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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 28: July 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

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

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

The second session did not magically become easier than the first.

If anything, it felt heavier — not with tension, but with the weight of everything unspoken that now hovered in the room like fog. The kind that settled into your bones.

Belle sat stiffly on the couch, her posture a little too perfect, the line of her spine drawn taut like a string pulled too tight. One hand curled around a mug of herbal tea Camille had handed her the moment she walked in — chamomile, the kind that was supposed to soothe. Her other hand rested on her thigh, fingers loose until Max’s slid between them. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t press. Just... anchored.

Silent. Solid. Always there.

Across from them, Camille offered her usual soft, steady smile, pen poised but barely moving. “Thank you all for coming back,” she said. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Arthur gave a quiet nod. Lorenzo sat with his hands clasped, his expression drawn and unreadable, like he was still bracing for impact. Pascale held her handbag on her lap like armor — her nails tapping absently against the clasp. And Charles… Charles looked wrecked. Hair rumpled, shadows under his eyes, like sleep had been a stranger all week.

Belle didn’t look at him long.

“Let’s talk about the foal,” Camille said gently. “Galahad.”

The name alone sent a ripple through the room.

Belle blinked. She hadn’t expected that to come up so soon. Her thumb brushed the rim of her cup.

“He’s Blanche’s grandson,” she said quietly.

Pascale inhaled sharply, the kind of breath that sounded like it had edges. Arthur went still. Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, low and pained, as if he was trying to fold the memory of Blanche into something less sharp.

Charles frowned, his confusion too genuine to be faked. “I—wait. That’s real? It’s not just… people online guessing?”

Belle didn’t answer him at first. She just looked down into her tea — then lifted her eyes, cool and clear, to her brother.

“Max gave me Fleur,” she said, voice steady. “Blanche’s last foal. He found her. Bought her. For my birthday.”

Max didn’t flinch when every pair of Leclerc eyes snapped toward him. He didn’t even blink. He just slid his thumb gently over Belle’s knuckles, grounding her again — like a lighthouse in a storm he wasn’t afraid to weather.

“Blanche was sold when I was thirteen,” Belle continued. “She was the one thing in the world that was mine. And Papa sold her to pay for Charles’ karting season.”

Charles flinched visibly. Arthur looked like he was trying not to speak.

“We didn’t realize,” Pascale said quietly, voice barely above a breath. “That it hurt so much. You were so quiet about it…”

“I stopped talking about it,” Belle said, turning to her mother now — not cold, but calm in a way that made Max’s grip on her hand tighten slightly. “Because I learned not to ask for anything I loved. Because if I did, it would be taken away.”

The room went still.

Dead quiet.

“I didn’t know,” Charles said. “I mean— I knew Blanche was important, but I didn’t know it broke you like that.”

Belle didn’t blink. “Because no one ever asked if I wanted to ride again. Not once. You just assumed I was fine.”

“I thought you’d outgrown it,” Charles said weakly.

“I didn’t,” Belle said. Her voice cracked for the first time, but she cleared it and went on. “I missed her every day. I used to dream she’d be there when I got home. I’d walk past the stables and think maybe… maybe someone changed their mind.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “Why didn’t you say something?”

She looked at him. And for the first time, it wasn’t hurt in her eyes — it was exhaustion.

“Because you took away what I loved once,” Belle said. “What reason did I have to believe anyone would give it back?”

Camille sat forward slightly. “Belle, you mentioned working at a stable during university?”

Belle nodded. “It was the only way I could be near horses again. I mucked stalls, fed foals, groomed show ponies. I worked before and after classes just to pay for riding lessons.”

“And you never told anyone?” Lorenzo asked softly.

Belle gave him a thin smile. “Charles was already making F1 money. You were all busy celebrating. Why would I ruin it by saying I still missed something you decided didn’t matter?”

Max let go of her hand just long enough to rest his palm over her thigh, his thumb rubbing small, grounding circles there.

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I was so focused on not letting anyone down—on winning. I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask,” Belle said.

And this time, it landed.

The silence afterward was raw. Heavy. Pascale dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her coat pocket.

“I thought you were so strong,” she whispered. “I thought if I didn’t ask, you wouldn’t hurt.”

“I still hurt,” Belle said, gentler this time. “I just stopped hoping you’d notice.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said suddenly, voice thick. “I’m so— I was selfish. I didn’t see what I cost you. I didn’t know how much we hurt you. That we took something from you and never even tried to give it back. That we just… assumed you didn’t need it anymore.”

Belle blinked hard. Max squeezed her hand tighter.

“I remember when they sold Blanche,” Charles said. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stopped. And I told myself that meant you were okay. But you weren’t. You were never okay. And I never asked why.”

Camille nodded. “Belle, how does that feel to hear?”

“I don’t want apologies because people feel guilty,” Belle said. “I want them because they finally see me. All of me.”

She looked at Charles again. “Do you?”

“I’m trying,” he said, voice shaking. “I promise—I’m really, really trying.”

Max finally spoke, low and firm. “Trying is good. But it’s only the beginning.”

Charles met Max’s eyes. For once, there was no defensiveness. Just shame.

Camille let the silence stretch before speaking again, her voice soft.

“Grief doesn’t always come from loss,” she said. “Sometimes it comes from being forgotten. From knowing that what matters most to you… didn’t matter to someone else.”

Belle closed her eyes, just for a moment.

And Max held her hand, the only thing that didn’t tremble.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time.

Charles had leaned back, hands clasped between his knees, shame carved deep into the lines of his face. Arthur sat rigid beside him, like he was holding his breath through the weight of it all.

And Lorenzo… Lorenzo hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not because he had nothing to say.

But because he had too much.

“I should’ve known,” he said finally.

His voice was rough — unused, too tight, like every word scraped its way out.

Belle looked at him, but didn’t speak. Just watched. Quiet. Braced.

Lorenzo’s hands flexed in his lap before he went still again.

“I was the oldest,” he said, not to anyone in particular. “I was supposed to look after everyone. Especially after Papa died. And I didn’t. Not really.”

He looked up at her then, and the regret in his expression nearly knocked the wind from her lungs.

“I thought… if you weren’t complaining, if you weren’t fighting… that meant you were fine.” A pause. “But you weren’t. And I should’ve seen that.”

Belle’s throat worked. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just waited.

“I saw you working during uni,” Lorenzo added, softer now. “I knew you were doing too much. But I told myself it was just who you were — that you liked being independent. I didn’t think to ask why. I didn’t think to ask if it was because we hadn’t given you anything to rely on.”

He looked down, thumb rubbing over a faded scar on his knuckle.

“I didn’t know you were still riding,” he said. “I didn’t know you were still hurting. And that’s not on you. That’s on me.”

Belle’s breath hitched — and she looked away, blinking fast.

“I thought I was doing enough by staying out of your way,” Lorenzo said, quieter still. “But all I did was stay out of your life.”

Across the room, Pascale was quietly crying.

Camille sat back, letting the silence do what it needed.

Max gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And finally — finally — she found her voice again.

“I never stopped waiting for someone to ask,” she whispered. “Just once. Just one of you.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even though her eyes were glassy.

“You all knew how much I loved Blanche. You all knew what it meant when she was gone. And then you just… never asked again. All I ever wanted,” she said, “was to matter to you the way racing mattered. The way Charles mattered. The way Arthur’s comeback mattered. I didn’t need a podium. I just needed to be enough without earning it.”

Lorenzo wiped his face with a shaking hand.

Pascale looked like her heart was breaking in slow motion.

Lorenzo looked like he’d been punched.

“I care,” he said hoarsely. “I care, Belle. I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it.”

Belle didn’t nod.

Didn’t forgive.

But her hand curled tighter around Max’s.

And she didn’t look away.

Which was, for now, more than she’d ever given them before.

Camille’s voice was soft, guiding. “Maybe the next step isn’t trying to fix the past all at once. Maybe it’s about listening better. Starting now.”

***

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the occasional flick of Max’s thumb as he scrolled through his phone. Belle sat at the island, legs curled up on the stool, her chin resting on her palm as she nursed a glass of iced tea.

It had been a long day. The kind that didn’t hurt exactly, but left her feeling stretched thin.

Max looked up from his phone. “So, I was thinking,” he said, tone light, joking, “the summer break is coming up… we could actually take a holiday this time.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “A real one? No media, no Red Bull calls, no pretending we’re just ‘close friends’ in public?”

Max grinned. “Full honeymoon energy. Just with slightly more sunscreen and probably less champagne.”

She smiled faintly, but the curve of it faltered after a second.

“I don’t want to plan anything that’s meant to include them,” Belle said quietly, fingers tightening around her glass. “Not this time.”

Max didn’t ask who them was.

He didn’t have to.

She pressed on, voice steady but tired. “Every family trip, every holiday, every break… it was always about accommodating them. Maman’s preferences, Charles’ schedule, Lorenzo’s mood. I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to spend my vacation hoping someone remembers I’m there.”

Max’s gaze softened. He reached out, tugging gently on her hand until she let go of the glass and laced her fingers through his instead.

“Then we don’t,” he said simply. “We make it ours. No apologies.”

Belle exhaled, slow and shaky. “I don’t want to spend this summer proving I’m fine without them. I want to actually be fine.”

Max brushed his thumb along her knuckles. “What if we invited my family instead?”

Belle blinked.

He continued, tone still light but thoughtful. “Ma has been asking to see you. We could rent a little villa — bring Victoria, Tom, the boys. Just family, but the kind that… makes you feel safe.”

Belle’s lips parted like she was going to argue — reflex, habit — but then she stopped.

Because that didn’t sound exhausting.

It didn’t sound like pressure.

It sounded like warm breakfasts and sleepy mornings and Lio climbing into her lap with sticky fingers, and Sophie giving her that kind, knowing smile that never made her feel small.

It sounded like a life she didn’t have to fight for every second.

She swallowed. “That actually… sounds really nice.”

Max leaned over, kissed her temple, and said, “Good. Because I already looked at places in the South of France.”

Belle let out a soft laugh, the tension finally beginning to slide from her shoulders. “Of course you did.”

Max smirked. “I have taste. And a wife with excellent boundaries.”

Belle squeezed his hand. “Getting there.”

“You’re already doing better than most,” he said, kissing her again. “And this summer? It’s going to be about you. Us. The people who show up.”

***

Group Chat: Summer Escape ☀️🐚

(Members: Max, Belle, Victoria, Sophie, Tom)

Max: Found a villa in the South of France. Private beach, lots of space, kid-friendly. Sent you all the link.

Tom: Already sold by private beach tbh.

Victoria: Oh my god this place looks like a dream. Maxie, you’ve outdone yourself.

Sophie: It’s beautiful. And it looks peaceful, too — no paparazzi hiding in the bushes, I hope?

Belle: It’s gated and secluded. Max made sure.

Max: Called ahead. They’ve hosted high-profile guests before. We’ll be safe.

Victoria: Bless you. I love you both but I’m not spending my vacation ducking from long lenses while trying to wrangle Luka and Lio into sunscreen.

Tom: I can already feel the sunburn happening anyway.

Belle: I’ve got a whole itinerary if anyone’s interested 📝 Markets, coastal trails, a boat rental option, a local cooking class, and yes, Vic — I found a day spa.

Victoria: I LOVE YOU.

Sophie: That sounds like heaven. I’ll bake if someone else drives.

Max: Tom and I will handle the cars.

Tom: I’ll drive if Max promises not to play Dutch rap the entire way.

Max: Absolutely not.

Belle: Compromise: Max gets aux on the way there, Tom gets it on the way back.

Tom: Deal.

Victoria: What dates are we looking at?

Max:Early August. I double-checked the F1 calendar. I’m free, and Belle will be far enough along to enjoy the trip but still comfortable.

Belle: I’ve already blocked off the week. Booked the villa this morning 🐚

Sophie: My bags are already mentally packed.

Victoria: Do you think Luka will cry if I tell him Auntie Belle is bringing board games?

Victoria: Okay but I’m bringing floaties for everyone. Even the adults.

Tom: I am NOT wearing a flamingo floatie, Vic.

Victoria: You will if you love me.

Sophie: I’ll bring sunscreen.

Max: Confirmed: easiest vacation planning ever.

***

The villa confirmation email had just come through when Max padded into the living room, two mugs of tea in hand and Jimmy winding lazily around his ankles.

Belle was curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, her laptop balanced on her knees, the faintest smile on her face — the kind she wore when something felt right.

Max handed her the mug, kissed her forehead, then dropped beside her with a contented sigh.

“All set?” he asked, glancing at the screen.

Belle nodded. “Dates confirmed, boat booked, and Victoria has already texted me a list of pool floaties shaped like sea creatures.”

Max huffed a soft laugh. “She really took the flamingo comment personally.”

“She said if Tom doesn’t wear the inflatable crab, she’s revoking his beach privileges.”

“Fair.”

Belle smiled again, soft and genuine — no tightness behind it, no edge of exhaustion. Just ease.

Max studied her for a moment. The light was hitting her just right — golden and gentle, casting little halos in her hair and warming the faint curve at the base of her belly.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Planning things with them. With us.”

Belle didn’t answer at first. She just wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at the steam rising gently from it.

Then: “It doesn’t feel like walking on eggshells.”

Her voice was calm, but Max heard the weight beneath it. The quiet ache of comparison.

“With them, it was always…” She hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “Careful. Strategic. Making sure everyone’s feelings were considered, even if it meant mine weren’t. And still, it always felt like I was asking for too much.”

Max leaned forward, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he could face her properly.

“And now?” he asked.

Belle looked at him then, eyes warm. “Now it just feels like family.”

He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. Reached for her hand. Held it.

“You are family,” he said softly.

Before she could reply — her breath caught.

Max’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

She blinked, wide-eyed.

Then she grabbed his hand and moved it — lower, gently, carefully — to rest on the curve of her belly.

“There,” she whispered. “Right there.”

Max held still.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure.

Then —

A flutter. A ripple. The tiniest thud beneath his palm. Like a secret knock from inside her.

His breath hitched.

“Oh,” he breathed, stunned.

Belle was already crying — silently, the kind of overwhelmed joy that needed no sound to carry its weight.

Max stared at her stomach like it held the universe.

“That was… That was the baby,” he said dumbly, his voice cracking halfway through. “That was our baby.”

She nodded, a laugh escaping through her tears.

He pressed his palm firmer, trying to coax another one — another flutter, another sign.

And there it was. Stronger this time.

A tiny kick.

A hello.

Max didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just leaned forward and pressed his lips reverently to the curve of her belly, hands still cupping her like she might float away.

When he looked up at Belle, there were tears in her eyes too — but not the kind that broke. The kind that healed.

And Max — F1 World Champion, man of speed and fire — sat there quietly, completely undone by the smallest movement he’d ever felt.

Together, they stayed like that — no more talking, no more planning — just stillness, warmth, and the tiniest heartbeat between them.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: em

Emilie: 👀 what happened are you okay is max okay did you post a horse again

Belle: 😂 no. Everyone’s fine, everything’s fine but the baby kicked for the first time.

Emilie: WAIT WHAT BELLE ARE YOU SERIOUS AS IN REAL KICK LIKE A HELLO-I’M-HERE KICK???

Belle: Yes. Like a real, actual kick Max felt it too I think he forgot how to breathe for a second

Emilie:I’m crying in the wine aisle A toddler just asked me if i’m okay

Belle:I wasn’t expecting it. We were just talking and then—boom… a little thump like "Hi mama, I exist"

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 this baby already has dramatic timing just like their parents

Belle:You should’ve seen Max. He looked like he’d been hit by lightning Then he kissed my belly and just… stayed there Like he was listening for more

Emilie: STOP YOU’RE KILLING ME I already love this child more than life itself

Belle: me too and they haven’t even arrived yet

Emilie:You’re going to be such a good mom they’re already so, so loved

Belle:They really are (and so are you)

Emilie: don’t do this i’m already emotional enough also do i get godmother rights or what

Belle: first dibs obviously

Emilie: 💅 as it should be

***

The race had started with cautious optimism.

Emilie had brought pastries. Belle had made tea. The cats were napping peacefully on the windowsill, and the entire living room smelled faintly of lavender and lemon from the candle burning on the side table.

It should have been a peaceful Sunday.

It was not.

It was a catastrophe.

From start to finish.

"Did they just—" Emilie’s voice cut off as she sat bolt upright on the couch, nearly spilling her tea. "Did McLaren really just tell Lando to stop pushing when he was gaining seconds a lap?!"

Belle didn’t answer. Her eyes were glued to the screen, mouth open in disbelief. She looked pale beneath the soft blanket pulled over her lap — a protective hand resting unconsciously on the slight curve of her belly.

"He's faster," Emilie growled. "They’re emotionally blackmailing him with Oscar’s first win. This is what we’re doing now?"

"This is going to break him," Emilie whispered. "You can hear it. You can hear the leash snap."

Belle flinched as Red Bull’s pit wall came into focus next. She could hear Max tightly banked fury in every single radio message.

It was absolute chaos.

Meanwhile Oscar Piastri — calm, clinical, precise — was slowly edging toward his maiden win.

Emilie had gone from angry muttering to full shouting.

"WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS?" she demanded, half-standing, waving a croissant like a weapon. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH MCLAREN’S PIT WALL?!?! AND MAX?!? HE’S MAX. HOW DO YOU MESS UP MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"

Belle didn’t move. She just sat there, clenching her teeth as she watched Max fight for a P5 finish by the skin of his teeth.

On the screen, Oscar crossed the line — P1. His first win. A historic moment. And the cameras panned to the McLaren garage erupting in joy.

Emilie sat back down, quieter now. "That was a nightmare," she murmured. "Nobody’s walking away from this clean."

Belle nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"No," she said. "They're not."

Emilie threw her hands up. "Oscar just won his first race, and I still want to punch someone."

Belle nodded slowly. "Because the entire grid is on fire."

"Because they sabotaged Lando, emotionally and strategically," Emilie fumed. "Because Red Bull turned Max into a sacrificial lamb. And because poor Oscar isn’t even going to get his proper moment."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

On the screen, Oscar climbed from the car, waving to the crowd. The cheers were loud. But Belle could already see it happening — the press would spin it into "Verstappen furious at Red Bull failure" instead of "Piastri’s first victory."

Belle leaned her head back against the couch. “This was supposed to be a normal weekend.”

Emilie snorted. “Have you met Formula 1?”

Belle sighed. “Max is going to be impossible to calm down after this.”

"You’re the only one who can," Emilie said. "And maybe the baby, if they kick him in the kidney hard enough."

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Hey. You want to talk about it?

Max: … No.

Max: Just Tell me about your day. Please.

Belle: Okay. Let’s see. Emilie came over and brought croissants. Then she spent the race shouting at the tv. I made tea. The cats staged a nap-time rebellion. And our baby — who is currently the size of a sweet potato, apparently — kicked me when I sat down wrong.

Max:Already dramatic. That’s on you.

Belle: Excuse me?? I am elegance and grace.

Max: You are. But also a little terrifying. I love you.

Belle: I love you too. I’m proud of you, you know. Even when the car lets you down. Even when the whole race is a disaster. You still came home.

Max: That’s all I ever want. To come home to you.

Belle: Always. No matter what happens on track — I’m here. You, me, and a very kicky sweet potato. 🧡

Max: That made me smile. Thank you, Schatje. I’ll be home soon.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lily Zneimer

Belle: Hey What’s Oscar thinking for the celebration?

Lily: Honestly? He’s feeling kind of… underwhelmed.

Belle: God. That makes me so sad. He deserved the whole fireworks-and-cake treatment.

Lily: He keeps saying “a win’s a win,” but it’s like… even he knows they tainted it. He’s proud. He is. But he feels like everything around it fell apart. Like he won, but at what cost, you know?

Belle: Because they used Lando’s loyalty against him. All the headlines are about Max. Or Lando. Or McLaren strategy. Not about how brilliant he drove. He was flawless. Cool under pressure. Calm. Surgical. He deserved the world for that drive.

Lily: I told him that. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Belle: The entire race was a masterclass in emotional sabotage.

Lily: Exactly. He hasn’t said it, but I think he feels like he stole something. And it wasn’t his fault. But he still feels it.

Belle: That’s the worst part. He should be celebrating. But instead he’s probably thinking about Lando’s face on the podium and Max’s radio messages.

Lily: He keeps saying Lando didn’t even try to smile.

Belle: …Oscar and Lando are going to trauma-bond over this, aren’t they?

Lily: 100%. I’m pretty sure we’re about three days away from a “we’re not mad at each other, just mad at the world” emotionally repressed heart-to-heart.

Belle: They’re going to cry into Monster Energy Drinks and protein bars and swear they’re never letting a pit wall gaslight them again.

Belle: You know what? Screw it. Let’s throw a pool party at ours. Oscar deserves joy. Lando deserves relaxation. Max needs sunlight and distraction. And I’m pregnant. I can make it about me if I need to.

Lily: OH MY GOD YES. YES TO EVERYTHING. You say when and I’ll bring snacks and inflatable flamingos.

Belle: Done. I’ll talk to Max. Let’s give Oscar the celebration McLaren should have.

Lily: You’re the best. Seriously. He’s going to cry.

Belle: He can cry into the pool float shaped like a trophy. I’ll allow it. 😌

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Hey you 🧡 I know the last 24 hours have been a mess. But I also know something else. You won that race. Not McLaren. Not the strategists. You.

Oscar: Thanks, Belle. I’m trying to focus on that. It just feels… weird.

Belle: Of course it does. You were brilliant. But the world got loud about everything else. That doesn’t take away from what you did.

Oscar: It’s hard to feel like it’s mine, I guess. I don’t want Lando to think I didn’t notice how much he gave up. And Max… he deserved better too. Everyone’s mad. It’s hard to celebrate when it feels like I’m the reason for the wreckage.

Belle: Oscar. You are not the wreckage.

Oscar: That’s… Thank you. Really.

Belle: So. Here’s what’s going to happen. This weekend, you’re coming over. We’re throwing a pool party.

Oscar: A what?? 😳

Belle: A celebration. For you. No media. No drama. Just people who love you, a barbecue, flamingos, probably cats, and a really smug Red Bull driver pretending he isn’t excited to man the grill.

Oscar: Is this a trap?

Belle: Only if you hate joy and inflatable pool floaties. Which would be tragic.

Oscar: You don’t have to do that, Belle.

Belle: I want to. Because you should’ve had fireworks. So we’ll give you laughter instead. You earned your moment, Oscar. Let us give it to you.

Oscar: …Okay. Okay, yeah. I think I’d like that.

Belle: Good. And you’re bringing Lily. I’ll blackmail Lando into bringing a playlist and making mocktails.

Oscar: Thank you, Belle. Really.

Belle: Always. Now go pick your favorite sunglasses. You’re getting a party.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: He’s not answering. Belle, he’s not answering any of my texts. Or calls. Since last night.

Belle: Lando?

Emilie: Yes. He read my message at like 2am and didn’t reply. And now he’s gone dark. I’m trying not to freak out but— Okay I’m freaking out.

Belle: Deep breath. He’s probably just trying to decompress. Hungary was a disaster and you know how he gets when he feels like he failed everyone.

Emilie: But he didn’t fail. McLaren failed him. And they made him watch it happen in real-time.

Belle: I know. But Lando’s the kind of person who carries blame even when it’s not his to carry. Especially if it’s Oscar on the other side of it.

Emilie: God. I just want to drag him out of whatever cave he’s sulking in and make him eat something. I keep checking Twitter like a lunatic.

Emilie: Belle— He looked wrecked on the podium. And McLaren acted like everything was fine. Like they didn’t just emotionally ransom him in real time.

Belle: Let me text him.

Emilie: You sure? I don’t want to overstep—

Belle: Em, it’s not overstepping when you care. And Lando cares about you. That’s why he’s hiding. But he’ll talk to me. He always does when he thinks no one else should worry.

Emilie: Please let me know if he answers. I’m just… worried.

Belle: I’ll text him. Promise.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Belle: Hey. I’m not here to push. Just letting you know I’m here when you’re ready.

Belle: Emilie’s worried. (So am I. But I won’t crowd you about it.) Just… maybe don’t go full ghost. You don’t have to be okay. But you don’t have to be alone either.

Belle: I watched the race. Every second. And I know what they did.

Belle: You didn’t lose.

You were put into an impossible situation by your team. You gave up a win so your teammate could have his moment. You drove with loyalty, with grace, with more heart than that entire pit wall put together. And it wasn’t fair.

Belle: I also know you’re probably thinking you don’t deserve comfort right now. That you let everyone down. You didn’t. You held the whole damn thing together until it cracked around you.

Lando: I’m here. Just didn’t know what to say. Still don’t, really.

Belle: You don’t have to say anything profound. Just… let someone know you’re breathing.

Lando: Barely. Feels like I’m stuck under it. The weight. The noise. Everyone has a take. And it’s all just too much.

Belle: Then let me be quiet with you. Or loud, if that helps. Whichever you need.

Lando: Oscar deserved the win. He did. But I hate how it happened.

Lando: And I hate that part of me is still wishing they’d let me have it. That feels… selfish.

Belle: It’s not selfish. It’s human. You fought like hell. You were brilliant. And you were betrayed by the people who were supposed to have your back. You’re allowed to grieve that.

Lando: I just keep thinking… if I had pushed anyway. If I’d ignored the call. If I’d just been selfish for once.

Belle: Then they would’ve crucified you. Turned you into the villain. You did the right thing. And they still broke your heart.

Lando: Yeah. That’s what it feels like.

Lando: Like I’m grieving something nobody else even noticed was lost.

Belle: I noticed. So did Max. So did Emilie. So did Oscar.

Lando: Oscar texted. I couldn’t answer. Emilie too. I couldn’t… I didn’t want them to think I blamed them.

Belle: They don’t. But they miss you. Especially Emilie. She’s halfway to turning up at your door with a backpack and emotional snacks. Text her. She’s losing her mind a little. Probably cried into a baguette this morning.

Lando: I don’t know what to say to her.

Belle: Try: “Hi, I’m alive. Sorry for being a dumb ghost boy. Miss you.” Bonus points if you throw in an emoji.

Lando: … Fine. I’ll text her. But only because you bullied me and I don’t want her to throw a baguette at my head.

Belle: Good.

Belle: Also. There’s a pool party at ours this weekend.

Lando: Is this a threat or an invitation

Belle: Yes.

Belle: Come. Max is barbecuing. Oscar’s being emotionally blackmailed into smiling. Emilie’s already picked out her floatie. I have lemon iced tea and three cats who miss you.

Lando: …Is it weird if I say I miss the cats too?

Belle: Deeply normal. One of them climbed into Max’s suitcase today like he was personally offended he wasn’t invited to the garage.

Lando: Okay. I’ll come. Just don’t… expect me to be the life of the party.

Belle: I don’t need you to be anything but you. Messy. Sad. Recovering. You’re allowed to take up space exactly as you are.

Lando: Thanks, Belle. Really.

***

Belle had always believed healing didn’t happen in grand gestures. It happened in the quiet.

It happened in things like grilled corn on a sunny patio. In the sound of Lando’s laugh — rusty, but real �� echoing from the pool deck. In the way Oscar kept checking that Lily had enough sunscreen on, even though she was already under a parasol. In Emilie wearing sunglasses far too big for her face while floating across the water in a neon flamingo, sipping mocktail number three and pretending she wasn’t sneaking glances at Lando every five seconds.

It was in the smallness of it all. That’s where the cracks began to mend.

Belle sat on a lounger in the shade, legs curled under her, a book in her lap that she hadn’t turned a page of in at least twenty minutes. Her free hand rested absentmindedly over the curve of her belly.

Max was at the grill with a look of serious concentration that made him look more like he was engineering a pit stop than flipping burgers. He’d already threatened to throw anyone who messed with his skewers into the pool.

The air smelled like coconut sunscreen, charcoal smoke, and fresh lemonade. A slow breeze ruffled the ivy growing along the stone wall. Everything was soft, warm, safe.

Lando was perched on the edge of a lounge chair near the shallow end, hair still wet, swim trunks clinging awkwardly to his legs after a stealth dunk by Oscar.

Belle had watched the shift in him happen slowly over the last hour. The way his shoulders dropped an inch. The way he let himself speak without weighing every syllable. The way Emilie, now dried off and sitting beside him with her towel around her shoulders, kept brushing her pinky against his like she was asking: Here? Can I meet you here?

And Lando — for once — didn’t flinch.

Oscar and Lily were sitting on the pool steps, water up to their waists, sharing a bag of chips like they were teenagers again. Belle caught Oscar watching Lando once, his face carefully unreadable, before he turned and whispered something to Lily that made her laugh and splash him.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was healing.

“Need anything?” Max asked, suddenly beside her, handing her a cold glass of lemon soda like he knew she was about to ask without having said a word.

Belle smiled up at him. “No. Just this.”

He sat down on the lounger beside her, his hand settling instinctively on the spot where their baby had kicked earlier that week. She leaned into him, and for a moment, there was no chaos, no paddock, no headlines — just Max and Belle and the quiet miracle they were building between them.

Across the patio, Lando called out, “Max! Your burger’s on fire!”

Max stood, dramatically offended. “It’s charred for flavor!”

Emilie snorted. “It’s charcoal, Verstappen.”

“Don’t insult the chef,” Belle murmured into her glass.

Lando grinned faintly. It didn’t reach all the way to his eyes — but it got closer.

Belle caught his gaze and lifted her glass in a silent toast.

To survival. To found families. To the summer that might finally give them all a little peace.

Lando nodded once, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Yeah. He got it.

And Belle — finally, fully — let herself exhale.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale.

Pascale: I was thinking we should start planning the summer holiday. Maybe the coast? That little hotel in Antibes with the good croissants?

Arthur: Can we not do the same hotel again? Last time we went there the air conditioning broke and Charles nearly started a war with the concierge.

Charles: That’s because it was 40 degrees and they offered me a fan the size of a desert plate.

Lorenzo: Still better than the year we tried that cabin in the Alps and you forgot you hate nature.

Charles: There were bugs. I make no apologies.

Pascale: Anyway—Isabelle, chérie, can you look into accommodations again? You always find the nicest ones. ❤️

Belle: I won’t be joining this year.

Arthur: Wait, what?

Charles: You’re not coming?

Pascale: What do you mean?

Belle: Max and I already made plans with his family. We’re spending two weeks in the South of France — a villa by the coast. Just us and them.

Lorenzo: So you’re skipping the family holiday?

Belle: I’m not skipping. I’m just not the one planning it this time. If you want to go somewhere, you’ll have to coordinate it yourselves.

Pascale: Isabelle, I just thought— You’ve always been the one who organizes things. It’s tradition.

Belle: It’s also exhausting. I’d like a summer where I don’t feel invisible while trying to make everyone else comfortable.

Lorenzo: Belle… we didn’t mean to take that for granted.

Belle: I know. But you did. And this year? I’m choosing peace.

Charles: So we’re just… not doing anything all together?

Belle: You’re welcome to. But not with me trying to hold it all together. Not this time.

***

Instagram Stories: @/belleverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridwitches: belle verstappen really said “our love is loud even when it’s quiet” and now i have to lie down in traffic 🫠

@/formulagenz: “You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.” i’m crying in the work bathroom. this woman deserves the world.

@/paddocktea: her saying “we weren’t ready for the noise” while still radiating the kind of peace most people spend years searching for??? iconic. queen energy. verstappen-level PR mastery without saying a single messy thing.

@/mclarendrama: also @LandoNorris being outed as the unofficial wedding photographer?? please god let him have used portrait mode.

@/babyverstappenupdates baby verstappen is the size of a carrot, has an entire f1 grid of honorary uncles, a red bull onesie in production, and a mother who is effortlessly poetic even in a Q&A. i’m already obsessed with this child.

@/f1softies: can’t stop thinking about: – “he always makes sure I know I’m loved, even when no one else remembered.” – “the bump. and the dad.” – “don’t sell your riding boots. they’ll matter again.” this isn’t just a q&a. it’s a novel.

@/charlesupdates: shoutout to belle for asking people not to send hate to her brothers. even after everything, she’s still trying to hold the peace. grace personified.

@/wagsupreme: it’s the way belle confirmed her entire love story, baby, and career in one story drop and still managed to say “let us be a family, privately.” she’s the blueprint.

@/oscarstan03: her being like “our baby is healthy, i’m grateful, lilly the cat is fierce” like girl you are the voice of a generation.

@/gridgirlie: BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID “LOVE LIKE THIS IS LOUD EVEN WHEN IT’S QUIET” AND I NEED A MINUTE TO SOB IN MY CAR

@/f1nosyparkers: “Because I wanted to be someone’s first thought, not a footnote.” THIS IS WHY I WILL DIE FOR HER

@/lanflorals: Lando Norris was the wedding photographer??? I’m sorry??? HE’S BEEN SITTING ON THESE PHOTOS LIKE A FERAL LITTLE SECRET KEEPER

@/redbullhoneybadger: not belle casually saying she met max because he tried a bad pickup line on her I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THE LINE WAS WAS IT ABOUT TIRES? WAS IT “I’D PIT FOR YOU”?

@/paddockwives: “She doesn’t have to earn love by disappearing” “She visits Fleur every week” “She calls the baby a little Verstappen” “She’s still working” “She’s exactly where she’s meant to be” NO BUT I AM A BELLE GIRL FOREVER

@/belleleclercupdates: belle: please don’t send hate to my brothers she’s class. she’s grace. she’s emotionally destroying them without raising her voice.

@/sunnyforoscar: “don’t harass them. we’re family. a fractured one, but still family.” she’s giving boundaries AND compassion how is she this composed???

@/babyverstappenfanclub: THE BABY IS THE SIZE OF A CARROT. I REPEAT. THE BABY IS A CARROT. I love them already.

@/leclercguiltposting: Belle: asks people not to send hate Also Belle: answers every question with poise, kindness, and veiled emotional warfare I see why Charles is in shambles.

@/paddocktea: Belle asking people not to send hate to her brothers???? A better person than me tbh Because if my family forgot my birthday and I was pregnant and GLOWING like that??? They’d be BLOCKED 💅

@/emotionaldnf: “don’t sell your riding boots. they’ll matter again.” BELLE??? STOP??? I CAN’T BREATHE????

@/lanverstappensimp: i’m sorry but imagine max taking a pickup line shot in a bar and it ended with marriage and a baby he WINS. he WINS AT LIFE.

@/danielricciardosburner: imagine going to a Q&A for fun and getting:

therapy

a life lesson

cat pics

baby updates

confirmation that Max Verstappen is completely whipped i need to lie down.

@/gridwivesupreme: i keep thinking about “don’t harass my brothers. that doesn’t help anyone.” like… she’s STILL trying to shield them from the fallout. even now.

that’s not just grace — that’s trauma reflex.

@/gridsleuths: no bc the entire tone of her answers is so quiet but final “we’re still family, but let us do this privately” babe. that’s a boundary forged from burn scars

@/charlesgirlfail: idk how to explain it but belle’s entire vibe is

“i don’t hate you, i just finally stopped needing you to care”

which is somehow 1000x more devastating

@/emotionaldnf: i’m convinced belle spent years showing up for people who never remembered her coffee order and max took one look and said: not on my watch

@/sunflowersoftgrid

her talking about her old riding boots and how she thought she had to earn love by disappearing…

you could feel the silence she grew up in

you could feel how loud max’s love must’ve been by comparison

@/underratedwags:

the Q&A was soft and graceful but like… the subtext??

– never mentions a Leclerc attending the wedding

– references her husband and her baby and her horses before her family

the silence is screaming

@/f1sleuths: 📌 Thread: How bad is Belle Verstappen’s relationship with her family, really? Because after that Q&A… yeah. Let’s unpack. 🧵

@/f1sleuths: 1. First of all, the line “I wanted to be someone’s first thought, not a footnote”??? That’s not shade. That’s a funeral for unmet needs. That’s someone who’s been sidelined for years.

@/f1sleuths: 2. She said:

“We weren’t ready for the noise.” And then: “For once, I wanted to be someone’s first thought.” And then: “You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.” Tell me that woman hasn’t been begging to be seen her entire life.

@/f1sleuths: 3. Also let’s talk about how she didn’t deny anything. She didn’t say “my family and I are fine.” She said:

“We are family — a fractured one, maybe, but still family.” That “maybe” is loud. That “still” is tired. That whole line is someone choosing compassion without pretending everything’s okay.

@/f1sleuths: 4. She also said “don’t send my brothers hate,” which is usually something people only have to say when… people are sending hate. And why are people sending hate? Because this family ignored her for so long that people noticed.

5. Let’s not forget:

The birthday her family forgot

The wedding they didn’t attend. (Because they were not on that wedding picture she posted.)

The horse story (I’m still crying over Blanche) This isn’t a one-time fight. This is a pattern.

@/f1sleuths: 6. Meanwhile, the Verstappens have:

Flew in for the wedding

Max got her a horse she lost in childhood

Victoria posted a photo of Belle organizing the baby’s nursery

I’m sorry but the contrast is BLINDING.

@/f1sleuths: 7. “Love like this is loud even when it’s quiet.” = I didn’t grow up with this kind of love. And I don’t know how anyone reads it differently.

@/f1sleuths: 8. This is not about drama. It’s about a girl who spent years being told (implicitly or otherwise) that she didn’t matter as much as the rest of them. And now? She’s with someone who shows her every day that she does.

@/f1sleuths: 9. Final thought: Belle didn’t air her family’s dirty laundry. She didn’t name names. She didn’t point fingers. She just told the truth — hers — quietly. And somehow it was louder than anything they’ve ever said.@/f1sleuths: 10. Anyway. I hope Belle gets everything she never thought she could have. And I hope the Leclercs are listening. Because the rest of us? We hear her loud and clear.

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hanginginthevoid · 1 month ago

Text

The Lighthouse

pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader

summary: you’ve always been drawn to bob. at first you think it means something, but then you remember that yelena’s also always been drawn to bob. and its obvious that he prefers her over you.

a/n: i lovelovelovelovelove misunderstanding trope. the first thought i had leaving the theater was that i couldn’t tell if i wanted bob for myself or if i wanted him and yelena to get together, so this thought has been haunting me for a while. after this i am dried out for fic ideas, but ive been having fun writing so feel free to send reqs and ill do my best to fulfill them!

warnings: self-deprecation, misunderstandings, unrequited feelings?, kissing.., lmk if i missed sumn

word count: 3.3k

—

Outsiders would assume Bob and you were a couple. The two of you were always seen together, either doing a coffee run, or a bookstore, or the grocery store, or picking up takeout, or sometimes simply going for a walk. You’re sure the intertwined pinky’s might have swayed some elderly women in the wrong direction, but it really was just to not get separated in the crowds.

If it really was an option, you would date Bob. He just doesn’t have eyes for you.

Yelena was great, so you get why Bob would like her. She was the first person to show him unconditional kindness, probably in his whole life. The one who made sure during the whole ordeal of the vault he was safe and taken care of.

But you were there too. Weren’t you? Or did Bob just write out the fact that you were the one to pull him with you when you ran to escape the initial burning, and when you took a bullet for him since he didn’t have the reflexes to dodge.

Doesn’t matter anyway, he still only looks at Yelena like she hung the stars in the sky. Hell, he looks at her like she’s the one who blew air into his lungs to bring him to life. No matter what you do, you just can’t seem to get him to like you back.

Bob hates to be a bother, so he would rather suffer in silence instead of asking for help. You can relate to that, but you’ve helped him out after his nightmares enough times to think he would be able to wake you up when one happens. He doesn’t, so to compromise, you’ve started staying up later and later so you could hear the patter of his feet outside your door.

Maybe you should stop though. One of these days it could get you injured on a mission. How stupid would you be to get hurt over an unrequited crush.

For once, it would be nice to be chosen. Not in the way that Valentina ‘Chose’ you to be an Avenger, but chosen because of how much someone knows you. Chosen because your qualities were redeeming enough. Chosen because all of the actions that you make that you feel are unseen, really aren’t. But that would be selfish of you, you aren’t the proper type to be chosen.

—

Bob sees Yelena like a sister. Yes, during his bad days she's a light to bring him back to his senses. But you, you’re like a lighthouse, helping him guide his ship in the treacherous waters back to shore. No matter the problem, you always seemed to have the answer.

In the teams early days, he tried to help out by cooking. Very quickly, he found out he couldn’t cook. You were the first to arrive to the scene, black smoke billowing out through the doorway, smoke alarm blaring. Instead of focusing on those, you focused on Bob. He had tears in his eyes, and before anyone had even arrived he was muttering apologies.

He burnt his hand in his haste to get the meal out of the oven, hoping to prevent it from getting worse. After reminding him that mistakes happen, and that everything was fixable, you led him by his good hand to the infirmary to get him bandaged up, leaving the rest of the team to deal with the mess.

Bob can’t recall the amount of times that he’s fallen asleep in your room after a nightmare. He spent a period of time trying to not sleep, worried that the void would take over while he was in REM or something stupid like that. Whenever he did end up crashing from exhaustion, the anxiety and fear of causing havoc, or the awful memories that the void would inflict on him would wake him up. His hair would be matted all over his forehead and neck, sweat making his pajamas stick to his back and legs.

Physically, you were the closest to him, your room just one door down on his left. Yelena was farther away, on the other side of the hall at the complete other end. Maybe his subconscious heard the sliding of your door just moments prior, but he would rather think it's the undeniable pull that you have.

His knocking could have easily been missed, they were long allowing the noise to draw out because he knows he needs help, yet still soft and somewhat timid because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Nevertheless, you heard it and had the door sliding open within the minute.

You had a mug of hot chocolate in your grasp. A sleepy smile adorning your face as you asked him if he wanted to come in. You had some trashy TV playing lightly in the background as you worked on official Avengers paperwork, but you set it aside to make Bob a space in your bed.

You didn’t push him once that night. Just let him sit there in your company, watching as housewives made useless drama with each other.

When he eventually fell asleep, you tucked him in. Then you got up to put your a/c on since he normally runs hot, and two people under the same covers would only make more heat. When you got back into the bed Bob had reached for you so you softly grasped his hand in yours and the crease that had started to form in his brow alleviated.

Bob tried to thank you, but you hadn’t let him because helping would be what any decent human does. Instead, he made you french toast, said it was the least he could do for taking up your space. So that became your routine, every morning after a nightmare Bob would make french toast.

You never denied him. Never said you were too busy, too stressed, or even flat out didn’t want to. Whatever you were doing before he knocked would be moved aside, or powered down, and then if he wanted it your attention was all his, only his. Sometimes you’d talk about the nightmares, a good book your or Bob read, a recipe you wanted to try, or just the weather. Other times the two of you would watch a movie, a show, or play either a video or physical game.

The two of you never mentioned the times that you would fall asleep cuddling. The nights where only whispers were shared and you’d rake your nails down his scalp to give him a distraction. The nights where his head would rest on your chest and he’d put at least half of his focus on matching your breathing pattern. He’d play with your free hand, either drawing patterns into your palm with his pointer finger or just simply fidgeting with your fingers.

Bob believes it's just something you're doing out of the kindness of your heart. You know it would make him feel better to let him be with someone, so you offer up yourself. Probably just so that no one else on the team has to suffer by taking care of him. But even if it's out of pity, he’d keep going to you, taking all the alone time he could get as long as you didn’t shut him out.

He’s fallen for you, Yelena confirmed his suspicion. The way he always volunteers to go on errands with you, the way he seeks you out at dinner to secure a seat next to you, the way he learned how to perfect your favorite meal before anyone else's, the way that he comms more for you than anyone else because he’d hate to see you even scratched from a mission.

—

You’ve had a long night. Too much paperwork, too many people you used to know informing you that they’re disappointed that you've ended up on such an ‘awful’ team. A wake up, preferably in the form of coffee, was necessary after the night you had. Thankfully Bob and Yelena had you covered, serving you shock instead.

Maybe you’re overreacting, but Bob hasn’t woken you up because of a nightmare in weeks. For a normal person, that’s probably a standard amount of time. But for everyone who currently resides in the tower, that's at least a week too much.

Everyone's experienced at least one major traumatic event that keeps them up, and then continues to haunt their dreams. Most people handle it themselves, no one fully adjusted to the fact that they’re on a team and can easily ask for help when needed. Bob hasn’t been that person though, at least not with you.

You realize this morning, it’s not that Bob stopped having nightmares. He’s started to go to Yelena for them. You heard his door slide open last night, and footsteps walking in the opposite direction of your room. Originally you assumed he went to get some water or something of that sort, but that thought was squashed the next morning when you saw Bob making Yelena french toast.

They’re laughing about something you can’t hear. And maybe its the look in Bob’s eyes, or the way he’s smiling like he’s never had a care in the world. Either way, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. From then on you’d move on from Robert Reynolds.

—

Most people wouldn’t be able to recognize it at first. The way you drew back was subtle, made in steps so it would be less suspicious. First you started training more. You were often the first one in the gym, either punching the bag, running miles, or lifting weights. The headphones you wore always playing music, not particularly blasting but loud enough that when people approached they could understand to not bother you.

Then you started eating without the team. Whenever asked about it you’d either say you ate earlier or weren’t hungry. Usually the former was true, but sometimes you’d just blurt out something to get them off your back. Whenever you did end up eating with them, you’d avoid spots that had open seats on either side. One time you even had to sit next to Alexi.

Sleeping earlier was the next step. ‘Sleeping’ really meant going to your room and staying as silent as possible. Leaving whatever room with a loud yawn usually meant that nobody would question if you were really getting rest or not. The few times that someone did question it, you would just tell them about how burnt out you were.

From Bob’s perspective, all of these things were excusable. You wanted to be stronger and more prepared for missions, and you were so consumed in it that you couldn’t have meals or quality time with the team. While he wanted you to take better care of yourself, or wanted you to let him take better care of you, he would never want to overstep, so he kept to himself.

But then you started doing errands by yourself. That was always your thing. Why would you do them by yourself? Were you sick of him asking to do supplemental activities like walking through the park, or stopping in a cafe? It just didn’t make any sense.

He thought the two of you were closer than that. Maybe he really was right. You did just pity him and that’s the only reason you let him stick around for so long. Maybe Yelena knew something he didn’t. Girls have to talk about this stuff, right?

“Hey, Yelena?” Bob’s knocking on her door, hoping she’s not taking a midday nap.

A few seconds later the door slides partially open, “Goooood morning Bobert!” He winces at that, “No on Bobert then. What do you need?”

“It’s, well. Uh - you know who.” Bob’s rubbing his hand across the back of his neck.

“Come in, come in.” Yelena ushers him in before shutting the door, “What about your special someone?”

Where does he even start? The fact that you’ve been avoiding him? Or the fact that you’ve stopped finding a seat so he could sit next to you during the rare times you join the team for dinner, knowing that he’s too non-confrontational to ask someone to move. Maybe he should start with the way that it seems like you’re training all day to avoid having to talk to him at night under the guise that you’re exhausted.

He starts with the idea that you’ve cut him out of your life completely. If it was a printout it would not be done gently, as one would to someone who they held close to their heart. But rough, the cut uneven, jagged around the edges, the type that would give you a papercut if you ran your fingers along it.

And he doesn’t even know why. What could he have done? You’ve always been understanding, always been the one to give the benefit of the doubt even when people didn’t deserve it. What could he have done to not deserve this kindness that you’ve given to everyone else?

By the end of his rant, he’s crying. Yelena brings his head down to her shoulder, rubbing along his back to calm him. “I jus-just don’t get it. Am I that bad?”

“No. That is not it, Bob.” Even though he can’t see her shaking her head, Yelena still does it, “You must talk to her.”

“I can’t, I really can-”

“You must. And you will.” Her tone left no room for discussion or debate.

Yelena reminds him that while you may be closed off, as they all are, you are not intentionally cruel. You would not leave Bob hanging after he goes to you asking for answers. She sends him on his way after that. He should get cleaned up before you get back, something about ‘putting his best foot forward’.

—

When you get back to the tower, putting away the groceries is on the top of the list. Then afterwards you’re heading straight to your room to hole up. There’s a tall, looming figure across from your door though.

By the hair you can tell it's Bob. He’s leaning against the wall, head pressed against it. His eyes are closed so unless you’ve been super loud, you doubt he knows you're there. How you were going to actually get into your room was a different problem. The doors were fancy, but they were loud leaving no way to sneak in.

Just as you’re debating on whether or not to actually attempt to sneak in, Bob’s eyes shoot open and his head turns to look at you.

“Hey, y/n, hi - hi.” His smile is wobbly, nervous glint in his eyes.

“Hey Bob. What’s up?” If you can appease him quickly, then you can get back to the solace you find in your room.

“Could we talk?” He’s moved in your way, somewhat preventing you from getting to the door.

“Uh - yeah, sure. About what though?” Your fingers are twitching, hopefully it’s subtle enough that Bob doesn’t notice.

Of course he notices though, he’s attuned more to you than himself sometimes. “You’ve been avoiding me. And I just wanted to know what I did. Whatever I did it's important to me that I take accountability and apologize for it.”

Well shit. “You didn’t do anything Bob. I’ve just got a lot on my mind as of late and I don’t want to bother anyone with it.”

“It’s not a bother. Please tell me.” He’s grabbed your hand, stilling the twitches.

“Fine! You want me to spell it out,” Taking your hand back, cradling it with your other one, “I like you Bob. A lot. Like more than a friend should. And it hurts. It hurts that I’ve given you more than I’ve given anyone in a long time just for you to go and pick Yelena over me.”

Bob tries to cut you off, reaching out to grab your arm, but after a quick deep breath you continue.

“And I get it, I really really do. She’s your person, but you were mine. My quiet in the storm. I thought that our time meant something to you, that I meant something to you. But I was wrong. Can I please enter my room now?”

“No. No you can’t. Not until you hear what I have to say.”

You’re frustrated, tears are forming on your waterline. Today was supposed to be easy, quick errands, then bed rotting. Now you’ve been forced to confess something you haven’t even written down in your diary just in case somebody decided to snoop. And even after that you still won't be granted safety or peace in the comfort of your room.

“Why do you think I like Yelena?”

Bob doesn’t get a response. When he realizes you’re not going to respond he tilts your chin up to make eye contact.

“Y/n, why do you think I like Yelena?”

“Because! It's always her. Movie nights, the two of you are cuddling. Dinners, sure you’d sit next to me but only when in eyesight of her! Errands, you run off to get what she likes first every time. And the one thing I had, that really seemed like it was just mine, just ours,” You’re wiping away tears and sniffling, but if he wanted a response, he’d get a damn response, “Was comforting each other in the dead of night. But then you were there, doing our routine with her and I realized it doesn’t matter what I do, Yelena will always come first.”

“What do you mean ‘our routine’? I didn-”

“The French toast? You only make that the morning after a nightmare. And you hadn’t stopped by my room for weeks. It made sense that you’d be seeking comfort somewhere else.”

“French… toast?” Bob’s thinking, you can see it by the distant look in his eyes. “I made french toast because I missed the way it tasted, and the fact that you always get this sparkle in your eyes when I make it.’

“You don’t have to lie for my sake. I can take it.”

“I'm not. Look at me please.” Instead of making you look up, he's bending down, “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. You can ask Yelena for all the details later, but right now you need to understand that I really like you too.”

“Its fine, Bob. Really.”

You’re still rejecting the fact that he cares for you in the same way that you care for him. So he does something he’s only seen in movies. His lips collide with yours briefly, just long enough for you to confirm that it wasn’t your imagination.

“Is that enough proof for you?” You shake your head no, because it truly wasn’t enough. You’ve waited months for this moment; the least he could do was make it last a little bit longer.

When he kisses you the second time you make sure to kiss back. His lips are soft, moving slowly but still surely, like they knew all the proper movements but they just needed to remember them.

The sliding of a door reminds the two of you as to your location. You split quickly when the noise slices through the air. Just Ava heading towards the kitchen if you had to guess. Maybe it was a good thing, who knows how far you would have gotten if you hadn’t broken apart.

“So.. Can we go watch that show you like so much now?”

“The one you pretend to hate?” You’ve entangled yours and his hands, pulling him lightly towards your door.

“Yeah.. That one.” Bob is grinning goofily now. He’s sure he could come into your room freely now. Really soak up all your free time. He could explain that he hasn’t come to you for a nightmare in weeks because he truly hasn’t had one, once he’s wrapped up in your arms. And after that maybe he’d work on kissing you stupid.

likes/comments/reblogs will get your cheeks squished like im your grandma

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds imagine #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts #marvel #marvel x reader #bob reynolds angst

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telafel · 7 months ago

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Forever thinking about Spite trying and wanting to help Lucanis (even if its with selfish intentions), but Spite being a spirit/demon wanting things to just change on command. Spite gets the up front view of Lucanis' pain and trauma, exists in that same headapace where Lucanis is still in the Ossuary, burdened by what the people close to him think, projecting his own insecurities onto them.

Any attempt from Spite to help is stamped down by Lucanis immediately. I interpret those sleepwalking moments as Spite trying to get help in his own way. He never threw Lucanis off the edge of the Lighthouse. I think the eluvian scene, Spite might have been trying to go to Treviso since besides Rook those are the ones closest to Lucanis.

But Lucanis resents Spite, fears Spite and everything he embodies. The symbol of his trauma, a part of him forever changed. Of course Lucanis will do anything to avoid Spite and not entertain him. Which in turn frustrates Spite making their situation worse and worse.

But Spite knows that Lucanis, no matter what Rook does, opens up to them and listens. Something that Lucanis does for precious few because his trust is hard-earned. Of course Spite always wants to talk to Rook, catch their attention to help. Inside, Lucanis is pleading for help and answers but he feels he has no one to turn to.

I like to think that in Inner Demons when Spite takes control of Lucanis, that Lucanis is full on spiraling in anxiety. He's facing the reality that essentially his brother sold him out and the person who raised him is actually alive but he is *different* and *wrong* and anything he does could ruin everything. So he completely shuts down and closes off and Spite has free reign to do as he wishes... but Spite helps instead and pulls Rook in. Because Lucanis listens to Rook.

What i love about Spite is that even with the totally selfish read of his actions he still cares and realizes his host is important. He doesn't ever seem to genuinely want full control over Lucanis, he just wants more involvement and to not be shut out.

#i have so many thoughts about spite and lucanis #datv #lucanis dellamorte #spite dragon age #datv spoilers #veilguard spoilers #sorry this isnt well structured and is rambly

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eu-nicola · 7 months ago

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Morocco part 1

summary: Rafe says goodbye to Sofia and leaves her in outer banks while he goes to Morocco, where you are also and the danger that happens there rekindles the spark both of you thought had lost

warnings: mention of death, weapons, cheating, pregnancy, etc. only things of s4

word counter: 9000

author's note: spoilers of s4, many things have been changed but there are still spoilers, english is not my first language, this is long so get ready to read

There was a warm breeze blowing in from the ocean, bringing with it the smell of salt and adventure. You stood on the shore, watching the waves crash against the sharp, black rocks of the Outer Banks coastline. The sunset dyed the sky deep oranges and reds, painting long, brooding shadows across the sand. In the distance, the lighthouse flickered with its intermittent light, marking time. Your thoughts were filled with questions now that you were going to Morocco, and Rafe’s silhouette approaching along the wooden walkway only intensified that unease.

Rafe had that look in his eyes that you had always found difficult to read, a mix of defiance and nonchalance that gave him an almost untouchable air. He walked with a confident gait, hands in his pockets, white shirt fluttering lightly in the wind. When he was close enough, you stopped, feeling tension take hold of your muscles. He noticed your expression and, without a word, stood beside you, staring out at the ocean as if you shared a secret that only he understood.

“How are you?” you asked, breaking the silence with a voice that sounded shakier than you had planned. It wasn’t a casual question; you both knew he was carrying a heavier weight. His eyes narrowed just a little, and after a moment that seemed like an eternity, he let out a sigh.

“Sofia is going to stay here,” he said suddenly, as if he had been waiting for you to ask. His words fell like stones to the bottom of your stomach, sinking you into a feeling of emptiness. “I didn’t want to risk taking my future wife to Morocco.”

It took your mind a while to process what he had just said, as if your brain had hit an unexpected wall. Future wife? The icy surprise ran across your skin, leaving you feeling cold in the stifling summer heat. You forced yourself to keep your composure, to not let the confusion become visible, but it was too late: Rafe was already watching you with that look that knew too much.

“Are you engaged?” you finally asked, trying to make your voice sound natural, but feeling the lump in your throat tighten a little more with each word. He gave you a slight smile, which barely curved his lips, but was reflected more intensely in his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered, and the weight of that simple statement crushed your chest. You looked back at the horizon, looking for a respite in the immensity of the sea. The waves continued to break, indifferent to human emotions, while you struggled to maintain the balance between surprise and the pain that you did not dare to let out.

Rafe nodded, his smile wider and more sincere than yours. “Thank you,” he said in a tone that revealed a kind of relief, as if he had been waiting for your reaction with hidden caution. There was a moment of silence, awkward and dense, in which neither of you moved or looked away from the ocean. The waves continued their eternal back and forth, and for a moment you wondered what it would be like to be anywhere else in the world, a place where Rafe’s words couldn’t reach you and where the echo of “future wife” didn’t resonate in your mind like a persistent hammering.

The breeze blew harder, carrying with it the echo of distant laughter and the voices of seagulls, and as Rafe looked back out to sea, you felt everything moving around you, except you.

You fell silent, allowing the sound of the sea and the wind to carry away the unspoken words. You didn't want to talk about Rafe's engagement anymore, or about Sofia, or what it meant to you. You had learned to swallow your emotions, to let them burn inside you until they became something more bearable, like ashes after a fire. So you didn't say anything. You just nodded almost imperceptibly and took a step back, as if you were walking away from a conversation that had already ended.

Rafe watched you with fleeting curiosity, but he didn't insist. He, too, knew when it was best to leave things as they were. Without another word, he turned around and walked back along the same wooden path he had come by, his footsteps echoing in the increasingly dark afternoon. You stayed a few seconds longer, trying to let the cold in your chest dissipate and your breathing return to a normal rhythm.

When you finally turned around, your thoughts were already far away from there, beyond the ocean, in the dunes of Morocco, in the legends surrounding the Blue Crown. That relic had been the center of stories and rumors among treasure-hunting circles, a lost jewel whose importance went beyond wealth: it was said to have the power to change the fate of whoever possessed it. And now, it was sought not only by you and Rafe, but also by the Pogues, and others.

You had no time to be distracted, and you couldn't let your emotions prevent you from acting with the coolness that the situation required. You returned to your home where on the worn wooden table, the map of Morocco was spread out, with handwritten notes and markings indicating the places you had investigated before. You sat down, letting the weight of determination replace the pang of jealousy and disappointment you still felt.

You looked through your things: an old compass that had belonged to your grandfather, oil lanterns, a sharp knife, and a copy of a manuscript with cryptic clues about the location of the Blue Crown, clothes, and a lot of money.

As night fell over the Outer Banks and the stars began to twinkle in the sky, you promised yourself that you would find the Crown, no matter how many obstacles stood in your way. You weren’t interested in having it, but in what it took to have it, the deals you could make, and how proud your father would be if you did. It would be your victory, your vindication with your father after he nearly “killed” you when he found out you weren’t with Rafe anymore and you ruined his perfect life by not marrying a Cameron. You pushed those memories from your mind, focusing your eyes on the map and letting the adrenaline and obsession with the search take over.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

The Moroccan sun was merciless, a golden blaze that seemed hell-bent on burning your skin and sapping every ounce of energy you had. The air was dry, with a hint of sand that seeped into your mouth and stuck to your skin. You walked through a bustling market, where the aromas of spices, leather, and sweat mingled in a heady, chaotic mix. Vendors shouted in Arabic and French, selling everything from hand-woven rugs to intricately detailed gold jewelry. Despite the fascination you could feel for the place, the heat made every step a struggle.

“Damn heat,” you mutter as you wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. Your clothes, light but already soaked, clung to your skin uncomfortably. You were tired, overwhelmed, and everything seemed even more complicated in the middle of that maze of narrow streets.

Behind you, you hear a low, familiar laugh. “Are you really complaining about the heat?” Rafe’s voice comes with a hint of sarcasm you know well. He’d joined the expedition at the last minute. He wore dark sunglasses and a smile that made him seem completely unfazed, even under the relentless desert sun.

“It’s not that different from home,” he adds, raising an eyebrow and giving you a look that mixes defiance and complicity. His words hit you with an unexpected truth, and although you hate to admit it, you agree with a slight nod.

“You’re right,” you acknowledge, trying not to show the irritation you felt. Outer Banks might be stifling, humid, and wild, but this dry, scorching heat had its own way of imposing itself. Still, the comparison was still valid.

Rafe stops next to a stall where an old man sells copper and silver amulets. He takes one between his fingers, examining it with that calm attention he used to display before making a major move. His presence is as familiar as it is exasperating, a constant that forced you to stay alert.

“Don’t forget what we’re here for,” he murmurs without looking at you, as he returns the amulet to the old man with a polite smile. His words bring you back to the present, to the mission.

You take a deep breath, letting the warm air fill your lungs and force you to focus. “I never forget,” you reply, and although your words sound firm, you both knew that heat, distractions, and personal tensions were silent enemies.

Rafe smirks, a gesture that could be either respect or mockery. Then, without further ado, he walks into the crowd, motioning for you to follow him.

Hours later, night fell over Morocco with the speed of a closing curtain, leaving the air still warm and charged with the promise of new intrigue. The market streets, which during the day were a hive of life, were transformed into a labyrinth of shadows and flashing lights, where low-voiced conversations and distant laughter mingled with the hum of oil lamps. You found yourself in one of these streets, walking briskly alongside Rafe, whose eyes seemed to scan every corner, alert for any sign of movement.

You knew the Pogues were in town. They’d been following the treasure trail for almost as long as you had, and though your paths had crossed in the past, you’d never considered joining them. Until now.

“Are you sure about this?” you asked Rafe, feeling the weight of doubt like a stone in your stomach. It was an idea that had seemed absurd to you when it first came up, but the more you thought about it, the more logical it made. Two opposing forces joining forces for a common goal. But with Rafe, you could never be completely sure of anything.

Rafe cast a glance over his shoulder, his lips twisting into a smile that was more of a warning than a friendly gesture. “Relax. It suits them as much as it suits us.” You stopped at the edge of a crossroads, the yellowish light of a streetlamp illuminating half of his face and leaving the other half plunged into darkness. “Don’t worry so much, if there’s one thing I know about them it’s that they can’t resist an opportunity,” she added, lowering her voice and moving closer.

The meeting was scheduled in an old warehouse near the port, a place where stacked wooden boxes and hanging ropes created a scene that seemed straight out of a pirate tale. The place smelled of salt and damp wood, and the echoes of the waves crashing against the docks filled the space with a constant murmur. When you arrived, the Pogues were already there, standing in a tense semicircle, exchanging glances and whispers. John B, with his disheveled hair and alert expression, was the first to spot you. Beside him, Sarah tensed her jaw at the sight of Rafe, and you couldn’t blame her. The wounds between them ran deep, scars that would take a while to heal, if they ever did.

“What are you doing here?” JJ’s voice was the first to break the silence. His eyes, normally full of spark and humor, were now hard as steel. Kie stood beside him, arms crossed and an expression that clearly said he didn’t trust what was happening.

Rafe raised his hands, as if to show he had no ill intentions. “Relax. We’re not here to fight. We’re here to help.”

“Help?” John B repeated the word as if it were a joke, and a bitter laugh escaped his throat. “Why the hell should we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” you intervened, taking a step forward. All eyes fell on you, and you felt the weight of uncertainty in each gaze. “But if we want to find the Crown before others do, we have no choice. Rafe and I know things, we have clues that can lead us to it. And you also have information that we need.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Eyes met, searching for answers that neither was willing to give. Pope was the first to move, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes as if he were assessing the situation. “What kind of information?” he finally asked, his tone calculating and full of caution.

Rafe smiled, and you knew he’d been waiting for that question. “We know the last clue leads to a site in the Atlas Mountains. But it’s not a place you can get to with maps and courage alone. You need someone who knows the terrain, and we just happen to have people who do.”

Kie let out a sigh, lowering her arms and casting a quick glance at her friends. “It’s crazy,” she muttered, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested the idea, as dangerous as it was, intrigued her.

John B gritted his teeth, his gaze shifting from you to Rafe, then to his friends. There was a decision to be made, and you both knew it. Finally, he nodded, though not willingly. “Okay, but if this is a trap…”

“It’s not,” you interrupted. And though your words were firm, you knew that everyone there had reasons to doubt. The alliance was not perfect, and past scars still hurt. But in the search, distrust would be a luxury they could not afford.

Rafe crossed his arms, pleased, and looked at John B with a flash of defiance. “Then we better get started. The mountains aren’t going to wait for us.”

The group exchanged glances, a tacit agreement that felt like a leap into the dark.

Dawn in Morocco came with unexpected warmth, as if the sun had risen early with the sole purpose of testing everyone’s patience. The souk, which had just awakened with the first light, was filled with life in a matter of minutes: merchants displayed their wares, children ran through the alleys, and the air was filled with the aroma of spices and freshly baked bread. The relative calm of the morning didn’t last long.

It had been barely two days since you formed that precarious alliance with the Pogues and, as you feared, things quickly went awry. You weren’t sure what exactly had caused the chaos – whether it was Rafe trying to “get information” the way he usually did, or whether it was an unfortunate run-in with another group of treasure hunters who had gotten wind of the treasure. The truth was that you now found yourself running at full speed between clay buildings and narrow alleys, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the walls as the screams and curses of your pursuers filled the air behind you.

“Rafe! This is madness!” you shouted as you dodged a fruit stand that you nearly knocked over in your wake. Oranges rolled across the ground, and the merchant let out an enraged scream that was lost in the melee. Rafe, running beside you with a grin that bordered on reckless, barely turned to look at you.

“Calm down, I’ve got it under control!” he replied in a tone that made you want to punch him in the midst of all the confusion. The shadow of a smile remained on his face, as if this was all just a game and not a race to keep his skin intact.

“You better fix it, Rafe!” you roared, feeling the burn in your legs and the metallic taste of effort in your mouth. “I wanted at least a couple of good days in Morocco!” You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a moment of true tranquility, and in that instant, the desire for everything to be different mixed with the adrenaline that drove you to keep running.

Rafe let out a laugh, one you didn’t know whether to admire or detest. “Good days? That’s not part of the deal, friend.” His words seemed laden with irony, but also with a truth that stuck in you like a thorn.

You turned a corner and felt the sunlight hit you directly in the face, blinding you for a crucial second. You staggered and almost fell when you tripped on a small step, but Rafe grabbed your arm and pushed you forward without stopping. The footsteps behind you were getting closer, and you could hear shouts in Arabic that, although you didn’t fully understand, made it clear that the intentions were anything but friendly.

“To the right!” Rafe shouted, letting go of you and pointing down a side street that seemed narrower than the one before. Without thinking, you turned, your heart pounding in your chest like a crazed drum. The alley narrowed even further, and the terracotta-colored walls seemed to close in around you. You could feel the adrenaline bubbling through your veins, sweat soaking through your shirt, and the sound of the chase ringing in your ears as a constant reminder of how close they were.

Suddenly, a thud to your left caught your attention: John B and JJ had emerged from a hidden passage, expressions mixing surprise and relief at seeing you. “What the hell did they do now?!” JJ shouted, a spark of reproach in his eyes.

“This isn’t the time for details,” you replied between gasps, and without stopping, you walked past them, followed by Rafe, who still had that impassive smile.

“We have to split up,” John B said, taking the lead and pointing with a sharp gesture. “We’ll meet at the meeting point! Go that way!” And before you could answer, he and JJ disappeared into another narrow passage, like moving shadows.

You and Rafe kept running, the chase now divided and the sound of footsteps diminishing. The alley opened up into a small square, where the midday shadows were deeper. There, you leaned against a wall, trying to catch your breath and process what had just happened.

Rafe glanced at you, his breathing ragged but a spark of excitement in his eyes. “You see,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a quick gesture, “this is what makes everything more interesting.”

You looked at him, feeling a mixture of exasperation and a strange camaraderie wash over you. Maybe he was crazy, or maybe you were crazy for keeping up with him.

After the chase, everything had calmed down, they continued doing their thing during the day and at night when they went to rest at a place where they were staying while you slept you were startled by a thud in the next room. You barely had time to stand up when the door was flung open and a tall man, with scars on his face and eyes as dark as night, pointed a gun at you. “Not a single move, girl,” he hissed in broken English, the threat in his voice as clear as the gun in his hand.

Rafe, who was in the other room, burst in without a second thought. The fight was quick, a clash of bodies and blows that echoed in the small room like war drums. With your heart racing, you searched for something, anything to defend yourself, and your fingers found an old metal lamp. You didn’t think about it. With all the strength you could muster, you threw it at the intruder’s head, the metallic sound echoing as it hit him and sent him reeling.

“Get out!” Rafe shouted, his voice a roar that snapped you out of your trance. You moved toward the door as he finished subduing the intruder. Outside, the streets were deserted, a blanket of silence that was almost as dangerous as the bustle of the crowd. You knew they couldn’t stay there. They had to move.

The next day, things only got worse. Despite having agreed on a meeting point with the Pogues, the pressure of being under constant surveillance and dodging suspicious glances became unbearable. Pope had managed to decipher an ancient map that seemed to lead to a cave in the Atlas Mountains, but they hadn’t counted on the other hunters who caught wind of the advance.

The chase began in the market, with the clatter of falling pots and screams from confused vendors who barely understood what was happening. You leapt up a stone staircase that led up to the rooftops, Rafe hot on your heels and JJ and Kie a few feet behind, bringing up the rear. From above, the flat roofs of the souk stretched out like a makeshift battlefield, dotted with hanging clothes and rusty antennas. The air was thick with heat and dust, making every breath a challenge.

Gunshots rang out in the distance, the echo spreading through the streets like a wave. You threw yourself to the ground just in time to avoid a second shot, feeling adrenaline turn your fear into a searing drive. Rafe held out a hand and helped you up, the urgency in his eyes clearer than ever. “We have to get down from here now!” he shouted over the din, pointing to an old staircase that led to a narrow alley.

They managed to climb down and into the tangle of streets, but the sense of impending danger never left. The group briefly took refuge in a cellar, where John B pulled out the map and spread it out on a splintered wooden table. “The cave is close, but we need to make a detour. We’re being followed closely,” he said, his gaze fixed on the markings that indicated a winding path into the mountains.

The tension in the air was palpable. No one fully trusted Rafe, and Kie kept giving you worried glances, as if trying to gauge how much more you could take. You were tired, exhausted, but at the moment the idea of stopping seemed as far away as peace itself.

That night, when the group decided to split up, you found yourself alone with Rafe in a dark passage, the echo of screams and gunshots still haunting you. The shadows on the stone walls seemed to lengthen and twist as if they were alive, too, watching you. You walked in silence, your breathing still ragged and your body on high alert. Rafe, ever alert, stopped suddenly and put a hand on your arm. The touch was cold, but it also had a hint of urgency that made you still.

“Listen,” he whispered. You barely noticed the sound of footsteps coming toward you, slow and calculated. Before you could process it, someone grabbed you from behind and dragged you into the darkness of an alley. You kicked and punched, fighting with all your might as Rafe tried to reach you.

You knew you had been missing for no more than a couple of hours, you had learned to count time without a watch and without getting lost and you knew that you had been exactly two hours with your head covered, except for your mouth.

In an unexpected twist, it was John B who appeared out of nowhere, pulling your captor and slamming him against the wall with a force that seemed impossible for his build. Once free, you breathed heavily, feeling the world around you blur. You were tired, but John B’s gaze, full of concern and determination, reminded you that you were not alone.

“We have to move. Now,” he said and you quickly followed.

The streets began to calm down as John B led you through a maze of passages further and further away from the bustle of the souk.

Finally, John B stopped in front of an old wooden door, dark with age and dust. He knocked three times in a rhythmic manner, and the door creaked open. You entered behind him, feeling tiredness creeping through your body like an unbearable weight. The small room you entered was lit by an oil lamp in one corner, casting a dim light that made the shadows lengthen and distort.

There, sitting in a chair with an expression somewhere between worry and relief, was Rafe. When he saw you, his eyes lit up with a flash of excitement that he quickly tried to hide under a facade of serenity. You had no time for words; you threw yourself at him, hugging him tightly, feeling the warmth of his body and the accelerated beat of his heart under your arms. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Rafe hugged you back, his grip firm, almost desperate. For an instant, he wasn’t the troubled, arrogant man you’d shared so many moments of uncertainty with, but someone who shared the weight of the same struggle, the same fear, and the same need to find respite amidst the chaos.

“I thought I’d have to kill someone to find you,” he murmured, his voice husky near your ear, heavy with a feeling he couldn’t or wouldn’t admit. You felt his hands tighten around you, as if he feared that if he loosened his grip, you might disappear into the dimness of the room.

“I almost did,” you admitted, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes.

John B coughed softly, breaking the tension in the air and reminding you that you weren’t alone. You looked over at him, and behind him, JJ and Kie had gathered, each with expressions ranging from relief to distrust. Kie smiled briefly, but JJ kept his stance alert, always the first to suspect Rafe.

“We need to decide our next move,” John B said, crossing his arms and glancing around at everyone in the room. “Those following us aren’t going to stop, and the cave in the mountains isn’t going to sit around waiting for us.”

Rafe let out a low, almost inaudible laugh and looked away, as if he was considering John B’s words. You felt the knot in your chest slowly unravel, replaced by the determination they all shared: to find what they were looking for.

After the conversation, the small room fell into a heavy silence, interrupted only by tired sighs and the occasional creaking of chairs. The tired looks, the few words. The adrenaline of the day was finally beginning to fade, and exhaustion took its place with relentless force. John B and the others found corners in the room to rest, spreading threadbare blankets on the floor and chairs.

Rafe looked at you and nodded silently, both of you knowing you wouldn't stay there. Without exchanging another word, you walked out the back door, into the shadows of the streets of Marrakech. You walked in silence, unhurried but not stopping, following the paths you already knew by heart. The house you shared was a few streets away, a replica of the many modest buildings in the neighborhood, but set back enough to offer you a semblance of privacy and safety.

Upon arriving, Rafe opened the door and let you in first. The interior was dark and cool, a welcome welcome after the scorching heat of the day and the tension that seemed to have been tied to your back like a weight. You closed your eyes for a moment, allowing yourself to feel the ephemeral peace of the place, before letting out a deep sigh and moving towards the small room in the back, where a low, simple bed awaited you.

Rafe stood in the doorway, watching you with a mix of tiredness and something else you couldn’t quite make out. “Do you want me to make you something to drink?” he asked, his voice soft and husky.

You shook your head as you kicked off your shoes and dropped onto the bed. “No, I just… need to sleep. It’s been too much for today.” You laid down on your side, hugging one of the pillows and feeling your eyelids begin to droop. You didn’t expect Rafe to do the same, but suddenly you heard him move. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and the lamplight flickered for a moment before he blew out the last spark and everything went dark.

You flinched slightly as you felt the weight of the bed dip beside you. You turned your head, and though you could barely see his features in the darkness, you could feel his proximity, the heat radiating from his body. “I’m not staying in that house with them,” he murmured, like an explanation, though you didn’t need one. You didn’t respond, just closed your eyes, too exhausted to think about what it meant.

The silence stretched between you, only broken by the slow, deep breaths that began to come together. Without realizing it, as tiredness dragged you to sleep, you turned a little, looking for a more comfortable position. Your hands brushed Rafe's arm, and he moved barely, as if responding to your touch was a reflex. Before you could think about what was happening, you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you towards him. It was a protective, warm gesture, and although at another time you would have said something, in that instant you only sighed, feeling your body relax completely.

With his breath close to your ear and the safety of his arms around you, the tension that had accompanied you for days finally dissolved.

The next morning the sun began to filter through the cracks in the window, filling the room with a soft light that contrasted with the darkness you had fallen into the night before. You woke up slowly, eyelids heavy, body still marked by the tiredness of the day before. Without moving, you felt the warmth of Rafe’s body beside you, his arm still around your waist, and for a moment you couldn’t help but smile quietly.

You tried to turn around to get out of his embrace without making a sound, hoping you wouldn’t wake him, but when you tried to move, something pulled at you. Rafe, still asleep, pulled you closer to him, a gesture so automatic that it made you sigh silently. Your body tensed at first, but then you realized it couldn’t be that bad, at least for a moment longer.

“Don’t go,” he murmured quietly, his tone rough with sleep. The softness of his words made your chest tighten unintentionally.

You stayed still for a second, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of his embrace envelop you, as if the entire world had disappeared, leaving only that small corner of peace between the two of you. But reality, as always, quickly took over. You didn’t want to be that person, you didn’t want to confuse yourself or complicate things further. It was a hug, nothing more.

“Rafe...” you began quietly, almost afraid to interrupt the peace that had formed between you. “I’m not Sofia.”

The sound of his breathing changed, and then, with a calmness that surprised you, he replied, “I know,” as he held you even tighter against his chest. His words were soft, as if there was nothing to clarify, nothing to change. “I just… want to keep sleeping.”

Despite his relaxed tone, you couldn’t stay there all day. You already knew that time was pressing, and things were still moving outside of that little bubble of calm you’d shared with him. “There are things to do, Rafe,” you said, your tone firmer this time. “And we need to eat.”

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips at that moment, but eventually he relented. His body tensed a little as, with a grimace, he began to pull away from you, his arm finally releasing you, though his gaze was still a little clouded by sleep.

“It’s okay,” he said, sitting up with a hand on his head, as if trying to clear his head a little before getting up. “But only because you have to eat.”

The smile that escaped you upon hearing his tired, yet resigned tone was almost inevitable. You got up first, stretching and looking for clean clothes. As you watched him prepare his way to get up.

After a simple but necessary breakfast, with the morning warmth streaming in through the windows, the pace of the day continued. The conversations about the map and the cave in the mountains were quickly forgotten as each of you went about your own business. The chaos and paranoia of the day before had subsided, but danger was still present in every corner of Morocco, lurking in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

Rafe, as always lately, had decided to act without thinking too much about it. There was something in his nature that pushed him to throw himself into risky situations without measuring the consequences. And, as always, it ended in trouble.

That trouble came in the form of an old acquaintance who appeared in the square, with clear intentions of collecting old debts. Rafe tried to negotiate, to talk to him in terms he clearly didn’t understand, while you watched from afar, feeling a growing unease in your stomach. There was something about the man’s posture, his cold gaze, that told you that they weren’t going to get out of this well.

The exchange of words escalated quickly, the tone of the conversation going from tense to aggressive in seconds. You knew it wasn’t going to end well, but what you didn’t expect was what happened next.

The man moved quickly, his hand searching for something in his jacket. You didn’t need to be told, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Rafe had backed away, but the man already had a gun in his hands, and his intention was clear. Rafe’s gaze hardened, and in that moment you understood that he couldn’t escape.

The man raised the gun towards him, and the world seemed to slow down for an instant. You knew there was no time to think about it. Fear transformed into action without your brain being able to fully process it. Without thinking, you pulled out the gun you had taken from the cellar the night before. In one swift movement, you aimed and fired.

The sound of the gunshot rang through the air, the echo repeating in your ears as the man fell to the ground, with a grunt of pain, the gun slipping from his hand. Quickly, you turned to Rafe, who was only a few feet away from you, watching what had happened with a mix of surprise and gratitude, but also with the awareness of what had just happened.

“Are you...?” you began, but the words got caught in your throat. Adrenaline was still flowing through your veins, making your hands shake slightly, but there was no time to reflect.

Rafe, after a moment of silence, finally spoke. “Well done,” he said in a tone you couldn’t quite read. But there was something in his gaze, a deep gratitude, and also a concern that he didn’t want to admit.

“It’s nothing,” you lied, quickly putting the gun away, though your heart was still racing. “Be careful, I need you to be the Rafe who makes deals with the worst people possible and comes out on top.”

Rafe didn’t say anything. He looked at the fallen man, then turned to you, and without another word, he nodded. “Let’s move on.”

The two of you walked quickly, away from the scene, the shadows of the streets covering you. Rafe walked a few steps ahead of you.

Your breathing was still irregular, the adrenaline already starting to wear off. The question that had formed in your head escaped your mouth, more out of impulse than out of need to know the answer.

“Isn’t there a minute where we have peace? Where I don’t have to get your ass out of some trouble?” you blurted out, the irony in your voice evident. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or scream, but something about the situation made you blurt out that question as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rafe, without turning around, let out a dry laugh, the one you already knew was the only way he had to deal with the situation, a defense against the chaos that surrounded him. “Like with Sheriff Peterkin,” he said, and although his words seemed light, there was something in his tone that he couldn’t hide: the heaviness of that memory.

The mention of the policewoman made you pause for a second. You knew exactly what he meant. That time, long before they got to this point, you remembered the local police who had almost caught Rafe and his family, so he took it upon himself only for reasons that were never fully understood, your father intervened, paying whatever it took to cover it all up.

You knew that, in some way, your father’s hand was always present, ensuring that Rafe’s problems didn’t affect him, although it had left you with a bitter feeling in your stomach. Your father never talked about these situations, but it was clear that he had ways of cleaning up messes that others couldn’t. And in some way, he included you in his world, which you were used to and liked.

“I know,” you answered with a wry smile. You couldn’t help but think of everything you had done to protect Rafe, everything you had put aside for him, for his sake. And what did you get in return? More trouble, more chaos. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny that something about that connection dragged you down, something you couldn’t control.

Rafe glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, his eyes softened, as if you were reading his thoughts. “Thank you,” he said quietly, though it wasn’t the kind of thanks that made you feel completely at ease.

“Don’t be,” you replied quickly, feeling the moment become more tense than it already was. “I don’t need you to thank me, Rafe. This is what always happens. But I don’t want to be your fixer all the time.”

Silence fell between you again as you walked through the streets, the sun already warming the air uncomfortably. Your dress, though light at first, now felt sticky and dirty. Sweat ran down your back and the line of your neck, and the dust of the streets stuck to your skin only made things worse. You rubbed your forehead, desperate, and muttered more to yourself than to Rafe.

“This is unbearable. I’m sweaty, dirty, and… I need a bath urgently. This is torture.”

Rafe walked a few steps ahead, but his eyes shifted to you for a moment, as if he was trying to process what you had just said. He didn’t seem worried, but he did seem a little amused to see you in this state.

“I know, but it’s not the most important thing right now,” he said, in his usual, somewhat carefree tone. “We have to stay focused.”

You frowned as you brushed off your dress. “Yeah, sure, very focused… but I could be a lot more productive if I wasn’t so uncomfortable.” You looked around, realizing how ridiculous it sounded: here you were, running away from one problem after another, and all you could think about was a bathroom.

Rafe, noticing your tone, let out a low, amused laugh, as if the idea of worrying about something so mundane in the midst of all the chaos was completely absurd. “It’s not my fault you’re not going to take a bath with me,” he said, as if to joke.

You turned to him, one eyebrow raised, and prepared to respond, but before you could say anything, he gave you a small tap on the arm, almost playfully, while smirking. The way he did it seemed so natural, as if everything else around them disappeared for a second.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he added between laughs. “You can wait a little longer before you get in the water.”

He looked at you with that lopsided smile that, despite everything, couldn’t take away the discomfort of being drenched in sweat and dirt. But you couldn’t help but laugh, despite how upset you were.

“Easy for you to say, right?” You said, trying to make a face, but you couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “When you’re not the one stuck in a sticky dress with your hair stuck to your face.”

Rafe, hearing your tone, simply shrugged, still smiling. “I promise that once we get somewhere safe, you can shower all you want. In the meantime, just hold on a little longer. It’s not all that bad, right?”

You stayed silent for a moment, looking at his relaxed face as you walked. You knew he was partly right. In the end, the sweat and heat were nothing compared to what you had already faced. But, despite everything, you couldn’t help but think about how much good a nice bath would do you.

“Okay, but don’t make me wait too long,” you said in a more relaxed tone, feeling your body ease up a bit as the tension was released with those words. “Because really, Rafe, I need something more than water to cool off.”

Rafe, looking at you with that look of his, just nodded, and with a mischievous smile on his face, he replied, “I promise, just hold on a little longer.”

You pushed yourself gently against his arm, and laughed.

Although the hours had felt endless, they ended up being productive for you and Rafe. The search for clues had paid off, although not in the way you had expected. They had managed to find some things and talk to some people who would help them, and they had also made some important progress in getting an address that seemed more promising than the previous ones. Despite the discomfort of the heat, the chases they had barely dodged, and the tensions between them, you felt that the hours had been worth it.

The streets, which had previously seemed overwhelming and chaotic, now felt more familiar. They had managed to blend in a bit with the locals, and although curious eyes continued to follow them, they managed to move more confidently, at least until it got late. Finally, after a day of intense work and a couple of altercations, night fell over Morocco, and the cool breeze that was beginning to blow made you breathe a sigh of relief.

As the shadows lengthened, the city seemed to calm down a bit, the streets less hectic, the heat of the day slowly easing. You were tired, the sweat stuck to your skin was no longer just uncomfortable, but had left you feeling heavy. All you wanted at that moment was a bath, but you knew things couldn't be that simple.

Rafe had disappeared for a moment, perhaps to talk to someone or continue digging into some clue that had surfaced, but you couldn't wait any longer. You quickly walked to the house you had rented, the temporary shelter where you could only think about taking off everything you had endured that day.

Entering the small dwelling, you closed the door behind you with a sigh of relief. You no longer had to be on alert all the time. There was no immediate danger in sight, and at last, you had some time to yourself.

You quickly headed to the bathroom, where a large, old tub was waiting for you, filled with water that still felt somewhat warm, as if someone had prepared everything in advance. You didn't hesitate for a second and, without thinking twice, you began to undress, removing clothes soaked in sweat and dust from the day. Each piece of clothing you dropped on the floor seemed to take a little more of the weight off your shoulders.

You sank into the tub with a sigh of relief, letting the warm water envelop your tired body. You lay back with your arms outstretched on the edge, closing your eyes and letting the warmth surround you, covering you completely. Each bubble that formed on the surface seemed to soothe you more, as if you were letting go of all the stress and tension you had built up.

The sound of the water gently moving around you was the only thing you could hear, and for a moment, you felt like everything else was left behind. You only thought about yourself, and the movement of the water.

The warmth of the water was beginning to relax you completely, and every part of your body that had been tense during the day was slowly letting go. You had your eyes closed, enjoying the moment, when you finally managed to disconnect from everything else, even Rafe's presence. At last, you felt like the world could wait a little.

The soak in the tub was beyond relaxing. Without thinking, you began to completely relax, the hot, bubbling water enveloping your body as tiredness slipped away from you.

You allowed yourself to stay there for a few more minutes, enjoying the peace that so rarely came to you.

When you finally got out of the tub, you felt like new. The water had done wonders on your tired body.

You decided to replace the water in the tub before Rafe arrived. The water you had used was warm, but it wasn't as hot anymore, so you decided to fill it up again for him. You did this more out of instinct than anything else, you wanted to offer him some peace of mind after everything you had been through that day. The sound of the water flowing in the tub was the only thing you could hear as you prepared to go get some clean clothes.

You didn't notice it at first, but when you returned to the living room, you heard the door open. Rafe walked in with his tired, somewhat heavy gait, but it wasn’t until you turned to look at him again that you noticed something odd about his posture. Something about the way he walked, slightly hunched over, made you frown.

Rafe was hurt.

The sweat on his face and the blood stains on his clothes didn’t go unnoticed. There was some wound, perhaps superficial, but enough to make you worry. You hurried to approach him, but he raised his hand, stopping you before you could say anything.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice tense but firm, as if he didn’t want you to treat him like he was a child. “Just a couple of scratches. A bath will do me good, and that’s it.” His tone was so direct that it left no room for further discussion, as if the idea of being helped was something he preferred to avoid.

You stared at him for a moment, feeling a lump form in your throat. You wanted to help, to do something, but you knew Rafe wasn’t going to let you do it. You knew him too well to know that he wouldn’t accept help easily, especially when it came to something as “minor” as a wound.

“I’ve already filled the tub for you,” you finally said, trying to hide how much it worried you to see him in that state. Your voice sounded calmer than you felt, but there was still a note of concern that you couldn’t hide. “It’s ready. Just… be careful, okay?”

Rafe looked at you with a crooked smile, that smile of his that used to be so trusting, but now seemed somewhat forced. “Thank you,” he said quietly, giving you a slight nod in thanks.

You stood there for a few moments, watching him head towards the tub, where he paused for a moment before beginning to strip off his blood and dirt stained clothes.

The tension in the air between the two of you was palpable, but in the end, you knew you couldn’t just leave him like that. If he wasn’t going to accept it, you would take the lead. No matter what was between you, you couldn’t leave him hurt and alone.

You approached the tub with a clear decision in your mind. Without thinking too much, you grabbed a clean rag and dipped it into the hot water. The sound of the water sliding down his skin, the warmth emitted by the steam, turned it all into a kind of calm that at first seemed disconcerting. Rafe stayed silent, watching you as you moved the cloth gently across his torso, careful not to touch his wounds, cleaning away the dirt that had accumulated on his body.

You didn’t think about his nakedness. You knew that, at this point, it was just a practical matter.

Rafe, despite the awkwardness of the situation, kept looking at you, and with a crooked smile, decided to break the silence. “Are you really doing this?” he said in a sarcastic tone, raising an eyebrow, as if he were in the middle of an awkward joke. “Aren’t you afraid of getting wet?”

You laughed despite yourself, almost unable to help it. The laughter came out of you spontaneously, lightening the heavy atmosphere that had formed a little. “If I get wet, I get wet. It’s not like I haven’t gotten wet before.” You replied, cleaning the part of his shoulder more carefully, always aware of the wounds.

Rafe’s sarcastic tone never faded, though at the moment it seemed more like a way to cope than anything else. He stared at you, but this time, something in his gaze changed.

“You’re beautiful,” he said casually, as if it were just a comment. But there was something in his eyes that left you speechless.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you immediately felt uncomfortable. For a second, you froze. “Please don’t say that,” you murmured, trying to look away to avoid him seeing it in your eyes.

The atmosphere between the two of you grew tense, as if the words were floating in the air, weighing more than anything you could say. There were too many things left unsaid between you, too many intertwined feelings, and the complications of everything going on in your lives. But, in that instant, the comment seemed to change something.

Rafe didn't respond immediately. Instead, he gently took your hand, guiding it through the water as you ran it over his chest. The closeness of his body, the way he touched you, made your breathing quicken. Before you could react, he pulled you towards him, into the tub, unexpectedly. The warmth of the water surrounding both of you only intensified the feeling of closeness, of warmth.

You stood there, not knowing what to do. Your whole body was telling you to get away, that it wasn't the time, that this shouldn't happen. But something in his gaze, something in the way he held you, made your own thoughts fade away. The doubts and voices in your head seemed to fade away when his lips met yours, in an intense but silent way, as if there was no turning back.

Despite what your mind was telling you, what was warning you that this could be a mistake, you couldn't help it. The touch of his body, the unexpected connection, made you lose control for a moment. The pressure in your chest disappeared, and for an instant, there was only the sensation of his lips, of his closeness, of the passion you hadn't planned.

You knew that, after all this, nothing would ever be the same again. But in that moment, you surrendered to the sensation, to the connection you both shared, even though everything around you told you not to let yourself go.

You both stayed there for a long time, in silence, only the sound of the water and the ragged breaths filling the air around you. There was no rush, no urgency to move away. The warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies enveloped you, and for a moment, you let yourself go, you let the chaos of the world be replaced by the calm that only he could offer you in that instant. The tension between you seemed to slowly fade away, as if time had stopped and everything else no longer mattered.

When you finally pulled away from him, a little dazed, it was Rafe who broke the silence with a soft, but determined voice. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand gently.

You didn’t have time to say anything else before he led you out of the tub and into the bedroom, but you didn’t care. There was something comforting about the idea of spending the night with him, of sharing a space, even if it was just for a few hours. You felt calmer than you had in days, something you didn’t even know you needed until that moment.

#fanfic #oneshot #imagine #x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x female reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe fic #rafe outer banks #obx x reader

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 10 months ago

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✧ All the graces from Heaven

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: Arthur and you enjoy a steamy morning at Strawberry's Hotel, much to the outlaw's delight. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Oral (both reader and Arthur receiving), 69, a bit of fluff if you squint, porn without a plot, Arthur is more of a high/mid honor but loses it and gets a little bit rough, established relationship. ✦ Words: 2,6k ✦ a/n: Yeeeaah so. This is basically a 69 fic, it's pretty filthy and a bit less figurative than my usual works. Just pure smutty smut. I hope you'll enjoy it still! Pic is mine, not proofread! And as English isn't my first language, prepare for some misspellings.

The bedroom of Strawberry’s Hotel is filled with chuckles, and full of scattered clothes on the floor. Leathered boots, two shirts tangled together, jackets and holster belts thrown away messily on furniture. As a lighthouse in the middle of the sea, a black gambler hat stands tall hung on one of the bed's huge footboard legs over this tide of abandoned clothing.

Above it, the old wood creaks as two people mess with each other under the blankets, threatening to make the worn hat fall from its perch. Both are nude as the day they were born, and glued to each other as if they were wearing the other one’s skin.

You and Arthur had quite a time, last night. And since you had woken up, it was nothing but sweet words, cuddling and tickling. Teasing each other had become a private religion between you both, his sarcastic comments always met with a witty answer from you. It made him love you even more.

“Come on darlin’, stay.” Arthur’s deep voice asks you, as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, his nose impregnating with your smell, eyes closing on their own.

He feels good, there. It's in these simple shared moments, those laughs you sew together, those fingers and body you intertwine, those deep and dreamy conversations about your brighter future you share that Arthur finds his remedy. As if after all this life of surviving and fighting for a greater cause, a bigger picture, it was the simplest of things that appeared like an epiphany to him when it came to happiness.

You being the main source and Messiah of most of these humble pleasures, of course. His personal angel.

“You know I can’t. You may have the morning off for once, but I have somewhere else to be. Hosea needs me at the Tracker’s Hotel for a job.”

Arthur doesn’t hide his annoyance and grumbles against your skin, something about “Damn jobs always in the way” and “ The old man can wait a lil’ bit more.”

It makes you smile. As tempting as staying in bed all morning with a naked Arthur seems, especially considering how you can feel his fat cock feeling so soft against your hip, you feel self-conscious about leaving Hosea alone on your mission. You turn your head to the side to kiss your lover’s head, his sandy locks tickling your nose.

“Alright tough guy, time to go.” You decide before getting up in a sitting position, then crawling to the end of the bed to grab your ungarments.

“Not so fast, lil’ missy.” He objects with a low chuckle, obviously enjoying this little chase after you.

Before you can reach your aim, Arthur snakes his hands around your thighs and pulls you back to him in a quick and powerful motion, handling you as if you were the lightest feather, which makes you let out a squeal of protest mixed with surprise.

His laugh resonates for a second and then, he freezes. You had ended up on all four on top of him, but usually, your face was turned to his. This time, Arthur's nose is met with your plump rear, your chest to the other side, just above his crotch. You can feel his body, underneath you, getting tensed. This gigantic, massive, muscled body, so big and tall that his chest feels larger than a tree trunk between your spread legs. What was innocent playing for him just seconds ago had turned into a needy tension between the both of you. The air suddenly feels thick and a silence settles, a tense calm on the shore before a Maelstrom.

Your blouse and Hosea are a long time gone when you realize you can feel his breath on your pussy, the sensation making you shiver. You try to get up from the position, thinking he wouldn’t like to have his face shoved in your intimate parts, but his hands grip tighter and stop you, grounding you in place. You turn your head to him as much as you can considering your situation, taking an interrogative look at his face above your body.

His cheeks are red. Dark red. His eyes are fixated on your entrance, throat swallowing with difficulty. His bust rises and falls heavily, pectorals muscles swelling up before relaxing and rising again. He sighs, and you feel it again, hot air all against you, all against your now aroused and needy slit.

“We hum… We never tried like this…” He starts, voice low and suggestive about what he's implying, his hands traveling from your thighs to grab your ass, one hand for each cheek. They’re so big and firm, and feel so good there, as he squeezes, again and again, driving himself crazy as he admires how the perfect heart shape of your rear looks all squished under his fingers.

“You sure you want-”

Before you can even finish your sentence, Arthur answers it by pressing his lips to your pussy, exhaling through his nose and tightening his fingers on your flesh. This man always had such huge self-control for every dangerous situation known to mankind, but right now, it seems like he couldn’t resist taking a bite when having your perfect cunt under his nose…

A sharp and depraved noise leaves you, making his body burn like redden coal, his mind consumed more and more by your whole being and the simple feeling of your wetness all against his face. His whole universe reduced into this touch, lips against flesh, saliva mixing with arousal. Your sinful nectar and his.

“God, honey!” You whine, back arching without your permission, body moving backward to him, searching for more, needing more.

“Taste so goddamn good… Never gonna have enough of ‘this…” He rasps between a few more kisses to your folds, as a praise or a statement, you’re not sure, and he’s not either as words just flow through him and he lets them out without a drop of restraint or reflection. A rough, unstoppable river. That's how he feels every time he eats you out.

His tongue slowly slips out of his filthy mouth and licks your folds, slowly, tortuously, from bellow aaaall the way up to the inside of your ass. You could have been scared of not being clean enough for him or feeling nervous about his face almost buried in there, but the sound, the moan he had made suppresses all these anxious thoughts all at once.

You have to face the obvious: he’s loving it.

“Aah- Arthur…” Your hips roll against his face, desperate for some more friction, unsatisfied and so aroused by his teasing.

“You go on moanin’ ma name like that and am gonna come without ya even touchin’ me, darlin’.” He warns you, voice hoarse, lips mumbling against your folds, his beard and mustache tickling you just the right way.

You answer his words with a deep sigh, the filth of them burning you to the core. He laps at you the same way again, in one then two long and slow licks, as if savoring you like the finest whiskey he would have tasted. A mewl leaves your lips after each one of them. You’re starting to get impatient, and he knows it, he knows you after all those intimate moments. He stops his lips right at the entrance of your core and gently slides his right hand between your thighs.

The way he has to fold his arm to touch you there isn’t comfortable for him, his bicep being way too big to be crushed like that; but hearing you, feeling your thighs clenching and the appreciative words you let out when his fingers land on your sensitive bud is worth this slight pain. Always putting other’s needs before his own, always being devoted and loyal, always finding happiness in being useful, that was Arthur’s nature. And the bed was no exception to it.

“Was you not supposed to go somewhere?” He asks cockily in a falsely innocent tone, brimming with sarcasm and smugness.

“P-please, Arthur… Quit the teasing, for God's sake…” You ask, trying not to sound too pitiful, probably failing at it.

“A lil’ needy after all, ain’t ya? Ma sweet girl…” He coos, and you can feel his lips stretch into his usual grin, his heart gorging with pride and excitement to have this sort of impact on you.

Bending to your wishes, his fingers start to rub and trace tight circles on your clit as his mouth makes love to your pussy, his tongue delving in as deeply as he can, and the pleasure finally hits you like an earthquake. It feels so good, so damn good, your breathing quickly turning into loud moans.

Your head snaps back forward, and your body pushes your rear up all against him as a cat who would stretch after a nap. Arthur hums in delight and appreciation, unable to speak but encouraging you still. He increases his pace, his digits quick and sharp and so precise against your sensitive spot.

Your face falls down as every fiber of your body hardens, and that’s when your gaze is caught on his cock. Your pussy clenches hard around his tongue just by the sight of it.

It looks so hard and swollen that it must be painful for him. His hips buck forward into nothing, his member almost hitting your chin, with every lick of his tongue inside you. His round and reddish tip is leaking, pre-cum spurting out even more than usual, flowing all the way down into his dark curly pubic hair. His pants would have been completely soaked if he was wearing them.

You're salivating.

It would have been cruel to let him like this, right?

Focusing on him to try and not collapse from your own pleasure, you suddenly press your chest against his belly and take his cock inside your mouth without any warning. The taste of him, this strong saline flavor, fills your mouth.

“Damn!” Arthur shouts in surprise, momentarily parting his lips from yours, fingers slowing their pace. “Jesus, girl!”

This time, it’s your turn to grin, as much as you can, considering how big Arthur is between your lips. You don’t let him any time to think or protest, knowing he would insist that you’d come first.

The way you're crawling on top of him makes it even simpler for you to suck him off, your head naturally placed at the right angle on top of his crotch, and you take advantage of that. Finding support on the mattress with your arms, hands gripping his legs, you bring your mouth up and down hard and fast, sucking his shaft with such vigor you can feel his body squirming underneath you.

“Ngh-! Darlin’! S-stop, slow down! I ain’t gonna last like this!” He tries to plead but his words are drowned in a flood of groans and harsh sighs.

Despite what he’s saying, his body acts in the exact opposite way, hips jerking, cock shoving into your throat at the same time you’re working him. He tries, he really tries to keep on pleasuring you back while you work him, but he feels like he’s completely losing himself, unable to do anything else, to focus on anything else at all.

Your breasts pressed against his belly, his face buried in your pussy and ass, each of your thighs surrounding his head, and your goddamn mouth around his cock, this devilish tongue sliding all around it… He's completely losing his head. It's like being drowned in an Ocean of You. It’s too much. It’s way too much at once for a simple man. A simple, weak, mortal man feeling like he’s receiving every grace of Heaven all at the same time.

His basic instincts win the best of him. His arms are now wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his body, a hand back on your ass cheek, the other on your neck, spurring you into moving your mouth just like he needs to.

“Oh, shit! Yes, go on, go on, take it!”

You've rarely seen him losing his temper like this. He's usually gentle and soft, patient with you during sex, savoring the moment, making it last as much as possible, playing you like an Andante movement from the most sophisticated piece of a symphony.

Right now, he's unchained and rough, rushing to the Grand Finale without minding about false notes, drunk from you and the sensation of warmth he is feeling on every edge of his body; face, chest, cock, every inch of him merging with every inch of you.

He groans all against your pussy, as your saliva drools from this erratic pace. His fingers grip your head and ass tighter as he chases his high carelessly, already coming, way too soon and fast for him. His cock stiffens even more as he fucks your silky mouth, veins gorging with blood, tip throbbing in the back of your head.

“Aaah- Damn… Good… Girl!” He growls loudly with a thrust of his hips after each word.

The last one is followed by a loud and throaty whine, higher-pitched and vulgar, the kind of sounds he would usually let out when being hurt.

He shuts his eyes in a pleasured-filled frown as he pushes his face even deeper between your legs and, more from instinct than anything else, sucks hard on your cunt while he comes, lost, so lost in a sea of primal bliss and pure organic pleasure. His large body burns and tenses one hard final time, and you can feel the path of his cum traveling along his length against your lips as he releases inside you.

It fills you, his saline and strong taste blinding your other senses, cum as hot and sinful as his state, and you exhale with satisfaction as you swallow both this remnant of his ecstasy and the last drops of his sanity.

Arthur falls back heavily on the mattress, completely spent, his sweat staining the white sheets, his hands loosening their grip. Before removing them from your body, he allows himself a playful little spank on your butt as he speaks again, a revenge not strong enough to his liking for your sneaky move.

“Jesus, you’re… completely wild...” He sighs, his heart slowing after having beaten like war drums.

He’s still panting, mouth open and covered with a mix of this sweet cocktail of saliva and arousal. He licks his lips, feeling so satisfied, the sensation of your body everywhere on his skin still vivid and present. Like a stamp of black, indelible ink that has left its mark on a blank sheet of paper.

“You really enjoyed all this, didn’t you?” You ask back while getting off him, legs a bit shaky, your throat starting to feel a bit sore from the intensity you had chosen to go with. “I haven’t heard you whine like this for a long time…”

“I don’t “whine”.” He scoffs, knowing damn well he did, and suddenly feeling ashamed of the sounds he had made and guilty for the rough behavior he had displayed. His negative feelings are soon brushed off though, thanks to your beautiful and mischievous smile enlightening him.

“Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that. I’ve still got ears to hear, Mister.”

“Hush. Now come here, 'gonna make ya feel as good and miserable as me from finishin’ that fast.”

His eyes burn with that fire he has. The one reserved for you and the excitement and adrenaline of action. You already know there's no way you'll walk out of this bedroom without being completely satisfied.

“Tonight. I’m already way too late to-”

“Now.”

The piece of clothes remains abandoned on the floor as the bed creaks again, that old gambler's hat only witness of Arthur's payback to you.

After all, he never liked leaving a job unfinished.

tagging some people who were interested in the scenario! : @amyispxnk @a-court-of-valkyries @fleouris

#pinefic #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x you

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lilac-sweet · 6 months ago

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I’ve seen a lot of posts discussing whether Solas and Mythal’s relationship was romantic in nature, or it was some kind of mother/son deal, but I think the answer is a lot simpler and staring us all in the face: Solas was Mythal’s dog.

So a lot has been said about how toxic Mythal and Solas’ relationship was, and I’m not gonna get into all that. What I will say, is that I believe the relationship’s power imbalance may have become gradually bigger after Solas took physical form at Mythal’s behest.

When Solas said: “I will always follow where you go”, we should take note of the word “follow”. Solas did not lead with the other Evanuris; he followed Mythal and had her markings on his face. Much like how Ghilan’nain followed Andruil, yet their relationship was romantic, and Ghilan’nain quickly agreed to take on a leadership role when offered. Solas did not. We don’t know whether he was never offered one or that he simply had no desire to lead (both might be true), but the disparity between Mythal and Solas’ positions were noted by those around them, and was interpreted (we hear it from Elgar’nan) as Solas being Mythal’s “lapdog”. This interpretation seemed to be the general consensus- proven by the many dog-like statues in Mythal’s temple, and Solas symbolically becoming known as a canine.

We don’t know how Solas felt being compared to a dog - perhaps the comparison seemed flattering/ less condescending in the beginning: we know that there are strong bonds between people and their animals in dragon age: Davrin and Assan, Kell and Hafter, and the general lore about Marbari dogs. “Turlum” is a powerful thing (as we see with Davrin and Assan) and may have been exactly how they felt about each other.

When we explore the lighthouse we come across a piano and a codex entry called “memories of a duet”:

the relief of private achievement, away from well-meant misunderstanding and mindless worship; an unspoken joy in the center of rising, perfect echoes.

Finally, a beloved memory surfaces. A smiling glance, meeting at a crescendo; a shared moment of understanding; seeing completely, and being wholly seen.

This entry seems to sum up their relationship quite well: “away from well-meant misunderstanding” (could refer to a romantic interpretation of their relationship), and “seeing completely, and being wholly seen.” (Turlum)

Whatever the relationship had started as, the power imbalance seems to have reached a peak around the time the Evanuris decided they wanted to lead their people as gods. We don’t know whether there actually was a power difference between the Evanuris and the rest of the elves when they were all spirits: my guess is there was one, but not a huge one: perhaps the difference between a normal person and a mage. When the Evanuris decided they were gods, they made a hard line in the sand: separating themselves from their people, and separating Mythal from Solas. This is also where the “lapdog” comment from Elgar’nan seems incredibly condescending.

The markings on his face no longer symbolize devotion, but ownership. He burns them off and instead of a dog becomes a wolf (using the allegory of Elgar’nan). An obvious metaphor here is that the markings symbolize a dog collar.

He frees the elves but becomes an unwilling symbol himself, thus separating him from his people after already having been separated from the Evanuris. The man literally becomes a lone wolf.

However, Mythal and Solas’ love for each other continues, and is obviously still strong when Solas asks Mythal to run away with him (at this point he must feel desperately lonely). What happens to Solas when Mythal dies can only be imagined: there’s a reason why Assan follows Davrin in death.

For the first time in his physical life he is truly alone and has to figure out who he is without Mythal. The only role he has ever known away from her, is the rebel leader. He doubles down on his efforts to stop the Evanuris and destroys the world of the elves in the process. His grief and regret over Mythal and the home of the elves chart his course from when he wakes up until inquisition.

With a friendly inquisitor and especially a romanced Lavellan he finds a new role, or rather, he rediscovers himself before Mythal: a spirit of wisdom. For the first time in a long time he also finds a companion: someone he can rely on. Someone who eases that lonely ache he must have felt for millennia.

There are many cool aspects of the Crestwood scene (romanced Lavellan), but the one I want to highlight is Solas’ reaction to the vallaslin: when he decides to tell her the truth of who he was/is, but chickens out the last second. He panics and the fact that he immediately jumps to the vallaslin says something about how tied it is to him psychologically. He doesn’t force Lavellan to get rid of it, but he certainly does his very best to convince her. It is the moment Solas truly sees Lavellan as his mirror image and his equal. She is another lone wolf, mindlessly worshipped and ostracized, but she still wears that damn collar.

I am convinced Solas knows rationally that the vallaslin no longer means what it once meant - Lavellan can even insist the Dalish have reclaimed it, and he still tries to convince her to get rid of it, because to HIM it symbolizes enslavement and it is a painful reminder of his own ties to Mythal (it is an even stronger parallel if the inquisitor drinks from the well and has Mythal’s markings).

This is also the difference between Mythal and Lavellan: one is the master (with every connotation) the other another wolf.

In conclusion: Mythal and Solas had the relationship of a master and their dog: a relationship that many with pets themselves can relate to, both in the aspect of devotion, companionship, and in the power imbalance. In a way the “mother” interpretation isn’t far off - it just so happens that Solas is a fur baby.

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #da: the veilguard #Veilguard #solas #Mythal #solavellan #dragon age theory

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evilminji · 1 year ago

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O.O!!! :Dc wait a second.... Aquaman >.>

Good JOB Brain! That IS a good idea!

Don't know if YOU GUYS all know this? But Arthur? Son of a Lighthouse keeper and the Queen of Atlantis? THAT Arthur Curry aka. Orin? Has CONSIDERABLY enhanced durability. Like... *hit by a car* "ha. Cute." Enhanced.

It's because of the DEEP Sea water pressure he's built for.

I bring this up? Because the man is a legit BAMF. Absolutely TERRIFYING near any body of water. Dude has SUPER STRENGTH AND HYDROKINESIS. Not ONLY are YOU filled with water, but every street corner in the world has pipes! He is NEVER not armed.

That's not including the "yes I can ask a lobster to take your dick off" thing.

But most of all? He has the RAGE. The lifetime of injustice after injustice. His home under attack, his people suffering and regarded as LESS. The poison dumped into their air. Their lands taken, PRESUMED the property of land dwellers.

Treated as criminals and monsters should they DARE defend themselves.

Yet? He is a leader. A husband, father, mentor. The death of his child can not take from him that title. Nor years numb that pain. He strives to be good. Be wise. Live well.

Yet? There is once AGAIN fuckery in his ocean. Some "secret" lab. Poking at a swirling green portal. At the BOTTOM OF THE SEA. For God's sake, they DO REALIZE, you can't HIDE things from him down here, RIGHT?

It looks radioactive.

He refuses to have that so close to Atlantis.

Sends a notice up to the Watchtower, a call back to his Wife, and leads the gaurd team in. Painfully easy, really. Bog standard humans, caught off gaurd. Right until one of them does something... stupid.

He tries to blow the place. Destroy evidence. It would kill all of them. Which is not Arthur's main concern. No, what IS? Is that it would dump radioactive SOMETHING into the waters near Atlantis.

He dives forward. They struggle. A button is smashed and...

Their containment field drops.

They had been keeping it in a perfect vacuum.

Arthur is sucked in.

Watches, in free fall, as his men's faces turn to horror. As they desperately dive to follow him. Loyal. True. But ultimately too late. He curses himself as he loses sit of them. But forces himself to focus, twist, get his feet under him. His is in air, above LAND.

He hits HARD.

But not the ground like he had planned.

He's slamed, at an awkward, frantic, angle and knocked off course. His weight crashing down onto a scrawny slip of a boy, who weezes and struggles to get a proper grip. His arms not quite long enough to go all the way around his barrel of a chest.

He helps, by slinging an arm over his young savior.

Only then, does he notice, the tiny crown of ice and nebula, poking at a jaunty angle from the child's head.

Their landing would be rough, had Arthur not caught them, once he gets close enough to the ground. The young royal gasping for air, having clearly pushed his limits to get to Arthur in time. He hauls himself up. Not yet a man, but not as young as Arthur feared. His eyes glow.

"Hoooly SHIT. Are you okay?! I hit you really hard! I'm so, SO sorry! I panicked! And-"

Honestly? A little bruised. But nothings he's going to ADMIT too.

More concerning? The injuries.

There's a screech of tires turning sharp corners. Sirens getting closer. The young king whips around. Terror seeping onto his face. It gives Arthur an unobstructed view of pointed ears, softly glowing skin with star like freckles, and scars that creep up the child's neck. He does not like the picture being painted.

"We have to GO. Now. Please, I'll explain in a moment! But we have to go NOW!"

Really, REALLY does not like the picture. And he has WAYS of dealing with such things as this. But safety first. Prioritize the children. They go. He vows to get answers. And all around Amity? Certain individuals days are NUMBERED.

@babbling-babull @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation @lolottes @nerdpoe

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #aquaman #minji's writing #AquaDad Au #Water Wrath Au

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merrinla · 4 months ago

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Companions banter with Assan in the Lighthouse

Davrin: (Hums) Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: What? Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: You don't like my humming? You think you can do better? Assan: (Squawk)(Squawk)(Squawk) Davrin: I'm still waiting. Assan: (Anxious squawk.) Davrin: I know, I know. It's not the same as the aerie. Assan: (Anxious squawk.) Davrin: Don't worry. We'll adjust. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: If you're asking for food, the answer is no. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: Still no. Assan: (Insistent squawk!) Davrin: Hey, what did I say about being rude? Assan: (Quiet squawk) Davrin: Good boy. Davrin: It's called "turlum." We move as one. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: I don't know how. But… we'll get there. Assan: (Sad squawk) Davrin: What's the matter, boy? Assan: (Sad squawk) Davrin: Feeling down? You miss your brothers and sisters? Assan: (Sad squawk) Davrin: Don't worry. I promise you'll see them again. Davrin: You did real good against the Gloom Howler, boy. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: Just be careful. Still a lot to learn. But you're getting there.

Bellara: Davrin, have you seen a Calcerum crystal lying around? Davrin: No, sorry. Bellara: I swear I saw it on my table. Davrin: What'd you do after that? Bellara: Well, Assan wandered in. Davrin: There's your problem. Griffons like shiny baubles. Bellara: He stole my crystal? Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: More like "borrowed" it. And then probably buried it. Bellara: Okay, now I think Assan took a runestone. I can't find it anywhere. Davrin: Assan? Did you steal Bellara's stuff? Assan: (Defiant squawk) Davrin: Assan… Assan: (Defiant squawk) Davrin: Assan… Assan: (Weak squawk) Davrin: Assan. Assan: (Whimpering squawk) Davrin: Good boy. Always be honest. Bellara: Thanks for that. But where's my runestone? Davrin: Oh, probably buried in a forest somewhere. Bellara: Davrin— Davrin: Let me guess: Assan took something of yours. Bellara: No, he brought it back! My runestone. I found it sitting on my table. Davrin: Yeah? Bellara: Even better, there were two more with it. Davrin: Did you do that, Assan? Assan: (Friendly squawk) Davrin: Yeah? Good boy. Bellara: Really good boy. He paid it back with interest.

Emmrich: One squawk for "yes," two for "no." Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: You don't really think that'll work. Emmrich: We can't afford to take anything for granted about them, Davrin. Emmrich: Let us try again, Assan. One for "yes." Do you understand? Assan: (Squawk) Emmrich: Ah-ha! Davrin: Hold on. Assan, is the sky made of chocolate? Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: Does water taste like pumpkin? Assan: (Squawk) Emmrich: Ah. Davrin: Sorry. He just likes to hear himself talk. Emmrich: It worked so well with Manfred.

Harding: Ew. Davrin: What? Harding: The, uh, smell. Davrin: Yeah. Ser Squawks-A-Lot over here doesn't always remember his potty training. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: Got any flowers that might cover the scent? Harding: I'll see what I can do. Harding: Does it have to be a truffle? Davrin: Assan? Assan: (Squawk!) (Squawk!) Davrin: He says yes. Harding: Okay, but just for you, boy. Assan: (Excited squawk) Harding: I like what you've done with the room. Davrin: Suits me well enough. Harding: I was talking to Assan. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: Oh. Harding: Such a pretty boy! Assan: (Excited squawk) Harding: So nice of you to let Davrin move in with you! Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: You can go now, Harding. Harding: Well, it smells a little better in here now. Davrin: Thanks for those flowers. They cover the scent. Harding: (Sniffs the air) Not well enough. Davrin: Because Ser Squawks-A-Lot over there eats them. Assan: (Satisfied squawk) Harding: Oh, dear. Davrin: Got any flowers that smell nice but taste bad? Harding: I'm on it.

Lucanis: This room is an assassin's dream. No defenses. Nothing to stop me from sneaking in for the kill. Davrin: Except him. Assan: (Suspicious squawk) Davrin: An eagle vs. a Crow? My bet's on the eagle. Lucanis: I know where the truffles are kept in the pantry. Davrin: You wouldn't. Lucanis: Maybe Assan and Spite should have a playdate. Davrin: Assan would tear him apart. Lucanis: How? Spite's not exactly physical. Davrin: Assan would find a way. Assan: (Squawk) Davrin: He'd squawk him to death.

Neve: Aren't you a pretty boy? Assan: (Happy squawk) Neve: (Laughs) Yes, you are. Assan: (Happy squawk) Davrin: Assan, you can stop flirting now. You won her over. Assan: (Squawk) Neve: Of course you did. Who's a good boy? Assan: (Happy squawk) Neve: What do you know about Assan's brothers and sisters? Davrin: Well, there's Thunder. And Beaktooth. And Stormwing. Neve: That's three. Davrin: Yeah, and then the other nine… it's a blur. Lots of feathers. I couldn't keep track of them all. (The Profane and The Lost isn't complete) Neve: Poor Assan. You miss your family? Assan: (Sad squawk) Neve: We'll keep looking. (The Profane and The Lost is complete) Neve: At least they're safe. Davrin: And the Wardens' problem now. A dozen mouths to feed. Davrin: And Eldrin's problem now. A dozen mouths to feed. Neve: Hey Assan. What do you think? Should I get some leads on your favorite truffles? Assan: (Happy squawk)

The lines below are cut. They were supposed to trigger after the final battle and if the player chose Davrin to lead distraction team. Previously, Assan could have survived.

Bellara: Assan. I… tried to whittle this. I'm not very good, but I thought, maybe… you'd like it? Assan: (Happy squawk) Emmrich: I suppose it's time you had another excursion. Emmrich: Perhaps the Necropolis? No. Davrin would want you exploring the wilds. Emmrich: Harding and I will take you a little later. Assan: (Happy squawk) Harding: My ma always says we never really lose the people we love. We carry them with us. Harding: You'll remember everything he taught you. All the faith he had in you. All of his hopes. And he'll be with you. Assan: (Squawk)

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dav #da voicelines #assan #davrin #bellara lutare #emmrich volkarin #lace harding #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis #neve gallus

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ilovemarvel97 · 2 months ago

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Written in Our Souls - Part 5

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda continues to run from her fate. But for how long?

Word Count: 5,733

Warnings: angst, mentions of blood and violence, a little fluff

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

Y/N’s POV

After the party Y/N avoids Wanda.

She doesn’t avoid the others, but she keeps her head down. Trains when scheduled. Eats when Natasha drags her. Sleeps when exhaustion wins over the ache. But it’s a ghost of a life, a holding pattern. She isn’t really living—just existing around a wound no one else can see.

Except Nat.

She sits across from Y/N every morning, arms folded, eyes sharp. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t coddle. Just shows up. And maybe that’s the only reason Y/N hasn’t disappeared entirely.

“You’re eating,” Nat notes one morning, her tone unreadable as she eyes the half-eaten toast on Y/N’s plate.

“Barely,” Y/N mutters.

“Still counts.”

A long silence.

“She’s not okay either, you know.”

Y/N doesn’t look up. “Don’t.”

“She’s unraveling.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. “Then she should say something.”

“She won’t. You know that.”

Y/N finally lifts her gaze, voice sharper now. “Then what am I supposed to do? Keep standing there like a fucking lighthouse while she steers away?”

Nat leans in, elbows on the table. “You love her.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to let her destroy me.”

The words feel like glass leaving her mouth.

Nat doesn’t argue.

Because she knows Y/N’s right.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda sits on the rooftop.

Her fingers tug at the edge of her sweater sleeves, hiding the pulse of Y/N’s name against her skin. It still burns sometimes. Quietly. Like a whisper she tries not to hear.

She’s not sure how many people she’s snapped at today.

Bruce, when he asked if she was sleeping.

Sam, when he jokingly mentioned she was more intense than usual.

Vision, when he said he was worried.

She doesn’t want his worry.

She wants the girl whose name is on her wrist. Her soulmate. The one she was supposed to wait. And now, wouldn’t even look at her.

No.

She pushed her away. She knows that.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

She thinks of Y/N’s voice—soft in the hallway that night, barely a whisper.

“I’m just a mistake, Wanda.”

The words she once said backfiring at her.

Wanda leans forward, forehead resting on her knees, arms wrapped tight around herself.

For the first time in days, her powers are still.

Because she’s too tired to feel anything except the ache that started in her chest after Y/N started ignoring her.

---

Each day without Y/N stretches longer than the last.

And each day, the lie Wanda keeps living—the one where she pretends Vision is the right choice, the safe choice—scrapes her raw from the inside out. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She was supposed to be stronger. Clearer. She thought if she just committed hard enough to the path she’d chosen, the ache would fade. The bond would silence. The name on her wrist would stop glowing like an ember pressed into her skin.

But it doesn’t.

It worsens.

The more she ignores it, the more it punishes her. The name—Y/N’s name—burns now. Not gently. Not warmly. But with sharp, cutting heat, like it’s trying to remind her that something real is dying.

And Wanda is the one killing it.

She’s quieter these days. Vision tries to cheer her up by asking her on dates, or trying to cook paprikash for her. And she tries too.

---

Y/N’s POV

The worst part is: she still dreams of her.

Wanda.

She’s in everything. Every hallway. Every laugh that’s not hers. Every silence that lasts too long.

Y/N pretends she’s fine. Enough to keep up appearances. Enough to nod when Steve gives her orders. Enough to answer when Sam or Bruce ask how she’s holding up.

But the truth is, she’s unraveling too. Quietly. Elegantly. Like something made to fall apart.

Because the bond won’t let her go.

Because Wanda won’t.

Every time Y/N tries to move forward, something pulls her back. A glance in the hallway. Her voice during a mission. The whisper of her powers lingering in the air when she leaves a room.

The worst is the guilt—because Y/N knows Wanda is in pain too.

But she can’t be the one to fix this.

Not when she wasn’t the one who broke it.

So, she waits.

And waits.

And breaks a little more every time the name on her wrist pulses with a longing that will never be returned.

---

Wanda’s POV

She kisses Vision one night.

Softly. Mechanically. Like it’s written in a script.

His hands rest at her waist. Gentle. Polite.

Wanda doesn’t feel anything.

She pulls back, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. Vision tilts his head, puzzled.

“Wanda?”

“I’m tired,” she lies, backing away. “Long day.”

She doesn’t look at him when she leaves the room. Doesn’t stop until she’s behind a locked door, sinking to the floor, breathing like she’s drowning.

Because she is.

In guilt.

In want.

In a love she tried to bury and couldn’t.

She lifts her wrist. Y/N’s name is glowing again, brighter than ever.

And this time—her chest hurts so much she cries.

---

Y/N’s POV

Then one night.

It all starts as a tingle.

A small, burning pull that wakes me from sleep like a whisper too loud in the dark. I sit up, heart racing. My wrist—Wanda’s name—is glowing faintly beneath the skin, not in the warm way it sometimes did before, but sharp, erratic. Like it’s panicked.

I rub at it, wincing, then glance at the clock.

3:12 a.m.

A pit forms in my stomach.

Something’s wrong.

I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge for a moment, debating. My chest aches. My whole body feels tense, like my soul is bracing for impact.

Should I check on her?

She told me to stay away. She made it clear that I was a mistake. That we were. I’d spent days putting distance between us, even when every part of me screamed to do the opposite.

But this—this burning sensation, this invisible thread tugging at me in the dark—it’s not something I can ignore.

I’m halfway to the door when—

Knock. Knock.

I freeze.

A soft, shaky knock again.

And then I hear it. Breathing. Ragged, desperate.

I open the door.

Wanda collapses into me.

She doesn’t say a word. Just folds into me like her legs gave out the second she saw my face. Her arms wrap around my middle, and her head buries itself in my chest as the sobs break free.

I stand there, stunned, arms hovering awkwardly for a split second—then I wrap them around her without thinking. Tight. Like I’m trying to hold her together.

She’s trembling. Shaking so violently it scares me.

“Wanda…” I whisper, pulling her inside, closing the door with my foot. “Hey… hey, I got you, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

But she’s not okay.

She’s falling apart in my arms.

She clings to me like I’m the only thing tethering her to this world. And maybe, for her, right now—I am.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda doesn’t remember getting out of bed. Doesn’t remember walking the halls barefoot, or the way her vision blurred from tears.

She just remembers waking up screaming.

Vision didn’t hear her. He just remained still beside her. She doesn’t know.

But Y/N—Y/N was the only face her mind called out for. The only arms that felt safe.

Now, in Y/N’s room, Wanda curls into her like a child, like something wounded and small, and Y/N doesn’t ask questions. She just holds her.

Her heartbeat is steady.

Wanda lets herself breathe again.

For the first time since that mission… she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

---

Y/N’s POV

I guide her slowly toward the bed, not letting go for even a second. She clutches my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she loosens her grip.

“It was just a nightmare,” I whisper, barely audible over her sobs. “You’re safe now. I’m here.”

She doesn’t answer. Her entire body is shaking, curled in on itself like she’s trying to disappear. I sit down on the edge of the bed and gently pull her into my lap, her knees each one beside me, arms wrapped tight around my neck.

She buries her face against my chest, and the sound she makes—it’s broken. Like her soul is splintering in my hands.

I wrap my arms around her tighter, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I’ve got you,” I murmur again, and again, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

My fingers thread through her hair in slow, calming strokes, and gradually the sobs dull into small, stuttering breaths. Her heartbeat pounds against mine, ragged and desperate, like she’s trying to sync to something steady. Something real.

She shifts just enough to tuck her face under my jaw, her skin hot and damp against my neck. And I swear—it’s like our souls are speaking in silence.

When she finally speaks, her voice is so raw it makes my chest ache.

“I saw you die.”

I freeze.

Wanda’s hand clutches my back like she’s trying to hold me here. Her voice trembles.

“You were on a mission. And something exploded. I couldn’t reach you in time—your mark on my wrist just—” she gasps. “It burned. It burned like it was trying to stop your heart from leaving mine.”

My arms tighten instinctively around her.

“I tried to stop it. I screamed. But you were gone.”

“Wanda—”

“I couldn’t breathe. I woke up choking on it. I didn’t know where else to go. I just—I needed to see you. To feel you.”

She lifts her head slowly. Her eyes are bloodshot, cheeks streaked with tears, and all I can see is fear. Vulnerability. Love that’s bleeding and terrified.

“I’m here,” I whisper, cupping her face in both hands. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

Wanda leans into my touch like she can’t get close enough. Her forehead presses against mine, our breaths tangling in the small space between us.

“You’ll always have me,” I say, voice soft and shaking. “Even if you push me away. Even if you say we’re a mistake. My heart doesn’t care. It still finds you.”

Her eyes flutter closed as a new tear slips down her cheek. I kiss it away without thinking.

She doesn’t let go.

Neither do I.

We sit there like that for a long time, just breathing the same air. Letting the silence carry everything we’re not ready to say out loud.

Eventually, she curls up against my side, fingers still tangled with mine. Her breathing slows. Steadies.

She falls asleep in my arms, soft, warm and safe.

And I stay awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest, her name burning gently beneath my skin—not in pain this time.

But in something that feels a lot like peace.

And love.

---

Wanda’s POV

Morning light filters through the room, casting a warm golden glow on the walls.

It’s soft. Gentle. The kind of light that could almost convince her everything was okay.

But it’s not.

She blinks her eyes open, her head still resting against Y/N’s shoulder. The steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest under her cheek is comforting. Too comforting.

And that’s what terrifies her.

Wanda sits up carefully, trying not to wake her.

Y/N is still fast asleep, face peaceful in a way Wanda rarely gets to see. There’s a hand still loosely wrapped around hers, and Wanda stares at it for a long moment—like she’s memorizing the feeling. The warmth. The safety.

She hadn’t meant to come here last night.

She didn’t plan to collapse into her soulmate’s arms and cry herself to sleep like a child. But the second she woke up from the nightmare, Y/N’s name was the only thing echoing in her mind. Not Vision’s. Never Vision’s.

It was Y/N.

Just like before.

What did I do?

Her breath catches.

What have I done?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to need Y/N like this. Not after everything she said. Not after how cruel she’d been.

She’s engaged. She has responsibilities. A future already mapped out. A life she's forcing herself to choose.

But lying in Y/N’s arms last night felt like home.

And that terrifies her more than the nightmare ever could.

Wanda carefully untangles herself from Y/N’s arms. Her movements are slow, calculated—like if she breathes too loud, the moment will shatter.

She stands at the edge of the bed, looking back at her soulmate just once.

There’s a faint crease between Y/N’s brows, like even in sleep, something inside her knows.

Wanda’s chest tightens painfully.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers under her breath.

Then she turns and slips out the door—quiet, fast, like she’s fleeing the scene of a crime.

Because in her heart… it feels like she just committed one.

Wanda walks back to her room.

Her bare feet hit the cold hallway floor, and the chill cuts through her like guilt. She hugs her arms around herself, not even sure which way she’s going. Just away.

She’s almost at the corridor that leads to her own room when she hears a voice.

“Wanda?”

Her breath catches in her throat. She turns—and there he is.

Vision stands at the corner, dressed in his usual casual morning wear. He tilts his head slightly, concerned but not suspicious.

“I was looking for you,” he says with a faint smile. “You were not in bed.”

Wanda forces a smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You should have woken me.”

I couldn’t.

Instead, she says, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He walks toward her and reaches for her arm, gently. “You weren’t in the library either. I checked.”

She stiffens under his touch. “I just… needed air. I wandered for a bit. Ended up falling asleep somewhere.”

He frowns slightly. “Are you alright?”

Wanda nods too quickly. “I’m fine. Just a nightmare.”

He brushes his fingers down her arm. “I wish you’d come to me. You know I’m here, don’t you?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

You were never the one who could calm the storm.

Not like she did.

“I know,” she lies.

Vision gives her a small kiss on the temple, and she closes her eyes, hoping it’ll feel like something. Hoping it’ll anchor her to the choice she made.

It doesn’t.

It just makes her stomach twist.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says gently. “You should shower. You look pale.”

She nods again, walking past him with a polite smile and a whispered, “Okay.”

But as she slips into her room and closes the door behind her, she leans back against it and finally lets herself shake.

Not from the cold.

But from everything she’s trying not to feel.

---

Y/N’s POV

I wake up to silence.

No soft breathing beside me. No warmth curled into my side. Just the faint scent of her shampoo on my shirt and the hollow weight of empty sheets.

I sit up slowly, blinking away the haze of sleep.

She’s gone.

The spot where she slept is still faintly warm, but fading fast. And it’s like the moment hits me all at once—like a punch to the chest I didn’t see coming.

I run a hand down my face, trying to breathe through the ache building in my ribs.

I knew this would happen.

I told myself not to fall asleep. That if I did, she’d be gone by morning. That this wasn’t real. That last night—her arms around me, her voice shaking against my chest—was just temporary.

But knowing it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I shift to the edge of the bed, rubbing my wrist out of habit. It’s still warm where her name is burned into my skin. Not painfully. Not like before. Just… there. Like it knows she was close. Like it remembers, even if she’s already pretending to forget. The pain in my chest is less too.

I glance toward the door.

There’s no note. No message. Just absence.

The same kind I’ve felt when she looked me in the eye and said we were a mistake.

I grip the edge of the mattress, jaw clenched.

Last night, she let me in. Let herself fall apart. She came to me. Not Vision. Me.

And this morning… it’s like it never happened.

I stand up, dragging on a hoodie, trying to shake the chill that settled in my bones the moment I woke up alone. I don’t know what I expected. I guess part of me hoped… something would be different.

But it’s the same story, rewritten with softer words and sharper endings.

Still, I’d hold her all over again if she asked.

Even if she leaves every time the sun rises.

---

Wanda’s POV

She hasn’t looked at Y/N in days. Not really.

Not since that night she crept into their bed like a secret and let herself feel something she swore she’d never want.

The morning after, as she walks back to her room, she bumps into Vision who has been looking for her. And when she went to the kitchen, she slipped into his side like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t spent the night tangled in someone else’s arms.

Like she hadn’t felt peace for the first time in weeks.

Now, she lies in bed beside Vision. His presence, once familiar, now feels suffocating. He doesn’t sleep, but he rests, and he’s quiet. Kind. But utterly wrong.

Wanda stares at the ceiling.

She can’t sleep. She hasn’t, not properly, since that night.

And when she finally falls asleep, it happens again.

The dream starts quiet.

She’s back on the battlefield—scorched earth beneath her boots, smoke curling through the air like fingers reaching for something already gone. The sky is red, too red, like it’s bleeding. And all she hears is wind. No voices. No gunfire.

Too quiet.

Then she sees it: a flash of movement ahead. A familiar silhouette standing tall amidst the ruins.

“Y/N,” she breathes, relief flooding her chest.

She runs toward her, the broken ground crumbling beneath her feet. Y/N stands facing away, still and silent. Her stance is off—tense, unreadable.

“Y/N,” Wanda calls again, louder now.

Y/N doesn’t turn.

Wanda’s heart hammers. She moves closer. She reaches out a hand. “Please, look at me—”

And then she sees it.

Blood. So much blood.

It’s soaked into Y/N’s shirt, pooling beneath her, staining her fingers. Wanda’s breath catches in her throat as Y/N finally turns—slowly, painfully—and when their eyes meet, it’s like something inside Wanda splits clean in half.

Y/N is smiling, but it’s not the one Wanda knows. It’s hollow. Fading.

“You didn’t come,” Y/N says, voice soft, broken. “You chose him.”

“No—no, that’s not—” Wanda stumbles forward, clutching Y/N’s arms, trying to hold her up, to stop the bleeding with her hands, her powers, anything.

But her powers fizzle out uselessly. Like they’re gone. Like she’s nothing.

“I’m here now,” she begs. “Please, just stay with me. Please, I’m so sorry—”

Y/N shakes her head slowly. “It’s too late.”

Her knees give out. Wanda catches her, cradling her in her lap, rocking back and forth as tears blur her vision.

“You were supposed to be mine,” Wanda whispers, voice cracking. “You’re my soulmate.”

Y/N’s hand rises, brushing her cheek—gentle, forgiving.

Then her eyes go still.

And Wanda screams.

---

She wakes up with a gasp, drenched in sweat, her sheets tangled around her limbs. Her heart is a fist, pounding against her ribs.

Her hand flies to her wrist—Y/N—still there. Still glowing faintly in the dark.

Still alive.

“Wanda?” Vision sits up beside her, his voice gentle. “Are you alright?”

She doesn’t answer.

Her breath stutters. The phantom pain lingers in her chest like a bruise. The sound of Y/N’s voice—“You chose him”—won’t stop echoing.

“Would you like me to get you water?” Vision offers, his hand reaching for hers.

She flinches.

“No,” she says quickly. “No, I just… I need air.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She’s already grabbing her hoodie, already walking out the door barefoot.

---

Wanda hesitates only for a second.

Then she opens the door. Quiet. Like she did before.

The room is dark, but she knows the shape of her in bed. Knows the rhythm of her breath. The way she sleeps—curled slightly toward the wall, as if bracing for something that never comes.

Y/N shifts. “Wanda?” her voice is hoarse, sleep-soft, confused.

She doesn’t answer. Just crosses the room and climbs into her bed. She’s trembling.

And just like before, Y/N doesn’t question it. Her arms open for Wanda like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Wanda presses herself into her warmth, anchoring herself in the rise and fall of her chest.

“I saw you die again,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “In my dream. I was too late. You were bleeding and I—I couldn’t save you.”

Y/N’s arms tighten around her.

“I’m right here,” she murmurs. “I’m okay. I promise.”

But she doesn’t ask why Wanda keeps coming. Or why she keeps leaving.

And that makes it worse.

Because she should.

Wanda buries her face in her chest, fingers fisting the fabric of her shirt like she’s afraid she’ll disappear. The dream still clings to her—the blood, the silence, the way her eyes had gone still.

“I felt you slip away,” she chokes out. “And it felt like the end of everything.”

Y/N says nothing. Just holds her tighter.

Wanda’s voice breaks into a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” Y/N replies softly. “You’re scared.”

She closes her eyes. She wishes Y/N would hate her. Scream at her. Push her away.

But instead, she holds her. Gently. Steady. Like Wanda hasn’t shattered her over and over again.

And Wanda lets herself fall asleep in the arms of the person she keeps losing—even when she never lets go.

---

The next day, Wanda is having another nightmare.

The world feels wrong—distorted, blurry. Wanda can’t focus, can’t understand what’s happening around her, but she feels it, deep in her bones. There’s a weight pushing her down, suffocating her. Her heartbeat is louder than everything else, echoing in her ears.

And then she hears it.

Save her

It’s her wrist, burning in pain, as if ripping her skin open.

Wanda’s breath catches. She tries to look for Y/N, but her legs feel like they’re made of stone. She can’t move.

And then she sees her.

Y/N is kneeling, shackled to a cold metal chair, her body bruised and bloodied. Her face is pale, her eyes wide with terror. But it’s the pain in her eyes that makes Wanda’s chest tighten—the agony of someone she loves being tortured.

Wanda’s heart races. She tries to scream, to reach out to her, but nothing happens. No sound, no movement. The room is suffocatingly silent except for the echo of cruel laughter.

Then, a voice Wanda doesn’t recognize fills the space—a cold, mocking voice.

“We’ve been watching you, Wanda. You think your precious Y/N is safe? She’s nothing. A pawn in your game.”

Wanda’s breath catches in her throat. The voice continues.

“Don’t worry, though. We’ll let her live—for now.”

The voice chuckles, and the sound sends chills down Wanda’s spine.

“We know you care for her. But it seems you’ve chosen someone else, haven’t you? That thing you call Vision… He’s the one you’ve chosen. Not her. Not the one who could have stood by your side.”

The words feel like a slap to Wanda’s soul. She feels herself tremble with the weight of them. She doesn’t understand how she’s hearing this. How this could be true.

But the figure in front of her doesn’t stop.

“You don’t care enough, do you? You hurt her for him.”

Y/N winces at the words, her body wracked with pain from the torture, but she looks up at Wanda—eyes pleading, desperate for her to stop them, to save her. But Wanda can’t move, can’t reach her.

The voice smirks. “We’ll stop if you beg, Wanda. Beg for her life. But we know you won’t, because you’ve made your choice. Vision. The one who doesn’t feel like this one does.”

The HYDRA agents laugh, taunting her, their voices cutting through Wanda’s heart.

Wanda’s vision begins to blur with tears, and she watches as they turn their weapons on Y/N, ready to deliver another round of torture. The air in her lungs is too thick, like a vice crushing her chest.

“Stop!” Wanda tries to shout, but her voice is a whisper lost in the void.

Y/N’s eyes find hers, and in them, Wanda sees the hurt—the belief that she’s been abandoned. And it’s true. I chose Vision.

The world around them is suddenly quiet. The room is still, like time has frozen. Y/N’s trembling body looks up at Wanda one last time, her lips barely moving. She smiles—tired, but so loving, as if she’s trying to reassure Wanda, as if she’s trying to tell her something that Wanda can’t hear.

Then, in an instant, the figure standing over Y/N moves with brutal precision. A cold blade flashes across the air.

Y/N’s body jerks violently, and Wanda watches in horror as the blade cuts across Y/N’s throat. The blood splashes onto the floor, pooling around her. Y/N’s eyes flicker with shock and pain before they slowly go blank, and her body goes still.

Wanda’s heart stops. Time starts again, rushing back to her like a tidal wave, and she screams out in agony, but her voice is swallowed by the silence.

---

Y/N’s POV

Somewhere deep in her sleep, Y/N jerks awake with a sharp, breathless gasp. The room is too quiet. Too still. But it’s the pain—the deep, gut-wrenching pain—that’s the first thing she feels.

Wanda.

It crashes into her like a wave, raw and unrelenting. The physical pain is excruciating, but the emotional ache that follows is worse. She can feel it like an open wound. Wanda’s grief. Her regret. Her sense of abandonment. It rips through her like a razor, and for a moment, Y/N can’t breathe.

She sits up in bed, heart hammering in her chest, sweat pooling on her forehead. Her hands clutch the sheets, her eyes wide with confusion and terror. What was that? What happened?

But she can’t answer her own question. All she knows is that Wanda’s pain is bleeding into her own, and it feels like it’s suffocating her—drowning her in something far darker and deeper than physical torment.

Y/N presses a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself, but the ache is relentless, unforgiving. Her wrist burns with the mark of their bond—the name Wanda written there.

—

Wanda’s POV

Wanda jerks awake with a gasp, heart racing, breath shallow. The nightmare still grips her like chains—Y/N’s screams, the blood, the mocking voice of HYDRA echoing in her head:

“You chose him. So we’ll spare him.”

She shoves the blanket off and stumbles out of bed without a glance at Vision. Her hands are trembling, her legs unsteady, but she doesn’t stop. The walls of the compound feel like they’re closing in as she moves down the hall in a daze, pulled by instinct—by the thread that connects her to the only person she needs to see.

She reaches Y/N’s door.

No hesitation this time.

She pushes it open—and her breath catches in her throat.

Y/N is sitting up in bed, clutching her chest, her face twisted in pain. Her skin is damp with sweat, her eyes wide and glassy.

“Y/N,” Wanda panics, the dream too vivid in her mind.

Y/N looks up, their eyes meeting. “Wanda…” she whispers, her voice rough. Before she can continue, Wanda is grabbing her face and checking if she’s okay.

Before either of them can think, Wanda’s already crossing the room, hands on Y/N’s cheeks, scanning her face like she needs proof she’s real—alive. That she’s here.

“You’re burning up,” she mutters, brushing sweat-damp hair back. “Are you in pain? Is it your chest? Where does it hurt?”

Y/N winces faintly but leans into her touch. “It’s okay,” she says, though her voice betrays the effort it takes.

But Wanda isn’t reassured.

“No, it’s not okay,” she snaps, voice pitching higher. Her hands run over Y/N’s arms, her shoulders, searching desperately for injuries. “You’re sweating—you’re breathing too fast. Your heart—your heart feels wrong.” Her fingers hover helplessly over Y/N’s chest, terrified to touch too hard, terrified not to touch at all.

Panic coils tighter and tighter around her ribs. Her mind is screaming at her—you’re losing her, you’re losing her, do something, save her—

“I need to get Bruce—I need to get Tony—you’re not okay, you're not healing right, we need to call someone—”

“Wanda—” Y/N tries again, but Wanda barely hears her.

Her power flares without warning, making the lamps in the room flicker wildly. The air crackles with raw magic as her body vibrates with terror she can’t contain. It feels exactly like it did in the nightmare—helpless, useless, too slow to stop it.

“I can’t—I can’t lose you,” she chokes out, voice breaking apart into jagged pieces. “I felt it, Y/N. You were dying. You’re dying and I’m just standing here—”

“Wanda,” Y/N says again, louder this time, pushing through the pain to grab her wrists, anchoring her.

Their eyes lock.

Wanda freezes, trembling, her magic surging uselessly under her skin.

“Breathe,” Y/N whispers, like she’s trying to catch her through the storm. “Please, Wands. Just breathe with me.”

Wanda’s chest heaves. It feels impossible, like her lungs have forgotten how. But Y/N’s hands are solid and real, wrapping around hers, grounding her.

“In and out,” Y/N murmurs, voice low and steady. “You’re here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly—painfully—Wanda forces a breath into her burning lungs. Then another. And another.

The crackling air around them starts to calm. The lights stop flickering.

But Wanda’s hands stay clutching Y/N’s like she’ll never let go again.

Then, as her breathing starts to even out, the panic gives way to something deeper. Something worse.

Guilt.

“I felt it. I felt you. What happened?”

The sight of her like that—hurting because of her—makes Wanda freeze. Then panic seizes her all over again.

“I—I’m sorry,” Wanda stammers, stumbling into the room. “It was a nightmare. They had you. HYDRA. They said they’d spare Vision because he was the one I chose, and then they—” Her voice breaks, and her legs give out.

Y/N is already shifting, reaching for her.

Wanda collapses into her arms, shaking violently. “I couldn’t stop them. I was screaming and they just—they just laughed. And then they—” Her voice dies into a choked sob.

Y/N wraps her arms around her, wincing slightly from the residual echo of pain, but holds her tight. “It wasn’t real,” she murmurs. “I’m right here. You found me, remember?”

“But you felt it,” Wanda whispers, horrified. “I hurt you through the bond.”

“No. I felt what you feel. Not what you dreamt about. And I’m okay now,” Y/N says softly. “You're okay now. We’re both okay.”

Wanda clutches her tighter, burying her face in her neck. “I thought I lost you. It felt real. Like I was already too late.”

“You’re not too late,” Y/N says, kissing the top of her head gently. “You came back.”

Wanda nods against her skin, unable to speak.

And this time, when they lie down, it’s not Wanda crawling into Y/N’s arms—it’s both of them pulling each other close. Holding on. Not letting go.

---

The Next Morning — Y/N’s Room

The light is soft when Wanda stirs. Pale golden, barely filtering through the curtains. It brushes over her face, warming her skin just enough to make her blink awake.

She’s not in her room.

Not in Vision’s bed.

The warmth she feels… it’s not artificial or distant. It’s alive.

Y/N.

Her breath catches as memory floods back—the nightmare, the way she ran through the halls like she was drowning, the moment she burst into Y/N’s room and found her already awake, clutching her chest with a pained expression.

And now… this.

She opens her eyes—and Y/N’s already looking at her.

Her face is close, closer than it should be, like they’d never let go. There’s a slight crease on her cheek from the pillow, and her lips are parted just enough to suggest she’d been watching Wanda long before she woke.

“Morning,” Y/N whispers, voice raw. Gentle. A little shaken.

Wanda doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just looks at her, letting the reality sink in.

She stayed.

And Y/N didn’t ask her to leave.

The moment feels too fragile to speak into. Too sacred.

Y/N’s hand is already there—resting lightly on Wanda’s back, like it had stayed there the whole night. Not possessive. Just present. Grounding. Real.

“Did you sleep at all?” Wanda asks, voice barely audible.

Y/N nods, slow. “Only after you did.”

Her chest aches at that. “You felt it,” she whispers. “The nightmare. What I felt.”

“I felt everything,” Y/N says quietly. “It tore through me, Wanda. I thought something was happening to you.”

Wanda closes her eyes for a second, guilt crawling up her throat. “I didn’t mean to pull you into it.”

“You didn’t,” Y/N replies. “I was already there.”

Silence stretches again, but it’s different this time. Warm. Familiar. Full of things neither of them have found the courage to say aloud.

“I didn’t have a nightmare,” Wanda admits, her voice even softer now. “Not once. It was quiet with you.”

Y/N doesn’t smile. Her eyes just soften, a sorrowful kind of knowing in them that makes Wanda’s throat tighten.

“Maybe your soul finally found its way home,” she says. It’s not a line. Not meant to make anything easier. It’s just the truth.

Wanda wants to cry. Or kiss her. Or both. But she does neither.

Instead, she lifts her hand and brushes her fingers along Y/N’s wrist. She doesn’t need to look at it to know her name is there. She can feel it—burning, steady, alive.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

Y/N meets her gaze, no judgment in sight. Just quiet understanding.

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

Wanda breathes in. Deep. Full.

And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself stay in it.

Not the guilt.

Not the fear.

Not the life she’s pretending to live.

Just this.

Her.

The bond.

---

Part 6

---

A little fluff for the pain 😁

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfiction #elizabeth olsen x female reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #soulmates

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