misunderstanding, inaccuracy about DJ equipment perhaps?
A/N: This took longer than I expected cuz I was lowkey confused how I should describe the DJing in the club. I had to research 😭 this is not proofread!
Divider Credits: @pixopix
The story of how Jace ended up in this situation was, depending on who you asked, either hilarious or mortifying. Honestly, it was probably both.
It started with mosquitoes, or at least that's how he always told it. Those first months of the semester when nothing had been due, when every professor seemed content to let the syllabus gather dust while the whole lecture hall sat half asleep.
Then, almost overnight, the dam broke. Presentations, projects, quizzes, and group assignments crashed down all at once, like all the professors on campus had conspired over the summer to make October miserable.
Jace came home one evening looking like a man drafted into a war nobody warned him about, dropping his bag on the floor with a groan so loud that Cregan, sprawled across the bed scrolling his phone, glanced up.
"I need a hobby," Jace announced. “Something with my hands. Something that has nothing to do with uni.”
"Pottery," Cregan offered, having gone back to scrolling on his phone.
"I'm not making a bowl, Cregan."
"Knitting, then."
"I will end you where you sit."
In the end it was DJ equipment. A secondhand controller he found online for less than he probably should have paid, studio headphones that cost more than he wanted to admit, and mixing software that took him the better part of a week and several unhinged YouTube tutorials to even partially understand.
It was supposed to be nothing more than a pressure valve. Something to occupy his hands at two in the morning when his brain was too fried for essays but too wired for sleep.
He turned out to be good at it almost immediately, because Jace tended to be good at things he never tried very hard at. Within a couple of weeks he had a small stack of remixes he was quietly proud of. It was Cregan who ruined everything, leaning over his shoulder one night while Jace worked through something moody and bass heavy.
"You should post this."
"Absolutely not."
"Why not? It's good."
"It's good and it's embarrassing. Both things can be true at once."
They filmed the video anyway. They dug up an old masquerade mask from the back of a costume shop, black and gold and faintly sinister, and Jace pulled on the only all black outfit he owned. They posted the clip expecting maybe forty views from people who already knew him.
Instead it hit four million views in two days.
Jace remembered sitting frozen at three in the morning staring at his phone while Cregan practically vibrated beside him reading comment after comment. People loved the mystery of a faceless DJ appearing out of nowhere, and within a week actual clubs were reaching out with actual money for a persona he'd built essentially as a joke to survive midterms.
DJ JXCE was born, and you would never let him live down the name.
"You had four million people watching and that's what you went with," you told him later, the first time he explained the whole saga. "JXCE. Like your name. With an X."
"It felt cool at the time."
"It felt like you ran out of ideas halfway through."
"Also true."
By this time the two of you had been together for over a year, Jace was quietly living two entirely separate lives. By day he was exactly what he'd always been, a stressed business student who complained about his professors and fell asleep on your shoulder mid study session and still aced everything. By night, several times a week, he became someone else, hidden behind a mask, holding a room in the palm of his hand.
Somewhere in between, poor Cregan had accidentally become his assistant, publicist, hype man, and emotional support system all at once.
The problem was that Jace never told you. Not because he didn't trust you, but because he was embarrassed. He told himself every week that the next quiet moment would be the one where he finally brought it up, and every week his nerve failed him right as the moment arrived.
Which was how a string of entirely avoidable misunderstandings began.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
The first crack showed up on an otherwise lovely Tuesday afternoon. You'd been looking forward to it all week, nothing elaborate, just a walk to the little café near campus for the lattes you both liked. You'd even picked out what to wear the night before, which felt silly for a coffee run, but Jace had a way of making ordinary afternoons feel like something worth dressing for.
You'd barely made it two blocks before his phone buzzed. You watched something shift in his face the second he saw the screen, a flicker of tension so quick you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.
"Sorry, one second," he murmured, already stepping away, phone pressed to his ear.
You busied yourself with a shop window, though it was hard not to catch the sharp, hushed edge in his voice.
No, absolutely not. Don’t tell them that, are you insane.
A long pause, then a defeated exhale.
Fine, I'll be there.
He hung up and turned back to you already wincing.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just." He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "Urgent thing. I'm so sorry, I have to go handle something."
"Right now?"
"Right now." He kissed your forehead quickly. "I'll make it up to you, promise."
Then he was gone, jogging off toward whatever Cregan needed, and you stood alone, watching his back retreat until he turned the corner and disappeared entirely.
You told yourself it was nothing. A group project crisis, probably. A professor being unreasonable about a deadline. You sat on a bench and drank both lattes yourself, and told yourself the small, hollow feeling in your chest was just disappointment about a canceled coffee date, nothing more complicated than that.
It didn't quite feel like just that. But you didn't have a name for what else it might be yet, so you let it sit, unexamined, and walked home alone.
Three days later it happened again, this time at a study session that had barely started, books spread out between you two and Jace had lasted all of eleven minutes before his phone lit up silently against the wood.
He didn't answer it there. He just stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening, then gathered it up and murmured something about needing air.
Through the glass wall of the study room you watched him pace a tight little circle in the hallway, one hand dragging through his hair, voice too muffled to make out but the tension in his shoulders unmistakable even from a distance. You found yourself watching him more than your notes, trying to read the shape of whatever this was in the way he stood.
When he came back he dropped into his seat like nothing had happened, opening his textbook to a page he clearly wasn't reading.
"Everything okay?" you asked, echoing yourself from days before without meaning to, and hating a little how quickly the question had become a reflex.
"Fine. Just Cregan being dramatic."
"About what?"
"Nothing important." He said it too fast, eyes fixed on the textbook. "Don't worry about it."
You let it go, mostly because you didn't have a reason not to yet, and partly because some quieter, more anxious part of you was already afraid of what asking twice might turn up. You noticed the way his knee bounced under the table for the rest of the session, and the way he checked his phone four more times without ever fully relaxing, and you spent the rest of the evening pretending you hadn't noticed either.
A week after that you'd planned an entire sleepover, face masks and terrible movies and the skincare set you kept at his place because he loved how soft his skin felt afterward. You'd been looking forward to it practically vibrating with joy.
You were in his kitchen making popcorn when his phone lit up on the counter, and you watched him go rigid.
"Who's that?" you asked, half joking, though something in you was already bracing.
"No one."
"No one is calling you?"
He glanced at the screen, something flickering across his face. "It's Cregan." Somehow that answer made things feel worse. "I'll be right back."
You told yourself to let it go again, but a small question about the movie pulled you after him without much thought. You didn't mean to eavesdrop, not really. You told yourself that afterward, over and over, as if the intention mattered more than what you heard.
But his voice carried, low and urgent, from just around the corner.
No, not tonight. Because I'm with her.
Something about the word her made your stomach drop clean through the floor. You stood frozen in the hallway, one hand pressed flat against the wall, feeling suddenly, stupidly exposed, like the floor had shifted under a house you'd thought was solid.
Tell them I'll make it up to them, he continued, then sharper, don't say it like that, I'm not choosing favorites, that's not what this is.
Choosing favourites… not her…them.
You backed away as quietly as you'd come, heart suddenly loud in your ears, throat tight with something you didn't want to name yet. By the time Jace reappeared looking sheepish and distracted, you'd already half convinced yourself you'd misheard, because the alternative was too big to hold standing up.
"Sorry about that," he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Where were we?"
"Nowhere," you said, quieter than you meant to. "It's fine."
His smile looked strained at the edges. You noticed it and committed it to memory something you’d started doing with every small thing lately, building a case you didn’t want to have evidence for.
Not ten minutes later he was rubbing the back of his neck again, a habit you'd started to recognize as a warning sign.
"So," he started, and you already knew what was coming. "I actually have to go. I forgot about this project thing."
"Now? It's nine at night."
"I know, terrible timing, I'm sorry."
He kissed your cheek on his way out, quick and slightly off center, more escape than affection. You stood alone in his apartment surrounded by unwatched movies and untouched face masks, feeling something cold settle into your chest, and for the first time let yourself actually think the word you'd been avoiding.
Cheating.
You hated how quickly it came once you let it in. You hated more that once you'd thought it, you couldn't quite stop.
There was no way Jace would cheat on you. And yet the doubt had already found a foothold, small and cold, and it didn't leave when you turned off the lights and lay in his bed alone, staring at the ceiling, waiting for a version of him that didn't come back that night.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Against your better judgment, you decided to ask Cregan. In hindsight, this was possibly the worst decision of the entire ordeal, though at the time it felt like the only thread you had left to pull.
You cornered him after a class you shared, and the moment you said Jace's name, his face ran through an entire visible spectrum of panic before settling on something like terror.
"What is he hiding?" you asked, and heard your own voice come out smaller than you meant it to, less like an accusation and more like a plea.
"It's, um. Complicated."
"What does that mean?"
"He's just not ready yet. For certain things."
The phrase landed like a stone in your stomach, and you had to look away for a second to keep your face from doing something you didn't want him to see.
"Not ready for what, Cregan?"
"I've said too much already," he muttered, and then he was gone, leaving you standing in the hallway with your books clutched to your chest, while your thoughts spiraled into every worst version of that sentence you could construct.
You replayed it for days. Not ready yet for certain things. Your mind, unhelpfully, kept building out the story none of it had actually confirmed, filling silence with the worst possible shape, because silence was somehow harder to sit with than even bad news would have been.
Then came the group chat.
Your roommate sent it first, a screenshot of some fan account speculating about DJ JXCE's real identity, alongside a caption that read ok but who IS this man, I need him immediately. You liked the post absentmindedly, half paying attention, laughing along with the group chat without really looking at it.
What you didn't know was that Jace had seen the notification pop up on your shared streaming account an hour later, your name attached to a like on a thirst post about the masked DJ he happened to be. He'd gone quiet and strange for the rest of that evening, and you'd chalked it up to exam stress, never once guessing the real reason, which was that your own boyfriend had briefly, irrationally, felt a flicker of jealousy over a version of himself.
You noticed the quiet, though. It just added one more strange, unexplained thread to the growing tangle between you, one more night you fell asleep further from him than you wanted to be.
The perfume came next. Jace showed up one evening later than he'd said, hair damp as though he'd rushed through a shower, and when you hugged him hello something unfamiliar and floral hit you immediately.
You pulled back fast, eyes narrowing. "Why do you smell like perfume?"
"What? I don't."
"You do. Women's perfume."
"Could be unisex."
"It is not unisex, Jace. My friend wears this exact scent."
He laughed, a strange nervous sound. "Maybe I mixed up one of my mom's bottles by accident."
You stared at him. He stared back, guilt written plainly across his face, he clearly believed he was hiding better than he was. Something in you wanted, badly, to believe the bottle excuse, and hated yourself a little for how easily you almost did, just because believing it was easier than the alternative.
Against every instinct, you let it go. Barely.
That night you lay awake beside him longer than usual, listening to him breathe, running through every version of an explanation that didn't end with him lying to your face. None of them felt convincing anymore. You found yourself doing something you'd never done before, quietly cataloguing his absences like you were building a timeline, and hating that this was who you'd become, someone keeping score in the dark next to the person you loved.
Two nights later, you actually caught him mid lie, or close enough to feel like it.
You'd stopped by his apartment unannounced, a rare thing for you, planning to surprise him with food from the place he liked, telling yourself the gesture might close some of the distance that had opened up without either of you naming it. Cregan answered the door instead, eyes going wide with the particular panic you'd come to associate with him whenever your name came up.
"He's not here," Cregan said, too quickly.
"His car's outside."
"He's, uh. Sleeping. Really deeply. Can't be disturbed."
Behind him, muffled but unmistakable, you heard the low thump of bass through the wall, and Jace's voice, distant and animated, clearly not asleep at all.
"He's sleeping," you repeated flatly.
"Very deeply," Cregan said again, wincing at his own words even as they left his mouth.
You didn't push past him. You didn't demand answers. Some part of you was almost afraid to, afraid of what you might see if you did. You just stood there a moment, food going cold in your hands, feeling something inside you go quiet and hurt because anger at least gave you somewhere to put it.
"Tell him I stopped by," you said, and left before Cregan could stammer out anything else, walking back to your car with your eyes stinging the whole way, furious at yourself for crying over something you didn't even have proof of yet.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
The final straw arrived three weeks later, at five in the morning, in the dead quiet of your apartment.
You hadn't planned to be awake. You'd simply found yourself sitting upright on the couch in the dark, some instinct telling you he was coming even though he hadn't texted. You sat there with your knees tucked to your chest, watching the door, running through weeks of small evidence like beads on a string, and feeling, underneath all of it, a grief you hadn't let yourself feel yet.
When the lock finally clicked, you didn't move.
The door opened and there he was. Leather jacket, matching pants, heavy boots, a button down shirt half undone. His hair was a wrecked, sweaty mess, something faintly glittering across his collarbone. A backpack hung off one shoulder.
You reached over and switched on the lamp beside the couch.
Jace froze in the doorway as if he'd been shot.
"Oh," he said faintly. "You're up."
You stood slowly, arms crossed, and it took everything in you to keep your voice from shaking. "Who is she?"
His face went blank. "What?"
"The girl. The one you're cheating on me with." Saying it out loud made it real in a way that terrified you, and some small, stubborn part of you had been hoping until that exact second that he'd laugh, that he'd say something that made all of it dissolve.
The backpack slid off his shoulder and hit the floor. "What? I'm not, what are you even talking about?"
"The calls, Jace. The late nights. The perfume. Cregan lying to my face about you. The way you disappear the second your phone rings." Your voice cracked, tears finally spilling over, weeks of held breath breaking loose all at once. "Just tell me the truth. Please. I would rather know than keep doing this to myself."
"There's no truth to tell, I swear, I haven't been-" He stopped, something shifting behind his eyes. "Oh my god. You think I've been cheating on you."
"What else was I supposed to think?" The words tore out of you, raw and scared, weeks of careful composure gone. "I've been lying awake for weeks convincing myself I was being paranoid. Just break up with me if you don't want to be with me anymore. I can handle that. I can't handle not knowing."
"No." He said it immediately, closing the distance between you, his own voice cracking now too. "No, absolutely not, I am not cheating on you. I would never- you have to know that, whatever else this looks like."
"Then explain it!"
He stared at you, chest heaving, then let out a long, strangled groan and dropped to his knees in front of his bag, unzipping it with shaking hands. The contents spilled across the floor. A laptop, tangled cables, headphones, a handful of USB drives.
You stared down at the mess, utterly lost, the fear still humming underneath everything else, not yet ready to let go of it.
"I'm a DJ," he said, looking up at you, and something in his face had gone open and unguarded in a way you rarely saw. "I'm the DJ. The one in the videos, the mask, all of it, that's been me this whole time. Cregan's my manager. It started as a joke during exams and it got completely out of hand, and I never told you because I felt stupid, and then I felt too far in to bring it up without it looking like I'd been hiding something, which I was, which just made it worse."
"Wait." You held up a hand, something clicking together slowly, weeks of fear starting to give way to something dizzier. "The masquerade mask. The one my roommate has screenshotted a hundred times. That's you?"
"...yes."
Something in your chest cracked open with the force of understanding all at once, relief and disbelief and the last of the fear draining out of you so fast it left you a little unsteady. "Oh my god."
"I need you to believe me." He reached for your hands, and you let him take them, feeling how badly his own were shaking. "There is no other girl. There has never been another girl. It has always just been you. I know I gave you every reason to think otherwise, and I hate that, I hate that I did that to you."
And then, because your body apparently needed to release weeks of pent up anxiety through violence, you smacked his arm, hard.
"You absolute idiot." Another smack. "Do you know what the last three weeks have been like for me? You were acting like a criminal for weeks. Sneaking off, whispering on the phone, coming home smelling like perfume-"
"People hug me at events, that's not-"
"Disappearing every time your phone rang like you were hiding a body-"
"I was hiding contracts-"
"Cregan told me you were asleep, Jace, while I could hear you through the wall-"
"That was supposed to be a secret set for a fund, I panicked-"
"I thought you were cheating on me!" The words cracked out of you along with a fresh wave of tears, all the exhaustion of holding that fear alone finally breaking through. "I spent weeks lying to myself so I wouldn't have to ask you directly, because some part of me was scared that if I did, you'd actually say yes."
His expression shattered completely at that, all the frustration draining out of him at once. "Hey." He pulled you into his chest, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. "Come here, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I never wanted you carrying that alone. I should have seen what all of this looked like from where you were standing."
You cried into his shirt, which still smelled faintly of smoke and stage fog. His hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and warm.
"I should have told you from the beginning," he said quietly, into your hair. "I was embarrassed, I didn't want you to think I was some try hard idiot playing dress up on weekends. And then the longer I waited the scarier it got, and I let that fear cost you weeks of thinking I might be the kind of person who'd do that to you. I'm never going to forgive myself for that part."
You pulled back far enough to look at him, still sniffling, but something steadier settling in your chest now. "You are cool, Jace. You could be the biggest loser on this entire campus and I would still like you exactly the same. But please, from now on, if something's eating at you, tell me. I'd rather sit with a hard truth next to you than a good guess alone."
Something in his expression softened completely. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You wiped at your eyes, a watery laugh escaping despite everything. "Also Cregan is the worst secret keeper I have ever met. He basically confessed everything just by looking guilty. Multiple times."
Jace groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "I'm going to kill him."
"You should thank him. He's the reason I found out at five in the morning instead of five months from now."
"I was going to tell you eventually."
"Sure you were."
"I was!"
You laughed properly this time, and he pulled back just enough to kiss you, soft and lingering, like an apology and a promise both.
"I love you," he murmured against your mouth. "In case that got lost somewhere in all the chaos."
"I love you too. Even though you're apparently a secret celebrity."
"Please don't call me a celebrity, that's so much worse than DJ."
"I'm never letting either of those go."
Later that night, once the tears had dried and the adrenaline had faded, the two of you sat together on your bed, your cheek resting against his shoulder while he opened his laptop and finally showed you everything.
Folders full of tracks. Software he navigated with a confidence you'd seen from him in class. Careful explanations of BPM matching and vocal isolation, delivered with a quiet enthusiasm that made your chest ache fondly.
"This is how I match tempos between songs," he said, pointing at a waveform, "and this separates the vocals so I can layer them differently."
"This is genuinely so cool," you admitted.
"You mean that?"
"I do. Also slightly betrayed you hid an entire secret talent from me for months. But yes. Cool."
He laughed, opening another folder, then went suddenly still, a strange snort escaping him. When you asked what was funny, he silently turned the screen toward you.
A playlist title stared back: Aemond Diss Set Vol. 4.
You burst out laughing loud enough that he had to shush you through his own laughter. "You made four of these?"
"He deserves every single one."
By the time he moved on to transitions and cue points, your eyes had started drooping. Half asleep, you mumbled against his shoulder that he should take you with him next time, to one of his sets.
He went still a moment, then answered softly that he'd like that.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
He kept his word the following weekend.
You spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear, texting your roommate three separate outfit photos before settling on something you hoped looked like it belonged in a club instead of a lecture hall. Jace picked you up looking almost unrecognizable already, dressed down in a plain hoodie with the mask and everything else stuffed in a duffel bag, like he was smuggling his other self across state lines.
"You get nervous before these?" you asked in the car, watching his fingers tap an unconscious rhythm against the steering wheel.
"Every time." He glanced at you, a small, crooked smile. "Different kind of nervous than exams, though. Better kind."
The venue was a private club downtown, with a strict guest list and a bouncer who barely looked up from his clipboard until he saw Jace's face, at which point his whole posture changed.
Backstage was a cramped little room behind a black curtain, mirror rimmed in bare bulbs, a rolling rack of clothes that were unmistakably not Jace's usual wardrobe. Cregan met you at the door looking more professional than you had ever seen him, wearing glasses he probably didn't need and clutching an iPad like it was his lifeline.
"Absolutely not what I expected from you," you told him.
"You have no idea," he muttered, already scrolling through something with the sound tech. "Green room's through there. Try not to distract him too much, we go live in forty."
You watched Jace get ready, and it was strange in a way you hadn't braced for, watching your boyfriend disappear piece by piece into someone else. He pulled on black leather pants that fit like a second skin, tucked in a fitted button down he left mostly undone at the collar, and shrugged into the same black leather jacket from that morning a week ago, the one that had made you think the worst. A thin silver chain caught the light against his throat. He rolled up his sleeves to his forearms, and when he ran a hand back through his hair to mess it into something deliberately unkempt, you felt something low and unfamiliar twist in your stomach.
"Stop staring," he said without turning around, catching your reflection in the mirror.
"I'm not staring."
"You're staring."
"You look different," you admitted. "Good different. Just different."
He turned around then, and even without the mask yet there was already something shifted in the way he held himself, shoulders squared, chin lifted, the faint slouch he always carried from hunching over textbooks completely gone. Then he picked up the mask off the counter, black and gold, and slid it into place, and the transformation finished itself right in front of you.
"How do I look?" His voice came out slightly muffled, teasing.
"Like a stranger I'd very much like to talk to," you said honestly, and his low laugh under the mask did something dangerous to your pulse.
Cregan stuck his head through the curtain. "Ten minutes."
The club itself was already heaving by the time you and Cregan made your way through a side door onto the small elevated platform beside the booth, the crowd a dark churning mass beyond the edge of the stage lights. Fog machines pumped thin curling trails across the floor. Lasers sliced green and violet through the haze in sharp geometric bursts, catching on raised hands and sweat slicked shoulders. The bass from the warm-up set was already a physical thing, a pressure you felt behind your sternum before you'd even reached the booth.
Thanks to what Jace jokingly called your girlfriend privileges, you were allowed close enough to feel the metal decking hum beneath your shoes.
Then the warm-up DJ stepped back, the lights dropped to near black, and a low voice over the sound system announced him.
"Ladies and gentlemen. DJ JXCE."
The crowd's reaction hit like a wave, a wall of noise that made the hair on your arms stand up. A single spotlight cut down onto the booth, and there he was, mask gleaming black and gold under the light, both hands raised slowly over his head like he was commanding the room to hold its breath.
He let the silence stretch a beat too long, the whole crowd hanging on it, and then he dropped his hands onto the deck and the first track exploded out of the speakers.
You had never seen Jace move like that. Not once. Not at parties, not dancing badly in his kitchen while cooking, not even the handful of times you'd dragged him out to actual clubs where he mostly stood at the edge nursing a drink and looking faintly uncomfortable.
This was someone else entirely, someone who owned every inch of the small platform he stood on. His whole body moved with the track, not just his hands on the controller but his shoulders, his hips, the roll of his neck as a bassline dropped and the crowd screamed back at him. One hand rode the crossfader while the other pumped a fist into the air, urging the room higher, and they answered him instantly, hundreds of hands shooting up in unison like he'd pulled a string tied to every one of them.
He worked the deck with a fluency you hadn't fully understood even after the laptop tutorial back at his apartment. His fingers moved across the pads in quick bursts, layering in a vocal chop, riding a filter sweep up until the whole room seemed to inhale, and then cutting the bass entirely for one suspended, electric second before slamming it back in. The crowd's collective scream when the drop hit was so loud it rattled through the room.
He prowled the length of the booth as he played, never fully still, boots hitting the platform in time with the kick drum, leather jacket catching the strobing lights every time he turned. At one point he grabbed the mic clipped to the stand beside him and leaned into it, voice low and rough through the mask, telling the crowd to get their hands up, telling them he couldn't hear them, and the roar that answered him was deafening.
He wasn't just playing music at them. He was performing, feeding off them, giving it right back tenfold, and they were eating out of his hand.
Sweat had started to darken the collar of his shirt within the first twenty minutes, dark strands of hair sticking to his forehead beneath the edge of the mask. He didn't seem to notice or care. Every few tracks he'd glance up toward the platform where you stood, and even through the mask, even with a few hundred people between you, you could feel it when he found you, could feel the small private smile hidden behind the black and gold.
Once he pointed straight at you mid transition, just a flash of a gesture before both hands went back to the deck, and the girls nearest the stage turned to see who he'd singled out, and you felt your whole face go hot despite the cool club air.
Around the halfway mark he did something that made Cregan groan audibly beside you. He cued up a fire set, an honest to god fire set, twin jets of flame erupting from either side of the booth timed exactly to the drop of a track you recognized from one of his practice sessions weeks ago, something he'd played you half asleep on his laptop that you'd had no idea was destined for this.
The heat of it washed over the front rows and the crowd went absolutely feral, phones up everywhere, capturing him silhouetted against twin columns of fire, mask glinting, one arm thrown up triumphant while the other kept the mix rolling without missing a single beat.
"He asked for the flame cues without telling me the timing," Cregan muttered, half laughing, half exasperated, watching his own screen. "I nearly had a heart attack."
Somewhere in the transition between two tracks he ripped off his jacket entirely and flung it toward the side of the stage without looking, revealing the shirt beneath sticking damply to his shoulders, sleeves shoved further up his forearms, and the crowd screamed like he'd done something far more significant than take off outerwear.
You found yourself dancing without ever deciding to, swept up in the same current pulling everyone else, laughing at how easily your body had given in.
Near the end of the set, he slowed things down deliberately, easing the tempo into something moodier and heavier, the bass sitting low and sultry under a vocal sample that looped and stretched until the whole club seemed to sway together instead of jump.
By the final track, his hair was completely soaked through, shirt clinging to his back, chest visibly heaving with the effort of an hour spent moving nonstop, and he still hadn't lost an ounce of the manic, magnetic energy that had carried the whole set. He ended it exactly the way he'd started, both arms thrown up as the last beat cut to silence, the crowd's scream filling the space where the music had been, and for one long moment he just stood there under the spotlight, chest rising and falling, letting the sound wash over him.
Then he turned, found you immediately even through the mask, and pointed at you again, more deliberate this time, before Cregan was already pulling him off toward the side exit and a wall of people trying to reach the booth.
Backstage he was still buzzing when you found him, mask pushed up onto his sweat damp hair, cheeks flushed, breathing hard, grinning in a way you'd genuinely never seen on him before, not after exams, not after anything. He looked wrecked and thrilled and completely, unmistakably alive.
"So," he said, pulling you against him despite the state of his shirt. "What'd you think?"
"I think," you said slowly, "that I have never in my life seen you move like that."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Extremely good different." You reached up, pushing the mask fully off his head and setting it aside. "You set the stage on fire, Jace."
"Cregan's idea. Well- my idea, his logistics."
"You pointed at me. In front of four hundred people."
"I wanted them to know." He said it simply, honestly, still catching his breath. "That you're mine. That you were there."
Something in your chest went warm and soft despite the pounding bass still ringing faintly in your ears. "You're ridiculous."
"You don’t seem to be complaining.”
"I’m not." you admitted, and kissed him before he could say anything else, not caring in the slightest that he tasted like sweat.
By the end of the night, buzzed on secondhand champagne and pure adrenaline, the two of you sat together outside the club in the cool night air, his jacket draped over your shoulders now instead of his.
"You're the coolest person I know," you told him honestly.
He laughed, soft and disbelieving. "Yeah?"
"I know so. I watched four hundred strangers lose their minds over you tonight."
He went quiet a moment, some of the performer's swagger fading back into the version of him you knew best, the one who overthought everything at two in the morning. "I should have told you from the start. I'm sorry I let it drag on so long."
"It's okay," you said, and meant it. "Just don't forget who I am once you're some famous masked DJ with sold out shows."
He gasped, mock offended. "I would never forget my sweet girl."
Then he kissed you, slow and warm, right there under the streetlights, and everything that had felt so uncertain weeks earlier finally settled into something solid and unshakably good.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
BONUS 😉:
It was one of those mandatory gatherings the entire Targaryen-Velaryon family dreaded and somehow never managed to escape, orchestrated by Viserys with the quiet insistence of a man who refused to acknowledge how deeply his family disliked being in the same room together. Jace had asked you to come along specifically so he'd have someone on his side before he got frustrated enough to throw a punch.
The table was, as always, a masterclass in barely restrained mess. Aegon and Lucerys were locked in some tense, whispered argument. Rhaenyra sat with her head in one hand. Alicent was quietly working through her third glass of wine. Viserys sat at the head of the table pretending not to notice any of it. Aemond kept sending long, calculating looks toward Jace.
At least Helaena was pleasant company, cheerfully telling you about her latest bug collection and the chicken coop she'd been building.
Then Joffrey, scrolling on his phone, suddenly snorted loudly enough that everyone turned to look at him.
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just saw this DJ posted a new set. Apparently it's another one dissing Uncle Aemond."
Jace choked on his water so violently you had to shove a napkin into his hands before he ruined the tablecloth.
Aemond's expression went ice cold. "And?"
Joffrey squinted at his screen. "The title is, uh." A pause. "Certified One Eye Hater Mix Volume Five."
The table went utterly silent.
Aemond rose slowly from his chair, both hands slamming flat against the table. "I will sue this man."
You buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking with laughter, while beside you Jace trembled with the effort of holding his own in. Across the table, Rhaenyra shot him a single sharp look promising very real consequences.
Under the table, you found his hand and laced your fingers through his. He squeezed back immediately, glancing at you with amusement dancing behind his eyes.
You looked around at the whole scene, at Aemond threatening legal action against a masked DJ he had no idea was his own nephew, at Rhaenyra silently contemplating homicide.
Life, you thought, biting back your own smile, was pretty great.
Summary: Your husband didn’t greet you that morning, it made you really upset.
WARNINGS: Pregnancy, ormones, fluff
A/n: after seeing the results I wrote this. This is a little short, but sooo cute😩 (I need Jace)
masterlist | wc: 1.7k
IT WAS already late afternoon when Jacaerys finished his daily training on the beach of Dragonstone. The waves continued to crash against the rocks with their constant roar, while the salty wind tousled his hair, already damp with sweat. His breathing was still heavy from the exertion, his chest rising and falling slowly as he put away his training sword and ran a hand across his forehead to wipe away the drops trickling down his temples. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected across the sea. His clothes were completely soaked with sweat and clung to his body with irritating insistence, but he paid it no mind. There was only one person he wanted to see after every training session, only one presence capable of turning exhaustion into serenity with a simple smile.
He crossed the great doors of the castle, welcomed by the familiar warmth of Dragonstone's halls. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, while servants and guards offered quick bows as he passed. Jacaerys barely acknowledged them with a distracted nod. His mind was already elsewhere, focused solely on you. Ever since you had discovered you were expecting a child, every moment spent away from you felt far too long. It had become almost instinctive for him to seek you out the moment he set foot in the castle, to make sure you were well, that you needed nothing, that the pain accompanying your pregnancy was not too severe. You were his wife, the woman he had chosen and would continue to choose every day of his life. And the child growing within you represented the future he had always wanted to build together.
He found you in your chambers, seated before the great fireplace where the flames crackled softly, casting a warm light that enveloped the entire room. A heavy blanket lay over your legs, while one hand gently caressed your now evident belly in slow, almost unconscious gestures filled with a tenderness that tightened his chest every time he watched you. Your gaze, however, was lost in the fire, your eyes glossy, veiled with tears barely held back. Even when you heard the door open and immediately recognized his footsteps, you stubbornly refused to turn around. You continued staring at the flames as if he had not even entered the room.
Jacaerys' heart skipped a beat. All the calm he had gathered along the way vanished in an instant, replaced by immediate concern. Without even removing his training gloves, he quickly crossed the room and knelt before the armchair, trying to catch your gaze by lowering himself to your level. His dark eyes were filled with worry as they searched your face desperately for an explanation. "Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice far gentler than he had expected, as though he feared that speaking too loudly might shatter you further. One hand cautiously brushed the edge of the blanket, hesitant. "Please, tell me what's wrong."
Your lips trembled slightly, forming a pout that was as obvious as it was endearing. You took a deep breath, as if gathering all the courage you needed to confess the reason for your distress, something that felt enormous, even though a part of you already knew how irrational it was. "You've stopped loving me!" you finally whimpered, your voice breaking with tears and emotions that, in recent months, seemed to intensify without control. You kept avoiding his gaze, as if afraid that looking at him too long would make you cry even harder.
Jacaerys' eyebrows lifted again in astonishment. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to understand how you had reached such a conclusion. Then, seeing that stubborn pout and the deeply offended expression with which you pressed your lips together, a tender, amused smile slowly spread across his face. Before him stood the woman he loved, struggling against the tides of pregnancy hormones, and he found it all incredibly sweet. "And how did you come to that conclusion?" he asked with infinite patience, tilting his head slightly.
"This morning you left without saying goodbye, without giving me a kiss... nothing!" you replied immediately, as if you had been waiting all day for that moment to vent. You crossed your arms over your chest stubbornly, turning your face away so he couldn't read your expression. "You left as if I wasn't even there."
For a long moment, Jacaerys remained silent. Then he felt all the tension leave his shoulders in a deep sigh of relief. He had feared he had truly hurt you, that he had forgotten something important or unknowingly wounded you. Knowing that this was the reason almost made him smile even more, though he forced himself not to laugh. For you, that pain was real.
He stepped closer, slowly taking one of your hands in his. His fingers were still warm from training, but his touch remained incredibly gentle as he brought the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, affectionate kiss against it. His lips indulged on your skin for a few seconds more than he intended to, the warmth of his mouth crawled upon your arm, leaving shivers on their way. "You were asleep." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I didn't have the heart to wake you, especially after you'd been up for most of the night because of the pain. I saw you finally resting so peacefully and it felt selfish to interrupt that sleep just to say goodbye." He lifted his gaze until it finally met yours. "And I don't think it's even possible for me to stop loving you." he continued, with the faintest hint of a smile.
Those words were enough to crack all your stubbornness. A muffled whine slipped past your lips before he gently pulled you against his chest, careful not to press against your belly. His arms wrapped around you with that steady reassurance that always made you feel safe, while one hand slowly began to stroke your back in slow, soothing motions. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat reached you clearly through the still-damp fabric of his clothes, and in that sound you always found a peace that was hard to explain. He stroked your back with one hand. "My sweet girl, why would you ever doubt my love? Have I ever made you question my feelings for you?"
You remained silent for a few moments, continuing to listen to his heartbeat as you sincerely reflected on that question. You sniffled softly a couple of times, absentmindedly wiping a tear against his tunic. Deep down, you already knew the answer. Jacaerys had never stopped showing you how much he loved you, not even for a single day. Every gesture, every act of care, every look he gave you spoke the same language. You lifted your face slightly, still pouting. "You're making me feel silly..." you admitted quietly.
He immediately shook his head firmly. "You are not silly at all." One hand rose slowly to brush your hair back behind your ear with disarming tenderness. "You have every right to be upset. I should have said goodbye before leaving this morning. Even if you were asleep, I could have at least left you a kiss on your forehead." His fingers gently caressed your cheek. "And for that, I'm terribly sorry. Will you ever forgive me, my love?"
You stayed silent for a few more seconds, pretending to consider your answer carefully. In truth, you had already decided to forgive him the moment he held you in his arms, but you had no intention of giving up that small advantage. Your lips curved slightly into a hidden smile.
"Only if you say the words you didn't tell me this morning." you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by the fabric of his clothes.
A soft laugh escaped Jacaerys, full of affection. "As you wish, my girl." He gently lifted your face in his hands, looking at you as if you were the most precious creature to ever exist. "I love you." He placed a kiss on your cheek. "I love you." Another kiss, slightly higher. "I love you." Another, this time on the opposite cheek. "I love you." He continued without any hurry, smiling more and more each time he saw your pout melting away. "I love you."
In the end, you couldn't hold back anymore. A clear, bright laugh burst from your lips, filling the room and completely replacing the silence that had wrapped it just moments before. The pout vanished entirely, giving way to a radiant smile that made him forget all the exhaustion of the day.
Jacaerys couldn't stop looking at you. He would never stop marveling at how easily you could change his world with nothing more than a smile. His hand slowly slid to your belly, caressing it with infinite tenderness. "Is that enough now, my love, or must I repeat it endlessly to convince you?" he asked, amused.
You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think with great seriousness, while an ever-growing smile continued to light up your face. "Perhaps you could say it one or two more times."
He let out a quiet laugh, that warm sound that always melted your heart. Without needing to be asked twice, he went back to covering your face in small kisses, one after another, until you laughed even harder. Only when he saw your cheeks flushed and your eyes finally filled with happiness instead of tears did he pause, resting his forehead gently against yours. "I love you."
Perhaps, seen from the outside, that argument would have seemed foolish. Perhaps many would have smiled at fears born from nothing more than a forgotten goodbye. But for Jacaerys, nothing that concerned you was insignificant. If three words were enough to bring your smile back, then he would say them a thousand times a day without ever growing tired. If you needed to feel loved, he would always find a new way to show you, because his love knew neither measure nor pride.
You lowered your gaze, feeling warmth rise slowly to your cheeks. You tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back another small laugh. "I suppose I love you too." you muttered with feigned indifference.
Twenty-four hours after Harry confirms your relationship by posting a sweet photo carousel on Instagram, the official House of the Dragon page posts a compilation video of you two.
MATERIALIST
The notification on your phone chimes at 9:00 AM, but you ignore it, burying your face deeper into Harry’s chest. He hums, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer into the warmth of the duvet.
It has been exactly twenty-four hours since Harry finally hit "post" on his account, effectively breaking the internet. After months of dodging paparazzi, sneaking out of back exits, and speaking in carefully constructed riddles during press junkets for House of the Dragon, the truth was out.
The confirmation hadn’t come from a sterile publicist statement, but from a carousel of photos on Harry’s account. The first slide was a blurry, candid photo of you two laughing at a diner at 3:00 AM, the second was a gorgeous shot of you looking out over the sea and the last was a mirror selfie of the two of you in matching oversized sweaters, his chin resting on your shoulder. His caption had been simple and sweet, undeniably his:
"My favorite part of every day. Finally getting to share it with everyone"
Your phone chirps again. Then twice more in rapid succession. You groaned at the sound.
"If that is your agent telling us we have to do an emergency live stream to address the chaos, I am throwing the phone out the window," Harry mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, his British accent heavier than usual in the mornings.
"Ugh, It's probably just my mom," you murmur, reaching blindly for the nightstand.
It wasn't your mom. It’s a text from Beth in the group chat, consisting entirely of capital letters and a link. Underneath it, a notification from Instagram reads: @houseofthedragon posted a video tagging you.
Intrigued, you sit up, dragging the blanket with you. Harry blinks open his eyes, "huh?" squinting against the morning light as you prop the phone between you both and hit play.
The video opens with the familiar, dramatic House of the Dragon intro music, but it’s quickly replaced by a soft acoustic track. The text across the screen reads: “We knew it before you did.... here’s what we’ve been keeping in the vault. Congratulations to our favorite slowburn.”
The first clip cuts in. It’s shaky, clearly shot on a B-cam during a break on the soundstage in Wales. You are sitting in a folding chair, dressed in your elaborate Targaryen regalia, looking exhausted. Harry is standing over you, still wearing his heavy, ornate armor. He is focusing intently on the intricate silver clasps of your cloak, his long fingers working gently to loosen the heavy fabric from where it’s pinching your shoulder.
You look up at him in the clip, saying something that makes him laugh an honest, crinkly-eyed laugh that he usually hides from the cameras.
From behind the camera, you hear the muffled, recognizable voice of one of the key grips. "Look at them. He’s been standing there for ten minutes fixing that cloak. It’s not even broken." Another crew member giggles off the screen. "He just wanted an excuse to be close to her. Don’t ruin it."
In the bed next to you, Harry lets out a soft groan, covering his face with his hands. "Oh, god. They filmed that? The Betrayal... unbelievable"
"Shh, listen," you laugh, nudging him with your elbow as the video cuts to the next scene.
The second clip cuts in, and this one is from a midnight shoot out in the muddy, torch-lit backlot. It’s freezing cold and a light drizzle is falling. You are standing off to the side of the cameras, holding a script and trying to memorize a last minute dialogue change. You are so focused that you don’t notice Harry walking up behind you with two paper cups.
Without interrupting your focus, he gently presses one of the warm cups against your bare cold cheek. In the video, you jump slightly, then look up and melt when you see it’s him. He hands you the hot tea, and you immediately use both hands to wrap around the warmth of the cup. As you go back to reading your lines aloud, Harry just stands there, holding his own tea, looking down at you with a soft, entirely captivated expression, completely ignoring the rain getting on his costume.
The sound of the boom mic operator echoes clearly over the track, whispering to a nearby camera assistant. "Hey, look at Harry. He’s been standing in the rain for five minutes just watching y/n read lines. He looks like a little puppy. Aww"
The assistant snickers. "Man's got it bad. He literally ran to the catering truck to get that specific tea the second they called the ten minute break."
You look over at Harry sitting beside you. The tips of his ears are bright red, a soft, embarrassed smile playing on his lips. "I was just being a supportive and caring coworker," he protests weakly.
"Mhm, you were so attentive..." you tease, leaning down to kiss his cheek.
The final clip of the montage cuts in, and the lo-fi background music suddenly cuts out, replaced by a comical record scratch sound.
It’s an official, high-definition blooper from a dramatic scene you and Harry were filming together. In the clip, the two of you are standing close, trading an intense, important dialogue. The tension is palpable. Harry delivers a deeply serious, dramatic line, his face a mask of intensity, until a loud, violent rumble echoes through the quiet studio.
It was your stomach. It roars so loudly that it picks up perfectly on the boom mic.
In the video, Harry’s intense expression immediately shatters. He cracks a massive smile, drops his regal posture and reaches into the heavy folds of his costume. With absolute seriousness, he pulls out a half-crushed package of snack crackers he’d been hiding in his pocket and hands them to you without a word.
The audio catches the director laughing over the megaphone. "Cut! Harry, are you smuggling contraband on my set?"
Harry looks directly at the camera, deadpan, while you frantically rip open the crackers in the background. "The talent was starving, sir. I’m a hero."
The video fades to black with the simple logo.
You burst out laughing, locking your phone as the screen goes dark, and turn to look at Harry. The initial embarrassment has faded from his face, replaced by that familiar, warm expression he’s worn since the day you realized you were falling for him.
"Well, well" Harry says softly, reaching out to pull you closer by your waist. "At least your gorgeous face in my Instagram carousel prepared the world for the fact that I am, indeed, a savior of the starved."
You laugh, leaning into his chest as he pulls the blanket back over the both of you. "Lucky me, now the whole world just knows you're a massive softie who carries snacks for me."
"mhm" he murmurs against your hair, kissing the top of your head. "only for you."
I do not know which interviews do for the rest of the series, pls give me recs!!
Dunk is massive so he takes up like most of the tub, meaning you are usually sitting directly on top of him or straddling his lap because there is simply nowhere else to go. He blushes furiously at how close you are, trying to look anywhere but at your chest, but he secretly loves it. He’s too shy to initiate much, but if you wash his chest or his hair, he melts, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath, his large hands coming up to caress your hips.
➥ Baelor Targaryen -
Bathing with him is very intimate. He has strong hands that feel incredible when he massages the tension out of your shoulders. He doesn’t need words,he expresses his love through service, washing your back and hair gently. He likes to pull you close afterwards, just sitting in the cooling water with his arms locked around you, his face buried in your neck breathing you in ,making sure you feel protected and safe from the outside world.
➥ Aerion Targaryen -
During bath with him the water is always burning hot and filled with expensive scented herbs. He is in love with himself, so he spends a good amount of time admiring himself, but he asks for your attention too, he likes to put mirror in front of tub so he can admire the aesthetic of your bodies together in the steam. he might run a finger down your spine just to feel you shiver, kiss down your shoulders or grip the back of your neck to pull you into a possessive kiss.
➥ Alicent Hightower -
Bathing together is a quiet, relaxing ritual you have with her, she carries so much tension in her shoulders and hands that the water needs to be burning hot to get her to relax. She is modest and shy at first, sitting at the far end of the tub, but she melts if you take the lead ,sitting behind her gently washing her hair or massaging her shoulders . It is one of the few places she feels safe enough to stop worrying and being anxious, allowing herself to lay against your chest and just relax.
➥ Gwayne Hightower-
Gwayne is a man who appreciates the finer things, and bath time with you is no exception. he’ll sit back against the tub, pulling you back against his chest so he can lazily wash your arms and hair ,he’s surprisingly chatty, gossiping about the camp or court, often stopping mid-sentence to bite and peck your shoulders or slide his hands down your stomach beneath the water.
➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen -
During bath she likes to sit between your legs or have you rest against her, needing the physical touch. She often rests her head back against your shoulder, closing her eyes and murmuring in High Valyrian about her day, trusting you with her frustration and worry.
➥ Valarr Targaryen -
He is sweet and a little clingy. Valarr treasures these moments because he often feels fragile compared to the other men in his family. He loves a bath filled with flowers or scented herbs (something you probably suggested once and now he always remembers). He sits close, legs tangled with yours, kissing your knees, holding your hand, or resting his cheek on your wet shoulder. he treats the bath as a romantic getaway, whispering sweet nothings time to time.
➥ Maekar Targaryen-
Maekar is always stiff and finds it hard to relax, even in hot water, he usually sits in silence, brows furrowed, he needs you to be the initiator. When you climb in, he won’t say a word, but his arm will immediately hook around your waist to pull you in close. He loves when you wash his back or chest,it’s one of the few times he allows himself to be cared for.
➥ Daeron Targaryen-
Daeron is often tipsy, bringing a goblet of wine with him, but the water sobers him into a sweetness. He is clinging, wrapping himself around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He often rests his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, finding it more calming than anything else. he needs to feel every inch of you to remind himself that you are real and not part of his dreams (nightmares).
➥ Oscar Tully - (aged up)
During bath time he is a bit shy at first, the steam from water hiding the flush on his cheeks when you drop your robe. He loves facing you in the tub, his knees knocking against yours. He is incredibly attentive, wants to help you wash up, his hands sliding over your skin with need, often pulling you forward so he can kiss you deeply while the water sloshes over the sides.
➥ Aemon Targaryen (pale prince)-
Bathing with Aemon is romantic and incredibly intimate. He treats it as a getaway from his duties, he is the type to wash your hair for you, massaging your scalp gently. He loves the feeling of your legs tangled with his beneath the water, and he’ll often press kisses to your wet shoulders, whispering sweet words against your skin.
Summary: You’re pregnant, but your husband doesn’t know yet.
WARNINGS: pregnancy, Jace is sooo sweet, angst if you squint, hurt to comfort
A/n: I wrote this at 2 in the morning, honestly I don’t know if it’s good lol I just needed to write something for him after these first two episodes. Also, if you want to read a Cregan start ff you can find it on my wattpad!
masterlist | wc: 2k
A GENTLE rain fell over the rooftops of Dragonstone, turning the sea below into a vast expanse of silver rippling beneath the wind. Every raindrop seemed to disappear into the dark waves that crashed relentlessly against the jagged cliffs, while a thin veil of mist wrapped itself around the ancient walls of the fortress, making them appear as though they had grown from the mountain itself. From the window of your chambers, you gazed out at the landscape you had slowly come to love despite its harsh, untamed beauty. There was something comforting about the endless sound of the sea, a deep, steady heartbeat that had seemed to match your own ever since you had arrived there. One hand rested absentmindedly against your still-flat stomach, hidden beneath the soft folds of your gown. A gesture that had become instinctive before you had even realized it. Your fingers lightly brushed over the fabric, almost shyly, while an uncertain smile came and went across your lips. No one could have imagined what you were carrying within you. Not the servants who had greeted you that morning, not even Baela, who had left your chambers only a few hours before, and certainly not Jacaerys.
Thinking back to the maester's words still made your heart race. Everything had been so incredibly simple for him, almost disarmingly so. He had examined you calmly, checked your pulse, asked a few questions, and finally smiled with the quiet composure of a man accustomed to delivering every kind of news imaginable. "Congratulations, my lady. You are with child." Just those few words, spoken so naturally, and yet they had changed your entire little world. From that moment on, everything had seemed different. The sound of the sea felt louder, the sunlight warmer, even your heartbeat had taken on a new rhythm, faster, more impatient. You had spent the rest of the day with that realization tucked tightly inside your chest, unable to think of anything else. Every time your hand drifted back to your stomach, you found yourself wondering how it was possible that such a tiny life already existed inside you, silent and unseen.
You had tried to tell him that very morning, shortly after leaving the maester. You had found him in the breakfast hall, still breaking apart a loaf of bread while reading several letters that had just arrived from one of the lords. He had smiled the moment he saw you enter, just as he always did, but before you could gather the courage to speak, one of the guards had knocked on the door to announce that the council was waiting for him urgently. Later, you had decided to wait for him in the training yard, certain that would finally be the right moment. You had watched him spar beneath the light rain, his expression focused, his dark hair soaked through, but once again someone had stopped him afterward to discuss the coastal patrols. Every opportunity slipped away as though fate itself delighted in delaying that conversation. Perhaps it was for the best, you kept telling yourself. Perhaps you simply needed a little more time.
Because you were afraid. Not of how he would react, you had never truly feared that. Jacaerys was the kindest man you had ever known, capable of reading every emotion written across your face before you had even found the words yourself. He had taught you that asking for help was never a weakness. He always reached for your hand whenever anxiety threatened to consume you, and he looked at you as though you were the most precious thing in the world. Perhaps that was what frightened you most. You were afraid of everything that would change after this confession. Of the responsibilities that would only grow heavier. Of the war looming over every day spent on Dragonstone. You were afraid that the cruel world you lived in would come to claim this happiness as well, just as it had stolen so many others before it.
The door creaked open behind you, interrupting both the sound of the rain and your thoughts. "I've been looking for you." The sound of his voice alone was enough to melt away part of the tension that had kept your body rigid for hours.
You turned slowly. Jacaerys was still dressed in his training clothes; the dark tunic clung to his shoulders from the lingering dampness, his dark hair was slightly disheveled, and one stubborn lock had fallen across his forehead. His cheeks were still flushed from exertion, and his face carried the weariness of someone who had spent the entire day between the training yard, the council chamber, and countless impossible decisions. Yet the moment his eyes found yours, every trace of exhaustion seemed to disappear. The smile that spread across his lips was gentle, the same smile that had always made you feel safe.
"Have you been here all day?" he asked as he slowly walked toward you, almost as though he were afraid of disturbing your thoughts.
You gave a small nod, unable to meet his gaze right away. Your fingers instinctively intertwined, squeezing together until they nearly hurt. He noticed immediately. A slight frown crossed his features as he slowed his steps, watching you with the careful attention he reserved only for you.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly, stopping in front of you and resting one hand on your shoulder. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of your gown, calming, if only a little, the storm of emotions swirling inside you.
Lying to him had always been impossible. All he had to do was look into your eyes, and every attempt to hide something crumbled within seconds. You slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. "I want to talk to you about something important."
The smile faded slightly from his face, replaced by concern. "Has something happened?"
You quickly shook your head. "No…"
"Has someone hurt you?" he insisted, his concern so sincere that it almost made you smile. He was always prepared to imagine the worst, especially when it came to you.
"No." you repeated patiently.
"Then what's weighing so heavily on your heart?" he asked at last, taking one of your hands gently into his own. His thumb began tracing slow, reassuring circles across the back of it, melting your heart with the tenderness of it. "Please, talk to me."
You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. You had rehearsed this conversation dozens of times in your mind. You had imagined it during sleepless nights, while wandering through Dragonstone's corridors, even while standing at this very window overlooking the sea. Every version had sounded perfect as long as it remained inside your head. But now, sitting beside him, every word suddenly felt wrong. "Sit down."
He looked at you for a brief moment, clearly confused, but asked no questions. Instead, he sat down on the small sofa beside the fireplace, where the crackling flames filled the room with a pleasant warmth. He held out a hand toward you, and almost instinctively, you took it before sitting beside him. His hands were warm, strong, yet impossibly gentle. "You're worrying me, my love."
"I know." you whispered. "Do you remember when you told me that no matter what happened, we'd face it together?"
He smiled without hesitation. "I still mean that."
Those words alone were enough to break through every wall you had built around yourself. Your eyes began to sting, and before you could stop them, tears started gathering along your lashes. A nervous laugh escaped you. Maybe the maester had been right about the hormones after all. How did Jacaerys always manage to make everything seem so simple? How could he dissolve every fear with nothing more than a few quiet words? "I think..." you began, but your voice faltered almost immediately. You couldn't continue.
He kept stroking your hand without rushing you. "Look at me."
You did. His brown eyes were filled with nothing but affection, patience, and unwavering trust. For a fleeting moment, you found yourself wondering whether your child would inherit those same gentle eyes. "You never have to be afraid to talk to me."
The tears finally slipped down your cheeks. "I..."
He leaned toward you immediately, whispering sweetly in your ear. "Hey." With infinite care, he brushed one tear away with his thumb, barely grazing your skin. "Whatever it is, it won't shock me."
You let out a watery laugh between quiet sobs. "I think it will."
He frowned slightly. "I don't understand, love."
Taking a slow, steady breath, you clasped his hand in both of yours. You held it gently, almost afraid that even such a simple gesture might betray how overwhelmed you felt. Then, slowly, you guided his hand down until it rested against your stomach, over the soft fabric of your gown. For a long moment, he remained perfectly still. His eyes shifted from your hand to your face, then back to your stomach, as though his heart had already understood the truth while his mind was still struggling to catch up. "It's not just the two of us anymore, Jace," you whispered. Silence filled the room. Even the sound of the rain seemed to fade away.
His lips parted slowly. "You're..."
You gave the slightest nod. "Yes."
Silence again. Your heart sank. For the briefest moment, you wondered if you had imagined everything wrong, if perhaps he wasn't as happy as you had hoped he would be.
Jace's eyes widened with pure disbelief. "Really?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Really." you confirmed softly.
"I don't understand... then why do you look so heartbroken?" Jace tightened his hold on your hand ever so slightly, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over the wedding band on your finger, the one he himself had placed there on your wedding day. The familiar gesture alone was enough to soothe you. You looked toward the window, where the sea continued to crash against the cliffs while the setting sun filtered gently through the curtains you had insisted on hanging only a week before.
"It's just..." you began quietly. "We're living in the middle of a war, Jace. What if something happens to our baby after they're born? What if I'm not a good mother? What if I can't keep them safe?" Your voice trembled as the words spilled out. They were the fears you had tried to ignore all day, only to have them burst free now like a river overflowing its banks.
Jacaerys didn't answer immediately, he simply looked at you for a long moment, as though committing every detail of your face to memory before gently pulling you into his arms with infinite care, almost afraid that holding you too tightly might somehow hurt not only you, but the tiny life growing inside you as well. You rested your head against his chest and felt his heart pounding just as quickly as your own. "As long as I'm alive, I will never let anyone harm either of you. That much, I swear." They weren't words spoken lightly, you knew it. It was a promise he intended to keep, no matter the cost. Even if it meant giving his own life.
You slowly closed your eyes, letting yourself be lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing. "I hope they look like you." you murmured with a faint smile.
He chuckled softly, brushing a finger along your cheek. "Oh, that would be a disaster. I hope she's a girl, and that she looks exactly like you."
A quiet laugh escaped you. For the first time since receiving the news, your fears felt smaller. They were still there, buried deep within your heart, but no longer large enough to drown out your happiness. The slow caress of his hands, the warmth of the fire, and the endless rhythm of the rain turned that moment into something impossibly peaceful.
You curled even closer against him, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. "A little princess wouldn't be so bad." you murmured, your smile now completely at ease.
Jacaerys lowered his gaze to you, continuing to stroke your hair while a smile filled with wonder lit up his face. He remained silent, almost afraid that speaking would shatter the fragile beauty of that moment. Instead, he simply held you close, listening to your breathing grow slower and softer until, at last, you fell asleep against his chest, lulled by the steady beat of his heart and by the certainty that, at least for that one evening, the world beyond those walls could wait.
I’ve seen a edit where Jacaerys is frozen in time on Dragonstone still dead and Dany is the one to bring him back to life…
so like imagine.. being Dany’s younger sister, and arriving to Dragonstone and find a coffin with a boy in it..
and maybe Dany’s sister is having memories of a life she never lived..or maybe her previous life. The boy looks so familiar. And a f strange magical force is beckoning her to kiss him.
The game starts with harmless jokes, but quickly shifts to focus on you and Harry as the tweets call out your intense on-camera chemistry and mutual attraction.
MATERIALIST
The studio for Hot Ones was legendary, instantly recognizable by its minimalist black backdrop, the intense studio lighting that offered no place to hide, and the terrifyingly neat row of ten hot sauces lined up across the table like a culinary gauntlet. Across from you sat the iconic Sean Evans, sitting with the serene, unbothered composure of a man who had watched countless celebrities unravel in this exact room. You and Harry had signed up for a special duo episode of Truth or Dab, the high-stakes version of the show where standard media-trained evasion was entirely off the table. The rules were simple, you either answered a devastatingly personal, thoroughly researched question with absolute honesty or you took a substantial bite of a chicken wing doused in the infamous liquid fire.
“Welcome back to Truth or Dab,” Sean Evans said, his smooth, measured voice contrasting sharply with the chaotic energy vibrating on your side of the table. “I'm sitting here with the costars of the internet's absolute favorite romance, and guys, you've made it halfway through the gauntlet. Your eyes are watering, your faces are noticeably flushed, but against all odds, you've managed to answer every single question so far. Let's see how long that streak lasts.”
Harry wiped a visible bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, letting out a breathless, slightly strained laugh. The capsaicin was clearly beginning to take its toll, making his pulse visibly race against his collarbone. “I'm not going to lie to you, Sean, this is currently dissolving my stomach lining as we speak. But we're a team. We came into this together.”
“Are you?” Sean asked, a terrifyingly calm smile spreading across his face as he reached down to pick up the next prompt card. The crisp sound of the paper unfolding felt like a death knell in the quiet studio. “Let's find out. This next question is for both of you.” You braced yourself, your fingers tightening around your glass of milk like a literal lifeline, your heart doing a sudden, erratic thud against your ribs.
Sean leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, his eyes locked onto yours. “Six months ago, during a location shoot in a small coastal town in Scotland, multiple locals reported seeing the two of you at a quiet, candlelit corner table in an intimate seafood bistro on a rainy Tuesday night. There were no crew members, no scripts on the table, and one witness claimed you were holding hands across the basket of bread. Romantic." Sean paused, letting the weight of the rumor hang in the air. “The internet has debated this for half a year. So, for the absolute truth, was this an official, off-set date? Or... do you want to take a bite of the Last Dab?”
The studio went completely, agonizingly silent. The casual, polite smile you had practiced in the mirror froze entirely on your face, and your throat went completely dry. Scotland. The tiny bistro with the foggy, condensated windows where you both thought you were entirely safe from the public eye. Panic swirled in your chest as you looked down at the question card, then over at Harry, the back to the card.
Harry’s reaction was instantaneous, and it completely bypassed every shred of pr training, media caution he possessed. His eyes widened in a flash of genuine, frantic panic. He didn't look at the cameras, and he didn't even look at Sean. His gaze snapped entirely to you, observing the slight tremor in your hand as you reached tentatively toward the wing on your plate, clearly prepared to take the hit to save your privacy.
Before your fingers could even brush the food, Harry lunged across the small space separating your chairs. “No, no, no,” he muttered rapidly, his voice cracking with a raw, protective urgency that shattered the polished, lighthearted veneer of the show. “Don't touch it. Don't eat it.”
“Huh? Harry, I can just do it, it's fine...” you started, but he was already moving with a frenetic, desperate speed.
In one swift, reckless motion, Harry snatched the bottle of The Last Dab directly off the table. His hands were shaking slightly from a combination of the heat and sheer adrenaline as he unscrewed the cap and aggressively shook a massive, violent dollop of the thick, mustard-colored sludge directly onto his own wing, far exceeding the standard drop required by the game.
“It's too hot,” Harry insisted, his voice dropping into a frantic, hushed whisper meant entirely for your ears, completely forgetting the six camera setup recording his every move. “Seriously, your spice tolerance is horrendous, you'll actually pass out on the chair. I'll just do it. I'll take the hit for this one.”
"Harry, you really don't have to do this—"
"I'm doing it, its fine" he interrupted, his jaw set in a line of absolute, unyielding determination despite the flush on his cheeks.
Without giving himself another second to overthink the chemical warfare he was about to inflict on his body, Harry picked up his heavily coated wing and took a massive, agonizing bite. He chewed furiously as the liquid fire instantly assaulted his senses. Within seconds, his face turned a spectacular, terrifying shade of deep red. His eyes watered instantly, a stray tear spilling over his eyelashes and tracking down his cheek as he choked down the meat, coughing heavily into the crook of his elbow.
“Oh, wow,” Sean said, looking genuinely impressed, a rare look of pure awe breaking through his usual stoic demeanor as he watched Harry frantically reach for a fresh jug of milk. “Harry went straight for the ultimate sacrifice play, didn't even let you consider answering the question.”
You watched Harry chug the milk, his shoulders shaking as he tried to survive the voluntary poisoning. Your chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the hot sauces on the table. It was the most public, loud confession he could have possibly made, choosing intense physical suffering over the slightest risk of you having to publicly deny, or in the worst case, confirm what that rainy night in Scotland had actually meant to both of you.
“Are you alright?” you whispered, entirely ignoring Sean as you placed a comforting, steadying hand on Harry's trembling forearm.
Harry put the milk carton back down onto the table, breathing heavily through his mouth, his eyes bloodshot but fixed entirely on you. “Yeah,” he wheezed out, offering a pathetic yet incredibly soft little smile. “totally fine, completely worth it.” Behind the cameras, the entire production crew was grinning like madmen, undeniable domestic panic of the moment hanging heavy and sweet in the studio air.
When the episode finally aired the following Thursday, the internet completely ignored the hot sauce rankings, poor Sean, and the rest of the interview. The clip of Harry’s frantic, protective meltdown was clipped and microanalyzed within the hour. The fans didn't even need the answer to Sean's question anymore, the sheer vpanic of Harry's refusal to answer was the only confirmation they would ever need. The headlines in the gossip columns and celebrity centered podcasts kept repeating the same conclusion.
“Sean asked if they went on a secret date, and instead of just saying ‘no,’ Harry Collett practically swallowed a spoonful of liquid fire just to protect their private weekend. If that isn't a physical confession of love, I don't know what is.”
Part V of the interview series -> Architectural Digest
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