#how to make a fur stone

[harseer]

How to make A fur stone.

Fur stones are very useful ingredients but if you've tried buying or being lended one you will have undoubtedly notice their poor accaprity. As such, it's often better to make them yourself. Here is the recipe i've traditionally instructed my disciples with. First, to make the stone itself you will need to select a metal and a rock. The rock can be any rock, but it must contain quartz and freethrough stones, such as kyestone and pure lime, are not allowed. The metal should ideally be copper or an alloy of copper, but if copper isn't stable you can resort to fire tin, then iron, though this will significantly affect the usability of the stone. Use a metal that correlates adequately to the animal. Now, attach the rock to the metal, such that when measuring the two points in stone representing its largest width and the two points in stone representing its smallest width, both passing through the metal's center of mass, the former is no more than two times wider than the latter. An amount of metal must be exposed to air; you cannot have a core of metal surrounded in all directions by rock. Welding the metal directly onto rock can be difficult, so i would much rather recommend using a heat-resistant glue instead. If you're using your fur stone for a purpose where the difference between glued and directly weld would genuinely matter and you're also reading this guide on how to make a fur stone in the first place, don't. Just don't. 

You might have noticed many people use fancy fur stones that are ornamented, perfectly spherical or have the metal extruding out of the stone in repeating patterns. This is done purely for stylistic reasons, and does not affect the purposes, although a spherical shape does make the width constraints easier to get right. The rock part of the stone has no ability, it's only there to make the fur believe it is trapped. Only the metal is the "actual" fur stone, any volume of it that isn't in between two parts of rock is useless and can be removed or stylized as you wish.

Next, we must make the crucible. You must prepare a dish of ketin salt and heat it under the fur stone so that the fume rises onto it and shape the crucible along its shape. There are a lot of possible substitutes here, but i'll only be covering ketin salt as it has the advantage of having generally the same process for all metals and being effective enough. The ketin and the stone must be heated by the same source, with the ketin below and the stone directly above. This can be a bit tricky so most people use specialized equipment, but i've heard some people have had success with just a regular two-grill oven, although caution should be exercised on account of the fumes. I've seen one miserable buffoon try this shit with a barbecue once. Poured the ketin right under the grid and tried holding a bag on top of it to keep the fumes in. He just looked at me, arms sprawled around the barbecue holding his stupid bag, eyes like a wet dog, as he realized he was gonna have to keep this pose the whole time. He's dead now. Of old age, surprisingly enough. But the point remains you should probably think about what decisions you want to take and how you want to be remembered when you're gone. Anyways, once the fumes start to meld into the metal it will turn it black, then red, then black again, then a pale bright yellow. That's bad, you don't want it to turn yellow, take it out when its the second black or in between red and black (but black is better). Depending on the alloy the red and yellow might be darker or veer towards orange, which can throw off your timing. A clear view to the stone is paramount to success. Fire tin works mostly the same except both the red and yellow phase are more orange in hue and the second black is browner, so the difference can be harder to see. Also, it's fire tin, all the normal rules for handling fire tin still apply. Prepare a freezer to take out the heat once you're done. Iron turns dark green to slate blue to red or gray depending on the temperature. Take it out at slate blue. The heating temperature doesn't matter, as long as the ketin salts fume then it's hot enough. Some people say that higher temperatures make the process faster or the colors brighter, but it doesn't really change anything. We also don't care about the accaprity of the heat or it's source either, so borrowing a specialized fur stone oven is A-Ok.

Finally, your fur stone is fully formed. You can reshape it however you want as long as you don't break the rules of shape, metal composition, quartz, etc. The black/slate meld from the heating process can also be removed (or kept) if it hasn't fallen off already, once the process is complete the physical material itself has no properties. Now, to fill the crucible. You need to place the fur stone on the ground and have a mammal willingly go to sleep in front of it at one twilight and wake up at the next. This sounds improbable, but the thing to remember here is that sleep is a cunt-ass bitch who never takes consent. As such, the requirement actually only specifies that the animal has to move there of their own will, not fall asleep of their own free will. Simply set a drugged bait in front of the stone and the animal will move there "of their own free will" and fall asleep. Domesticated animals can be kept back and released so that they eat the bait and fall asleep at just the right time. For wild animals you might need to rely on Luck more so. Moving the stone or animal yourself at any point during the sleep or intentionally waking up the animal prematurely risks breaking the crucible, so if the animal doesn't wake on time it's better to just wait for the next night than risk ruining the stone. Of course, there are a number of workarounds that have been found for this, but i will skip detailing them for the sake of brevity and simplicity. Some people like to kill and desoul the animal afterwards for the sake of artrionic stability. Personally, i think this is excessive most of the time as the death stress also puts pressure on the crucible and can leave it in a damaged state. If really you want that added stability, simply keeping the animal nearby for two or three days will get you most of the same benefits while posing much less danger to the stone.

If you've done everything right you should see fur appearing over the metal while under the light of twilight. Of course, you can fill your fur stone any number of times, but one night with one animal should be enough to fill it enough for basically any purpose. Unless you live in, like, the arctic or some shit, idk. Some particularly intelligent mammals like humans, elephants and a select few breeds of dogs are drastically more difficult to fill fur stone with to the point of almost impossibility. Although this judgement is far from resting on any sort of objective assessment, as pigs and chimpanzees both lack this property despite being very intelligent. It seems more as an arbitrary line is drawn somehow. Make sure to research your animal before starting the creation of your fur stone to know what metal to use and how you will fill it. Finally, during the filling process, leaving the stone to rest on a nest of twigs or shedding of a potent wood, such as yew or birch, can draw the outcome to a specific asset of the animal which might be helpful for some purposes. If you are interested in those, i invite you to continue your research around fur stone into deeper, more specialized resources, because this guide is already 1.4k words and i don't want it to double.

In conclusion, a great fur stone is a pain in the ass to make, which is why many people still buy them despite the accaprity loss. But! A decent fur stone might not be so difficult to make if you go about it intelligently. Use copper or simple copper alloys! Beasts are things of flesh and blood, after all. Use a rough shape and as much substitute material as you need! No shame in being practical. Fill it using domesticated animals! It's just a fur stone, it's no reason to get your face eaten by a tiger or something. And, of course, exercise caution with your equipment and every step of the operation.

[muffinlance]

Hi ! prompt idea : What if Zuko was armed during the first episode and was stranded with the water tribe while the avatar left with Katara and Sokka, Iroh on his trail for white lotus reasons.

Oh we are going to have us some FUN with "stranded with the water tribe", say no more.

---

Zuko was dripping, and steaming, and staring down two dozen women and their gaggle of small children, plus that old not-the-Avatar crone from earlier. They were all cowering away from him. Which was--

Good. It was good. If they were cowering, then they hadn’t noticed how steam was not flames. He wasn’t sure he could make flames, not after the arctic water he’d landed in, with that last sight of the Avatar glowing; not after surfacing under the ice pack, after swimming, after kicking slamming breaking through and his ship was gone and there was only ocean all around and

and he’d made it back to this pathetic little camp of the Southern Water Tribe, because that was the only place he knew for sure would have shelter, and he wasn’t going to die just because they were all staring at him, even if felt like he would.

Even if the old not-the-Avatar woman could probably take him, right now. But she didn’t know that.

Zuko pulled himself up, taller than her by at least a few inches, and blew steam from his nose.

“I am commandeering one of your huts,” he said. And added, because Uncle said even a prince should be gracious: “You may choose which one.”

---

She choose her own.

...The only one without children that flames might scar, or younger women to catch a soldier’s interests.

Zuko sat by her fire and determinedly started struggling out of his wet clothes and she was still in here with him--

Zuko pulled one of her animal pelts over himself, and finished fighting off his clothes. When he stuck his head back out, cheeks still reddened from what was obviously the cold, she dropped a parka on his head.

“Dry clothes, Your Highness,” she said.

The parka was much bigger than he was. He fell asleep hoping that the camp’s men were on a long, long hunting trip.

---

He woke up again. Kanna tucked her favorite ulu knife away, newly sharpened, and stopped contemplating the alternative.

---

“I am commandeering a ship,” he said.

The crone led him across the village, all twenty paces of it, to a row of canoes.

“Take whichever one you want,” she said. “Will you need help getting it to the water?”

Zuko looked at the canoes. Looked at the ocean. Watched a leopard seal, easily the size of the largest canoe, dozing just past the ice his own ship had broken through the day before. It was frozen again, a great icy arrow pointing from the waves to the village, snow already starting to cover it over.

Beyond was blue sky and gray ocean and white ice, floating in blocks like stepping stones, like boulders, like cliffsides.

There wasn’t even a hint of gray steel, or smoke. Or any land, besides what they were standing on.

He looked down at the canoes again. Somehow, they seemed even smaller.

“I, uh,” Zuko cleared his throat. “I’ll require supplies. Before I go.”

---

They... did not have supplies. Not extra ones. This didn’t stop them from trying to give him supplies, food and blankets and anything else he could think to ask for. But each blanket was a pelt hunted by someone’s grandfather, had been inked with images and stories by someone’s mother, was the favorite of someone’s husband or brother or uncle or cousin--

They couldn’t go to the nearest market to replace things, here.

And when they talked about food, about what they could spare, they kept sneaking glances to their children, who were sneaking glances at Zuko from the huts, sticking their heads just over the snowy ledges like their fur-trimmed hoods would hide them. Their mothers and aunts shooed them away, and they crept back, like barnacle-crabs. Zuko glared, and they disappeared.

“When are your men coming back?” he asked. “They’re hunting, aren’t they?”

Oh. So that was what they looked like, when they weren’t trying to hide their hate.

---

Zuko wrapped himself up in the same blanket that night. It was printed inside with fine lines and images, telling a story he didn’t know. He wondered whose favorite it was.

---

Kanna wondered how quickly he’d wake—if he’d wake—if she built the fire up with wet driftwood and tundra grass, if she had one of the younger girls boost up a child to plug the air hole, if she let the smoke draw its own blanket down over this fire child.

---

It was hard to know when to wake up, because the sun never set. So everyone was up before him, and they all had spears and clubs and—and nets, and trap lines, and snow googles with their single slat to protect the eyes from snow blindness. Zuko had seen those once, at the Ember Island Museum of Ethnography, where they’d gone when it was too rainy for anything more exciting.

Oh. They were going hunting.

“Give me that,” Zuko said, and took a spear.

The women looked at him. One of them adjusted her googles.

“I can hunt,” he scowled.

He did not, in fact, know how to hunt.

---

“Give me that,” the Fire Prince said, and Kanna almost, almost gave him her ulu. Humans, like most animals, had an artery in their legs that would bleed them quick enough.

She kept skinning the rabbit-mink one of the women had snared.

“I can help,” he said, with less grace than most of their toddlers. Likely with the skinning skills of a toddler, too. She wasn’t going to let their unwanted visitor ruin a perfectly good pelt.

“Chop the meat,” she said, and gave him a different knife. “It’s dinner.”

“...This is really sharp,” he said a moment later, looking at the knife with some surprise.

“Is it,” said Kanna.

---

Things the Fire Prince was convinced he could do: hunt (until he realized he couldn’t tell the tracks of a rabbit-mink from a leopard-rabbit apart); spear fish (at least he could dry himself); pack snow for an igloo (frustrated princes ran hot); ice fish (the prince was a problem that kept coming close to solving itself).

Things the Fire Prince could actually do: mince meat, increasingly finely; gather berries and herbs, once he stopped trying to crush them; dig roots, under toddler supervision; mend nets, after the intermediary step of learning to braid hair loopies.

“Can’t I take him ice fishing again?” asked one of the women, as she watched Prince Zuko put as much apparent concentration into braiding her daughter’s hair as his people had into exterminating hers.

“Wait,” said another woman, sitting up straight. “Wait wait wait. I just had an idea.”

---

Three words: Infinite. Hot. Water.

---

Summer was coming to an end. The sun actually set, now, and the night was getting longer, and colder. The salmon-otter nets were mended and ready. The smoking racks were still full of cod-lemmings. The children were all a little older, the women all a little more used to doing both halves of their tribes’ chores; a little more used to not watching the horizon, waiting for help to come.

The Fire Prince was staring at the canoes again.

“Are you actually going to try leaving in one of those?” Kanna asked.

“...No.”

“Come on, then; someone needs to watch the kids while the women are hunting.”

She didn’t leave him alone with them, of course. But she could have.

---

Elsewhere, the war continued.

The moon turned red, for a moment none could sleep through; they did not learn why.

The comet came and went, leaving their castaway prince laying on the beach, his breath fogging up into the night sky above him, as the energy crashed from his system as quickly as it had come. Above, lights began to dance in the sky; Zuko pulled his hood up, so none of those spirits—children, dead too soon—got any ideas about kicking his head off to be their ball.

The war had ended. The world didn’t feel any different; no one in the south would know until spring came again.

---

Suffice it to say, Sokka and Katara were not prepared for this particular homecoming.

[pucksandpower]

In Every Quiet Moment

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything

The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.

You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.

You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.

You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.

And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.

There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.

A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.

He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.

You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.

It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”

He turns.

Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.

You frown. “Is it hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”

You open the door wider. “Come in.”

He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.

But he steps forward.

The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.

You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.

“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.

You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.

“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.

A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”

You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.

“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”

You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”

“That’s a horrible name.”

“I like it.”

“She’ll get bullied at school.”

“She’s a cat.”

He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.

You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”

“Walking.”

“In this?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”

His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”

You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”

“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”

His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.

You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.

He leaves without giving you his name.

You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.

€2,000 tip.

You stare. Check the name.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You almost drop the broom.

***

The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.

You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.

“You came back,” you say, blinking.

He shrugs. “You were nice.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”

“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.

That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.

You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”

He nods.

This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.

You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”

“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”

“Sounds like love.”

He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”

“Like you?”

“Worse.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.

“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”

You glance up. “You did. With money.”

“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”

He pauses. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.

“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”

He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.

You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”

He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”

Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.

“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re quiet.

You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.

You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”

“Then I won’t rush.”

“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”

“I’ll remind you.”

You blink. “You’re a stranger.”

“I’m Max.”

The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.

You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”

He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”

So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.

Neither of you move.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

***

Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.

He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.

Just sits. Watches. Listens.

You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.

He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.

“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”

“It’s a tiny café.”

“Still good.”

You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”

“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”

You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”

He just smirks into his coffee.

That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.

***

It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.

You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

You glance up.

The man in the red scarf is watching you.

You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.

You look again.

He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”

Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”

He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”

You frown. “Other night?”

“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”

You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”

He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”

You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”

You pull back. “Not for sale.”

He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”

You don’t answer. Just walk away.

And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.

At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.

You turn.

Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.

His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”

You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.

The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”

Max doesn’t blink. “No.”

Your stomach twists.

“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”

The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”

Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”

It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.

You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.

Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”

Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You scared the hell out of him.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”

He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”

You blink.

His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.

You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”

***

The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.

You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”

You snort. “Story of my life.”

He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”

You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.

Then — voices.

A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.

One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”

He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”

“Can we get a photo?”

He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.

They thank him, then run off, giggling.

He turns back to you.

You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”

His voice is quiet. “Good.”

You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”

You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.

Max lingers.

You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”

He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t leave right away.

You hover near the door. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”

“I don’t.”

You study him.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”

Silence.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”

Your throat tightens.

“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”

You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”

He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”

You blink. “You where there?”

He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”

A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”

He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.

***

It’s late when Max asks.

You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”

You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”

“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.

You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”

***

His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.

The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.

And cats.

There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.

Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”

A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.

“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”

A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”

“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”

You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.

Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”

“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.

He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”

You raise a brow. “You cook?”

He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.

You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.

***

You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.

“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.

The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.

Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.

You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”

He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”

“I am peaceful.”

He grins. “Good. That was the point.”

***

Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.

Max eats slowly. Savors things.

You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.

“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”

His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. His smirk grows.

Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.

Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.

“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.

He nods. “When I want it to be.”

You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”

Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.

***

When you wake, the lights are lower.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.

There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.

Then you hear it.

Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.

“No. I said no.”

You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.

“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”

Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.

“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.

“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”

Silence.

You don’t wait for him to hang up.

You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.

He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.

“Max.”

He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.

His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.

“You heard that,” he says flatly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Were they writing about me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.

“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”

You step closer. “And you called them?”

“I made a call, yeah.”

“To shut it down?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”

There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.

You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because I want to.”

You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.

“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”

A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.

Finally, you say, “You care about me.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not going to say it.”

“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.

His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.

But you don’t vanish.

You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.

***

It happens the next morning.

You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.

But it’s not enough.

The flash comes out of nowhere.

One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.

“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”

You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.

By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.

You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

But the whispers start by lunch.

You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.

Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.

By evening, it’s everywhere.

***

Max calls. You don’t answer.

He texts: I’m handling it.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.

By the next day, the article disappears.

Completely. As if it never existed.

A notice appears in its place.

Retracted at source.

Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”

Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”

You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.

A screenshot.

An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.

Another message: Let me do this. Please.

You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.

***

The panic hits later.

Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.

The guilt first — sharp and sour.

He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.

You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.

And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.

So you do the only thing that feels safe.

You pull away.

***

You stop replying.

Not rudely. Just slowly.

A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.

You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.

Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.

Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.

***

He doesn’t chase.

He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.

Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.

It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.

A note, tucked between the teabags.

I’ll wait.

Nothing else.

Not even his name.

***

You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.

You feel stupid.

Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.

You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.

***

Three days pass.

Then four.

By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.

On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.

On the seventh, it rains.

Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.

You don’t bring an umbrella.

You don’t bring excuses either.

You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.

You knock once.

It opens almost instantly.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.

“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.

He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.

He just opens his arms.

And you fall into them like you never left.

His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.

He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.

You don’t speak. Don’t have to.

His chin rests on your hair.

You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

Your breath hitches.

“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”

“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”

Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”

You pull back, just a little.

Look up at him.

His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.

“I’m scared,” you say quietly.

He nods. “So am I.”

You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”

You blink. “Then why …”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”

You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is soft.

No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.

You exhale. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.

***

Max doesn’t say “I love you.”

Not with words.

He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.

He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.

But tonight, he speaks more than usual.

It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.

He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”

You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.

He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.

“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”

You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.

He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.

“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.

Your heart tightens.

“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”

You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”

Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”

You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”

That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.

“Tell me,” he says.

So you do.

You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.

He listens like he has nowhere else to be.

Not just hearing — holding.

Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.

When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.

“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

***

The next few weeks are full of small shifts.

Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.

His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.

Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.

He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.

He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.

You try not to need it.

You try not to expect it.

But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.

***

The comment comes three races into summer.

You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.

You look up when the door opens.

It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.

He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”

Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.

You don’t reply.

He doesn’t give you time to.

“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”

The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.

But Max is already there.

You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.

But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.

Just present.

Heavy.

Silent.

The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”

Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”

Silence.

Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”

The boy opens his mouth.

Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”

The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.

But dangerous.

The kind of promise you don’t test.

Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”

Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.

Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.

“Max-”

He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”

He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”

“I know,” you say again, quieter now.

“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”

You step into him. “I didn’t.”

His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”

The kiss is slower this time.

No heat. No anger.

Just need.

Just want.

***

It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.

You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:

“I want you.”

His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.

“Then I’m going to take my time.”

And he does.

***

It’s not rushed.

Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.

It’s reverent.

It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He never stops looking.

Not once.

He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.

You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And you are.

You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.

He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.

Guiding. Worshipping.

“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”

And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.

The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.

***

Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

The mask is gone now.

For both of you.

***

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.

You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.

Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.

And then you’re holding the future in your hand.

“Max?” Your voice wavers.

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hold the letter up.

He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows.

The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.

You stare at the words like they might vanish.

They don’t.

You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.

“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.

“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Before.

Before him.

Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.

You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.

“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.

“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.

You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”

Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.

Only patience.

Only love.

“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”

You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”

He takes your hand in his.

“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”

You laugh, eyes damp.

He keeps going.

“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”

Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.

Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.

And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”

Max doesn’t speak.

He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.

***

You don’t waitress anymore.

One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.

You open it slowly.

It’s Max’s handwriting.

Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.

PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.

You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.

And you do go home.

But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.

***

At night, the café changes.

The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.

Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.

But word spreads.

You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.

He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.

“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.

You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”

Max smiles, slow and sure.

“I am.”

You meet his eyes.

He means it.

***

You play at the café again that Friday.

The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.

You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.

Before your last piece, you clear your throat.

“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”

You glance at Max.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.

When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.

Then, applause.

But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.

Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.

You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”

He leans in, kisses your temple.

“I like dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”

***

You find the recording equipment a week later.

Just … waiting.

Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.

There’s a post-it on the chair.

In case you change your mind.

You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.

And start writing again.

***

You don’t take the job in New York.

You don’t regret it.

Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.

But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.

What’s real.

Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.

Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.

Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.

And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.

But for now?

For now, you stay.

Because love like this?

You don’t walk away from it.

Not when he’s willing to give you the world.

And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.

[saudad3]

Daddy was a rolling stone Part. II

Smoke x Reader Word count: 2,345 Summary: Baby Daddy! Smoke returns to the Mississippi Delta with two things hot on his mind -- his woman and his baby. Let's just say, all he was met with was a purse to the face. Genre: two parts angst, one part fluff!! enjoy

Part One: here

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Against your better judgment, you allowed Smoke to attempt to redeem himself. You fully expected him to disappear from your grasp within the first two days of his return to Clarkedale, but here he was, in the flesh, bouncing your one-year-old baby on his lap while your sister, Mabel, attempted to spoon-feed her mushed peas and fruit. 

Elisabeth fussed, grabbing at her father, mushed peas dribbling from her chin and onto the lapel of his expensive tweed suit jacket. 

“Oh my..” you breathed out, stifling a giggle from the unfortunate circumstances. You looked down at the pant hem you were repairing on your lap before moving carefully, manueverin to not to have sewing needles strewn about the living room. You quickly entered the kitchen and emerged with a wet cloth, kneeling in front of Smoke to clean the baby’s food from his jacket. 

Having the mushed green slop stain his suit didn't bother Smoke none. He had several of the caliber in his closet waiting for him.  It bothered you plenty.

You couldn’t imagine ruining such a fine suit with baby food.

You shifted on your knees in front of Smoke and brought the wet rag to the soft material, working cautiously to not make the blemish worse. 

Smoke’s eyes softened when they met you, your brows scrunching in concentration. He dared not to protest, seeing how you bit your soft, supple lip between your teeth, cloth running over the stain with meticulousness. Once you were satisfied, your face transformed into a soft smile and the crescent moon eyes that made Smoke’s heart boom. 

Satisfied with your work, you looked up at Smoke through heavy eyelashes, bunching the rag in your hands. “All done,” you glowed brightly. Smoke opened his mouth to respond, but his voice failed him, his mind preoccupied by the beauty in front of him.

You wore a baby pink, floral house dress that complemented your skin tone gorgeously. Pinning back your pressed curls was a matching baby pink bandana, which managed to catch all but one rogue curl that swept over your forehead. Smoke wondered if you’d made the dress yourself, so skilled in your work that it looked like it came from one of the famous tailors in Chicago, that the ladies would wear whilst shopping, and accompanying their husbands on walks about Millennium Park. 

He imagined how you’d look as a future housewife, stepping into the role of an indestructible matriarch in charge of two or three beautiful black children, two girls and and a boy if Smoke had any say. He’d dress you in the fancy dresses of the Chicago ladies, and gift you the nicest mink furs and evening gowns that stores had to offer. 

Maybe you’d continue to be bull-headed, and dress yourself and your beautiful children in matching handmade outfits, becoming the talk of the city with murmurs about how marvelous your sewing was. How the women would line up at your door, offering money and gifts to get their hands on one of your designs. 

“Um, Smoke…” Your uncertain voice drew Smoke from the safe house of his thoughts. “Why you starin’ at me like that?” 

Smoke straightened his spine, eyes jetting towards the breast of his tweed jacket, noticing how the spot had reduced greatly in size and hue. “It uh.. looks great, darlin’.”  Smoke nodded, tightening his jaw. 

You smiled softly once more before bringing yourself to your feet and dusting off the white apron that tied around your waist. You collected all of Elisabeth’s food bowls before bouncing over to the kitchen, seemingly going to discard the uneaten mashed foods into their rightful containers. 

Stack cleared his throat, attempting to move forward from this interaction before turning his attention back to his baby girl.

The rate at which Elisabeth warmed up to Smoke and accepted him in her life left your head whirling. It was as if Elisabeth knew of Smoke's relation to her without even having to be introduced. It was natural. 

Smoke visited her (and you) every day for two weeks straight. You bit back the urge to scream and knock his head clean off his shoulders every time he popped up at your door, always holding a new toy or sweets for the girl( and sometimes a bouquet of wild flowers for you). However, when you saw the gummy smile and choked laughs Elisabeth would beam Smoke’s way, you couldnt help but accept this arrangement, for now. 

“Who’s ready for nappy?” You moved back into the living room, this time discarding the white apron and bandana, curls now neatly gracing your shoulders in uniformity. 

Elisabeth squealed, moving her body closer to her father’s, swinging her tiny, chubby ars around his neck. Smoke chuckled as Elisabeth attempted to hide in his neck, prompting you to place your hands sternly on your hips, failing to hide the smile creeping on your face. 

Moments like this made you feel like you three were a real family. 

“Good girls don’t hide from their mamas.” You sauntered over to Smoke and Elisabeth, who continued to cling to her father. “Don’t they, Elijah?” 

Smoke licked his lips, suppressing a genuine laugh, and attempting to hide Elisabeth with his hulking body. 

“I don’t see any good girls around here, miss.” Smoke joked.

You rolled your eyes, deciding to take matters into your own hands. “Fine, anyone who doesn’t come take a nap right now won’t get sweets after dinner.” 

With haste, Elisabeth ditched Elijah’s side and wobbled over to you, motioning to you to pick her up. 

“Works every time,” you mouthed towards Smoke, before grabbing your little girl and traveling up to your bedroom to take a nap. 

–

A moment passed while you attempted to put the girl to sleep. In the living room, Smoke and your sister sat in silence, her nose buried in the ungodly romance novel Smoke managed to sneak into the house at her request. There was no possible way he could get your other siblings to accept his presence without her approval first. 

A rapid knock at the door broke the comfortable silence of the living room, earning a confused look from your younger sister. 

“I’ll get it,” your sister shot a look towards Smoke before quickly hiding the novel in a random drawer of a side table. “Comin'!” she yelled.

Behind the door stood a tall, lanky man donning a smooth, tanned suit and matching fedora.  He was more on the skinny side, with hollow cheekbones and a clean goatee gracing a mahogany-skinned face and strong jawline. “G’day, Mabel,” the man said, taking off his hat to greet your sister, eyes traveling behind her and meeting the stone-cold ones of Smoke. “Is your sister here?”

Mabel opened her mouth to speak, but quickly shut it, shooting a nervous glance towards Smoke, who watched the man with the intense eyes of a predator. 

“He’s sizin’ him up already…” Your sister taught, looking between the two men.  

“She’s just puttin' the baby down.” Mabel gave the man a tight-lipped smile.

“Ah…” The man nodded, looking down at the sister with a soft smile, not noticing the awkward air about this interaction. “May I come in?”

‘Yes! Let me go get’er.” Not wasting another moment on the discomfort of this exchange, Mabel disappeared upstairs and into your presence, stressing that you would have lots of explaining to do later.  

Smoke grit his teeth when the man stepped into your home, fixing his tan suit jacket and sending a soft smile his way. ‘G’day, sir.” 

Smoke raised his eyebrow at the man’s accent, not having local origins nor having the strong bass of an older man, placing him at a few years younger than Smoke, himself.  

“You not from here, is you, boy?” Smoke’s southern drawl became thicker and more gruff addressing the man. 

The man opened his mouth to answer before you rushed downstairs, seemingly to his rescue. 

“Clyde!” You greeted the man, stepping in front of his body to stop Smoke's view from setting the younger man on fire with his gaze. 

Clyde turned his full attention to you, taking your smaller hand in his and planting a soft kiss onto your knuckles. “G’day, doll.” Your face burned bright red as Clyde held eye contact with you as he rose, not letting go of your hand. “Been alright?”

You nodded quickly, breathing out as you heard a heavy ahem from behind you. “Clyde, this is…” 

“The father of her child.” Smook stood up from his seat, confidently strolling over before standing closely behind you, solid chest ghosting your back. Smoke held a rough hand out for the man to take, trapping you in between towering bodies, hate and annoyance being exchanged between the two. 

Smoke flashed a wild smile towards the new man, gold-covered fangs flashing in the light. 

“I heard about you,” Clyde said slowly, daring to take Smoke’s hand and shake it. A bead of sweat formed on the apex of your forehead as you looked around for ways to kill this interaction, before it killed you. Clyde sent a twisted smile towards Smoke before uttering, “Nice of ya to finally show.”

Before Smoke could reel his hand back and into his waistcoat, you placed a small hand on his arm and beamed a large smile towards Clyde, who turned his full attention to you. 

“What brings you here this evenin’?” You shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting from Clyde to your former lover. 

“I was in the neighborhood, though I’d check in on the Reverend and his family.”

Smoke took half a step back, face hard and ready to pounce at any moment. 

“Oh, how kind of you.” You laughed awkwardly. 

“Will I be seeing you this Sunday?” Clyde addressed you, placing his tanned fedora onto his head, finally reading the room. 

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding before nodding softly. “Of course, Clyde.” 

“I look forward to seeing you,” Clyde’s eyes turned softly into crescent moons before he turned around and onto the porch of your family home. “Tell the Rev I said hello,” 

You nodded in obedience, sending a small wave his way. He lingered a bit on your front porch before turning around and strutting off your property and onto the dirt road that led into town. 

You stood there for a bit, watching Clyde's long legs walk away, before jumping at the sound of a door being slammed drew you out of your thoughts. You whipped around, eyes searching for the man who had just been breathing down your neck. 

Face palming, you closed your front door and went to deal with a new, pressing issue; an obviously jealous Smoke. 

–

“Elijah?” you question softly, entering the cramped kitchen of your family home. 

Smoke stood over the wooden table, leaning on two balled fists, his back heaving rapidly in anger. 

You approached him as if he were a downcast stray cat, steps barely making a sound as to not frighten him. 

“Smoke, I…” 

“I shoulda smoked him on that damn porch” Smoke seethed, jaw tight with vexation. 

You rolled your eyes, moving closer to him. “You and I both know that won’t do you no good.”

Smoke shook his head, eyes concentrated on the wood paneling of the kitchen table. 

“He’s awfully nice once to get to know ‘im” You stated, placing a small hand on Smoke’s back muscles that tensed under your touch. 

“I don’t give a shit,” Smoke chuckled dryly. “I don’t like him. Don’t want him around my child.” 

You scoffed, disbelief rising at the audacity of your former lover to tel you who you could and could not be around. 

“He’s a part of daddy’s church, a member of this here community,” You protested. “You can’t tell me who I can put around my child.”

“Our child,” Smoke corrected, two chocolate eyes boring into yours. 

“And while I’m here. I don’t want to see him around Elisabeth or around my woman.” 

“While you here?” you questioned, face scrunching in annoyance. “So you plan on leaving again huh ?” 

“This ain’t about me.”

“It is.”

The two of you looked at each other in anguish. Several emotions make the air thick and hard to breathe. You shook your head in disbelief, all of your darkest fear coming true. 

Smoke wasn’t here because he wanted his family. He damn sure wasn’t here because he loved you. 

Smoke said your name slowly, grabbing both of your arms in his large calloused hands but you dared not react. 

“I’m not leaving anytime here soon, baby...” He tried to reassure you, eyes pleading. “Look at me.”

You did not move. 

Memories of raising Elisabeth with only the help of your sisters and mother flooded your head causing you to closed your eyes from the torment. If only he knew what his absence put you through. 

You refused the move when he bowed his head down to your level, cupping your chin in his hand, big, chocolate eyes scanning your face in earnest. 

“Please believe me,” he almost begged.

And you almost believed him. 

“You know what,” You started, ripping your face from his grasp. “It’s time for you to leave.”

Smoke shook his head, face tracking yours. “No, I-”

“Just leave.”

You raised your voice for the first time, letting the smallest tremble shake your resolve. 

“Please, just make it easy for me.”  

Sad, brown eyes watched your figure as you turned away from him and out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with only the shadows of the setting sun to keep him company. Balling a fist by his side, he hauled through the door and out of your family home without a word or protest. 

Unknown to him, you watched him leave through your bedroom window and dissapear into the blue sunset. Your hand touched your cheeks, wipping away warm tears that dripped from your cheeks and onto your dress. 

This would be the last time you’d cry for Elijah Moore, you promised yourself. 

The very last time.  

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

In celebration of Mother's Day, here's part two! Ain't no way Smoke thought you'd just sit here twiddling your thumbs while he was gone,,, right? Hope you all enjoyed!

Tag list; @ayeeeitsmiracle @childishgambinaax @chessteena @pr3ttyfac3jaelyn

[callsignpxnguin]

Simon Riley and his Dog

AO3

Simon had never been more jealous of his own stupid pet.

You were lounged across the couch, fingers running through Riley’s thick coat, face relaxed in pure bliss as you enjoyed the feeling of his soft fur against your fingertips. Soft murmurs slipped through your lips as you did — ‘good boy’… ‘my sweet thing’… ‘so handsome’… — quiet praises that soothed the canine as he, too, relaxed along with you, panting happily.

Meanwhile, Mr. Riley the human was lurking in the doorway of the living room, watching you interact with the dog with jealously burning hotly under his skin. It frustrated him to no end — not just the attention that you gave the damn thing, but how much it affected him. You were spending time with his dog, who you had previously been terrified of — he should have been ecstatic!

The last straw was when you pulled Riley up onto the sofa with no small amount of effort and cradled him against your chest, kissing his head gently and getting an eager lick in return, making you giggle and wipe your cheek. Simon appreciated that his dog had good taste — who wouldn’t enjoy being held and kissed like that by you? — but he was so goddamn jealous. He hadn’t touched you for hours, and it made him antsy, especially considering the sight before him.

And so he strode into the room just as you began to murmur things to Riley again. He said nothing, just stood in front of you wordlessly and stared at the two of you.

Looking up at him and blinking slowly, you tightened your hold on the dog subconsciously. “Need something?” You asked, words a little slurred by sleep.

Simon shook his head — but continued to stand there, almost expectantly. You blinked at him again, eyelids heavy with drowsiness as your chest rose and fell rhythmically in time with Riley’s.

“…Sure?” You tried again.

Another shake of his head.

You squinted at him. “You just want attention, don’t you?”

He still didn’t offer a response. However, this time he didn't shake his head, and that was enough of an answer for you. With a soft groan, you shifted Riley to one side and held an arm out for him. “Come lie down, you big baby.”

He was next to you in a second. Huge body squeezed into the space between you and the back of the sofa — which was an impressive feat, as there wasn’t much — and meaty arms wrapped around your torso as his face buried into your neck and his stubble dragged across your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Let me guess. Jealous of Riley?” You asked amusedly, craning your head to look at him with a knowing smile. Some people considered him a wall of stone, a man impassive to his last breath, but to you he was an open book. It was funny, really, how easy you read his emotions when you were together.

“…No,” Simon lied, the first word he had spoken to you since appearing in the doorway.

“Hmm, sure.”

“…A little,” he amended after a pause.

You giggled, finally bringing your hand away from Riley’s coat (much to his disappointment) and running it through Simon’s golden hair instead. “You’re a clingy, clingy man. And I love you.” You sighed contentedly. “If you wanted cuddles, you could’ve just asked.”

You knew how he was about his pride. But you liked to remind him that it was just you. That he didn't have to worry about appearances when he was home.

“I know,” he grumbled. “…Love you too.”

There was a smile on your face as you drifted off into a deep sleep, snuggled up with the dog and his surprisingly affectionate owner and your loving partner, Simon Riley.

[avanii]

Handmade Hisuian Typhlosion plush! He measures 70 cm nose to bum (95 cm to tail tip) and is weighted in all paws + knees. Features hand-painted eyes and magnets in each spot. At a later point I will make the faux fur flames that will attach via magnets. A super soft and cuddly plush! Gives extra warm hugs thanks to a removable heat pad made of cherry stones in his belly.

See how I made him here!

[orangeblossomsintheair]

GRIEF ASIDE (1/4) | MV33

summary : You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

wc : 13k

an : this took.. a while ☹️ anyway

For as long as you could remember, you had been engaged to Max Emilian, scion of House Verstappen.

On paper, it was a triumphant match, a union to secure your house's fortunes for generations. To be betrothed to the son of a duke was a dream most could only aspire to.

Yet, no one envied House Button’s lovely heiress.

Instead, the court pitied you.

Jos Verstappen, your future father-in-law and Duke of the North, was a name steeped in infamy. Known as the Butcher of the North, his reputation was as frigid and cruel as the land he ruled. Whispers of his war crimes haunted corridors, and songs of lament cursed his name in taverns.

To marry into such a legacy meant tying yourself to shadows you could never escape.

But duty had bound you to this path as tightly as the chill of the northern wind now clung to your skin.

Raised to bridge alliances and strengthen bonds, you had no illusions about the weight of your role.

Now, you stood before the towering iron gates of the Verstappen estate, carriage behind you, your wool cloak and one of your knight’s heavy coats offered little respite from the North’s unforgiving cold.

“Keep your chin up, my lady,” Lily murmured beside you, adjusting the trunk she carried, her voice nearly drowned by the howling wind. Her cheeks were flushed from the frost, and her attempts at reassurance felt as thin as your cloak.

You nodded mutely, clenching your chattering teeth. Complaining about her poor preparation, or your shared underestimation of the northern winter, would achieve little.

The gates groaned open, revealing the sprawling estate beyond.

The fortress-like walls loomed high, their grey stone stark against the snow-laden landscape. Narrow windows glinted like ice shards under the weak winter sun.

Smoke curled lazily from the distant stables, a muted sign of life in an otherwise bleak expanse.

“Cheerful place,” Lando muttered behind you, his voice dry. He pulled his hood lower, trying to shield his face from the biting wind.

“More like a tomb,” Oscar replied, tone low. His eyes scanned the walls warily, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Crossing the threshold of the estate, you were greeted by a cavernous main hall that carried little more warmth than the outdoors. Though a fire crackled at one end, its heat barely touched the far corners of the room.

The scent of pine mingled with the cold tang of iron, likely from the spiked chandelier that loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

“Presenting Lady (Y/N) of House Button,” the steward announced, his voice echoing up the vaulted ceilings.

The words washed over you, irrelevant compared to your struggle to stop trembling. The knight closest to you, Oscar, shifted closer, his presence a silent bulwark, but you scarcely noticed.

A figure descended the grand staircase, drawing your attention despite the icy haze clouding your mind.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

He moved with a grace that could only be borne from years of court presence, strides measured and deliberate yet still managing to not look stiff.

Pale hair neatly combed, save for a few strands that fell across his forehead, softening the otherwise hard edges of his face. His broad shoulders were draped in a heavy black coat lined with fur, swallowing what little light the room offered.

You had heard tales of him: a skilled warrior, an even better horseman, and a temper so fierce people began claiming the Verstappen rage was a hereditary trait.

His eyes fell on you then, surprise flickering across his face before being quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and the unmistakable air of annoyance.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, his tone cold enough to make you flinch.

You stiffened, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

Was that usually how the Northern Lords greeted their betrothed?

Max’s eyes roved over you, taking in your trembling form, pale cheeks, and the inadequate cloak clutched around your shoulders.

His frown deepened, and he turned sharply toward your knights, his expression hardening.

“Why in the seven hells is she dressed like this?” he demanded.

Sir Lando bristled but maintained his composure. “My lady insisted, Lord Verstappen, that we keep ourselves alive. We offered additional layers-”

“She’s half-frozen. Who cares if you're alive if your Lady is dead?” Max cut him off, already shrugging out of his own coat.

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist you were fine, but before you could utter a word, he was draping the fur-lined garment over your shoulders.

The residual warmth from his body enveloped you, burying you under the scent of pine and leather.

“Your stubbornness will kill you,” he muttered, crouching slightly to adjust the coat. His tone was still sharp, but his hands were steady and careful as they brushed over you.

You glanced at Lily, who hovered nearby, her eyes darting between you and Max. “Fetch tea,” Max ordered, voice brooking no argument.

She hesitated, clearly unsure whether to take orders from a person who was decidedly not her Lady, but a sharp look from him sent her scurrying away.

Max turned back to you, his expression unreadable as his hand brushed over your elbow, guiding you forward. “Sit,” he gestured to the high-backed chair closest to the hearth.

You sank into the seat gratefully, abandoning the appearance of grace in lieu of the warmth of the fire and the heavy coat easing the worst of your shivers.

Max crouched before you, his face illuminated by the flickering light. “You were standing in the cold far too long,” he said, softer now as though talking to an injured bird.

“I didn’t realize…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Max’s lips quirked in a faint, reluctant smile. “Not even when you were shivering like a leaf?”

He leaned back, regarding you for a moment before adding, “The North will swallow you whole.”

His words should have stung, but you found it hard to be insulted for there was no malice in them, only a hint of amusement.

The tea arrived swiftly, Lily handing it to you with a pinched expression, steam curling from the delicate porcelain as if reluctant to break the stillness of the hall.

You wrapped your frozen fingers around the cup, savoring the way the heat kissed your skin, thawing the numbness in your fingers.

Max walked to stand a few paces away, matching your knight and maid's distance, watching you with a detached sort of interest, his arms still crossed over his chest.

The flickering firelight carved sharp angles along his face, illuminating the high cut of his cheekbones and the stern set of his jaw.

“You look better now.” His voice was quieter this time. “At least you have some color in you.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a kindness or merely an observation, but you offered a polite nod regardless.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Max will do.”

The correction startled you. Men of his station, sons of dukes especially, rarely made such allowances. Betrothed or not.

“As you wish… Max.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished just as quickly.

“I imagine you have questions.”

Of course, you did.

Too many, and yet none seemed appropriate to ask.

You had spent years preparing for this union in theory, but now that you were standing on the threshold of it, the rehearsed words died in your throat.

“Only a few,” you said carefully.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Then ask.”

You hesitated. “Your father… the Duke… is he here?”

Max’s expression cooled.

“No. My father is at the border fortresses, inspecting the garrisons. He will return before the winter feast to welcome you.”

Relief and dread tangled in your chest. It was a reprieve not to face Duke Jos immediately, but you knew it was temporary at best.

“And your father will be joining us soon enough as well, won’t he?” Max’s tone was unreadable, though something sharp glinted beneath it.

You nodded. “Yes. My father will come north after his duties are finished. To meet with the Duke and… formalize the engagement.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue. This visit wasn’t just a quiet retreat to adjust to your future home. It was a public commitment. Before long, the entire North would know you belonged to him.

You dreaded what that would do to your public image.

Max’s jaw tightened although his expression remained carefully distant. “Of course.”

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the cold stone hall.

“You’ll find the North is not like the South. Comfort is scarce, and the people scarcer. They will not warm to you easily.”

His words felt more like a warning than a courtesy.

“I don’t expect them to.”

That seemed to surprise him. Perhaps he had been expecting you to be one of those Southern ladies that demanded everyone to bend over backwards for their comfort.

His eyes flicked back to you, studying you in a way that made you want to shrink under his coat.

“Good.”

The fire cracked loudly, sending a shower of sparks upward. Max tilted his head toward it, the flicker of light catching in his pale hair.

“You’ll need to adjust quickly. My father won’t tolerate weakness in his house.”

“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened.

“I won’t coddle you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t. But the way he said it made your stomach twist.

Still, you straightened your spine. “I wouldn’t ask for that.”

A tense silence settled again, though this time, it felt more contemplative than cold.

Max’s gaze drifted from you to the door behind you.

“You must be tired from the journey. I’ll have your rooms prepared.”

“I thought we would stay in the west wing,” you said, recalling the arrangements made in the letters exchanged between your families.

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“The west wing is being repaired. Storm damage. You’ll stay closer to the main hall until it’s finished.”

It was a small thing, perhaps, yet it unsettled you.

The west wing was meant to be yours. A space to adjust quietly, away from the imposing grandeur of the estate.

Now, you were being denied that distance.

But what could you do? Refuse? Argue?

“Very well,” you said softly.

Max nodded once then turned to the waiting steward.

“Have the rooms near the library prepared. And make sure the fires are lit.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Oscar and Lando approached then, boots scuffing against the stone floor as they stopped just shy of your side.

Their eyes darted toward you, assessing your posture, searching for some silent confirmation that you were unharmed.

You gave them a small nod, and the tension in Oscar’s broad shoulders seemed to ease, though Lando’s hand remained near the hilt of his sword, his body coiled like a spring.

Max’s sharp gaze swept over the two knights, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly calculating.

“Your people will stay nearby,” he said, his voice firm but unhurried. “Your maid is not to wander without escort. Your men may walk around but not too far from the fortress. I'd rather not deal with the politics of a Southern knight dying in my land.”

Lily bristled at the casual remark, her cheeks coloring with indignation. “We Southerners aren't as fragile as you seem to think,” she said sharply, her words cutting the silence like a knife.

“Lily,” Oscar said quietly, catching her arm before she could step forward. His grip was gentle but firm, head shaking in a silent plea for restraint.

Max didn’t even flinch at her outburst, his cool demeanor unwavering as his gaze flicked back to you.

“Your people are bold.” His tone was tinged with something akin to amusement. “Let’s hope they’re wise enough to temper it.”

“They’re loyal,” you replied evenly, meeting his eyes without faltering. “I wouldn’t have brought them otherwise.”

“Loyalty is admirable but it doesn’t mean much if it gets you killed.”

Lando shifted beside you, jaw tight. “With all due respect, my lord,” he began without much respect at all. “We’re more than capable of keeping her safe.”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Max’s gaze settled on Lando. “But I’ve seen capable men bleed out on these stones for lesser causes. My rules are for your protection as much as mine.”

Lando’s grip on his sword tightened, but Oscar’s hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“We’ll abide by your rules,” Oscar confirmed, voice calm.

“Good.” Max turned back to you. “Come. I’ll show you the library. You should know where it is if you’re to live here.”

The offer caught you off guard. The scion of House Verstappen switched conversations so casually he seemed to slap you with his casualness.

“The library?”

“You can’t spend all your time staring at the snow,” Max replied evenly, though there was a faint lilt to his words.

Was that… humor? It was hard to tell with him.

“Well..” You tugged your coat tighter. “It is very captivating snow.”

Max’s brow arched. “And yet, I think you’ll survive without it for an hour.”

You blinked, taken aback by the dry remark.

Was he… teasing you?

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, you rose from your chair, trailing behind as he turned and strode toward the door.

You glanced at your companions, giving them a small and, hopefully, reassuring smile before stepping forward to follow Max.

Max’s pace was long, purposeful, and you found yourself scrambling to keep up without looking breathless.

(You decidedly ignored Sir Lando's small snort of laughter.)

The manor was a labyrinth of cold stone and dim corridors, the walls lined with tapestries dulled by age.

Shadows flickered where sparse torches burned, giving the place a haunted sort of stillness.

You found it hard to ever imagine yourself calling this place home.

Max moved through the halls like someone who had been shaped by this place, his presence carved into the very bones of the estate.

His stride was confident, measured, purposeful.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider, a stranger, each step heavy on the cold stone floor.

Finally, Max stopped before a pair of massive oak doors, their wood darkened with age. He didn’t look back at you as he spoke, his voice low, but managing to carry through the quiet hall.

“Your men stay outside. Your maid may enter,” he said, the command clear.

Your knights exchanged a brief look.

Lando’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly less than thrilled with the command. He let out a sigh, posture straightening with a resigned huff.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he moved to one side of the door, giving a theatrical bow as though he were playing a part in some grand performance.

Oscar shook his head but followed suit, taking his place at the other side, hands clasped with a more restrained expression.

Lando’s voice broke the silence, dripping with mock sweetness. “Enjoy the library, my Lady. Try not to get too lost in there.”

You laughed, unable to contain yourself and bid them a silent goodbye.

Without another word, he pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest, and led you and Lily inside.

The library was vast and dim, lined wall-to-wall with shelves that stretched high into the shadows above.

Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light filtering through the narrow, arched windows, painting the room in shades of gold and gray.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling your senses.

“It’s beautiful…” you breathed, the words slipping out unbidden.

“It is,” Max replied, stepping farther into the room. “And it’s yours to use as I allow while you’re here.”

You followed him in, your fingers brushing the spines of the books closest to you. They were thick and heavy, their titles embossed in faded gold.

“Are these… first editions?” you asked, your voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might awaken some slumbering beast.

“Many of them, yes,” Max said, his gaze sweeping the shelves as if cataloging them in his mind. “You’ll find original prints of histories, poetry, philosophy. Most of it quite rare. Some of the works were commissioned specifically for this collection.”

“Commissioned?” you echoed, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He nodded. “Yes. House Verstappen has always valued knowledge. There are some volumes here you won’t find anywhere else.”

You let your hand fall from the books and turned to face him. “You must spend a lot of time here then.”

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted, his tone crisp. “But I’m familiar with the layout. If you’re planning to lose yourself, I can point you in the right direction.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his phrasing. “Lose myself?”

“It happens.” He shrugged, glancing away.

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of warning me?”

“A mere suggestion,” he corrected, his lips twitching in what might have been the hint of a smile. “Start with the poetry under the windows. It’s a good place for… wandering minds.”

“Poetry under the windows,” you repeated the words under your breath, glancing toward the far end of the room where a faint glow spilled across the shelves. “Any other recommendations?”

“The histories on the east wall are worth your time.” He gestured briefly. “And if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s a collection of letters on the upper mezzanine. They’re in French, though.”

“I can manage French,” you said with a small smile.

His eyebrow arched faintly. “Good. Then you’ll also find some rather colorful accounts of court scandals tucked in the back corner. A few are probably embellished, but they’re entertaining nonetheless.”

Your laughter came easier this time. “Court scandals? I didn’t expect you to recommend something so… frivolous.”

“Frivolity has its place,” he said dryly. “Just don’t let the staff catch you reading them. They might talk.”

“Noted.” You attempted to suppress your grin.

For a moment, the two of you stood in companionable silence, the quiet weight of the library wrapping around you like a cloak. You turned back to the shelves, running your fingertips lightly over the spines once more.

“This is incredible,” you murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder at his lack of a response, catching a faint glimmer of something softer in his eyes, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

Max seemed to compose himself, clearing his throat. “You will be fetched come dinner time.”

The heavy doors of the library groaned shut behind him, leaving you and Lily in the cavernous stillness.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, Lily let out a sharp exhale, breaking the silence. “I thought he’d never leave,” she muttered, her voice pitched low but urgent.

You turned to her, startled by her tone. “Lily-”

“He’s impossible to read!” she interrupted, her hands gesturing animatedly as she paced a small circle near the door.

“One moment, he’s scowling like the world owes him something, and the next, he’s… he’s practically pointing you toward the best books for a cozy evening! What am I supposed to make of that?”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “I don’t think it’s meant to be deciphered, Lily.”

“But it should be!” she shot back, stopping abruptly to face you. “You’re supposed to marry him. How are you supposed to live with someone who switches moods faster than the weather?”

“I don’t think he’s as unpredictable as you think,” you said cautiously, though you weren’t entirely convinced of your own words. “He’s… reserved.”

“Reserved?” Lily snorted. “He looks like he’s trying not to bite anyone’s head off half the time.” She softened slightly, adding, “Although, I’ll admit, it was nice of him to show you this place.”

Her eyes wandered around the library, her earlier frustration melting into a quieter awe. “It really is something, isn’t it?”

You nodded, letting your gaze sweep the towering shelves. “It is. I could lose hours in here.”

“Maybe you’ll have to,” Lily said, her tone lighter now. “If he’s not going to be forthcoming about himself, you might have to dig through the history books to figure him out. Perhaps you'll even find a diary of his.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think even the books might not have the answers to that mystery.”

Lily gave you a sly grin. “Well, if anyone can figure him out, my lady, it’s you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you turned back to the shelves. “My betrothed's dour personality aside.. help me find that poetry section he mentioned.”

Lily smiled, stepping closer to follow you deeper into the quiet sanctuary of the library.

“Of course, my lady.”

—

Hours later, as the manor stirred for the evening meal, a servant was dispatched to your quarters. The boy found it strange that the two knights he'd heard his Lord's betrothed had come with weren't stationed by the door.

A sharp knock echoed once. Then again, louder, more insistent.

“My lady?”

Silence.

The servant hesitated, damp palms against the polished wood.

“My lady?” He said again, voice cracking. “My lady, may I come in?”

“...My lady, I'm coming in.”

Then, cautiously, he pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. The bed still perfectly made, the hearth’s fire reduced to flickering embers. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and a chill crept in where warmth should have lingered.

Panic tightened his throat.

He checked the adjoining rooms. The empty sitting area, the silent halls. Nowhere.

Not even your guards and maid were present.

Sweat gathered at his brow as he hurried through the winding corridors, heart hammering as he sought out Lord Verstappen.

He found Max standing near the great hall’s window, dusk spilling through the glass in muted gold.

“My lord,” the servant panted, voice tight. “She’s- she’s gone.”

Max turned slowly. “Gone?”

“I searched her chambers, the halls, the west wing-”

“And the library?” Max’s voice was sharp, cutting through the servant’s stammering explanation.

The servant faltered. “The… the library, my lord?”

“Yes,” Max said evenly, already striding toward the east corridor. “She’s there.”

The servant froze, his jaw slackening. “You… you allowed her inside?”

“Are you questioning me?” Max didn’t even glance back as he continued down the hall, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.

“N-no, my lord!” the servant stammered, bowing reflexively. “But should I-”

“Stay where you are,” Max ordered. “I’ll handle this myself.”

Your two knights stood sentinel by the library doors when he approached, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of boredom and indifference.

They barely acknowledged him, their attention elsewhere as the echo of his boots rang down the corridor.

Max didn’t slow his pace. “Is she still in there?”

Lando flicked a glance toward Oscar, then shrugged. “Yep. She's buried in a book or something,” he said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, as if it were of little concern.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think to remind her of the time?”

Oscar raised a brow, voice dry. “A certain scion has, unfortunately, forbidden our entry, my lord.”

Max sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Lando was quick to interject with a smirk. “And it’s a lost cause trying to pry our Lady away from a good book. Trust me, we’ve tried.”

Max’s frustration bubbled over into a short, exasperated laugh as he pushed the heavy doors open.

And there you were.

Curled into a high-backed chair, utterly absorbed in the thick, ancient book resting open in your lap.

A few other volumes lay scattered around your feet, their spines cracked open, as if you’d moved through them in a frenzy of curiosity.

Max’s gaze lingered on the sight before him. On the way your head tilted slightly as you read, your brow furrowed in concentration.

His grip on the doorframe loosened, but his jaw remained tight.

“My lady.”

You glanced up, startled but then smiled when you saw him. “Oh, my- Max, What are you doing here again?”

Max’s brow arched slightly at your casual tone. His irritation wavered.

He knew you were about to say ‘my Lord’ again, knew it was a mere slip of the tongue, court etiquette taking over before personal sense.

But.. my Max. Yes, he supposed he was indeed yours.

He couldn't say that though so when he spoke, it was only a disinterested, “It’s dinner time.”

You blinked, glancing toward the tall windows where the light had shifted to deep amber.

“Already? I hadn’t even realized-” You glanced down at the book in your lap, reluctant to put it aside. “I haven’t even finished this chapter.”

His gaze dropped to the title in your hands. “Faust,” he noted, tucking the information away. “You read German?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… only at an elementary level.”

Max's eyebrow arched slightly. You were either a liar or terribly humble.

“Faust,” he repeated dryly. “Hardly a book for someone with only elementary German. Your skills are passable, at least.”

“Just enough to get by,” you admitted, more honest now, brushing invisible dust from your skirt as you stood.

Max offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation this time.

He noticed, though he said nothing about the change, afraid that if he voiced it out you'd withdraw again.

“You might find Faust more rewarding if you read it in context,” he remarked as you walked down the hall, your knights and maid following behind.

You glanced up at him, curious. “And what context would that be?”

“Understanding Goethe’s philosophical explorations, for one. Or at least recognizing the poetic structure in its original form.”

You tilted your head. “So now you’re saying my German isn’t good enough?”

“I’m saying it’s a pity to read something monumental in fragments,” he replied. “Not a criticism.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The corners of your lips quirked upward.

“Take it as you like.” He offered you a small shrug, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “Which German do you struggle with?”

“Official documents,” you admitted. “The kind that's full of overly formal phrasing and unnecessary flourish.”

Max hummed, thoughtful. Most official documents were indeed like that. “I could assist with that, should the need arise.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You would?”

“If I find myself having time.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, brushing off your words. “And don't sit too close to the mezzanine shelves,” he added. “They’re unstable.”

Your brows rose. “Unstable?”

“I don’t need you buried beneath three hundred years of German history,” he said, his tone casual but his meaning clear.

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’d miss me, then?”

“More likely, the servants would revolt,” he said, gesturing to the doors to the dining hall. “Dinner then, shall we?”

—

The dining hall was an expansive, imposing space, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows over the vast table.

Candles decorated much of the available surfaces in a surprisingly tasteful way.

Their flames flickered weakly, struggling to combat the cold that clung to the stone walls like it was a living, breathing thing.

The table stretched far ahead, but only two places were set.

Max took his seat at the head without so much as a glance in your direction, and you slid into the chair opposite him.

Lily quietly withdrew to prepare for your night routine while Lando and Oscar remained a fair distance away, leaving the two of you some privacy to discuss.

Servants moved efficiently, placing the first course on the table: roast venison, honeyed carrots, and freshly baked bread that had already begun to cool in the chill air.

The earlier conversation about books had petered out, leaving a quiet in its wake.

Max ate as though entirely alone, his focus on the meal before him.

You shifted in your seat, the faint scrape of your fork against the plate feeling almost intrusive.

"You know," you began tentatively, "for someone who seems to enjoy books, you’re surprisingly difficult to talk to about them."

Max’s knife paused mid-slice, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There was no hostility in his gaze, but his expression was unreadable all the same. “Talking about books is rarely as rewarding as reading them.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse,” you said, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the moment. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to have a proper discussion about them.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if the idea amused him, though he didn’t smile. “Do you often accuse your dining companions of conversational ineptitude, or am I a special case?”

“That depends.” You tore off a piece of bread. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

Max tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity, like someone turning over a puzzle piece in their mind.

“Very well.” He set his knife down carefully. “What would you like to discuss? Goethe? Schiller?”

“Bold of you to assume I am especially fond of German authors. Perhaps I just picked up Faust in the library on a whim.” You smiled. “But if you must know, I’ve been working through Balzac recently.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting slightly, though still difficult to read. “Balzac? Ambitious. And how are you finding him?”

“Dense,” you admitted with a laugh. “Brilliant, but dense. Definitely not light reading.”

“Few worthwhile things are,” he replied, returning to his meal. “Though I’ve always found Balzac’s fascination with ambition rather… tiresome.”

“Really?” you asked, curious. “Why?”

He took a measured sip of wine before answering. “Because I’ve seen enough ambition in reality to find little appeal in it as fiction.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. A product of generations of ambition.”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not in anger.

There was a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, before he spoke. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “You’re treading close to dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” you asked, though your tone was gentler now, almost teasing. “I thought we were just talking about books.”

Before he could respond, the servants re-entered, clearing the first course and placing the next before you.

The interruption softened the tension, and you let the moment breathe.

When the room was quiet again, you spoke, this time more cautiously. “Alright, then. Enough about me. What about you? What are you reading?”

Max’s fork paused mid-motion, and he set it down with deliberate care. “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” you replied, leaning forward slightly. “How else am I supposed to judge your taste?”

For a moment, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of a smile. “If you must know, The Sorrows of Young Werther.”

You blinked, surprised. “Goethe’s most sentimental work? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Sentimentality has its uses,” he said dryly, though there was no real bite to his words. “Even you might agree.”

“Are you suggesting I’m sentimental?” you arched a brow.

“I’m suggesting you’re curious,” he replied, his tone even. “Perhaps overly so.”

“Fair.” You conceded with a small laugh. “But I’m curious.. what draws you to it? The tragedy? The unrequited love?”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before he answered.

“The futility,” he said quietly, lifting his wine glass. “Of longing for something you cannot have.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond, the honesty in his tone catching you off guard. When he didn’t elaborate, you picked up your own glass, letting the silence linger without pressing further.

“You have a rather bleak outlook, don’t you?” you asked finally, your voice softer now.

“Realistic,” he corrected, not unkindly, his gaze flicking back to yours. “Not everyone has the luxury of optimism.”

You frowned slightly, not entirely sure how to reply. “It’s not about luxury,” you said after a pause. “It’s about perspective.”

“Perspective is shaped by reality.” His eyes met yours, boring. “And reality is rarely kind.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time it felt less uneasy and more thoughtful.

As dinner wrapped up, Max glanced at your knights before settling on you, his tone lightening as he spoke. “I trust you can find your rooms?”

You nodded, standing from your chair. “Yes, I think so.”

“No late-night wandering, then?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Max’s lips twitched again, softer this time, as if he might actually be considering a smile. “Good. I’d hate to have to rescue you from some misstep in the dark.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What makes you think I’d need rescuing?”

“Experience,” he said simply, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The air between you shifted slightly, the earlier sharpness fading into something more subdued.

You allowed yourself a small laugh, breaking the lingering tension. “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of finding my way around.”

“Is that so?” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His tone had softened, the sharp edges dulling to a quiet curiosity. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll trust you.”

“Trust,” you repeated, letting the word hang between you. “A bold move, considering we’ve only just met.”

Max regarded you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Bold, perhaps. But necessary.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. There was something in his voice, quiet, measured, and entirely unexpected, that made you pause. The weight of the moment settled around you like the faint flicker of the candlelight, warm yet fragile.

“Well,” you said finally. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He rose from his seat with practiced ease, the flicker of warmth in his eyes quickly hidden behind his composed demeanor. “Goodnight, then.”

You watched him as he left the dining hall, his steps measured and deliberate, the echo of his footsteps fading into the vast, empty space.

For a moment, you sat in the quiet, your gaze lingering on the door where he had disappeared.

Finally, you stood, the faintest smile playing at your lips. “Goodnight, Max,” you murmured to the empty room.

—-

The first light of dawn crept through the heavy drapes of your room, painting the walls in soft hues of gold and silver. The air carried a sharp chill, the promise of frost lingering just outside the thick panes of glass.

Everything was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustling of fabric as Lily moved about with quiet precision.

She bent over a polished wooden chair, her deft hands smoothing out the folds of the attire she’d chosen for you.

A cloak of deep crimson lay draped across her arm, its rich, heavy fabric catching the faint light. You stirred in your bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she worked.

“Good morning, Lily,” you murmured, sitting up and drawing the blankets closer against the morning chill.

Lily turned with a warm smile, setting the cloak on the bed beside you. “Good morning, my Lady. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, your fingers brushing the thick velvet of the cloak. You tilted your head, examining it with curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing this in my wardrobe before.”

“It was delivered just this morning,” Lily explained, her tone light but tinged with amusement. “A gift, I believe, from Lord Verstappen.”

Your brows lifted as you traced the intricate embroidery along the hem, tiny silver threads woven into delicate patterns. “From Lord Verstappen?”

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her. “He must have assumed the worst given your attire yesterday.”

“It’s rather heavy,” you remarked, holding it up to feel its weight.

Lily gave you a knowing smile, her tone dry but affectionate. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that I’d rather you walk with less grace than freeze, my Lady.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you draped the cloak over your shoulders.

It was impossibly warm, the kind of warmth that seeped through your skin and settled in your bones. “You’re not wrong. I suppose there’s no room for vanity when winter comes knocking.”

“None at all,” Lily agreed, moving to adjust the cloak, fastening the silver clasp at your throat. “Besides, the color suits you. Lord Verstappen has surprisingly good taste. I'd have assumed he’d just grab any old thing and force you into it.”

You raised a brow at the tone that laced her words, giving her a sidelong glance. “Flattery for him, Lily? Are you trying to curry favor? And here I thought you were quite ready to sock him just yesterday.”

She feigned innocence, stepping back with a twinkle in her eye. “Not at all, my Lady. But if he keeps sending gifts like this, I might just start.”

Your laughter filled the room, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. You were somewhat glad Lily saw him as redeemable after yesterday.

After all, she was usually a good judge of character.

As you stood, the cloak fell around you like a royal mantle, its weight grounding but comforting.

By the time you entered the dining hall, Max was already seated at the long table, a vision of composed efficiency.

His pale hair was still perfectly swept back, not a strand out of place, and a small stack of documents sat before him.

His pen moved steadily across the paper, his focus unbroken even as the golden morning light softened the sharpness of his features.

“Good morning, Max,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him, your tone deliberately chipper.

Max glanced up briefly, eyes meeting yours with the barest flicker of warmth.

“Good morning,” he replied, setting his pen down with the precision of a man who never did anything carelessly. “You’re up early.”

“It’s rather difficult to stay in bed when the frost feels like it's climbing up to sleep with you,” you said, grabbing a warm roll from the plate near you. “Do you have a deal with the weather to ensure I never sleep in?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll admit to nothing. But if the frost succeeds, perhaps I should reward it.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” you said, tearing a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. “I’ve made my peace with it, though. I realized there was a charm to the winter once I got over the whole ‘freezing to death’ aspect.”

Max arched a brow, his eyes sparkling faintly with what you hoped was amusement. “A charm, you say? I wasn’t aware you were so poetic in the mornings.”

“Oh, I’m a veritable bard before breakfast,” you said. “In fact, I was just composing a sonnet about how frostbite builds character.”

He snorted softly as he reached for his tea, the sound barely audible, but it felt like a victory. “I’ll be sure to commission a copy of it for the library.”

You leaned back in your chair, feeling emboldened by his rare moment of humor

“Speaking of things worth writing about, I was thinking of spending some time in the garden today. It looks magical with the frost.”

Max paused, his teacup halfway to his lips, and gave you a look that bordered on incredulous. “The garden? In winter?”

“Yes, the garden,” you said, undeterred. “You do realize it’s still a garden, even when it’s cold?”

He set his cup down slowly, as if trying to process your words. “You are aware that nothing grows in the garden during winter, yes? Unless you count the weeds, which I doubt have much aesthetic appeal.”

“There are flowers that survive in winter,” you said with a pointed look.

He tilted his head, his expression blank. “Like what? Frozen dandelions?”

“Snowdrops, holly, winter jasmine,” you listed off, ticking them off on your fingers. “I saw some while passing by yesterday. Honestly, do you even know what’s in your own garden?”

Max leaned back slightly. “I delegate. Why bother when there are people who are willing to brave the frost to catalog it all for me?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “How magnanimous of you.”

He inclined his head slightly, as though you’d paid him a genuine compliment. “It’s a skill.”

“You should come with me,” you said suddenly. “A little walk in the fresh air couldn’t hurt. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said finally, his tone carefully polite. “But my duties don’t often allow for such… luxuries.”

“Luxuries?” you raised a brow. “Surely even a Lord like yourself deserves a moment to himself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, but it faded quickly. “Perhaps another time.”

You nodded, masking your disappointment with a practiced smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your responsibilities.”

“Distraction,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary.

Something unspoken flickered in his eyes, and though his expression remained composed, there was the faintest hint of something warmer beneath the surface.

“Perhaps,” he said again, this time softer, almost to himself.

You glanced down, heat creeping up your cheeks, and busied yourself with your breakfast.

—-

The steady scratch of a quill against parchment filled the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers.

Max leaned over his desk, eyes scanning the dense columns of reports.

The study was dim, the late afternoon light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Yet, for all his focus, his pen paused mid-sentence.

His thoughts drifted. Again.

To you.

He could see it vividly in his mind: the garden cloaked in frost, each branch thin and brittle beneath the weight of winter.

You would be there, wouldn’t you? Bundled in that wool cloak you favored, breath curling in the cold air as you traced the icy edges of dormant rose bushes.

You had mentioned it offhandedly this morning, your plan to spend the afternoon outside despite the chill.

Max let out a slow breath, frowning at the parchment before him.

The words blurred, meaningless.

It was ridiculous.

You were likely gone by now, the cold too sharp to endure for long.

Rationality urged him to stay, to finish the reports that demanded his attention.

Yet the thought persisted.

Why did it matter if you were still there?

It shouldn’t.

And yet.

The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stood.

He didn’t bother with his coat. The cold would be a brief inconvenience.

His steps were measured as he left the study, though there was a certain tension in his stride, as if he was trying to convince himself this was a simple walk and nothing more.

The manor’s halls gave way to the biting air of winter, and Max inhaled sharply, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeves.

The gravel path crunched beneath his boots as he crossed into the garden.

The world was quiet here. Still.

The pale sun sagged low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over frost-laced branches and brittle hedges. Even the air felt suspended, holding its breath.

He scanned the expanse, expecting, no, hoping, to see a flicker of movement among the barren trees.

Nothing.

Max’s jaw tightened.

Of course. You wouldn’t have waited. Hours had passed. Why would you linger in the cold for him? The thought was absurd.

He moved forward anyway, slow and deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as if that could restrain the growing restlessness in his chest.

Each turn of the path yielded only more empty frost-covered stone.

Once.

Twice.

A third time around, and still nothing.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

He turned to leave.

Then, faintly, the sound of movement, a soft rustle of fabric.

His head snapped up.

And there you were.

Tucked into the curve of a stone bench, half-hidden by the skeletal branches of the hedgerow.

A book lay open in your lap, your gloved fingers idly turning the page.

Max stared.

You hadn’t left.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, something between relief and unease.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. For a moment, he simply watched you, the way your breath misted in the cold, how your hair caught the pale light.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come out here.

But now that he had, he found he didn’t want to leave.

Max exhaled quietly, letting the breath curl away into the cold.

He stood perfectly still, half-concealed by the bare limbs of the hedgerow, his figure blending into the stark winter landscape. The cold gnawed at him, a sharp wind threading through the thin fabric of his sleeves, but he didn’t move.

His breath escaped in thin, controlled streams of vapor, dissipating into the frigid air.

And still, his eyes remained fixed on you.

You sat quietly on the stone bench, bundled in the cloak he'd ordered a servant to bring to you last night come morning, its edges stiff with frost.

A book rested in your lap, your gloved fingers lazily tracing the brittle page edges as you turned them.

Every now and then, you paused, eyes lifting to watch the pale sun as it sagged toward the horizon, before returning to your reading.

Max’s hands tightened behind his back.

He shouldn’t be here.

There was no reason to be.

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He told himself it was coincidence, that his steps had simply led him here after hours of restless pacing in his study.

But even that excuse felt thin, crumbling under the weight of his own unease.

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching in the cold.

Why didn’t you go inside? The air was sharp and biting.

Anyone with sense would’ve retreated to the warmth of the manor by now. Yet you sat there still, as if waiting for something.

Or someone.

A ridiculous thought.

Max’s jaw tightened.

"You know," a dry voice cut through the stillness, "standing there staring is a bit creepy, my Lord.”

Max turned sharply, his cold glare snapping to the armored figure leaning casually against the frosted stone archway.

Oscar.

The knight stood with an infuriating air of nonchalance, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other shoved lazily into the crook of his elbow. His breath misted lazily in the cold air, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re out of line.” Max’s voice was flat, the warning unmistakable.

Oscar only raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Probably. But you’ve been standing long enough that I figured someone should say something.”

Max’s glare deepened.

Oscar tilted his head slightly toward the garden. “You could just speak to her, you know. I’m half certain she wouldn’t mind.”

“I have no intention of interrupting her,” Max said coolly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Oscar made a thoughtful noise, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. “No, of course not. That’s why you’re skulking in the hedges instead of being a normal person and saying hello.”

Max’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You have duties. Attend to them.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I am attending to them. Protecting the lady, making sure her suitors aren’t lurking about. You know, the usual.”

Max’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“Did she not mention this morning she hoped you’d join her out here?” the knight asked offhandedly, brushing frost off his shoulder. “But maybe I heard wrong. Could’ve been the wind.”

Max didn’t respond.

Oscar let the silence stretch for a moment before shrugging. “Well. Suit yourself.”

With that, he pushed off the archway and strode casually toward you, boots crunching against the frost-laden gravel.

Max didn’t move. His gaze followed Oscar with a cold, sharp focus, but his feet remained planted, weighed down by something heavier than pride.

Oscar’s figure grew smaller as he neared you.

And then, you looked up.

Your face softened in recognition, lips curving into a faint smile as your knight approached. Max’s chest tightened inexplicably.

“You’ve been out here a while, my lady,” Oscar remarked lightly, stopping beside the stone bench.

You laughed softly, the sound carrying faintly through the still air. “Longer than I meant to. Has it gotten that late already?”

“Late enough,” Oscar said, leaning slightly against the stone edge. “Cold enough too, I imagine.”

You exhaled, watching the breath curl away. “The cold’s not so bad.”

Oscar smirked. “If you say so. Though I passed Lord Max earlier. He was out here too.”

Your eyes lifted, blinking in quiet surprise. “Was he?”

Oscar hummed. “Looked like he was thinking about joining you. Or maybe just staring at you. Hard to tell with him.”

Your gaze flicked toward the distant paths, searching the empty garden.

Oscar watched you carefully. “Still might be lurking somewhere. Shadows seem to agree with him.”

You smiled faintly, but your eyes lingered on the hedgerows, thoughtful.

Oscar nudged a frost-coated pebble with his boot. “You know… if you wanted him here, you could just call him out. Maybe the shame will make his feet move.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow.

He smirked. “Just a thought, my Lady.”

Oscar pushed off the bench. “Come on. You’ll catch cold if you stay out much longer.”

As they turned to head back toward the manor, Max stood still, hidden beyond the hedges.

His hands clenched slowly at his sides.

And then, finally, he turned and walked away.

The frost crunched beneath his boots, louder than before.

—

The rest of the month at the Verstappen estate unfolded in slow, deliberate strokes, like the steady brush of winter wind against frosted glass.

The walls of cold formality between you and Max didn’t crumble overnight, but there were cracks now. Thin, hairline fractures where something softer threatened to seep through.

Max remained composed, distant, his every word and gesture measured. Yet every so often, something flickered.

A hesitation before he spoke. A glance that lingered longer than necessary.

Small, fleeting moments that barely seemed to matter, but they did. They built something fragile and new, fragile as frost on stone.

It started with the garden.

You had grown fond of the winter gardens. Quiet, stark, and untouched. The biting air sharpened your senses, and the stillness gave you space to breathe, something you often struggled to find within the Verstappen estate's cold, towering walls.

You were seated at the breakfast table one morning, fingers curled around your tea for warmth.

Your eyes traced the frost-laced hedgerows beyond the tall windows, lost in thought.

“I’ll accompany you today.”

The voice was quiet but certain, breaking through your reverie.

Your head snapped up.

Max stood across the room, a stack of documents in hand, his expression unreadable.

“…Pardon?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “To the gardens. I’ll walk with you.”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “You want to… walk. Outside. In the cold.”

A slight tilt of his head. “Yes.”

“You?”

His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Frankly? Yes.” You set your teacup down carefully, studying him. “Don’t you have something far more important to do than trail after me like some-”

“I hardly think safeguarding my betrothed is beneath me,” he cut in smoothly, though something in his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

You raised a brow. “Safeguard me? Max, it’s a garden, not a battlefield.”

He didn’t answer, only held your gaze steadily.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Well, far be it from me to refuse the protection of a lord.”

Max inclined his head, as if the matter was settled.

—

The cold met you both immediately as you stepped into the garden.

You drew your coat tighter. Max, of course, didn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

His steps were measured, boots crunching against the frost-dusted path. He kept half a step ahead of you, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

The silence stretched. And stretched.

Then, abruptly-

“Those are evergreens.”

You blinked.

“…Yes. They are.”

Max gave a small nod, as if confirming a fact. “They endure the winter well.”

"That is typically how evergreens work."

Silence.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to surface.

Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking forward again. "I thought it was worth mentioning."

"It was very insightful," you teased lightly.

His jaw tightened, though you noticed the faintest flush at the tips of his ears.

The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel so suffocating now.

"I don’t…" he started, then stopped. His hands flexed behind his back. "I’m not particularly… good at this."

You tilted your head. "At walking?”

A sharp exhale, half a laugh, half frustration. "At this. Talking. Being-" he paused, as if the word itself burned. "-approachable."

You considered him for a moment. "You’re not as terrible as you think."

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain.

"You just talk about trees a lot."

That earned a genuine huff of breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

"I’ll… keep that in mind.”

—

Days slipped by like soft falling snow, quiet and unhurried. And so did the walks.

The first few outings had been brittle, every step and word sharp with awkwardness. But little by little, the stiffness began to melt.

It wasn’t anything grand, no sweeping gestures or sudden confessions, but something quieter. Subtle.

Max no longer fumbled for conversation, and you no longer waited for him to.

Sometimes you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t. And somehow, the silences became easier.

There was comfort in it, like the steady crunch of frost beneath your boots or the way your breath curled in the cold air.

It started with small things.

One morning, as you walked past a thicket of frost-covered hedges, Max slowed his pace, watching you with a flicker of curiosity.

“You always stop here.”

You glanced at him, surprised he noticed. “It’s peaceful.”

His eyes followed yours to the bare branches dusted in white.

“Hm.” He made a low sound of acknowledgment, then fell quiet.

The next day, you noticed he lingered near that spot, as if waiting for you to pause first.

He didn’t say anything, but it was enough.

Another morning, you stumbled slightly on the uneven path, your boot catching on a patch of ice.

Before you could right yourself, a steady hand caught your elbow.

You blinked, looking up.

Max’s hand hovered there, his grip careful but sure.

His expression was unreadable, but his touch was steady.

“You should watch your step,” he murmured.

You stared at him for a beat too long.

“I was,” you said finally, a little breathless.

His hand dropped back to his side, and he turned away before you could see the faint pink creeping up his neck.

The next day, the path had been salted.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But the air between you felt lighter.

Then, there was the matter of the scarf.

It was colder than usual that morning. Bitter wind snuck through the layers of your coat and scarf, nipping at your skin.

Max noticed.

“You’re cold,” he said flatly.

You glanced at him, defensive. “It’s winter. Everyone’s cold.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he unwound the dark wool scarf from his neck and held it out to you.

You blinked.

“…What are you doing?”

“You need it more than I do.”

You stared at the scarf, then at him. “Max, I’m not going to take your scarf. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he replied, tone perfectly serious.

You huffed a laugh. “Oh, is it? And what about you?”

“I’ll manage.”

His expression didn’t waver.

After a long pause, you sighed and took the scarf from his hands.

It was warm. Warmer than yours, and it smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like winter air.

You looped it around your neck, hiding a small smile.

“Happy now?”

Max gave a short nod. “Good.”

The next day, he wore a thicker coat.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But his gaze lingered on the scarf around your neck.

And that was enough.

The silences softened after that.

Some days, Max would walk slightly ahead, hands behind his back, eyes on the path.

Other days, he matched your stride, quiet but near.

Once, as you passed a row of brittle rose bushes, you paused, brushing your glove over the thorns.

Max stopped beside you.

“They won’t bloom again until spring.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“They’re still... nice to look at,” he admitted.

You glanced at him.

“That’s surprisingly sentimental of you.”

A slight shrug. “They’re resilient. Even now.”

You smiled, soft and secret.

Another day, you caught him watching you when you laughed at something small. A small squirrel darting through the snow, slipping and scrambling back up a tree.

Max didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his eyes.

Not amusement.

Something warmer.

He looked away when you caught him, but you didn’t tease him for it.

The walks stretched longer. The conversations grew softer.

There were no grand declarations, no sweeping changes.

Just the slow, steady thaw of winter.

And for now, that was enough.

—-

It happened on an ordinary day, so ordinary that you couldn’t have guessed it would stand out for any reason at all.

You were sitting in the common room, absentmindedly flipping through a file, your thoughts half on the task and half on the cup of tea cooling beside you.

You were aware of Max nearby, as you always seemed to be. The two of you had taken to spending your quiet moments together for some reason.

He was seated at the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of papers, his focus presumably locked on his work.

Or so you thought.

It wasn’t until you reached for your tea, your eyes lifting momentarily, that you noticed it. His gaze.

Max was staring at you.

It wasn’t a casual glance or a quick flicker of attention. His eyes were fixed, steady, like he was studying you without even realizing it.

There was something almost unreadable in his expression, his usual guarded demeanor softened by a hint of… curiosity? Thoughtfulness? You couldn’t quite place it.

For a moment, you froze, unsure what to do. Should you look away? Pretend you hadn’t noticed? Confront him?

The options raced through your mind in a tangle, but before you could decide, Max blinked, as though snapping out of a trance.

His gaze shifted back to the papers in front of him, his movements abrupt and uncharacteristically awkward.

He cleared his throat quietly, shuffling the documents with more focus than necessary.

You felt your cheeks warm, a faint heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t like Max to lose his composure, even slightly.

You wondered what he’d been thinking. Or if he’d even realized what he was doing.

“Everything alright?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch uncomfortably long. Your voice was casual, light, as though the moment hadn’t happened.

Max didn’t look up immediately, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was a faint edge to it, something almost defensive.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat longer. “You sure? You looked… distracted.”

He finally met your gaze, his expression unreadable again, but this time you thought you caught the faintest flicker of something.

Embarrassment, maybe, or irritation at being caught.

“I’m sure,” he said, his tone more even now.

“Alright,” you said lightly, turning back to your file with a small shrug. But your heart was still racing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what had just passed between you.

As the moments ticked by, you resisted the urge to glance at him again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of his earlier stare.

—

The two of you found yourselves in the library again, a rare moment of calm amidst the usual chaos.

Max sat across from you, his attention drifting between the book in his hands and the room around him.

For once, he wasn’t buried in paperwork or fielding endless questions from others, and the quiet was almost comforting.

The soft rustle of turning pages and the muted hum of your own reading filled the air.

It was a stillness that wrapped around you both, unspoken but shared, a silence that felt like an unacknowledged truce.

Until the peace fractured.

A faint groan of wood sliced through the quiet, subtle at first but growing louder, sharper. You frowned, your eyes flicking upward from your book.

Max noticed the sound too, his head tilting slightly as his attention shifted.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as the groaning intensified. “Stay here,” he muttered, already rising from his chair.

But before either of you could move further, the source of the noise revealed itself.

The tall shelf in the corner swayed unnaturally, its weight shifting in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Max-” you started, panic creeping into your voice.

And then it happened. The shelf gave way.

Books tumbled from its upper shelves like a cascade of water, filling the air with dull thuds and sharp cracks.

The massive structure pitched toward you, and you froze, your feet rooted in place.

“Move!” a voice yelled.

You barely registered the shout before a strong hand grabbed your arm, yanking you back with such force that your book flew from your grasp.

Your back slammed into something solid. Someone’s chest.

A deafening crash filled the room as the shelf slammed into the ground, its impact sending vibrations through the floor.

Books scattered in every direction, some sliding to a stop at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Max’s voice was sharp, edged with panic. His hand still gripped your arm, his knuckles white from the effort.

You turned toward him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I… I think so.”

His eyes darted over you, scanning for any sign of injury. “Did it hit you?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less urgent.

“No,” you managed. “I’m fine. Just… shaken.”

Max exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension left him.

He dropped his hand from your arm, stepping back to give you space, but his gaze stayed locked on you.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I knew it was old..” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “You couldn’t have known it would fall like that.”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “I should’ve checked it. What if-” He cut himself off, his jaw working as he looked away.

“It didn’t,” you said firmly. “You pulled me out of the way. That’s what matters.”

Max’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepened. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I should’ve-”

“Stop,” you interrupted, your voice firmer than you expected. “Max, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t push the shelf. You didn’t make it fall.”

He met your gaze then, his eyes dark and filled with a storm of emotions. “But I could’ve stopped it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The raw guilt in his voice surprised you. It was rare to see Max shaken. You didn't even think it possible.

“You did stop it. At least for me,” you said softly.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he sighed and stepped toward the wreckage. “This is a mess,” he muttered, his tone shifting to something more clipped, controlled. “I’ll get someone to clean it up. You should go sit down. Get some air.”

You followed his gaze to the pile of broken wood and scattered books. The sight made your stomach twist, but you forced yourself to speak. “I’ll help. I was here too.”

“No,” Max said quickly, holding up a hand. “You’ve had enough of a scare for one day. Just… take a break, alright?”

You hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

Max gave a short, almost reluctant nod in return. “Good. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back at him. He was already moving toward the debris, his focus shifting entirely to the mess. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and you knew he’d be carrying the weight of what could have happened for a while.

And so would you.

—-

The realization that you fancied Max struck with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

You fancied your fiancé. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

The thought struck you like a bolt of lightning, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest as you paced back and forth across your room.

With each step, the walls of the room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with the suffocating pressure of your own spiraling thoughts.

How had this happened? Why him? Of all people, why Max?

Stoic, distant Max, the man you barely even knew.

“It’s a trick of the mind. A reaction to circumstance,” you whispered, the words directed at your own reflection in the mirror.

Your face was pinched, your brow furrowed, and your eyes wide with a mixture of dread and something… else.

You rubbed at your temples, as though the act might banish the errant thoughts swirling in your mind.

“It’s admiration,” you said aloud, as if hearing the words would make them true. “Respect for his… demeanor. His resolve.”

You faltered, the image of Max flickering to life in your mind.

His measured gaze, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he was deep in thought.

The way his presence seemed to command the air around him.

Stop it.

“Lily!” you called out suddenly, your voice higher than you intended, panic rising sharply in your throat. “Lily, please, come here!”

The door creaked open, and Lily entered with her usual composed air, her eyes softening as soon as she took in the sight of your distress.

“My Lady, what’s wrong? You look...” she trailed off, hesitation in her tone as she glanced at you, clearly noting the unease written across your face.

“Don’t even say it,” you interrupted quickly, pressing your palms to your temples in an effort to stave off the rising panic. “I’m losing my mind, Lily. I think... I think I have feelings for Max.”

Lily regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in her eyebrow.

A hint of intrigue that you couldn’t quite place. She did not seem surprised.

“Max?” she asked, her voice calm, though the faintest hint of something stirred in her eyes. “As in, your betrothed, Lord Max Verstappen?”

“Yes! That Max!” you exclaimed, turning toward her with wide, frantic eyes, feeling the chaos inside you deepen with every word you spoke. “What other Max would I be talking about?!”

Lily paused for a moment, her eyes assessing you, the soft lines of her face betraying no judgment, only careful understanding.

Finally, she spoke, her tone even, but with an edge of something like amusement.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m glad it’s not hatred you’re feeling.”

You blinked, surprised at her response. “What?”

She gave you a small, wry smile, her hands folding gently in front of her. “I’m glad you don’t detest the man you’re engaged to. That’s a start, isn’t it? At least you’re not loathing him.”

You gaped at her, your mind still reeling from the gravity of your own emotions. “But this isn’t nothing, Lily! This isn’t just some passing fancy. I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time he’s near, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t know how to act around him. It’s like- like he’s too close and I’m too far from myself.”

Lily’s gaze softened, but she did not rush to soothe you with easy words.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice measured but firm. “Feelings like these don’t appear overnight, My Lady. They don’t disappear either. But you’re right. You don’t know him very well yet. You’ve got time to work this out, slowly. You don’t have to have it all figured out now.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as a new wave of uncertainty washed over you.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this, Lily. What if I say something wrong? What if I act like a fool in front of him? What if... what if he doesn’t care at all?”

Lily stepped closer to you, her presence steady, constant.

“Then he doesn’t,” she said simply. “If he doesn’t care, then... then you’ll be no worse off than you are now, My Lady. But know this: no other woman is taking him from you. He’s already yours. That’s settled.”

Her words settled over you like a weight.

He was already yours.

There was no escaping the finality of it, the truth in her calm tone.

The idea that you didn’t need to chase after him, that he was already tied to you in ways you couldn’t control, both unsettled and reassured you.

“I’m not even sure I want him, though,” you murmured, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what this is. What if I’m just... confused? What if it’s just... attachment? I mean, he’s always there, he’s my betrothed, but- he’s not-”

“Stop,” Lily’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts. “You don’t need to understand it all right now. You don’t need to be sure of your feelings just because you’ve realized them.”

You took a slow breath, your chest tight as you tried to keep your composure.

Her words were soothing in their simplicity, but they didn’t change your feelings. “I just... I don’t know what to do with all this. It’s too much. Too fast. I can’t keep up.”

You let the words hang in the air, unsure if you were speaking to her or to yourself.

Lily gave you a small, understanding smile, though it was tinged with a trace of amusement.

She didn’t speak for a moment, as though carefully weighing her response. “Then take it slow, my Lady. You’re allowed to feel all of this, in your own time. You don’t have to rush to make sense of it. No one’s going to force you to figure it out on anyone else’s schedule.”

A tiny sense of relief swept over you, but the knot in your stomach still refused to loosen.

You glanced at the door, as though the mere idea of being near Max would send everything crashing down again.

“So... you’re saying I can avoid him... for a while?”

Lily raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the suggestion. “Avoid him?” she repeated, the edge of disbelief creeping into her voice. “My Lady, if I may-"

“But I can?” you pressed, cutting her off, eyes wide with urgency. “You said I could take my time, right? Well, avoiding him sounds like taking my time to me.”

Lily sighed, the sound long and heavy, as though you were testing her patience. “Yes, My Lady, your free will does indeed allow you to avoid him, if that’s truly what you wish.”

A spark of triumph flickered inside you.

“Perfect.” You stood straighter, a plan forming in your mind. “Call for Sir Lando and Sir Oscar.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she eyed you suspiciously. “What for, My Lady?”

You gave her an almost manic grin, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly as your plan took shape. “They’re going to help me.”

“Help you... with avoiding your betrothed?” Lily asked slowly, a hint of disbelief creeping into her voice. She crossed her arms, studying you with a bemused expression.

“Yes,” you replied firmly, not an ounce of hesitation in your voice. “They’ll help me stay away from him. They’ll distract him, tell him I’m busy with... other things.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself, narrowing her eyes at you as if you had just suggested something ludicrous.

“My Lady,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone of mild reproach, “I must say, I don’t think that’s the most productive course of action.”

“Oh, please.” You threw your hands up dramatically. “I’m just trying to buy myself some time here. I can’t face him, not with these... feelings…whatever they are…bubbling up every time I even think about him. If I can just avoid him for a little while, I can breathe again.”

Lily shook her head, a small, resigned smile playing on her lips. “I don’t think this is the solution you’re looking for, My Lady. But if you insist on this... strategy, I can’t stop you.”

You raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued by the shift in her tone. “You can stop me, can’t you? You’re my lady’s maid. You’re supposed to stop me from making poor decisions.”

Lily raised an eyebrow right back at you. “I’m also supposed to help you navigate poor decisions, not prevent them entirely. And right now, this is just one of many decisions I’m going to let you make on your own.”

She paused, eyeing you carefully. “But just know, avoiding him isn’t going to give you the answers you need. It’ll only prolong the inevitable.”

You smiled sweetly, still not convinced. “Sometimes, a little delay is exactly what I need. Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. We’re betrothed, after all.”

“That you are,” Lily replied, her tone becoming slightly sharper. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be avoiding him. You’ve got time, but you also have a responsibility to work through your feelings. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”

You glanced toward the door, already plotting the next phase of your plan. “I’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, I’m going to need some assistance.”

Lily sighed again, louder this time.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze flicking to the door as though she were silently debating whether or not to humor you.

Finally, she gave a small nod. “Very well. I’ll fetch Sir Lando and Sir Oscar. But I’m warning you, My Lady, this avoidance strategy won’t last long.”

You grinned triumphantly as she turned to leave. “Thank you, Lily. You’re the best.”

As she stepped out of the room, you sank back into your chair, letting your mind wander to the next step of your plan.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing, but it felt better than facing Max and trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside you.

For now, avoiding him was the only option that seemed remotely manageable.

When Lily returned with your knights, they each looked at you with varying degrees of confusion and amusement, but you gave them a firm, confident look.

This plan was going to work.

You could make it work.

“Alright,” you said, standing tall, as though the sheer gravity of your decision had transformed you into a seasoned military strategist. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to make sure Max never sees me again.”

A pause hung in the air, heavy and expectant.

“Or at least… not for a while.”

Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance. Lando’s lips twitched upward, the beginnings of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, while Oscar’s furrowed brow and pursed lips betrayed his confusion.

“Right,” Lando said finally, leaning back and crossing his arms. His tone was equal parts incredulous and amused. “This ought to be good. What, exactly, do you want us to do, my Lady? This sounds like it’s going to be excellent for my boredom.”

Oscar’s expression tightened further. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, half to himself, his arms now folded.

You straightened your back, summoning all the confidence you could muster. “I am entirely serious. From this moment forward, I have suddenly become… extremely busy.”

Oscar blinked. “Busy,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes, busy,” you replied, the words tumbling out with an exaggerated air of importance. “So busy, in fact, that I won’t have a single moment to spare. And I need you two to help make sure that’s… believable.”

Lando arched an eyebrow, a grin now fully blossoming on his face. “Wait, let me get this straight. You want us to..what? Fabricate your life for a bit?”

“Exactly,” you said with a flourish of your hand, as though the absurdity of your request was irrelevant. “A little misdirection here, a well-timed excuse there. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can come up with something convincing.”

Lando let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “So, you’re asking us to keep Max, the man who has been running this house like a clock, distracted? To throw him off the scent entirely?”

“Precisely,” you said, lifting your chin.

Oscar looked less amused and more concerned, his practical nature coming to the forefront. “And what exactly is this plan supposed to achieve? You think if we keep him occupied for long enough, he’ll just… forget about you? You do realize who we’re talking about, right?”

“I don’t need him to forget,” you replied quickly, your voice rising slightly in pitch. “I just need him to be… preoccupied. Thoroughly distracted. He can’t be allowed to think about me, let alone come looking for me.”

Lando, who had been quietly observing, suddenly burst out laughing. “This is incredible. You’re trying to dodge the one man who could probably find you in his sleep.”

Oscar sighed again after a moment , clearly reluctant. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Excellent,” you said, clapping your hands together. “Now, let’s get to work.”

As Lando leaned back in his chair, still grinning, and Oscar reluctantly nodded his agreement, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. Surely, this would work. How hard could it be to outmaneuver Max Emilian Verstappen?

You tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that you might have just made a very, very big mistake.

—-

Permanent tag list:

@papichulomacy

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

71 / 2.1k / part 4 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

...

You're not stupid. You know fur won't save you. Their hunt is sweeter for prey that changes skin.

You'll pay for this. And they intend to make you pay in more than just blood--they want your fear, your pleasure, your vulnerability. Everything you've refused them until now.

You run until you reach the ancient chapel in the middle of the woods. Right as you reach the empty space where the front doors used to be, enormous paws slam into your back. The henbane's power ebbs. Your palm bleeds where glass shards remain embedded. The cracked stone steps, laced with overgrown brambles, press cold on your naked skin. Gaz's paws dig into your back as they shift into clawed fingers. You hear Soap's approach, too--the way he shifts halfway from crow to human as he lands behind you. The half-beast shape sharpens the look of starvation and lust in his bright eyes.

Gaz's claws dig into your shoulders as he flips you onto your back. You writhe as Soap's hands close around your legs and pull you between him and Gaz. Your body is human, but adrenaline and henbane trap your mind partway between animal instinct and human nerves. Your body is hot and your cunt swells and glistens as their rough hands grip you, squeeze you, drag you away from the entrance of the holy sanctuary, and spread you open over the forest floor. The chapel's crumbling walls loom over you, moonlight slicing through broken stained glass to paint your naked skin in fractured colors. You were so close.

Soap's claws carve crescent moons into your hips. "Think you're clever, aye?" His hand wraps around your throat and presses his thumb to your frantic pulse. "Playin' games with us."

Gaz pins your wrists above your head, his catlike pupils blown wide. Henbane still clouds his movements. He watches Soap spread your thighs. "She's dripping for it. Nothing better than a chase to make rabbits want to fuck."

Soap licks a stripe up your thigh and chuckles against your skin. "Knew you wanted to be caught. Should've stayed a rabbit. Och, but this is better," he groans against your skin, cock already pressing against your leg. "Fightin' us even when you're fucked raw on poison. Perfect."

The henbane twists everything--their snarls into hymns, the pain of being chased and held down into a perverse sacrament. With Gaz holding your wrists above your head and Soap holding your thighs apart, you're completely exposed. Your heartbeat makes your skin warm, makes it flush, and you know they can see how wet it makes you. Both sets of eyes are glued to your cunt.

You buck uselessly as your human pride compels you to fight. Then rabbit-like instincts compel you to lay still. Your throat is ragged from the chase.

Soap laughs. He splays his hand over your lower belly, pins you there, and leans mouthwateringly close to your cunt. From above your head, Gaz leans over you upside-down and drags a messy, open-mouthed kiss up your sternum. "Poor creature."

"Should've known she'd like this. Witch with a martyr complex. Gets off on being punished."

"Could've let the villagers take you," Gaz croons. "Would've paid good coin to watch 'em try to torture our witch. Bet you'd rut against their stakes just to feel something."

You feel Soap's breathy chuckle against your core and jerk. He holds you fast. "Could've just tied her spreadeagle to the old tree, aye? Let the whole village watch us fuck her. Ghost can have first go."

"Now that's just cruel."

Their cruel words braid into praise in your henbane-fogged mind. Soap licks a hot stripe through your folds, and your back arches against your will. He chuckles again, breath fogging your wetness. "Think she'll come on my tongue before Price gets here? Five silver coins says she screams."

Gaz's free hand pulls your head back to expose your throat. "Ten says she bites like a hare."

You writhe, but Gaz's grip is iron. Soap's mouth seals over your clit and sucks hard enough to blur your vision. Your thighs tremble. The pleasure is a serrated knife sawing through your weak resistance.

"Fuckin' starved," Soap growls against your cunt. His fingers spread you wider to lap harder at your clenching hole.

They move in tandem. Soap's tongue fucks into you, long and relentless, while Gaz’s hand angles your face toward himself. Gaz laps at your mouth and the beads of sweat saturating your skin to take his fill. As Soap's claws dig into your hips, your body betrays you over and over--arching into their mouths, cunt and throat clenching around nothing. You writhe, but Soap pins you harder and harder with each lathe, grinding you against the moss until your thighs shake. The henbane amplifies every sensation--the drag of his tongue, the scrape of Gaz's stubble against your neck, the damp earth beneath you. Every rough touch ignites nerve endings you didn't know you had. Your vision blurs at the edges. Rabbit instincts scream for you to submit even as your hips lift greedily for more.

Gaz releases your hair to palm your breast. "Slow down, Soap. Price'll skin us if we don't leave some fresh."

Soap's obscene groans vibrate through your core. He pulls back, lips glistening. "Better get here faster if he wants some, then. Him and Ghost both."

You moan at the loss of contact. Your hips chase his mouth, and his self-restraint snaps.

"Nah, fuck 'em." He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and pushes a finger inside you eagerly. Anything to get you wetter. "Let 'em hunt for themselves."

You're so high and dizzy, cheek pressed to the broken stone below, that it takes you a few seconds to notice when Gaz runs his hands up your arms, over your shoulders, and cups your jaw in his hands.

"Beg," he says softly. "Beg your servants to fuck you."

You whine as he lifts your front half up to kiss you. He practically cradles you in his arms--protective, but completely unyielding--and slips his tongue into your mouth to devour all he can.

You squirm and gasp around his tongue. The command surprises you enough that your humanity--your pride as a witch--surface over the instinct to submit. You sink your canines down on his invading tongue.

Gaz pulls back with a hiss. His eyes narrow and his pupils slit.

Soap laughs. "That's ten to you, then. Rabbits do bite, don't they?"

Gaz ignores him. His grip tightens around your jaw. He takes your mouth in another searing kiss that lasts until your lungs burn and you taste his blood in the back of your throat. He holds you captive there and enjoys the way Soap's finger-fucking forces your desperate moans into his mouth. Then he pulls back.

"Good rabbits," he growls, "know when to play dead."

Gaz's hand fists in your hair and yanks your head back. It forces a deeper arch into your back just as Soap slips a second finger into your cunt. You clench around the inclusion. God, it feels to good. You've been so careful, looked over your shoulder, smudged sage into every dark corner. So much tension, protecting yourself the way you need to, and nowhere to channel it. Even lying awake at night in your house, gritting your teeth and thumbing tight circles around your own clit, the release wasn't enough. Wasn't even practical. The animal in you never left; it only slept.

Soap's fingers curl inside you, calluses scraping your walls. He chuckles. "Greedy."

Gaz chuckles, too, at the sounds you're making. "Chatty."

Your back arches further as Soap adds a third finger. He stretches you ruthlessly. Gaz's other hand drifts down to circle your clit, fingers pressing hard enough to make your thighs twitch and shake.

"Look at her," Soap rasps. "Fightin' for more. Fuckin' made for this."

Ghost's howl rolls through the trees. A warped distortion of an owl's screech calls back in response.

"Price is coming," Gaz says.

Soap withdraws his fingers with a lewd schlick. He drags you upright and presses his chest against your back. "Better get our fill first, then."

Gaz spreads your legs wide. "Hold her open."

Soap grips your thighs as Gaz lines himself up. His cock drags through your slick--teasing at first, and then slow and rough with sudden hunger. You can't remember how to form words. Just as well--if you spoke, you'd only beg him to take you. So much for pride.

Then Price's shadow falls across all three of you. He descends from the trees as something resembling a screech owl--but larger, older, something that blurs your vision at the eddges with instinctive fear. But by the time he lands atop the leaf litter, his talons have already morphed into boots, and his enormous wingspan is gone.

"Having fun, boys?" Price's voice is venomously calm. "While I track our wayward witch through three miles of cursed thicket?"

Soap doesn't lift his eyes from his new view down your body. "Just securing the kill, Cap'n. Didn't you hear our signal?"

A lie. "Move."

Soap sighs and wipes his glistening chin. "That's five more coin."

He pulls away, but before he can withdraw--if he intended to at all, still eying you with hunger--Ghost is there. He grabs Soap by the neck and hurls him away as easily as a sack of cats. Soap skids across the moss, leaving furrows in the earth.

Ghost doesn't pause to see him react. He pins your hips down with a hand the size of your face. Gaz watches from above you with careful eyes as Ghost's claws divot your skin as he leans down. Gaz glances at Price, but wisely does not stand in the way.

Soap straightens up casually. "She's high as fuck on henbane, LT. Go easy."

The divots under Ghost's claws deepen. "No."

He replaces Soap's mouth with his own. The difference is immediate. Brutal. Where Soap languished, Ghost devours. His tongue spears into you, thick and unrelenting, fucking and scooping into your cunt with the same merciless rhythm a wolf would use to feed. You choke on a sob, heels digging into the loam.

Price's hand fists in Ghost's hair and yanks his head back. "Enough. She's not some tavern whore to be ruined before the main event."

Ghost licks your slick from his lips, gaze burning into yours. "Could be."

"Later." Price steps over you, boot between your splayed thighs. "Up. Now."

They haul you upright. Your legs buckle. Gaz catches you and bands his arm around your waist. You try to stand, leaning into him, but you're struggling to remember how. The sudden movement blurs your vision and your body aches from the chase and from the torment of pleasure still thrumming through your muscles.

The threshold of the church--holy ground--looms so close, still. Then, to your shock, Price crosses over that threshold. Right into the old hallowed church.

Your breath hitches. "How--?"

The chapel gives an echoing groan. "Sacrilege," Price mutters. He glances up at the half-collapsed rafters. "Good."

He turns, backlit by moonlight pouring through the broken windows. His shadow stretches long and strange across the altar. "You really thought a pile of crumbling stones could keep us out?" He taps the tattoo on his inner forearm--your mark, seared into his flesh the night you bound them. "We go where you go, darling. Even into God's own house."

Gaz's hand slides up your ribs and plucks at your nipple. "You're ours down to the marrow, love. Nowhere holy enough to change that. But we admire the effort. Running, hiding, getting us good and hungry." His too-sharp teeth graze the shell of your ear.

He pulls your head sideways to expose the scarred sigil behind your own ear. The one you branded there the night you summoned them.

Price unbuttons his coat. "You bound us. Fed us. Let our filth seep into your bones." His belt buckle clinks open. "Now you'll take your communion. Ghost," he commands. "The altar. Bind her."

Ghost pulls you out of Gaz's arms. Your fuzzy, drug-addled brain struggles to keep pace. Then the cold bite of iron shackles snaps shut around your wrists, chaining you to the marble surface of the altar. Ancient restraints meant for darker rites.

Soap whistles low. "Harsh even for you, LT."

Ghost stands. "Witch needs to learn her place isn't in the dirt." His boot nudges your spread thighs wider. "It's on her back."

...

← part 3 / [part 4] / part 5 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[aphrodicci]

ᴀꜱᴛᴇʀᴏɪᴅ ʙᴇʟʟᴀ [695]

follow for more content <3

get a chart reading done!

❦  asteroid bella [695] is an asteroid that means beauty, how and where you value beauty. this asteroid is also about your beauty on an energetic level, and how it manifests and shines.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 1H/ARIES ⟶ very in your face beauty, sharp and very bold. strong features, cheekbones are strong. head might be prominent even forehead. can value beauty a lot and even chase it. can even chase compliments. embracing sexuality, and very bombshell type of beauty. nice body and even chest. might have a beauty spot on their face or body.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 2H/TAURUS ⟶ can value beauty a lot. can only feel valued when they feel beautiful, very earthy type of beauty. like garden fairy or nymph type of attraction. very good singers, could like to kiss a lot. might buy a lot of beauty and self-care products. very feminine beauty, makes the people around them calm, and can have a really nice scent and voice.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 3H/GEMINI ⟶ the girl next door type of beauty. my friend's "sister" or like the school crush. could never see them again type of beauty. could either be careless about their beauty or could be very anxious about it. they could be the type of people to care about the trends, influencer type of essence like leah halton and can be a charming person, very flirtatious. could look similar to a relative.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 4H/CANCER ⟶ looking like your mother type of beauty, could have nice chests and cheekbones, the "i want to make you my wife or baby mother " type of beauty, beware of trappers! many beauty spots especially around chest area. classical type of beauty, like old hollywood. luscious hair and mysterious type of essence, classic television type of beauty, childhood crush and very sea mother type of energy.

♱ ASTEROID BELLA IN 5H/LEO ⟶ youthful but glamorous type of beauty. curly/big hair like starfire type of beauty. nice posture, could pose a lot, very 2000's beauty, not y2k aesthetic specifically. born for the spotlight, gold highlights and being a superstar type of essence. "i think you're famous" or "i think i've seen you before" type of beauty. stuck in your mind. could have beautiful children, creative and expressive style, many colours or dramatic makeup.

♱ ASTEROID BELLA IN 6H/VIRGO ⟶ classy type of beaut, might look for trends you could fit in. clean girl type of beauty; can chase beauty and could strive for perfection. "office girl" type of essence, glasses and cosplaying as another identity. wants to be better than other people, others could feel judged around them. work crush type of beauty. other people could envy your looks.

♱ ASTEROID BELLA IN 7H/LIBRA ⟶ temperance card/angel type of beauty. approachable, looks like a kind person, reminds me of the type of girl you would see in a perfume advert. light colour palette. flowy hair could be straight, can be very hip when it comes to their beauty, "she's like a rainbow" type of beauty, from the song she's a rainbow by the rolling stones. very beautiful people, could be known for that, and might take care of themselves all the time and could care of the opinions of others too much. could look nice in suits.

♱ ASTEROID BELLA IN 8H/SCORPIO ⟶ striking beauty, like a vampire. van helsing/dracula's brides. or like form interview with the vampire. could intimidate other people, other people would want to know your secrets. embracing sexuality and putting dark make up on yourself with white eyeshadow, it reminds me of alexa demie and gabriette. dark hair, luscious, big fur cat, wide and sharp smile, more succubus than siren.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 9H/SAGITTARIUS ⟶ another very in your face type of beauty, colourful beauty, might be fetishised, "exotic beauty", very catchy beauty; ambiguous as well. golden skin, type of holiday romance type of crush, can look good in a variety type of make up, especially blues. dimples and a lot of beauty moles, very nice hair, the attractive person in an air port. the type to be everybody's type. easy-going energy, makes other people laugh, and their humour also makes them attractive.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 10H/CAPRICORN ⟶ another classic beauty, being a model type of beauty. slicked back hair and up do's. type to influence other people with their styles, strong and sharp features, either jaw, cheeks or eyebrows. can look good in either muted or bold colours, women in suits, intimidating beauty, cares about how they look. another indicator of work-crush type of beauty, are known for their attractive features, could have a nice body as well.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 11H/AQUARIUS ⟶ very other-worldly type of beauty, alien, mermaid and fairy. the type to rock every outfit you wear, creating trends and could gain fame on the internet because of your looks. being eccentric makes you liked by other people, could be the friend crush, or you crush on other friends. could also manifest to your friends friend having a crush on you. "i did it first" type of beauty, like make up trend other people might find weird in the beginning but as time passes they would follow it.

♇ ASTEROID BELLA IN 12H/PISCES ⟶ mystical beauty, past lover type of beauty. "i think i know you from another life." haunting and siren beauty. like a ghost, has the type of essence that'll make other people want to drop everything for you. but could chase compliments/people. others could envy your beauty. glamour magick type of attraction. could be watched a lot, can draw people in easily. people could stalk you because of your looks. could remind other people of the fae, could be the one that envies other people.

masterlist

get a chart reading

♇ pluto

[starsfic]

The Desire to Move

I saw @kyri45's newest Shadowpeach Bio Parents part and I got inspired. Spoilers for the AU.

Qi Xiaotian had been having a regular day.

At least, the new form of "regular." He would check on the mountain to make sure all the monkeys were doing okay. He would get paperwork from Heaven- he was surprised that he even got a "job" from them, but he did it even if it was boring. He would run deliveries. He would go on dates with Red, hang out with Long Xiaojiao, and spend time with his parents. He would have sessions with the therapist Sandy introduced to him.

Every weekend, he would check on his bio parents and his baby sibling.

There was no visible change each time. Xiaotian tried to not let it push him into despair. He had to be patient. It had only been a few months.

This morning, he woke on his own. He yawned, scratching his neck absentmindedly. He glanced out the window. The sun was only just beginning to rise, the sun revealing strips of pink and orange. His hands twitched with the desire to draw it.

Instead, he laid there.

He wasn't sure why he didn't move. The desire to get up itched at him. However, he didn't move, not even to grab his phone and scroll social media. Instead, he watched the sun slowly rise.

His ears twitched as a soft swoosh hit his ears.

He would have assumed it was a soft breeze, whistling outside, if something didn't land on his stomach a second later.

Xiaotian grunted, raising his head in time to see familiar purple magic disappear. "What the-"

The sight of a baby monkey made him freeze.

The baby had an annoyed expression that eerily resembled the few times he had seen Wukong get annoyed. Their face mask resembled Macaque's mask, save for a slash across the nose. Their bangs resembled Wukong's like their expression, save for the way the fur fell almost like a bob. They held eye contact with familiar eyes, finally looking away to curl up on his stomach like a cat. When they were settled, they closed their eyes, the annoyed expression smoothing into a soft little smile.

Love hit Xiaotian like a rock. Or a stone monkey.

"H...hi..." he whispered, reaching out to stroke their fur. His baby sibling softly leaned into the touch, their curl relaxing slightly. He had no idea how they had even shadow-portalled here, but Xiaotian didn't care. "I...I'm so happy to meet you."

The desire to move had left him.

He was more than happy to stay here until his sibling was satisfied with their nap...

Or their parents came looking.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

★ CRAZY LION , 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

✧ paring : lion!mydei x bunny fem!reader. (hybrids)

✧ warnings : nsfw/smut, size kink, creampie (vaginal & anal), p*rn with slight plot, nipple play, tit slapping, drooling breeding kink, dumbfaction, cock-drunk reader, predator x prey, multiple of rounds, filthy sēx, rough sēx, slight yandere mydei and dubcon.

✧ synopsis : In a world ruled by predators, you—a soft, innocent bunny healer—are gifted to Mydeimos, a ruthless lion warlord known for breaking prey. You were meant to be dead, but your scent drives him into a feral obsession. Now trapped in his den, you're hunted, ruined, and bred nightly until you’re dumb on his cock. Mydei was sent to kill you… but now he wants only one thing: to keep you full, obedient, and forever his. ૮꒰ིྀ˶꜆´˘`꜀˶꒱ིྀა ‎

Your wrists ache from the ropes.

Not tight enough to scar—but just enough to remind you what you are now. Prey. Caged. Offered. Kneeling on a furred pelt in the center of a war-beast’s den.

The lion watches from his throne of bone and iron. Gold mane tousled from a recent battle. Eyes half-lidded. Relaxed, dangerous.

“Mydei,” someone whispers from the doorway. “The bunny healer has arrived.”

His gaze lands on you—and your blood stills.

He doesn’t speak. He stalks—steps heavy, slow. His body towers over you, built from war and ruin, the scent of blood and smoke still clinging to his body. A shadow falls across your face.

Then: the slow drag of a claw under your chin, lifting your face.

“You're smaller than I imagined,” he mutters, low and cruel. “Soft little thing. They said you were brave.” A pause. “I hate liars.”

You open your mouth to protest—but he’s already behind you, yanking you up by the rope at your wrists, forcing you to stand on trembling legs.

You feel him press against your back. Something massive. Hot. Hard.

“You’re going to break so pretty for me.”

You don’t answer—not because you won’t, but because you can’t. Not when he reaches around to grab a handful of your tits and slaps them together, your breath hitching at the sting.

Not when his tongue drags across your throat.

Not when he says, “I'm going to keep you full until you forget your name, little rabbit. Until you drool for it. Until you can't run.”

Your legs buckle slightly, but Mydei’s hand is there—gripping your waist, thumb pressing into the soft curve of your belly as if claiming it. You flinch when he pulls you tighter against him, his cock grinding between your ass cheeks, heavy and obscene even through the thin layer of his pants.

“You smell like fear,” he growls against your ear, his voice deep and cracked like a wildfire. “And it’s delicious.”

You gasp, breath hitching when his fingers slide up your front and yank your robes down in one rough motion. The fabric tears, the neckline giving way until your breasts bounce free—already sensitive, already betraying you with how hard your nipples are.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His hand cups one tit roughly, squeezing, then delivers a sharp slap across the soft flesh. You whine, hips twitching forward, humiliation flooding your face. The sting makes your eyes water.

“That’s better,” he mutters, watching your reactions like a predator sizing up its wounded catch. “Already shaking. Already drooling a little, aren’t you?”

His lion tail wraps around one of your thighs, as your thighs press together instinctively. His hand dips lower, sliding between them, testing the heat and wetness there. You shouldn't be soaked. You shouldn't. But your body betrays you fast under his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice laced with condescension. “So ready. You bunnies break so easy.”

He turns you to face the wall, pushing your chest against the stone with one hand between your shoulder blades. The ropes at your wrists are loosened—only so he can pull your arms above your head, stretching you out for him. The position arches your back perfectly, your ass lifted high, presenting.

He steps back for a moment. You hear the rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of a belt hitting the floor.

Then silence.

Until the blunt, thick head of his cock presses against your dripping cunt.

“No preparation,” he mutters, voice heavy with lust and cruelty. “You don’t deserve it. You’re going to take all of me just like this.”

You whimper, trying to look back at him, only to feel his palm push your face against the wall.

“Don’t look at me. Just feel it.”

And then he’s pushing in.

Too big. Far too big.

You gasp—a high, helpless sound—as the stretch burns, forcing you open inch by inch. Your hands claw at the stone wall. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He grinds his cock in deeper until he bottoms out, the thick base of him pressed flush to your ass.

You’re trembling. Babbling something incoherent.

“Can’t even talk anymore,” he growls, rutting into you with sharp, brutal thrusts now. “What happened to all that fight, little bunny?”

All you can do is moan, tongue lolling as he fucks into you with relentless force. Your body shakes with every snap of his hips, your tits bouncing from the impact, nipples aching and raw.

He reaches around and slaps them again—harder.

You scream, not from pain, but from the way your pussy clenches around him, dripping now, your arousal painting his cock with every stroke.

“You like that,” he huffs, panting against your neck. “You’re getting dumb on it. Drunk off cock. Filthy little prey.”

“You like that,” Mydei growls again, biting into the shell of your ear, sharp breath fanning over your sweat-damp skin. “You’re getting dumb on it. Drunk off cock. Filthy little prey.”

You don’t even realize the words leaving your mouth until you hear yourself—slurred, high-pitched, desperate:

“Y-yes… yes, Mydei—feels… s’good, I c-can’t—!”

He laughs. A cruel, low sound that rumbles in his chest.

“Oh? You can’t?” He thrusts harder, deeper, until your legs nearly give out. “Can’t what? Think? Breathe? Or speak like anything but my little breeding bunny?”

Your walls clench around him at the word, and he notices. His pace stutters for a moment.

“Well, well,” he grins darkly. “That’s what you want, huh? You want me to breed you? Fill up that needy cunt till it leaks down your thighs?”

You moan—loud, whiny—shame and pleasure melting into one thick, liquid heat in your core.

“Say it.”

You’re panting now, drooling slightly, the wall slick beneath your cheek where you’ve pressed your flushed face against it.

“P-please… breed me, Mydei… want it so bad… want your cum… want it inside, I wanna be full…”

He slams into you with a growl so deep it rattles your spine.

“Fuck, you were made for this,” he grits. “Tight, stupid little cunt just begging to be pumped full.”

His hips snap faster now, rough and punishing, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the den. One of his hands grips your throat from behind, the other grabbing both of your long bunny ears and pulling them.

“Gonna knock you up,” he snarls. “Gonna make sure everyone sees who you belong to—waddling around this den dripping with my seed.”

You're sobbing now—overwhelmed, ruined, so close.

“I—I'm gonna—!”

“Take it.” he growls, burying himself to the hilt as his cock throbs deep inside you.

Your vision blurs. Your body seizes. And then you're cumming—hard, clenching around him like your body’s begging to keep him inside.

Mydei follows with a guttural roar, hips locking tight as he unloads inside you, hot spurts filling your pussy so full it makes your belly ache. He doesn’t stop until you’re dripping, stuffed full and whimpering, your thighs slick and trembling.

He pulls out slowly, watching his cum spill down your legs.

Then he grips your hips again—rougher this time.

You blink blearily. “Wha—Mydei, I—I can’t…”

He leans in, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Oh, you can. You’ve got another hole, little bunny.”

Your breath hitches.

“N-no, ‘s too big, you won't fit—”

“I'll make it fit.”

His cock, still hard, still leaking, presses against your asshole now—teasing, threatening. His grip tightens as he bends over you, voice nothing but raw hunger.

“You’re gonna take it. Every inch. And you’re gonna thank me when I ruin that tight ass too.”

Your breath comes in shallow, choked little gasps as Mydei presses the thick head of his cock against your tight, puckered hole.

Still stretched and leaking from the brutal fucking he just gave your cunt, you squirm, body weak, trembling, your voice barely coherent.

“M-Mydei—please, I c-can’t… it won’t fit…”

“Yes, it will,” he growls into your ear, his hot breath fanning down your neck. “You’re going to take it. Gonna stretch that tight little ass open and fill it the fuck up.”

His hands—those massive, rough hands—spread your cheeks wider, exposing your slick, ruined pussy and twitching asshole. His seed drips down your thighs, warm and sticky, and he uses it—gathers the mess on his fingers, smearing it up over your rim with a cruel chuckle.

“Look at you. Dripping like a bred little bunny. Might as well plug you up properly.”

You whimper, biting your lip, body too spent to fight him—but part of you doesn’t want to. You're too far gone. Pussy still twitching, still clenching around nothing, desperate and sensitive.

“Be a good girl and push back for me,” he murmurs, mocking, as he starts to press his cock in.

The stretch is unbearable.

Worse than before.

You cry out, hands clawing at the stone wall, legs nearly buckling as the fat tip forces its way inside. He groans behind you—deep and possessive.

“So tight,” he hisses. “Fuck, you’re choking me.”

“Mydei—nnh—hurts—s’too much,” you slur, eyes wide, tears streaking your face. “Too full, c-can’t—!”

“Yes you can,” he snarls. “You're mine. You’ll take all of it. Every inch until you’re ruined.”

He drives in deeper, slowly, steadily, forcing your body to yield. The stretch burns, tears prick your eyes—but there's something intoxicating about it. About being this helpless. This stuffed. This completely at his mercy.

“Gonna make you remember this,” he growls, rutting into your ass with growing force, one hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back to hear every breathy, wrecked moan you make. “Gonna fuck your ass until your little brain forgets anything but my cock.”

You’re babbling now—words barely intelligible.

“Too deep—so big—Mydei, I-I’m gonna—gonna lose it—!”

He slaps your ass, hard. It echoes.

“You already have, bunny. Just a hole now. A dumb little fucktoy for me to use. My prey.”

His pace is brutal now—deep, savage thrusts that leave your legs shaking. Your belly bulges slightly with each push, his cock so thick, so deep it feels like it’s rearranging your guts.

And you’re moaning.

Loud. Mindless. Wrecked.

“Mydei—oh gods—fuck, I’m—!”

You cum again. From your ass. Just from being stuffed and used and owned.

Your thighs quake. Your voice breaks. You go limp—but he doesn’t stop.

“Not done,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “Not till I breed this hole too.”

And when he finally buries himself to the hilt, roaring low and dark, his cum floods your ass with heat—thick, messy spurts that fill you until it leaks past the tight seal of your stretched hole.

You’re gasping. Drooling. Broken open and dripping.

He stays inside you a moment longer, grinding deep, making sure none of it escapes.

Then he pulls back slowly, watching his seed spill out of both your holes.

You twitch, your body used, overstimulated, wrecked beyond speech.

And he smiles.

“Still got one more round in me,” he murmurs darkly, stroking himself back to hardness.

“Let’s see how many times I can break you tonight.”

You don’t even feel human or bunny anymore.

You're drooling, body slumped against the wall, trembling from the overstimulation, both holes leaking his cum—so much of it, thick and warm and humiliating. Your ass is raw, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, thighs slick, skin flushed and marked where Mydei held you, slapped you, owned you. Your long fluffy ears flattening, as your fluffy tail twitched.

And yet—

When he grabs you by the hair again and yanks your head up, you moan like you want more.

“That’s what I thought,” he snarls. “Still twitching for me. Still hungry.”

You’re past speaking. Past begging. Just a ruined, sensitive mess in his grip.

He drags you to the floor—face down, ass raised—and mounts you again like an animal. No warning. No tenderness. Just pure, raw, brutal need.

You scream when he thrusts back into your ass, deeper than before, his cum helping him slide in too easily now. He sets a punishing rhythm from the start, your body jolting forward with every brutal slam of his hips.

“Look at you,” he snarls through clenched teeth. “Still open. Still taking it. You were made for this—little bunny holes begging to be filled.”

You’re sobbing again. But your ass keeps clenching around him. Your pussy’s leaking like you’re still cumming. Your voice is hoarse from moaning and crying, but the only thing you can say is:

“More…”

His laugh is wicked. “Oh, I’ll give you more.”

He fucks you harder. Meaner. One hand gripping your hips, the other coming down hard on your ass, your thighs, your tits—slapping you until your body is stinging and marked up just how he wants it. Just how he needs it.

“Gonna leave you so ruined no one else’ll ever want you,” he growls. “So stretched, so bred, they’ll know who you belong to the second they smell you.”

He cums again, loud, primal, rutting deep until your belly feels swollen with it. You twitch beneath him, body limp and spent, utterly destroyed in every way. Physically. Mentally. Sexually.

You’re his.

He collapses over you, panting, breath hot against the back of your neck.

And then—for the first time—he stills.

“…I wasn’t supposed to do this.”

His voice is quiet now. Not regretful. Not soft. But…haunted.

You blink through tears. Confused. Barely conscious.

“What…?”

Mydei doesn’t move. He’s still buried in your ass, still caging your body beneath his weight.

“I was sent here to kill you,” he whispers.

Your blood runs cold.

“They said you were dangerous. A halfbreed. Born from something no kingdom wants alive.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“I was supposed to drag your body back to the Lion Court as proof. That’s why I found you in that den. That’s why I followed your scent.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide.

“And yet,” he continues, voice now sharp, low, strained, “I saw you run. Fragile. Stupid. Beautiful. And I couldn’t kill you.”

You’re shaking now, not from the aftershocks, but from fear.

“I still don’t know what the fuck you are, bunny,” he says, pulling out of your ruined hole with a wet sound and a groan. “But I know one thing—”

He grabs your face, making you look up at him, his eyes burning like golden fire.

“Now you’re mine.”

He leans close, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.

“So if anyone comes hunting for you…I’ll kill them first.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[kissandtellus]

True Treasure

Synopsis: Dragon Hybrid!reader is pregnant with Sylus’ first clutch. Just Sylus being cute + caring.

Warnings: Egg laying (sorry yall), one sentence about cleaning up after the eggs, praising, fluffy Sylus, don’t really know the world of dragons so I’m making it up as I go.

Sylus watches with red, stern eyes as his mate walked the length of the nest, hands cupping under her heavy belly. This clutch is insistent, stubborn and so tiring. Sylus is watching with bated breath, sharp red eyes following her movements.

The nest has been meticulously created by Sylus, adding warm furs and treasure with his scent coated on every piece. But she hadn’t even stepped foot close to it, refusing to relax.

Sylus purrs, the sound deep in his chest. He stands from the makeshift throne of stone and jewels. “Be calm, sweet girl.” He rumbles, approaching her cautiously.

Her nostrils are flaring, a thin white smoke puffing from them. “I cannot sit still. It’s nearly impossible.” She groans, waving a hand at Sylus, a small signal to not approach her further.

But Sylus was never that good at signals.

He tries his best to obey the furrowing of her brows and the way her wings twitch and shiver in pain. Until she lets out a groan more akin to dragon.

Sylus quickly moves to her side, his large frame looming over her. "Breathe," he commands firmly, his voice softer now. He knows the signs, he's seen it before. The contractions are starting. "It's time, isn't it?"

She wants to utter a sharp rebuttal but she groans, giving a small nod. Her hair falls around her horns a bit. Sylus gently guides her back to the nest, sitting behind her as he braids her hair out of her face, humming an old dragon song under his breath.

As Sylus gently braids her hair, his large hands moving carefully to avoid her horns, he hums an old dragon lullaby. The song is meant to soothe both mother and hatchlings during birth. His tail wraps gently around her waist, providing support as she leans back against him.

While continuing to braid her hair, Sylus presses his forehead against her temple. His deep, resonant voice continues the ancient melody. "Breathe through it," he whispers, feeling her body tense with another contraction. "You're doing well," he adds softly, knowing how vulnerable and exposed she must feel.

He finishes braiding her hair just as another contraction hits. This time, she lets out a pained whimper, causing his scales to prickle in reaction. He presses closer, murmuring calming words in their ancient language into her ear - "Thaethera'ma. Easy now, my heart."

She leans her head back, the dragon language soothing her nerves. She lets out a soft cry that echoes off the walls of the cave.

"That's it," he murmurs, supporting her properly now, his large frame molding to hers. The dragon language flows smooth from his throat, ancient phrases meant to ease her suffering. His clawed hands press gently against her lower belly as the contraction peaks. "Almost over," he whispers.

As the first egg emerges, slick and glistening, Sylus lets out a soft rumble of approval.

His tail wraps tighter around her, supporting her as she pushes out the second egg, and then the third. He counts them silently, ensuring the clutch is complete. "Perfect.”

She digs her claws into the nest. Sylus is now between her legs. He gently grasps the back of her head. She roughly bumps her horns into his, growling with fangs exposed.

Sylus responds to her growl with a low rumble, understanding her primal need for dominance even in this vulnerable state. He gently presses his horns against hers, allowing her to assert herself while he continues to support her through the final stages of labor. "Good girl," he murmurs approvingly.

As the last egg slips out, Sylus immediately begins to clean her, his tongue gentle yet firm as he laps at her belly and between her legs. He cleans the eggs gently, making sure they're warm and safe. "You did beautifully," he praises, nuzzling against her neck.

"Three beautiful hatchlings," he whispers, carefully arranging the eggs in the nest. He presses his chest against her back, providing warmth and comfort. His wings shield them both from the cave's cooler air as he gently rubs his cheek against her horns, a sign of deep respect and love.

His little family, his true treasures.

Next Chapter ->

[fixated-cookies]

Ok but I NEED Dark Cacao carnally. This man is a DILF! I want to ride this old man until he is wheezing. I want him to keep cumming til i give him a second child. I want to annoy the shit outta him til he puts me in my place. Do you see the vision?

No wife + overworking = backed up to hell and I am willing to unclog his plumbing

OH I SEE THE VISION BTW ANON THIS IS SO RUSHED IM SO SORRY

MDNI

teasing with dark cacao cookie?

He’s not easily riled by bratty little words. He’s used to politics, war, and endless noise. But what he’s not used to…?

Pretty little thing with hands that linger on his arm for just a second too long, brushing against his thigh as you sit beside him like it’s nothing. A gentle pat on his chest when you laugh. A hand to his shoulder when you leave the room. Always touching, always lingering, always just a little too close.

And the worst part?

You don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. Not really. You’re always hanging around the war table, swinging your legs, tracing your fingers along the edges of scrolls you have no business touching, glancing up at him with those big eyes and that smirking little mouth. "You’ve been growling all day. Maybe you need to get laid instead of lecturing everyone."

He grits his teeth. Every. Time. But he says nothing.

Until you lean over his shoulder to "look at the map," your hand brushing his thigh, your breath warm against his ear, and— That’s it. That’s the last straw. He grabs your wrist. Slowly. Firmly. Turns in his seat to look you dead in the eyes. "Are you aware of what you’re doing?" You blink. Tilt your head. Maybe laugh. "What, this? I’m just being friendly." And his eye twitches. Just once.

"You’ve been testing me. Brushing against me. Pressing those little hands where they don’t belong. Did you think there would be no consequences?" You don’t even know what’s happening until you’re backed against a stone pillar, his massive frame shadowing yours, his voice low and dangerously controlled. You open your mouth—something sharp, probably. But then? He grabs your thigh, lifts it, and presses his knee between your legs.

"Speak again, and I’ll remind you how your mouth is better used." Your back presses against the cold stone, and his massive hand is braced beside your head. The other? Gripping your thigh, holding you open against his knee—just enough pressure to make you squirm, not enough to relieve the ache quickly building between your legs.

You try to speak. Maybe to sass back. Maybe to apologize.But he doesn't let you. Instead, he presses forward—his hips flush to yours, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. "Mouthy little thing. You want attention so badly?" he breathes close."You’ll get it." He kisses you. Hard. Deep. Claiming.

His mouth is hot and demanding, and the moment you gasp, he devours the sound. He doesn’t move gently—he presses you into the pillar, lips bruising, tongue dominant, tasting your surprise and stealing your air. His hands roam now—gripping your ass, tugging you flush to him. You can feel him. Thick. Heavy. Rock-hard. Grinding against you with slow, agonizing pressure, dragging along your clothed heat like it’s his personal war drum.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" he growls against your lips. "To be handled. Pinned. Bred." "You think teasing me earns you control?" "No. It earns you this."

He lifts you. Lifts. You. As if you weigh nothing.Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, and his hands hold you there—so easily, like you were meant to be there—grinding you down against the sharp heat of his cock, still fully clothed, letting you feel the outline of what he’s going to ruin you with. Now he’s carrying you to his bed like you’re nothing but a needy little thing in heat—because you are. And the moment your back hits those thick, fur-lined pelts and his armor drops to the floor with a heavy clang? You get exactly what you asked for.

He stands at the edge of the bed, fully bare now, broad and powerful and so hard it’s almost painful to look at. His body is scarred, worn from centuries of battle—and every inch of it is carved like stone, heavy muscle and old strength that shouldn’t be this beautiful. "Is this what you wanted?" he rumbles, voice low and already strained, chest rising with controlled breaths. "To ride your king? To milk him dry until you’re full?" He climbs onto the bed, looming over you—but instead of taking control, he settles against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting heavy at his sides.

And he waits. "Go on."

And oh, you do.You climb into his lap, trembling, soaked, guiding him to your entrance—thick, heavy, hot—and when you sink down? Both of you groan. You feel everything.The stretch. The heat. The depth. He fills you entirely—like your womb remembers him, aches for him, was made for this. "Tight little thing," he groans, head falling back, muscles tense. "You love this. I can feel it." And you ride him. Rocking your hips in tight, grinding circles. Bouncing. Gasping. Letting your hands press to his chest as you work him to the edge.He’s gritting his teeth, trying to hold it back—but you see it.

The sweat. The shaky breath.

The wheezing groan that rumbles up from deep in his chest when you clench around him just right."D-Don't— nghh—don’t do that again. I'll finish too fast—" But you do it again. And again. Until this mountain of a man is gripping your hips, eyes wide, panting into your shoulder, barely able to thrust up into you without shuddering.

"Y-you want it that badly? Then take it. Take everything. Every drop. Every seed."

And when he finishes?

It doesn’t stop. Hot, heavy, pulsing release that leaves you full. Stuffed. So much it leaks out before he even softens.

And you? You collapse forward. Breathless. Shaking. But he wraps his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and whispers:

"You’ll give me another child." "You’ll stay here. Beside me. In my bed." "No more teasing, no more running. Just this. Again. And again."

DILF RIDER DILF RIDER DILF RIDDEERRRR. THIS IS SOO SHORT OMG IM SO ASHAMED. REQUEST ARE OPENNN

[slutoru1207]

Home Among the Stars 

A/N: I felt like writing something cute. Also, im currently fixing everything on my tumblr sooo sorry it's taking some time. OMG i need people to inbox me so can make more invincible x reader or any characters!!!

Mark had noticed it before you ever said a word.

The way your fingers traced over old photos from Earth. The way your gaze lingered on the horizon, looking for something that wasn’t there. The little sighs you let out when you thought he wasn’t listening.

You never complained. Never said you wanted to leave. But Mark knew you—better than anyone. And he could see it.

You missed home.

And that? That was something he could fix.

It took weeks. Months, even.

Mark wasn’t a builder. He could destroy things easily, tear down mountains with his bare hands—but creating? That was new. Still, he was determined.

He studied Earth architecture. Found materials that mimicked wood and stone. He obsessed over the details—down to the soft creak of the porch steps, the way the kitchen felt warm and inviting, the big windows letting in natural light. He even made sure the house had a proper backyard, one big enough for you.

Because this? This wasn’t just a house.

This was your home.

When he took you there, he didn’t say a word.

Just scooped you up in his arms and flew—fast enough to make you yelp, slow enough to keep you close. The alien landscape stretched beneath you, endless hills and skies. But then—

You saw it.

Nestled in a quiet valley, a house. But not just any house—your house.

A wraparound porch hugged the front, wooden beams carved with care. The windows reflected the soft light, and a little pathway led to the backyard. It looked so out of place in this world, yet so right.

Your breath caught. “Mark…”

But he was already watching you, waiting—eyes flickering over your face, desperate to see your reaction.

“Do you like it?” he asked, voice softer than usual. Almost hesitant.

You turned to him, heart swelling. “I love it."

If Mark thought you were just going to sit in your perfect little house and do nothing—he was wrong.

Within days, you had a plan.

The backyard? Your domain now.

Mark stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as you knelt in the dirt—carefully planting rows of vegetables, fruit, and roses.

He had never seen you so focused. There was a smear of soil on your cheek, your hands covered in dirt, but you were glowing.

"This is ridiculous,” he muttered, though he was grinning.

You wiped sweat from your forehead, smirking up at him. “You built me a house. I’m making it a home.”

And he couldn’t argue with that.

Despite not needing to eat as often as humans, Mark still insisted on helping you in the kitchen. You taught him how to knead dough, chop vegetables (without crushing them), and make dishes from scratch.

One night, he surprised you by making dinner on his own.

It was… chaotic. Flour on the counter, ingredients everywhere, but he stood there proudly, holding a plate of slightly misshapen but adorable homemade dumplings.

You tried one. Not bad.

Mark raised a brow. “That good, huh?”

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him. “It’s perfect.”

One evening, as the sky turned soft shades of orange and pink, Mark called you outside.

You stepped onto the porch—only to see a tiny puppy sitting at his feet.

White fur, light brown spots, floppy ears, and huge soulful eyes. It looked up at you and let out a tiny bark.

Your heart melted.

“Oh my god—” you crouched down instantly, scooping up the little thing. It fit perfectly in your arms, soft and warm. The puppy licked your cheek, tail wagging furiously.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, looking smug. “I figured you might want some company when I’m out.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. “You got us a dog?”

His arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as he hummed, “Mmm, yeah. But mostly for you.”

You turned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you.”

He grinned. “I know.”

After a long day of planting, cooking, and running around with your new puppy, the two of you sat on the porch.

The sky above was endless, filled with stars brighter than anything on Earth.

You leaned against Mark, wrapped in a soft blanket, a cup of tea in your hands. His arm was slung around you, warm and secure. The puppy curled up at your feet, tiny snores filling the air.

“You happy?” he murmured, voice low and gentle.

You turned, looking at him—the strongest warrior in the universe, the same man who built you a home with his own two hands just to make you smile.

You kissed him softly. “Yeah. I really am.”

And in that moment, with the universe stretching out before you, Mark realized something.

This wasn’t just your home.

It was his, too.

Because wherever you were—that’s where he belonged.

[ducksido]

Hai! Could u possibly make a Idia x reader fic where reader gets accidentally turned into a cat during a potion fuck up (ahem ahem ace) and ran to Idia since they’re like dating and then Idia is like wow! The kitty is very cute and nice and like fluffy

Ysyyayasyyayayaya

Cat-tastrophe in Ignihyde

(OOH BOY! *read in mickey mouse voice* This was a long one! But i love it 😺💕)

You were having an okay day. That is, until Ace happened. During a demonstration Crewel was doing to the class on how to make an awakening potion, Ace was messing around while Deuce and you tried stopping him, he added random things he found, then Deuce grabs his arm to stop him but Ace jerks and accidently knocks the cauldron. Right onto you. (ouch)

“Oops.”

"Oops? ACE, WHAT DO YOU MEAN—" Your words cut off as a dizzy spell overtook you, your limbs suddenly feeling way too small. The world around you spun and grew impossibly large, the potions classroom stretching into a towering labyrinth of desks and cauldrons.

When the dizziness faded, you tried to speak again, but instead of words, a small, indignant mew left your mouth.

Oh. Oh no.

Ace blinked at you, then burst into laughter. "Oh, man, this is so not my fault!"

You swiped a paw at his ankle, hissing. Of course this was his fault. You should’ve known better than to let him mess with potions unsupervised.

“Okay, okay! We just—uh—need to fix this! Before Crewel finds out and skins me alive!”

But you weren’t sticking around for that. Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to be some test subject while Ace scrambled to fix his mistake. So, you did the first thing that came to mind: you bolted.

You darted between legs, leapt over bags, and made it out of the classroom before Ace could even think about catching you. Your paws pattered against the stone halls of Night Raven College as you sped towards the one place you knew you’d be safe—Idia’s room.

Idia was having a normal day—well, as normal as it could get for a shut-in gaming enthusiast with crippling social anxiety. He was curled up in his chair, controller in hand, deep into an online raid when he heard it.

A small, insistent scratching at his door.

He frowned, pushing his headset down. "Huh?" He wasn't expecting anyone. Ortho always just floated in. No one else ever came to his room.

Another scratch.

Slowly, he rolled his chair over and cracked the door open, only for something small and fluffy to dart inside, weaving between his legs.

"What the—?" He turned just in time to see a cat—no, the cutest cat he had ever seen—flop onto his rug like it owned the place. Its fur was soft-looking, its ears twitching slightly as it blinked up at him with the biggest, most familiar eyes.

“Wait, wh—?” Idia felt his brain short-circuit. Where did this adorable little guy come from? His heart pounded as the cat rolled over and stretched, letting out a small, contented mrrp.

He was weak. He was so weak.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, slowly sinking to the floor. “You’re so cute.”

The cat gave him a smug look.

Idia hesitated for a second before tentatively reaching out. When the cat didn’t bolt, he gently scratched behind its ears. The purr that rumbled from its chest was instant.

"This is fine," he mumbled, cheeks dusting pink. "This is totally fine. New best friend acquired. I didn't even have to leave my room. Achievement unlocked."

The cat—you—sighed, clearly exasperated, and then, in a moment of absentmindedness, batted at his controller with a very familiar level of irritation.

Idia froze.

The way you huffed. The way you swatted his stuff when you were annoyed. The look in your eyes.

His brain ran through the possibilities. There was no way this was a coincidence.

“…Y/N?” His voice was quiet, but the way your ears perked told him everything.

You gave him an exasperated look, as if saying, About time, idiot.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, staring at you in horror. "Y/N, what the hell happened to you?!"

You flicked your tail and gave a pointed glare, trying to communicate the words: Ace. Potion. Fix it.

Idia groaned, running a hand down his face. "Of course it was Ace. I should've known."

Still, he couldn't deny—while this was an absolute disaster—you were an incredibly cute cat.

He coughed, ears turning red. "W-Well, uh... at least you’re cute?"

You smacked his knee with your paw.

"Ow! Okay, okay, I'll help fix this!" He quickly grabbed his tablet, typing away. "I'll find a cure, I swear. Just—just don't tell anyone I was calling you cute, okay?!"

You gave him a slow blink—the cat equivalent of a smug grin. Oh, he was never living this down.

Idia was still reeling from the realization that his adorable new feline companion was actually you, his partner, when you decided to make yourself even more comfortable.

You stretched lazily, then strutted across his room, tail flicking as you inspected your surroundings. Idia watched, wide-eyed, as you jumped onto his bed with an effortless grace that made him momentarily forget that this was you and not just a random cat.

"Y/N," he muttered, half-exasperated, half-in-awe, "you’re really leaning into this whole ‘cat’ thing, huh?"

You ignored him, settling down in the middle of his pillow.

Idia gawked. "My pillow?! Bro, I—? That’s where I sleep! Wait, do cats even have hygiene—never mind, I don’t wanna know."

You rolled onto your back, stretching luxuriously before flicking your tail in a way that told him you were absolutely staying right there.

Idia groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This is some kind of cosmic punishment. I must've triggered a bad RNG roll.”

A moment later, he peeked through his fingers and saw you happily kneading his blanket. His heart nearly exploded on the spot.

"You're so cute, I—" He clutched his chest like he was taking critical damage. "I might actually die."

You purred, clearly pleased with yourself.

About ten minutes later, after typing frantically on his tablet to find a solution (Why are there no ‘how to turn your s/o back from a cat’ guides? People turn into cats way too often at this school), Idia hesitated. His golden eyes darted to his desk. More specifically, to a small, unopened pouch sitting next to a pile of gaming snacks.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.

"...I wonder," he murmured to himself.

He picked up the bag, inspecting it. It was a souvenir Ortho had given him after a visit to a pet shop—an impulse purchase "just in case" Idia ever decided to befriend an animal.

Catnip.

His fingers twitched. Would it work on you? Would it just make you relaxed, or would you go full-on feral? There was only one way to find out.

He opened the pouch.

The second the scent hit your nose, you froze. Your ears twitched. Your tail went stiff for a moment, then swayed.

Idia watched in rapt fascination as you slowly turned your head toward him, eyes locked onto the pouch like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"Oh. Oh my god." He grinned, shaking the bag slightly. “Do you want it, Y/N~?”

You stood up so fast that it was honestly alarming.

Idia let out a choked laugh. “No way. No way this actually—”

You pounced.

"GAH!" Idia barely had time to yelp as you launched yourself at his hand, batting at the pouch with wild enthusiasm. He scrambled back, cackling. “W-Wait, hold on, I thought you’d just sniff it! I didn’t think you’d go feral!”

But you were too far gone. You rolled on the floor, rubbing against the tiny bit of catnip that had fallen out, wriggling and pawing at it like an absolute menace.

Idia wiped a fake tear from his eye, biting back laughter. “This… this is the greatest day of my life.”

About fifteen minutes later, your wild catnip-fueled rampage slowed to a crawl. Your tail flicked weakly, your body sprawled lazily across Idia’s lap. The effect had definitely worn off, and now you just felt so tired.

Idia, still grinning, scratched behind your ears absentmindedly. “So… how’s it feel to get wrecked by a tiny green plant?”

You weakly swiped at his arm.

“Pfft, yeah, yeah, I deserve that.” He hummed, looking down at you, still curled up in his lap. "Y'know, this might actually be a little too dangerous. If you stay a cat too long, I might get too used to this. Having a little Y/N cat sleeping in my room all the time? Kinda OP."

You gave him a tired glare.

Idia smirked, brushing a finger under your chin. "No take-backs. You did this to yourself."

You grumbled, but the warmth of his lap, the gentle scratching, and the lingering effects of the catnip had you too exhausted to fight back. You closed your eyes, purring lightly.

Idia's face burned red. “Oh my god. I’m so keeping a picture of this.”

He quickly snapped a photo before setting his tablet aside and leaning back in his chair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix this,” he murmured, resting his hand on your back. “But, uh… maybe stay like this for a little longer? Just for a bit?”

You flicked your tail in response.

You'd let him have this one—for now.

Idia was in absolute heaven.

You, his s/o, his beloved, his partner-in-crime (and now, thanks to Ace, his temporary pet), were curled up in his lap, fast asleep. Your tiny, fluffy form rose and fell with each slow breath, and the softest little purrs rumbled against his legs.

He was paralyzed. Not out of fear, but because if he moved even a millimeter, you might wake up—and there was no way he was risking that.

His hands hovered above you, twitching, unsure if he should keep petting you or just admire the sheer cuteness of you passed out in his lap.

"This is the best day of my life," he whispered to himself.

And then, the door slammed open.

“Idia Shroud.”

The sharp, commanding voice of Professor Crewel cut through the room like a dagger. Idia yelped, nearly jumping out of his chair. You stirred slightly in his lap but remained asleep, only flicking an ear at the noise.

Crewel strode inside, exuding his usual presence of strict authority, a vial of glowing liquid in hand. His sharp eyes locked onto Idia, then to the cat curled up on his legs. He raised an eyebrow.

“So it’s true,” Crewel said, crossing his arms. “You were harboring them.”

“Wha—?!” Idia flailed, trying to cover your tiny form with his hands protectively. “I wasn’t harboring them, I was—! I mean, they came to me—! Look, can we just not right now? They’re sleeping.”

Crewel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, it’s time to fix this nonsense. I have the cure.” He lifted the vial. “Give them this, and they’ll return to normal immediately.”

Idia hesitated, glancing down at you. You were still out cold, your little paws twitching in your sleep, your head resting against his stomach like you were the most comfortable thing in the world.

His fingers clenched. His inner gremlin was fighting a war with his rational side.

On one hand, this was your body. You’d probably be mad if he delayed the cure.

On the other hand…

You were so tiny. So fluffy. So perfectly curled up in his lap, and he would never get this chance again.

He swallowed hard before looking up at Crewel, eyes pleading.

“…Can I just have five more minutes?”

Crewel blinked.

“…No.”

“Please?” Idia practically begged, gripping his hoodie like a desperate NPC pleading for an extra side quest reward. “Just five more minutes. Please, Professor, I—I have social anxiety! This is the first time someone has ever willingly sat in my lap, and it might never happen again! Let me just have this!!”

Crewel stared at him, completely unimpressed. “You do realize they’re not a real cat, right?”

“Obviously, but look at them!” Idia gestured wildly at your tiny form. “They trust me. They fell asleep on me. I—I think this is what peace feels like, Professor. Let me have this moment before I return to my life of social avoidance and gaming-induced back pain.”

Crewel sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. “…Three minutes.”

Idia gasped. “R-Really?!”

“Three.” Crewel’s glare sharpened. “No more.”

Idia immediately shut his mouth, nodding rapidly. “Yessir. Three minutes. Got it.”

Crewel watched with mild exasperation as Idia gingerly leaned back in his chair, gently stroking your fur, his expression one of pure, unfiltered bliss. He muttered something about this being the ultimate SSR-tier event, and Crewel decided to ignore it.

Exactly three minutes later, Crewel handed over the vial, and Idia—very, very reluctantly—administered the cure.

A few seconds passed, and then—POOF.

The next thing you knew, you were human again, sprawled across Idia’s lap in a very compromising position, your face just inches from his.

You blinked. “...Huh?”

Idia’s entire face turned beet red.

Crewel cleared his throat. “Get a room.”

“TH-THIS IS MY ROOM—!!” Idia sputtered.

You groaned, sitting up. “Ugh… my head…” You looked down at yourself, finally registering that you were back. “Oh, thank the Great Seven—I'm human again!”

Idia, still bright red, stared at you, looking oddly conflicted.

“…You good?” you asked.

He pouted. “I… I kinda miss the cat version of you.”

You blinked at him. Then smirked. “Oh? You liked me being a cat, huh?”

“You were cute, okay?!” Idia blurted, pulling his hood over his face. “Like, dangerously cute. I—I almost asked Ortho if I could keep you forever!”

You burst into laughter. “Wow, I leave for five minutes, and you’re already trying to domesticate me.”

Crewel sighed, already heading for the door. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”

As he left, you turned back to Idia with a teasing grin. “Y’know, if you really miss it, maybe next time I’ll just act like a cat for a day.”

Idia choked. “D-Don’t joke about that!!”

You flicked his nose. “No promises, gamer boy.”

And with that, Idia buried his face in his hands, fully prepared to die from sheer embarrassment.

Idia was not okay.

His brain was still buffering from the absolute whiplash of events—one moment, he was cradling the cutest cat he had ever seen, and the next, you were back in human form, sitting on his lap, teasing him about his undeniable weakness for you in cat form.

And now?

Now you were staring at him with that mischievous glint in your eyes—the one that told him you were about to destroy him.

His face was already burning from embarrassment, but when you suddenly leaned in, his entire body went into panic mode.

“W-W-Wait—!”

Too late.

Your lips pressed softly against his flaming cheek, a quick but deliberate little kiss right on the pinkest part of his face.

Critical hit. Super effective. Idia is now completely incapacitated.

His entire system shut down. His eyes widened, his body went completely rigid, and for a moment, it looked like he forgot how to breathe. Then—

POOF.

His fire head completely went pink as he fully malfunctioned.

You giggled. “Wow. I didn’t know a person could actually be a heat generator.”

Idia let out a high-pitched, unintelligible noise, his hands slamming over his face as he curled inward like a dying spider. “W-Why—why would you—what kind of ultra-rare death event is this?!”

You grinned. “What? You’re telling me you can handle cat-me sleeping on you, but you can’t handle one little kiss?”

“That was different!” Idia wailed, rocking slightly as he tried to process what just happened. “C-Cat-you didn’t—! You weren’t—! GAHHH, my stats weren’t ready!!”

You laughed, leaning against his shoulder. “Too bad. No do-overs.”

Idia groaned dramatically, completely melting under the weight of his own embarrassment. “I-I need to log out of real life. I need a restart. Ortho, bring me my emergency blanket—I need to respawn!!”

You just smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

Idia let out a pathetic little whimper, completely powerless against your affection.

Honestly? He didn’t even mind.

[spxllcxstxr]

Northern Attitude (I) • C.S

(Gif not mine)

Request: hey!! can i request something where you’re a targaryen and you’ve been sent to speak with cregan like jacaerys did on the show, but you’re quite soft spoken and feel lowkey intimidated by all these big burly northmen. and ofc some flirting with cregan and he makes you feel safe :) -- @sarahisslytherin

Summary: In the process of assuring Winterfell’s loyalty to your mother, you get close to Lord Stark

Warnings: fem!reader, you’re the daughter of Rhaenyra but I don’t specify the father so it can be more inclusive (older than jace), alcohol and eating mentions

Word Count: 1.3k

A.N: This wasn't going to be this long and then I got so into it. I'm actually really happy with how this turned out! Not just because it's actually over 1k words, but also because i really really like it! And I hope you guys enjoy it too!!

Part I | Read the last part here!

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The bitter cold of the North nips at your extremities even when housed inside the walls of Winterfell. This was a cold you felt right down to the bone, despite the furs your host had provided you with only hours prior when you arrived.

Since your arrival, you have occupied yourself in your chambers, flitting between the books on the shelves and the small hearth on the other side of the decent sized room.

It is not until late your host makes an appearance; matters from the Wall taking priority over the Queen's daughter. You held no ill will, knowing how important the Wall was for the Northmen closest to it.

The greeting outside of your chamber door goes smoothly; since birth you had to greet numerous Lords and Ladies, this one being no different. His charming looks, though stoic, catch you off guard. You take his offered arm before he guides you to the welcome feast.

Cregan leads you through the dark stone corridors of Winterfell, your arms intertwined as you hold onto the crook of his elbow. You feel his strong muscle through his many layers of thick fabric. Your footsteps echo along with the metallic rattling of your guards behind the two of you. The absence of conversation is comfortable, however, something you truly have not felt since the death of your Grandsire.

Beside you, Cregan practically radiates warmth which has you almost melting into his side. Despite the chill, his hands are uncovered, the palm of his hand rests on your arm, heating your covered skin beneath.

The sight of the rugged wooden doors causes you to stiffen almost immediately. The reality of your purpose for being at Winterfell cools your blood as it finally washes over you. You were here on behalf of your mother, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Swallowing uneasily, you attempt to calm your nerves.

Sensing your distress, Cregan leans closer to your frame. "Do not fret, Princess," He mutters kindly. "You have no one to convince except me—and I am already highly inclined to agree to your terms."

You do not spare your host a glance as your face burns. In front of you, the grand doors open, revealing a large hall and guests already rising for the two of you.

Your gaze glides over the bowing figures, all men, you notice. The only women in the hall were serving girls; stiffly standing at the ends of the room, pitchers full of presumably ale clutched in their hands.

Attempting to muster up a commanding presence was difficult when next to the Lord of Winterfell, for he commands the room with no effort. His men watch you as you continue to the other side. Their intense stares and built bodies making you nervous. Swords were strewn recklessly across their dining tables, bows and arrows litter the floor. In their eyes you were a defenseless babe crawling into a den of wolves.

The men in King’s Landing and Dragonstone were dangerous in a different way. Their sharp wit and web of lies could cut deep and kill. The men of the North, however, used their brute force and self-assured bravery to kill you just as dreadfully. Any one of these men could bloody you as you walk by them. This rattles you just as much as the plotting traitors back in King’s Landing does.

Taking a deep breath, you feel the soothing motions of Cregan's thumb tracing circles against your arm. The reassurance pulls you out of your spiral of thoughts. With your chin held high you continue to the front of the hall, the long wooden table already covered with food and goblets of wine and ale.

After a few words from both you and Cregan the feast begins and the once silent hall becomes almost deafening. There were plenty of jeers and jokes thrown around at your expense. If you had more fire in your blood like the rest of your family, you might have said something to stay their tongues.

You and Cregan make small talk, the two of you paying more attention to the plates on the table. By the time your appetite is sated the Lord of Winterfell had noticed your meek demeanor and timid glances at the drunk Northmen below.

"Pay them no mind, Princess," The warm light of the hall's hearth dance in Cregan's striking grey eyes. "These rowdy bastards lack decency after a drop of ale."

You scan Winterfell's great hall from your position at the high table. Cregan Stark's men were all in various states of disarray, though you suppose it’s only characteristic of Northerners. The room was loud, almost overwhelmingly so, with booming laughter and arguments that spanned across the tables.

"Not like Dragonstone, I presume?" At Cregan's soft yet baritone voice, heat creeps up your neck.

Your gaze turns to the Lord of Winterfell, a smile gracing his usually stoic face. "Not at all, my Lord. Dragonstone is more.."

"Boring?"

"Traditional," You finish, smile mirroring his own.

Cregan snorts. "Aye, you Southerners have quite the stick up the arse."

"Oh really now?" You lightly giggle, tilting your head as if to challenge the Northerner at your side. You drink from your goblet, the red wine sweet on your lips, eyebrows raised.

"Aye, Princess. I think you need a Northerner to invigorate your life down there."

You hum in response, the wine making your skin tingle. With your attention now solely on Cregan Stark, you feel yourself melting into comfort.

Cregan briefly pauses, looking into your eyes. They mirror an oncoming winter storm and you’re unable to look away.

“I have something to attend to, Princess. My men will escort you and your guards to your quarters.” He takes your hand in his, the delicate grip of such a strong man making you bite your bottom lip. “I will try to see you before the night ends.” With that, his lips meet your knuckles in a soft kiss.

Cregan heaves himself out of his seat, throwing you one last smirk before leaving you in the hall with your guards and the remaining feasting men.

With one last sip from your goblet, you allow yourself to be escorted to your chambers, tugging your fur cloak tighter around you.

The crescent moon is shining through your window when you hear three knocks on you door. Assuming that this late night visitor could only be Lord Stark, you rise from the bed, adorning the fur cloak your host had provided you earlier in the day.

The door creaks as you open it tentatively. Cregan stands at the threshold, wearing the same attire from the feast. You take note of the hint of pink on his cheeks and the red hue of the tips of his ears peeking out of his shoulder length brown hair. Whether this was a result of the North's bitter chill or something else, you do not know.

"Princess." He bows his head as he greets you.

"Lord Stark..." You breathe out, smiling at the man in front of you. "Is this visit based on the business of the Crown?"

"No, Princess, I just..." His low tone tapers off as he lifts his hand up in order to stroke you face. His fingertips feel warm against your skin. You wait with bated breath for his next move. Slowly, his fingertips trace down your delicate skin to hold your chin between his index and his thumb. He tilts your head up slightly. His stormy grey eyes never leave your own. "I just wanted to gaze upon your beauty once more before I fall asleep."

The maneuver has you practically trembling under your heavy furs. You wet your lips, his eyes only quickly following the movement before once again settling back on your eyes.

"I am happy to indulge in your desires...my Lord." You whisper, voice almost quivering.

"Sleep well, Princess," With that, Cregan removes his touch, though his warmth still lingers across your face. He bows once more before turning and walking down the stone corridor.

Slowly you close your chamber door, smiling lips pursed.

"Mother will be pleased." You sigh before sitting once more on your bed, thoughts of Cregan Stark dancing through your head.

•