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cressidagrey · 15 days ago

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White Horse - Chapter 26: July 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

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

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

The conference room was sleek and quiet — all minimalist design, smooth wood, and muted light. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Monaco’s marina, but Belle barely registered the view. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, Max’s knee brushing hers beneath the table like a silent anchor.

Belle sat beside Max at a long table in a private meeting room, her hands folded carefully in her lap. The lawyer — a tall, gentle-voiced woman named Monique with sharp eyes and an expensive watch — smiled politely as she turned the final page of a stack of documents.

She had known about the pregnancy since Max had called last week and said, “We need to make sure she’s protected. Properly.”

It hadn’t been dramatic. There were no tears. No whispered breakdowns.

Just Max, calm and steady, saying "my wife is having our child, and I want everything in place if I don’t come home."

And Belle had agreed. Because love like theirs wasn’t made of denial.

It was made of preparation.

Monique spoke first.

“I’ve drafted the new will, updated with the marriage registration and the preliminary trust structure for the baby.” She slid a folder across the table to Max. “It’s standard language, but I can walk you through it.”

Max nodded. “Let’s do that.”

Belle glanced at the page — her name in clean legal font at the top. It still startled her sometimes. Isabelle Verstappen. A name that felt more like a promise than a title.

Monique continued, calm and clear. “Everything’s been updated as requested. The property title adjustment will be processed this week, and the new will reflects both your marriage and the pending addition to your family. In the event of Max’s death, Belle inherits all real estate assets, including the Monaco apartment, She also has controlling interest in the holding companies and exclusive guardianship of the child. There is a clause allowing her to appoint a secondary guardian if needed, and a separate financial trust to be accessed at her discretion for the child’s care.”

Belle’s fingers tensed slightly on her notebook.

Max reached under the table, slid his hand into hers.

Monique continued. “You both now hold medical power of attorney for one another. In the event of a serious injury or incapacitation, decisions will legally fall to the surviving spouse. The trust for the child will be activated upon birth and can be revised at any time.”

Belle blinked. “You’ve already set up a trust?”

Max nodded beside her. “I wanted it in place before they got here.”

Monique smiled. “It’s not uncommon for high-risk professions.”

High-risk. Belle hated that word.

Monique glanced at Max. “There’s a healthcare proxy included as well. You’ve named your wife as the sole decision-maker if you’re incapacitated.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Belle didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed. Absorbed.

Because here it was. In print. In contracts and clauses and notarized certainty.

This man — who drove faster than anyone else on earth — was handing her the most fragile parts of his life and saying I trust you.

Not out of fear.

But out of love.

Monique gave them a moment before gently flipping to the next document. “There’s just one more point of discussion — guardianship, in the event that… well, neither of you are able to care for your child.”

Belle straightened.

“Obviously we don’t need an answer right this second,” Monique added, professional but kind. “But it’s something we do recommend including in advance. Just in case.”

Belle didn’t hesitate.

“Victoria and Tom.”

Max glanced at her, surprised.

“They already have three kids,” she said softly. “Their home is overflowing with love. Lio and Luka would be like big brothers. Hailey a big sister. ”

Max looked at her for a long moment — not surprised, just… moved.

“Okay,” he said, quietly, final. “Victoria and Tom.”

Monique made a quiet note, then gathered the papers. “That’s all for today. You’re welcome to take copies home, review anything again, but legally — everything’s in place.”

Belle signed.

Her name — Isabelle Verstappen — in clean, looping ink at the bottom of the page. Not to take something away. But to build something forward.

Belle hesitated. “Is there… anything else?”

Monique raised an eyebrow gently. “Such as?”

Belle glanced down at her lap. “I thought Max might… want me to sign something else.”

Silence.

Then, Max’s hand slid over hers beneath the table. “You mean a prenup?”

Belle nodded once.

Monique blinked, surprised. “There’s nothing of the sort, Belle. That was never discussed.”

Belle looked at Max, who met her eyes steadily.

“I didn’t marry you with conditions,” he said simply. “What’s mine is yours. What’s ours is already half your idea anyway.”

Belle stared at him for a second — stunned, soft, wrecked.

Then she cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s… not what I expected. But okay.”

When it was done, Monique gathered the documents, promising scans and copies by end of day.

The room emptied, polite and efficient.

Belle stayed seated.

Max didn’t move either.

She finally turned to him. “That felt…”

“Big?” he offered.

She nodded.

“But good,” she added, quieter now. “Because this is ours. Our life. Our family. Even the scary parts.”

Max kissed her temple. “That’s why we’re here.”

Her hand found his on the table, fingers lacing together.

“I hope none of it ever matters,” she whispered.

He looked down at their names on the signed pages.

“It already does,” he said.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey You got a minute?

Victoria: For you? Always What’s up?

Max: Belle and I had a meeting with the lawyers today We’re setting everything up properly Just in case something ever happens

Victoria: Okay… Everything alright?

Max: Yeah. Everything’s good. More than good We just want to be smart about things

Victoria: Of course So… what do you need from me?

Max: We listed you and Tom as guardians For the baby If anything ever happens to us

Max: I wanted to ask you first Properly Not just throw your name on a form

Victoria: Max. Yes. Obviously. Always. You didn’t even have to ask. But I��m really, really glad you did.

Max: Belle said it without blinking She trusts you too

Victoria: Now I’m crying in the supermarket, thanks 🙄

Max: Sorry (But not really)

Victoria: We’ll take care of them. No matter what. But nothing’s going to happen to you, okay?

Max: Yeah I know Still I sleep better knowing it’s you

Victoria: We love you. And we love her. And we already love this baby.

Max: Thanks, Vic. Really.

***

The therapy room was quiet in the way only tension could make it — not peaceful, but primed. A silence that hummed with everything unsaid, everything tiptoed around for years.

Belle sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap, her pulse thrumming just beneath her skin like a warning. Every muscle in her body was taut — trying to hold everything in place. Her blouse, loose by design, felt suddenly too tight across her chest. She hadn’t been sleeping. She hadn’t eaten lunch. There was a dull ache in her temples, a sharper one behind her ribs.

Max was beside her.

He hadn’t spoken.

He hadn’t even moved, aside from the occasional brush of his thumb against hers.

But his presence was solid. Anchoring. The one thing in this room that didn’t make her feel like she had to prove she belonged.

Across from her, her family sat arranged like a tableau of old fractures: Pascale, elegant but weary, lips pressed tightly together; Arthur, fidgeting in his chair, worry written into the curve of his brow; Lorenzo, arms folded like a gate; and Charles — the one who hadn’t looked at her properly once since she’d walked in.

Camille, the therapist, smiled gently. “Thank you all for being here. We’re here to listen first. Belle, since you asked for this session, would you like to begin?”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “I don’t expect this to fix everything. But I wanted to give you a chance to hear me. I’ve felt invisible for a long time. And I know that might not have been your intention, but it doesn’t make it less real.”

She paused.

No one spoke.

She added, voice quiet but edged in iron: “And I’m not here to be blamed for how I coped with that.”

That was when Charles finally looked up. “Then maybe he shouldn’t be here.”

Max didn’t move.

Belle’s grip on his hand tightened.

Camille interjected gently. “Charles, we agreed to keep this space respectful—”

“Respectful?” Charles cut in, eyes flashing. “You brought him to a family session. The man who didn’t even tell me he married my sister. The one person guaranteed to turn this into a war.”

Belle’s voice cracked, quiet but firm. “Max is here because I want him here. He’s my family now. He supports me. He doesn’t speak over me or forget I exist unless it’s convenient.”

“You bring him here, like he has any right to sit in a family session—”

“Charles—” Camille began.

But he was already unraveling.

“—Like he didn’t make it worse. Like he didn’t encourage all of this—”

Belle flinched.

“Charles,” Max said, voice low but firm.

“You don’t get to talk—”

“Stop it!” Belle snapped, her voice breaking.

The sound echoed louder than shouting.

Everyone went still.

She stood — too quickly — and emotion spilled over before she could stop it. Her hands shook. Her breath hitched. Tears began streaming down her cheeks before she could blink them back.

“I invited him,” she said, trembling. “Because he’s the only one in this room who never made me feel like I had to earn his love. He didn’t ask me to shrink or wait or perform. He didn’t disappear until it was convenient to care again. He showed up.”

Arthur’s expression twisted with guilt. Pascale’s eyes filled with tears. Lorenzo exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“I tried for years to matter to you,” Belle whispered. “And when I finally stopped waiting, when I found something good, you acted like it was betrayal. It wasn’t. It was survival.”

But when Belle cried harder, silent and shaking, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach — a reflex now, a habit more than a choice — Max’s restraint cracked.

“Enough,” he said, voice sharp and fierce and final.

The entire room froze.

“This isn’t good for the baby.”

Everything. Stopped.

The silence that followed was different. Not tense — stunned. Heavy. Real.

Charles froze.

Pascale’s hand flew to her mouth.

Arthur blinked, mouth slightly open.

Lorenzo — unreadable, contained Lorenzo — lost every ounce of composure.

Belle sat, still breathing too fast, still cradling her abdomen like she didn’t even realize her hand was there.

“She’s crying in a therapist’s office because her own family forgot her,” Max said, his voice flat, controlled. “And she still came here hoping you’d be different. And you’re yelling at her like it’s her fault she stopped begging you to see her.”

“You—” Charles started.

Max’s eyes burned. “She’s pregnant. And this stress? This shouting? This guilt-tripping? It’s not just hurting her anymore. It’s hurting both of them.”

Real, stunned silence.

Belle covered her face with both hands, chest heaving.

Max moved instantly, kneeling beside her. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered. “You gave them a chance. That’s more than they deserved.”

Camille cleared her throat gently, measured but soft. “Belle… thank you for being honest. Max, thank you for saying what needed to be said.”

Belle shook her head, still too overwhelmed to speak. Her body ached with tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Max didn’t let go of her.

He stood and turned to face them — not angry. Not cruel. Just done.

“She’s pregnant,” he repeated. “And she came here because she still believed you deserved the chance to be part of that. But if what you bring is more of this — more silence, more anger, more entitlement — then maybe she needs to stop giving chances to people who don’t know what to do with them.”

He sat beside Belle again, taking her hand in both of his.

She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Her hand stayed curled over her belly, protective. Heartbroken.

Then, after a long, still moment—

“I didn’t know,” Charles said. Quiet. Shaken. “Isabelle, I didn’t… I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I know,” she whispered.“That’s the problem.”

More silence.

Then Pascale wiped at her eyes, voice shaking. “I want to be part of this. Not just the baby. You. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “I will. I already started. But I’ll do more. Whatever you need.”

Lorenzo’s voice was hoarse. “You shouldn’t have had to say any of that alone.”

Camille waited. Then softly, “This is where it begins. Not with fixing. But with listening. With staying.”

Belle finally looked up.

Still hurt. Still guarded.

But in her eyes — something softened.

She didn’t say I forgive you.

She said something truer.

“You have a long way to go,” Belle said, voice rough.“But you’re here. That’s a start.”

***

By the time they got home, Belle hadn’t said a word.

Max didn’t push. He unlocked the door, opened it for her, let her walk through the apartment at her own pace. She moved like someone underwater — slow, dazed, like her body had been hollowed out.

She didn’t even take off her shoes.

She just stood in the middle of their living room, arms limp at her sides, until Max gently touched her elbow.

“Sit,” he said softly. “I’ll get you water.”

But she didn’t sit.

She crumpled.

It wasn’t a fall — not all at once — but something slower, sadder. She sank down onto the rug like her bones had given out, hands covering her face, breath catching in her throat.

Then the sobs came.

Max was beside her in an instant, sinking to his knees, gathering her into his arms without a second’s hesitation.

She curled into him like she’d been waiting all day for it. Like she’d finally let herself feel everything she hadn’t let show in front of them.

And Max—Max held her like he never intended to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, one hand stroking her back, the other cradling her head as she buried her face into his chest. “God, Belle. I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head against him, but he kept going.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Max said, voice rough. “Not like that. I should’ve asked. I should’ve let you decide.”

Belle didn’t answer — not in words — but she held him tighter, and that was enough.

She cried for a long time.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just steady.

Heartbroken.

Max held her through all of it. Through the shaking, the ragged breathing, the muffled apologies she tried to whisper into his shoulder. He didn’t correct her. Didn’t argue. He just rubbed circles into her back and reminded her, again and again, in the softest voice he had:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

At some point, he coaxed her into bed. She resisted, groggy and stubborn through the haze of exhaustion, but eventually let him pull back the covers and tuck her in. She wore his hoodie — one of the big, soft ones — and it swallowed her. Her hand still rested over her stomach as she lay on her side, eyes red and barely open.

Max kissed her temple, her forehead, her hand. He didn’t leave her side until her breathing evened out and she finally slipped into sleep.

Then — and only then — did he let himself move.

Quietly, he crossed the room to where his phone sat on the kitchen counter.

He didn’t text. Didn’t scroll.

He found the number for Belle’s doctor and sent a message requesting an appointment.

Tomorrow. Urgent if possible.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

She hadn’t slept properly in nearly a week.

And her crying tonight… it had shaken something in him.

She always carried things so quietly. Until she couldn’t anymore.

Max stood at the kitchen counter, staring down at his phone, still in his jeans and hoodie from earlier, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He couldn’t make her family change.

But he could protect this.

Her.

Their baby.

He would make sure she was seen, cared for, and safe — even if it meant dragging the world into a quiet, burning rage to make it happen.

The phone buzzed with a confirmation.

Appointment: Tomorrow. 9:30 AM.

Max looked back toward the bedroom.

Belle was asleep, one arm curled under her pillow, still holding her stomach like a shield.

And Max made himself a promise.

They would never make her cry like that again.

Not while he was breathing.

***

The four of them sat in stunned silence.

The therapy room door had closed behind Belle and Max ten minutes ago, but no one had moved since. Camille had offered them space to process, and they’d taken it — not because they needed it, but because they didn’t know what else to do.

Charles sat with his hands clenched in his lap, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him. Pascale held a tissue tightly in one hand, face pale, mascara faintly smudged beneath her eyes. Lorenzo’s arms were crossed — his usual stoicism barely holding under the tension in his jaw.

And Arthur — the youngest— was pacing.

Charles finally broke the silence. “She’s pregnant.”

“Yes,” Arthur said flatly, not looking at him.

Charles blinked, still stunned. “She’s actually—she didn’t even tell us.”

“She didn’t owe us that,” Arthur snapped, turning to face them. “Not after everything.”

Pascale looked up. “Arthur—”

“No,” he said, sharper than they’d ever heard him. ��No. I’m not doing this. We’re not going to sit here and act like we’re the wounded ones.”

“She should’ve told us,” Charles muttered. “We’re her family—”

Arthur rounded on him. “Then maybe we should’ve acted like it.”

That landed.

Charles looked up, startled.

Arthur laughed — a short, bitter sound. “You really don’t get it, do you? Belle spent years trying to be seen. Trying to be heard. Every time she did something good, we clapped for a second and then went back to talking about karting or my race result or whatever Charles was doing that week.”

“That’s not fair,” Charles said stiffly.

“No?” Arthur said, eyes narrowing. “Name where she was when she graduated top of her class. You remember what we sent her?”

Charles didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Arthur snapped. “Nothing. We forgot. We forgot her birthday, Charles. And even then, she didn’t scream at us. She just stopped trying.”

“I didn’t mean to forget—”

“You didn’t mean to notice her, either,” Arthur said, quieter now. “But Max did.”

That silenced the room.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. “You know what gets me the most? She still gave us a chance. She walked in there, pregnant, vulnerable, and hoping maybe we’d finally show up. And what did we do?”

He looked at Charles.

“You shouted at her husband.”

He looked at Lorenzo.

“You stayed quiet until she was crying.”

Then he looked at Pascale.

“And you only spoke when Max said the word baby.”

Pascale’s lip trembled. “I didn’t know.”

“She didn’t trust us with it,” Arthur said, softer now. “And that’s the part that should scare you. Not Max. Not the secret wedding. Not the baby. The fact that she didn’t feel safe enough to tell us.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, some of the anger draining from his posture.

Charles looked like he’d been hollowed out.

“She was holding her stomach,” Pascale whispered. “Even when she cried, she—she protected the baby. From us.”

Arthur nodded. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Arthur looked at them all — older brother, older brother, mother — and stood taller than he ever had.

“No one is making her cry like that again,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”

Charles swallowed hard. “So what do we do?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “You start by earning a place back in her life. Slowly. Without demands. Without entitlement. You show her you’ve changed. And if you haven’t? You step aside.”

No one argued.

No one could.

Because they’d all seen what Arthur had — a sister at the end of her rope, still trying to offer them grace.

And they’d nearly broken her again.

But maybe not completely.

Maybe, if they were lucky, there was still time to do better.

To be better.

To finally be family in the way Belle had deserved all along.

***

Belle woke to sunlight and silence.

Her eyes burned. Her head ached. Her throat felt tight from the hours she’d spent crying into Max’s chest the night before. For a long time, she just lay there — curled on her side, one hand resting against the soft curve of her stomach, the weight of the last twenty-four hours pressing against her skin like bruises she hadn’t earned.

Max wasn’t in bed.

That was the first thing she noticed.

But when she pushed back the covers and sat up, she could hear him. Low voices. The sound of him in the kitchen. Coffee brewing. Something being cut on a chopping board.

When she padded out into the hallway, Max looked up instantly.

“You’re awake,” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

She blinked at him. He was already dressed — hoodie, jeans, hair still damp from a quick shower. He looked like he hadn’t slept, though she had no idea when he’d crawled into bed beside her. All she remembered was him holding her until her tears stopped.

“Tired,” she said honestly. “Drained. Like I fought a war in a hotel lobby.”

Max’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. Not really. He poured her a glass of water and walked it over.

“You need to get dressed,” he said softly. “We’ve got an appointment at 9:30.”

Belle blinked. “Appointment?”

“With your OB.”

She stared at him. “You made a doctor’s appointment?”

Max looked… sheepish. In that way only Max Verstappen ever could — a little bit guilty, but completely unapologetic. “You were crying for over an hour. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep until after midnight. You kept holding your stomach like it hurt and I just—” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to be sure everything is okay. With you. With the baby.”

Something inside her cracked — not with annoyance, not even embarrassment, but with a kind of vulnerable affection that made her chest ache.

“I’m fine,” she said, quietly.

Max didn’t argue.

But he looked at her like fine would never be good enough again.

They left ten minutes later.

She wore leggings and one of Max’s hoodies, too tired to care. Her hair was in a bun, her face bare. Max had packed snacks and a water bottle in her bag like he was preparing for a cross-country drive. He opened the car door for her without a word. Held her hand at every red light.

The clinic was quiet when they arrived — not many patients that early. A nurse smiled at them, already familiar with Belle, and waved them through. Max never let go of her hand.

The doctor — kind, warm, sharp-eyed — asked gentle questions. Belle answered them all in a quiet voice.

“Any unusual cramping? Headaches? Nausea? Emotional stress?”

Belle glanced at Max, then gave a small, exhausted laugh. “Define unusual.”

The doctor smiled, then softened. “What you went through yesterday? It matters. Stress does affect the body, but you’re here now. We’ll check everything.”

And they did.

A blood pressure cuff. A blood draw. The gentle press of a fetal doppler wand against her stomach.

Then— The soft, rhythmic sound of a heartbeat.

Max’s fingers tightened around hers. He didn’t say anything. But when Belle looked at him — really looked — she saw it in his face: that fierce, wordless love that had carried her out of that therapy room and straight into this one.

The doctor smiled. “Heartbeat sounds perfect. Baby’s strong. And you’re doing better than you think.”

Belle let out a shaky breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Max pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I just wanted to be sure,” he whispered. “I couldn’t watch you cry like that and not do something.”

Belle closed her eyes.

Then, without even thinking about it, she rested her head against his shoulder and whispered:

“Thank you.”

Because it was more than an appointment.

It was a promise.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: how’d it go yesterday?

i waited until morning because i didn’t want to be that friend but also i’ve been lying awake since 6 trying to imagine how many things charles said wrong in under an hour

Belle: you waited like a saint you get a medal

Emilie: oh good you’re alive that’s step one

Emilie: how bad was it scale of 1 to “i considered throwing my shoe at someone”?

Belle: i cried max snapped everyone went quiet and then Max accidentally revealed i’m pregnant because he couldn’t watch me sob anymore

so ...somewhere between “shoe-throwing” and “emotional napalm”

Emilie: WHAT

Emilie: MAX DROPPED THE BABY BOMB IN THERAPY??? WITH CHARLES THERE??

Belle: yep :)

Emilie: oh my GOD how is max still alive how are YOU

Belle: tired kind of hollow but also maybe... a tiny bit relieved?

it was a mess but they listened eventually i think

Emilie: do i need to bring cake or a shovel or both

Belle: both but i’m okay now doctor said everything’s good with the baby max scheduled the appointment himself

Emilie: of course he did husband of the year defender of the bump destroyer of sibling egos

Belle: he really did go full “don’t make her cry it’s bad for the baby” in front of everyone it was... a moment

Emilie: i would’ve PAID to see that wait no someone in that therapy room owes you money for that performance

Belle: arthur tried maman cried lorenzo looked like someone slapped him charles sat down and didn’t speak again

Emilie: is it terrible that i find this deeply satisfying

Belle: no it’s why i love you

Emilie: seriously though i’m proud of you i know how much this cost you and you still showed up

Belle: i’m trying for the baby for me

Emilie: and when you’re ready for step two i’ll be there with tea and probably more sarcasm than is healthy

Belle: perfect i love you

Emilie: i love you too, belle you’ve got this

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: Max. My guy. My married guy.

Gianni Vechio: Is it Verstappen or Mr. Leclerc now? Just checking.

Max (deadpan): I’m already regretting logging on.

Luke Bennett: You regret logging on? Imagine our shock when the paddock exploded because someone casually dropped a kiss in Parc Fermé like it was no big deal.

Max: (muted chuckle) It was a race. I won. Belle was there. That’s all.

Chris Lulham:: “That’s all.” HE SAYS. Like he didn’t casually change the internet’s collective brain chemistry.

Luke Crane: Bro, you were standing there looking like you'd just won the title and found true love.

Gianni: THE WAY YOU LOOKED AT HER.

Chris: THE HAND ON HER WAIST.

Gianni: THE KISS, MAX.

Max: (muttering) You guys are insufferable.

Luke Bennett: I’m sorry — did we not deserve to know that your secret wife is Isabelle Leclerc?!?

Max: She wasn’t secret.

All at once: YES SHE WAS.

Luke: Where is she anyway? We’ve earned this. Bring her on stream.

Max: She’s not going to—

Gianni: MAX. YOU OWE US.

Chris: SHOW US YOUR WIFE. SHOW US THE MYSTICAL INTERIOR ARCHITECT GODDESS WHO FIXED YOUR PENTHOUSE.

Max: You people are insane.

Luke (chanting): BELLE. BELLE. BELLE. BELLE.

Chat:

BELLE! BELLE! BELLE!

WHERE IS SHE MAX

DROP THE WIFE

MRS VERSTAPPEN SUPREMACY

WE SAW THE RING SIR

MAX BLINK TWICE IF YOU MARRIED UP (we know you did)

Max: (sighing, amused) Belle?

[muffled in the background] Belle: Yes?

Max: They want to say hi.

Belle: (closer) They want to do what?

Max: Just come here for a second, Schatje. They’re not going to shut up otherwise.

[Belle leans into frame wearing one of Max’s Red Bull hoodies, hair up, tea mug in hand.]

Belle: Hi.

Chat: OMG IT’S HERMRS MAX IS REALSHE’S SO PRETTY WHAT THE HELLTHE HOODIE IS KILLING MEMAX MARRIED A QUEENINTERIOR DESIGN SLAYI CANNOT BREATHEMAX YOU ARE OUTKICKING YOUR COVERAGECHARLES CURRENTLY DEAD BECAUSE HIS SISTER IS WEARING RED BULL MERCH

Luke Crane: Okay. So first of all, Belle. Thank you for putting up with this idiot.

Belle: (drily.) He’s nothing to put up with. He’s something to treasure.

Gianni: We just wanted to say congratulations. And also... how did you keep it secret for this long?

Belle: (shrugging): People only see what they want to see. We never hid it. We just didn’t make it obvious.

Chris: Oh my god she’s articulate. You really married up.

Max: (soft, proud) Yeah. I did.

Belle: (grinning, pressing a kiss to Max’s cheek, making him blush) Anyway. That’s enough fame for one evening. Bye boys.

[Belle exits frame. Max looks extremely smug.]

Max: You happy now?

Luke Crane: Beyond.

Chris: I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/GridGossip: MAX VERSTAPPEN’S WIFE JUST SHOWED UP ON TEAM REDLINE STREAM IN HIS HOODIE WITH A MUG OF TEA AND SAID “HE’S NOTHING TO PUT UP WITH: HE’S SOMETHING TO TREASURE.” I AM NOT OKAY.

@/TifosiTears: CHARLES LECLERC IS FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE AND HIS SISTER IS OUT HERE IN RED BULL MERCH KISSING MAX ON STREAM. I’M SCREAMING.

@/F1TeaSpiller So to recap: → Belle Leclerc kissed Max in Parc Fermé → Changed her name on IG → Is apparently married?? → Wore his hoodie on stream → And the grid is collectively feral. 10/10. No notes.

@/SoftLaunchSociety The Red Bull hoodie. The tea mug. The unbothered queen energy. Belle Verstappen didn’t soft launch — she hard dropped and said “you’ll catch up.”

@/RedBullUpdates: BELLE VERSTAPPEN WALKED INTO FRAME LOOKING COZY, SMUG, AND MARRIED. WE HAVE LOST CONTROL OF THE NARRATIVE.

@/FerrariPain: charles leclerc when he realizes his sister wore red bull merch in 4k: 🧍‍♂️😐💔

@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen grinning like a man who knows he married out of his league and then blushed when she kissed his cheek this is romcom content i never expected from sim racing

@/F1MemeLord: Team Redline: Show us your wife Max: She’s not gonna— Belle Verstappen, already wearing his hoodie and holding tea like a queen: Hi Me: this is better than Netflix

@/MonacoRoyalty: i want belle’s PR team forgotten by her family? married in monaco? red bull hoodie and soft lighting? KNEW exactly when to show up. this girl is PLAYING CHESS.

@/MaxEmotionsFan Max: (quietly, proudly) “Yeah. I did.” Me, in tears: and you DID, Max. he married his girl.

@/F1ChaosClub: charles leclerc forgot his sister’s birthday and now she’s on twitch in a red bull hoodie being called “queen” by 600,000 viewers. you literally could not write this better.

@/GridPsychics: prediction: Charles is currently pacing his Monaco apartment wondering if it's too late to be a supportive brother spoiler: it might be

@/F1FanFictionCentral plot twist: Max Verstappen wasn’t the emotionally unavailable villain. He was the surprise wife guy all along.

@/TifosiMeltdown: Everyone’s like “awww Max and Belle are so cute 🥺” Meanwhile Charles Leclerc is living in the eighth circle of PR hell because his baby sister is in Red Bull merch on Twitch with his literal racing rival

@/SoftLaunchScholar: The Max & Belle reveal timeline is a case study:

Ignored birthday

Secret wedding

Parc Fermé kiss

Instagram name change

Twitch hoodie wife drop This is art.

@/F1Lorekeeper: The fact that Charles forgot Belle’s birthday and then found out she married Max Verstappen two weeks later

And now she’s drinking tea in Max’s stream wearing Red Bull gear

I genuinely think we’re watching a live sibling rivalry rewrite Greek tragedy @/MonacoRoyalty: Belle said “we didn’t hide it, you just weren’t looking” and the Leclerc family should NEVER recover from that

@/CharlesIsCrying: no because BELLE VERSTAPPEN appearing on stream in Red Bull merch while the internet still hasn’t healed from the forgotten birthday incident??

Charles is somewhere short-circuiting in real time

***

It was raining softly against the windows when Belle brought it up.

They were curled up on the sofa — Max in joggers and a hoodie, Belle tucked against his side with a blanket draped over her legs, her cheek resting on his chest. The television hummed quietly with some old documentary neither of them were watching. Max’s hand traced slow, absentminded circles against the bump that had started to become undeniable beneath the fabric of her sweatshirt.

“We should probably tell the rest soon,” Belle murmured.

Max didn’t answer right away. His fingers stilled, then resumed their gentle pattern.

“I know,” he said. “I just… don’t want it to turn into a thing.”

Belle lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Like… a press release thing? Photoshoot? Magazines? Perfect lighting and fake candids of us in a meadow somewhere?”

He let out a soft snort. “Can you picture me in a meadow?”

Belle smiled. “Only if you were holding a kitten and a baby goat.”

“Belle.”

“Okay, fine, just the baby goat.”

Max laughed into her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “No photoshoots. No flower crowns.” He made a face. “No soft-focus, perfectly lit, black-and-white Instagram announcement with matching white outfits and hands shaped like a heart.”

She laughed softly, burying her nose in his shirt. “The horror.”

“I mean, unless you want that,” Max added quickly. “If you want that, I’ll do it. I’ll even wear linen.”

Belle looked up at him again, mock-serious. “Max, you’d rather crash into a gravel trap at Monaco than wear linen on purpose.”

“Correct.”

She smiled against his hoodie. “I just… I don’t want it to feel like I’m trying to prove something.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Max said, his voice low. Sure. “You’re pregnant. You’re my wife. That’s it.”

Belle glanced up at him. “You say that like it's simple.”

“It is.” He tilted his head a little, thoughtful. “So how do you want to do it?”

She shrugged. “Something honest. Quiet, but… real.”

Max was quiet for a beat. “You mean, like the wedding.”

Belle smiled. “Exactly like the wedding.”

He leaned forward and kissed the side of her head. “We can do quiet. That’s our specialty.”

She chuckled, then bit her lip. “I was thinking… what if we just posted a photo? Not even of us. Just a pair of tiny shoes on the coffee table and a caption like, ‘Coming soon.’”

Max grinned. “You want to break the internet again.”

“I want to give it to us first,” she said. “And let everyone else catch up later.”

Max looked at her like she hung the stars. “Deal.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that meant safety.

“I don’t need the whole world to know at once,” Belle murmured, her voice softening. “I just want to share it in a way that feels like us. Not a brand.”

Max pulled her closer, his hand still resting protectively over the bump neither of them could stop reaching for.

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Thinking of announcing the pregnancy before Silverstone.

Emilie: oh?? as in… telling the entire planet??

Belle: Yep. Before I start showing enough that people start whispering.

Emilie: You mean before more people start whispering You okay with going public?

Belle: I think so. We’ve been quiet long enough. Besides… Silverstone’s always a circus. May as well drop the baby news before the clowns arrive.

Emilie: Iconic behavior tbh Do I get a heads up before the post goes up so I can prepare emotionally

Belle: Of course. Also— You should come.

Emilie: To Silverstone??

Belle: Yes.

Emilie: Belle. That’s Lando’s home race.

Belle: And you like Lando.

Emilie: I do not like what this insinuation implies.

Belle: You like him. He adores you. Your flirting during dinner could’ve powered the entire paddock.

Emilie: Okay first of all That’s rude And accurate

Belle: Come anyway. Come as my friend. Not as Lando’s girlfriend.

Emilie: …you are dangerously persuasive.

Belle: Lily’s coming too. It’ll be fun. You, me, Lily, a very grumpy Max pretending not to be nervous about the baby stealing his press conference thunder.

Emilie: You really think the baby will upstage Max?

Belle: If she has my hair and his eyes, absolutely.

Emilie: oh my god if it’s a girl with his grumpy face and your attitude the world is not ready

Belle: Exactly. Which is why you need to be there. Help me judge the chaos.

Emilie: Okay okay Fine But if Lando tries to make things serious while I’m there I am blaming you

Belle: Deal. You’ll be the secret girlfriend, I’ll be the public wife. We’ll keep balance in the universe.

Emilie: Verstappen-Leclerc diplomatic summit in Silverstone Can’t wait.

Belle: You bring the wine. I’ll bring the reveal.

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments:

@/maxverstappen1: 🍼❤️

@/danielricciardo: I’M GOING TO BE THE FUN UNCLE CALLING IT NOW

@/landonorris: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH 🍼😭❤️

@/alex_albon:The baby already has better fashion sense than me and it’s not even born yet.

@/oscarpiastri: Congratulations!! So happy for you both 🤍

@/charles_leclerc: Congratulations. Truly.

@/georgerussell63: Huge congrats!

@/arthur_leclerc: 🥹❤️ You’re going to be the best mum, Belle.

@/yukitsunoda0511: baby Verstappen with Leclerc sass?? terrifying. adorable. congratulations!!!

@/sebastianvettel: Welcome to the next adventure. You’ll both be amazing parents. 💛

@/carlossainz55: The paddock is already preparing the next generation of chaos.

@/f1girlie44: BELLE IS GONNA BE A MUM I’M SOBBING

@/leclercsrevengearc: Max winning races, hearts, and fatherhood. Charles losing sleep. Balance.

@/gridgossip: Between the birthday drama, the Red Bull hoodie, the Parc Fermé kiss and now THIS — Belle Verstappen has had a better character arc than half the grid.

@/victoriaverstappen: Best news of the year 🍼 Can’t wait to meet this little one!!

@/f1: We love a future champion in the making 👶🏽🏁

@/verstappensupremacy:

I KNEW THE RED BULL HOODIE WAS FORESHADOWING

MAX IS GOING TO BE A DAD I’M CRYING

@/f1babygossip:

Baby Verstappen is going to have the softest mama and the most aggressively protective papa and I LOVE THAT FOR THEM

@/charlespls:

someone go check on charles

she posted this BEFORE A RACE WEEKEND

we need an ambulance at Ferrari

1K notes · View notes

koffeinkaos · 1 month ago

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The best Merthur fan fictions (in my humble opinion)

I thought I would share my favorite Merthur fics here. I track all the fics I read (this year I've read 322 so far wohoo) and these are the best of the best the ones I will reread over and over and over and over.

That being said they are in no particular order and I plan on updating this, when I find new favs.

Gravity by BeautifulFiction

Hands down the best Hurt/Comfort fic I have ever read. It's not only stunningly written but the way Arthur and Merlin's relationship develops is so beautiful. Might be my favorite fic ever

Sorcerer's Bane by BeautifulFiction

This one is loooong and still I wish it was longer because I want to live in it. It has everything one could wish for and the author has created a true masterpiece with it amazing 15/10.

Lost and Found by Lex18

This is so precious. It's about Merlin and Arthur getting hit by the spell of some evil sorceress and when they wake up in the forest they are small children, with no memories of their adult lives. So we get to watch Arthur trying to protect Merlin. The scenes with the knights are so funny and ah I can't I love it. It's so soft and beautiful and I melt in a puddle of happy gay goo every time I read it

the sorts of things people burn by schweet_heart

Arthur saving his fav warlock and taking care of him. Loved the drama and the softness. It's so well written and yes amazing, pleaaaase read if you have not

In My Mind by Lona11

Merlin gets hurt when they are in the woods and get attacked by bandits. So we get to see Arthur panicking and the knights all trying to get Merlin back to the castle. By now you should know that I'm a sucker for pining Arthur who fears for Merlin's life, I mean look at this list. I do love the knights here, working together because Merlin is their smol

A king's hands by feyver (itsnautica)

It's technically not a Merthur fic but Merlin is stressed and Arthur wants to help him. He's also pining and in love but in that moment it's more important to take care of Merlin and make sure he gets a break and that mends my broken heart

No Night So Dark by Cithara

Angst. So SO MUCH ANGST. I don't want to spoil anything for this please check the tags but if you can read it. Believe me it's worth it. It's so well paced so beautifully structured and the development of the characters is chef's kiss.

Would You Take Me Home by Noel803

Merlin is turned into a kid and Arthur is trying to bring him home. But without his adult memories, Merlin is not sure if he can trust knights of Camelot to have his best interest in mind. I don't want to say any more but ah stunning. You really feel for Arthur in this one.

All Things Loved and Lovesick by horsecrazy

I reread it yesterday and had to add it. Merlin is a vet in this one and Arthur is a rich prat with a soft spot for horses. They are pining in this one. Both of them are so stupid and the love language is tea. However in between their idiocy there are little moments of them showing their feelings and WOW

#merlin bbc #bbc merlin #merthur #arthur pendragon #merlin #merlin x arthur #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic recs #bbc merlin fanfic #merlin fanfic

973 notes · View notes

lubdubology · 7 months ago

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When Things Turn Green Again

SYNOPSIS: Hoping to mend the pain of your broken heart and bury the memory of your failed marriage, you turn towards the woods. A cabin was left in your name and it’s the exact distraction you were looking for. What you didn’t anticipate is meeting a quiet, ruggedly handsome man along the way who helps you heal.

PAIRING: Logan x fem!reader

WC: 11k

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; mentions of cheating/divorce; emotional trauma; fluff; sexual innuendos; brief mentions of drinking; dirty talk; slight dom!Logan; oral (f receiving); fingering; doggy style; cock warming; sex with feelings; unprotected p in v

A/N: I pictured either Origins!Logan or Wolverine!Logan, but I think you can envision any Logan you’d prefer. And again thanks to @joelsgoldrush for the support through writing this ❤️ I really do love this piece I wrote and I hope you do too. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! And thank you to everyone who has read, commented, liked and reblogged both Soft Edges and Til The Sun Turns Black—I never imagined either of those stories reaching over 1k notes.

The gravel crunches under your tires as you roll down the long driveway. Memories bloom deep in your chest as you near the cabin, of times simpler than this, unburdened by trappings of real life. You spent your formative years out here in the woods with your grandfather. Summers spent learning how to fish on the lake; how to recognize the poisonous berries from the nonpoisonous ones; and making fires, roasting marshmallows long after the sun had gone down.

Your grandfather had helped build this cabin. He’d always preferred the outdoors and solitude from people—with the obvious exception of your grandmother and mother—and he’d often come here to escape. Especially after he lost them both.

The cabin comes into view through the trees just starting to unfurl their spring foliage. Patches of snow still dot the landscape but the wet brown of winter is losing to spring’s verdant hues. The structure has seen better days, last having been lived in over ten years ago.

A stab of regret pierces your chest. The cabin was willed to you when your grandfather died, but this was your first trip up here since the funeral. You planned to, of course, but as the old saying goes, life happened. Now, you’re hoping the old place can give you something to sink your energy into besides thinking about your failed marriage.

You park the truck and step out, surveying the property. The shrubs and flower beds are overgrown and choked with old growth and weeds. Years worth of leaves rest upon the roof and clog the gutters. The front porch has several loose or missing spindles and you’re almost afraid to step up onto the old boards. Proving yourself right, the wood groans and creaks beneath your feet, certain spots threatening to give way.

“That’s going to be a fun project,” you mutter to yourself.

Opening the front door, you’re met with the damp mustiness of a long closed up space. A layer of dust seems to coat nearly every surface and cobwebs linger in the corners. You’re hoping the repairs needed inside the cabin are more cosmetic than costly.

You open up the old blinds, letting the early morning light filter in the room. It’s not a large space, an open kitchen, living room and dinning area with separate bedroom and attached bathroom. A small set of steps leads up to a loft, which also doubles as a sleeping space or bonus area.

You unload your belongings from the truck, tucking them away inside the bedroom, before opening all the windows to let in the fresh air. Thankfully, the glass and protective screens are in relatively good repair—a few need replacing, but an easy enough job. You feel a sense of purpose flourish within you, something you haven’t felt for months and you wonder if this is just the reprieve you need to find yourself again.

+++

You spend the morning taking inventory of the repairs needed around the cabin to make it immediately livable. Jotting down a list of supplies, you hop in your truck and head into town to hit up the hardware store.

The owner, George, recognizes you from previous trips with your grandfather when you were younger. He greets you warmly and helps you find everything you need. As you’re checking out, he asks, “Run into Logan yet?”

“Logan?”

He nods his head. “Shares a property line with you. Has a cabin of his own just about a quarter mile north of yours. Asked him to keep his eye out on the place.”

“Oh, well, that was nice of him,” you comment, stuffing your receipt in your purse.

George shrugs. “Figured it would give him something different to do. Doesn’t interact much with people.”

“Guess I’ll just have to introduce myself then,” you say, lifting your bags up off the checkout counter.

“Good luck with that,” George responds with a huffed laugh. “He’s not one for small talk.”

You give George a polite smile and leave the store, bags in hand. But the conversation sparks your curiosity and you find yourself thinking of the man who shares the woods with you. You promised yourself once you were settled, you’d make the short hike towards his place and introduce yourself.

Arriving back at the cabin, you park the truck and hop out, stopping short when you spot a lone figure walking around from the back of your property. You can’t stop the prickle of anxiety that zips up your spine as the figure comes closer, but he doesn’t see you yet, his eyes on the ground as he walks.

You shut the truck door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing off the trees. He looks up then and you suck in a short breath as his rugged features come into view—well trimmed but scruffy beard, wild dark hair and a fit muscular frame you can see even under the flannel of his shirt.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach and you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt like this. You can feel a blush creep across your face and you grip the bags in your hands tighter just to feel something other than the hammering of your heart in your chest.

He stops short of where you’re standing and jerks a thumb behind him. “Turned your electrical breaker on,” he says without introduction and you can only stare at him.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I, uh—thanks.”

He tilts his head and looks at you and you feel like you’re on fire under his glare. It’s an inquisitive one, like he can’t quite figure out what you’re doing in a place like this and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. And yet, you don’t want him to stop looking at you.

“Right,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for something. He fishes out a key and holds it in your direction. “This is yours.”

You shift the bags, so you’re holding them all in one hand and reach for the key. Your fingertips brush against his just briefly, but it’s enough to set sparks along your skin and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. As he steps back from you, you blurt out your name and then immediately wish for a swift death at your awkwardness.

God, this was embarrassing.

It’s like you’ve never interacted with humans before.

He gives the barest hint of a smile. “Logan.”

“Nice to meet you, Logan,” you say, just so you can taste his name in your mouth.

Logan nods and turns to head down the path that leads away from your cabin and deeper into the woods. You watch him go, his figure fading further into the distance and you can’t help but think, I’m in trouble.

+++

You spend the rest of the day keeping busy around the cabin—wiping down dusty surfaces, sweeping up cobwebs, replacing broken light bulbs—but your mind never strays far from Logan and the inexplicable pull you have towards him.

You’ve dated. You were married. You weren’t a stranger to the opposite sex and physical attraction, but this felt like more. Like an unavoidable pull between you and him and you’ve just been spun into his orbit.

And that attraction terrifies you.

Over the next few days, you try and shove him from your mind. It helps that you haven’t seen him again, but your eyes inevitably dart towards the path leading away from your cabin as if you’re expecting him to come walking through.

Then, the idea comes to you late one night as you’re sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames lick higher. No matter how hard you had tried, Logan remained firmly planted in your mind, his roots stubborn and unyielding.

Your grandfather always said your grandmother’s cooking was always something that warmed his heart.

But as you walk the small path towards Logan’s property you briefly wonder if you’ve lost your mind. You carry the small pie dish in your hands and as his cabin grows closer you’re actually contemplating turning back and forgetting the whole thing.

Who the hell bakes pies for people any more?

His cabin is smaller than yours, a little more rustic and worn, which seems fitting based on the little you know about him. Several piles of firewood line the roofed porch and at the opposite end, a single chair and table sit in front of the window. With one last shaky inhale, you climb the steps and rap your knuckles against the door. From inside you hear heavy footfalls and then the door opens.

Logan looks down at you and then towards the dish in your hands, an odd expression crossing his handsome features.

“I made you a pie,” you blurt unceremoniously and you instantly wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Logan just continues to stare at you and you think you see the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But maybe not.

“I, uh, my grandfather lived in the cabin next to yours and it’s mine now. I’m fixing it up, because…well, just because and he taught me to pick berries as a kid? So, I did that and I made you this,” you finish in a ramble, flames of embarrassment licking across your skin.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes flick down at the dish in your hands again and you hold it up a bit higher, nudging it closer towards him. As he reaches out to take it, his fingers brush against yours and you again feel electricity tingle down your fingertips. If he notices it too, he says nothing, not that he’s said anything since you showed up on his porch.

Logan tucks the dish closer to his body and gives you a slight nod. You take that as a good sign and step back to leave. “Okay, cool, cool. Well, um, enjoy. I made sure all he berries were the edible ones so you don’t end up throwing up everywhere.”

At that he actually huffs a chuckle. “Good to know,” he finally says, his voice warm and rich and just a bit gruff.

“Right, well, enjoy!” You turn to leave and can feel his stare against your back and it takes all your remaining functioning brain cells to walk normally.

You spend the next few days trying to forget all about your ill-fated attempt to play neighbor, figuring if he didn’t want to know you before, he definitely didn’t after that.

You’re coming back from a hike when you spot Logan through the trees walking away from your place, hands tucked deep within his pockets. Your heart quickens in your chest as you walk up to the front door and find the baking dish sitting on the old welcome mat. It’s freshly washed with a folded up piece of paper sitting inside—Thank you.

You’re certain your smile could rival the light from the sun.

+++

It becomes a routine over the next few weeks—you bringing him food and him returning the dish, all without exchanging any words. You’re thankful he’s not much of a talker because you can’t seem to stop making a fool of yourself around him.

And you don’t know why.

He’s a handsome man, that anyone can see, but you’ve never been so flustered around a beautiful man before.

There’s something else about Logan you can’t pinpoint that sets your heart fluttering behind your ribs. He seems lonely in the same way you are, and you wonder if he’s out here to lick and heal old wounds just like you. You have an inexplicable want to help him, even if that means sharing your food leftovers with him and trying to chip away at the wall that surrounds him.

A part of you is hoping he can help break down your walls, too.

You’re waist deep under the kitchen sink when a knock on the door drags you from fixing the leaking drain.

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, trying to maneuver out of the space while also not spilling the stagnant water left in the sink trap. As you set the old drain down you call out, “Just a second!”

You wipe your hands against your thighs and swing the door open to find Logan standing there, your glass baking dish from yesterday in his hands. For a second you blink silently at him, unable to think of anything but the fact that you’re wearing grease stained overalls and probably smell like a swamp.

“Logan, hi,” you finally say, brushing your hair out of your face.

He gives you a strange look as he hands the dish back to you. You open your mouth to speak when he interrupts you, “Why do you feed me?”

His question hangs in the air and you freeze. Of all the things he could have asked, you weren’t sure why you didn’t expect that one. His voice is a little gruff, but underneath there’s something that makes your heart race. Something vulnerable.

You swallow and grip the edge of the glass dish. Logan stares at you, his gaze intense, and you feel exposed. Like he’s trying to dissect you with just a look.

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” you finally admit. “You just…seem like you could use some kindness.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, and you can feel your pulse quicken. “I can stop if—if you want.”

“No,” he says, his voice rough, but with an undercurrent of tenderness. “No, you don’t have to stop. Just not used to people doin’ things like that for me.”

His admission catches you off guard being the first real piece of personal information he’s shared with you. You’ve gleaned certain things from George—he’s told you about Logan being a mutant and a few pieces of his past—but you know there’s still a world of history hiding behind his loner facade that he keeps hidden. You’re hoping eventually he lets you take a peak inside.

“Everyone deserves kindness, Logan,” you say.

His gaze flickers, a shadow of something crossing his features that makes your heart ache. He shifts on his feet and stares down at the dish in your hands. “I’m not so sure of that,” he replies.

“Well, I am.”

Logan’s eyes drag back up to yours and you try to calm the nervous energy that bubbles under your skin as his stare presses into you. He gives you a small nod then before turning to leave.

He pauses as he hits your driveway and looks back at you, cursing lowly to himself. Scratching at the back of his head, he walks back up the steps and pulls something out of the pocket of his jacket. “I, uh, here,” he says uncertainly as he hands you the small cloth bag.

You can only stare as you take the bag from him, the gift surprisingly light in your hand, but the gesture heavy with unspoken emotion. Your mind races as you think of what could be inside and your heart hammers loudly in your chest.

Logan stands there, eyes not quite meeting yours as he waits for you to open it. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo the drawstrings and peer inside, finding a mixture of different seeds. You can’t help but trail your fingers through them, feeling the faint warmth they hold from where they were nestled against Logan’s body.

“Oh, Logan,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion.

You glance up at him and he’s looking at you, scratching at his beard, the faintest hint of blush staining his cheeks. “They’re wildflowers. Don’t know what kind. But, I dunno. I thought you could use them for your garden.”

Your chest tightens as you pull the strings close and tuck the bag in your pocket. “I love them, Logan,” you say, offering him a smile. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you see the tension in his shoulders relax just a bit as he exhales. “Just seemed like something you’d appreciate,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you.

Something has shifted between you and you find yourself itching to touch him, but you don’t. Not yet. The thread holding you two together is there, but thin, and you don’t want it to fray. “I really do appreciate it,” you say softly, stepping just the tiniest bit closer.

Logan nods and his mouth tugs into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pressing into you. “Okay. Good.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns and jogs down the steps.

“Guess I’ll see you around then,” you call after him, a smile spreading across your face.

He glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you will.”

And maybe, just maybe, the walls around him are beginning to crumble.

+++

Sweat beads across your brow as you work, but you pay it no heed. Your attention keeps slipping to Logan as you pry another nail loose from the rotted board. You’ve fallen into an odd relationship with the elusive man whose property line you share, yet you still barely know anything about him.

It’s been a week since he stopped by and gave you those wildflower seeds. A warmth still spreads in your chest when you think about it. And true to his promise, you do see him around, albeit not as much as you’d like. He seems wary, as if his gift opened up a part of himself he wasn’t ready for you to see.

But at least he doesn’t drop off your clean dishes and run anymore.

As you pry the last nail free, the rotten board comes free and you toss it down onto the grass along with the others. Thankfully, the porch isn’t terribly large and you figure another hour or so to remove the remaining boards before you can start laying down fresh lumber.

The crunch of gravel pulls you from your work and you look up to find Logan walking down the path, a large leather bag in his hand. You look up at him, wiping the sweat off your brow and lean back onto your heels, trying your best not to stare at his forearms.

“Oh, hey, Logan,” you say, wiping your hands against your jeans as you stand. “What brings you to my side of the woods?”

He actually smiles at you and nods towards the porch. “Need help?”

You hate the little flutter you feel pressing against your ribs. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering.”

You blink, caught off guard by his directness. “Oh, well, if you insist,” you say, trying to calm your nerves. “It would be nice to have a second set of hands.”

He sets the leather bag down on the porch with a thud and you catch a glimpse of the tools nestled inside. Logan notices you looking and comments, “I know a few things.” His smirk makes your legs feel like jello.

“Oh, I bet you know a lot of things,” you blurt, and your eyes widen at the double entendre of your words, heat flushing across your face.

Logan laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s always good to be well educated,” he says with a wink.

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust.

Shoving down your raging embarrassment, you lay out your plan to fix the porch and Logan gives a small nod. He starts at the opposite end, prying loose the first board with ease. You try not to stare at the way his muscles move and how his skin begins to slick with the first beads of sweat. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds those of the forest around you.

“So, what actually brought you out here?” Logan finally asks.

You glance over at him and watch as he tosses another board onto the grass. He looks at you expectantly and you sigh. “I got divorced,” you answer honestly. “And I needed something pour my energy into other than wondering where the fuck I went wrong.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, your openness leaving you feeling raw, and instead focus on the board in front of you. Anger begins to simmer in your veins at the thought of the last couple of years and you grab the next plank with just enough force to wedge a splinter deep into your palm. A loud curse falls from your lips as you drop the board.

You feel Logan next to you and you suck in a deep breath as he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “Lemme see,” he says, pulling you close and you can smell the earthiness of him, like damp soil and campfire smoke. You find yourself staring at him, his proximity intoxicating, as you drink in his long lashes and the slope of his nose.

He tilts your palm towards himself, his fingers pressing gently yet with firm enough pressure to push the splinter out of your skin. Pulling it out the rest of the way, his eyes flick up to yours. “Somehow I don’t think you’re the one that fucked up, sweetheart.” His voice is warm and you want to melt into him.

“Well,” you start, clearing your throat, “I certainly wasn’t fucking his mistresses.”

Something in his eyes darkens and a shiver runs down your spine. “He’s a fool for losin’ you,” he growls, and his words hit you with more force than you’d care to admit.

His hand still lingers on yours, steady and reassuring and warm and for a moment you think he might lean closer. You desperately want him to. To press his mouth against yours, to feel his breath against your skin, to have his taste against your tongue. But he pulls back, his expression one of thin control, but you can see the storm behind his gaze.

“A damn fool,” he mutters under his breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about himself or your ex.

Logan lets your hand go, turning back towards the porch and you mourn the loss, your skin still tingling from the contact. You swallow hard, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. It’s Logan—quiet, gruff Logan, who never really sticks around for a real conversation and yet here he is, offering help and showing that maybe he’s not entirely as unaffected by you as you thought.

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you watch him go back to work, prying up the next board, his muscles flexing beneath his worn shirt. His jaw clenches and there’s a focused determination in his movements and you can’t tell if he’s working out some anger or trying to keep himself in check.

You work in silence for several more minutes, the only sounds being the prying of loose boards and creaking lumber. There’s a tension between you now, more so than there was before, something palpable.

It’s enough to drive you mad.

“What about you?” you finally ask, your voice somewhat hesitant. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

Logan glances at you from the corner of his eye and his brow furrows, as if he’s weighing whether or not to answer. “Not much to tell,” he grunts, pulling up another board with more force than necessary.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You don’t just wake up one day alone in the woods with forearms like that.”

Logan looks over at you and smirks. “Maybe I’m just really good with my hands.” His voice dips low and you can’t help the warmth that pools low in your belly at his words.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, no…yep. I’m starting to figure that out.”

He’s silent for a few moments as he goes back to work and the air between you hums with something charged. “You really want to know?” he asks, his voice rough. “I’ve been around for too long, longer than anyone should. Done things I’m not proud of.” He tosses another plank aside and all you can do it watch him. “I’ve…I’ve hurt people I care about. People I’ve cared about have hurt me. I’m not really sure I belong anywhere, so I just…drift.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something broken and vulnerable, and it catches you off guard. For all his outward strength, there’s man deep down inside who’s lost, and your heart aches for him.

“You belong here,” you say softly.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension shift as the weight of your words settle between you. Another board gets tossed aside. “Yeah, maybe.”

He finally raises his gaze to yours and for a moment the world quiets—the forest, the porch, all of it—as his eyes lock onto yours and his expression softens. You offer him a warm smile and then return back to the porch, hesitant to push him any further.

You work comfortably together after that. The old boards removed, Logan helps you place and nail down the new ones. Your conversation is limited to the project, but you don’t mind.

As Logan packs up his tools, you glance over at him. “Thank you.”

A half smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” comes his reply as he steps off the porch and heads down the path back towards his cabin.

“Logan!” you call, lightly jogging after him before he slips out of view. He pauses and turns back towards you. “Can I make you dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you already been doin’ that?”

“No,” you say shaking your head, “I mean, yes, I have, but like a proper dinner? Fresh from kitchen to table. I can come by you, if you’d like.”

Logan studies you for a moment, his gaze intense and you can feel your heart beating against your ribs. He’s silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped and you open your mouth to speak when he says, “Alright. Come by tomorrow, six o’clock.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “Tomorrow it is.”

+++

You’re up before the sun, your nerves a tangle of raw edges. You lay there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

You weren’t expecting to meet someone out here in the woods. You were hoping for tranquility, a distraction to quiet the voice in your head that kept nagging you for how your life veered off course. That maybe if you worked more, did more, loved more you wouldn’t be a thirty year old divorcee.

Instead, you find a mysterious man who sparks within you a flame you long thought extinguished. A ruggedly handsome man who’s somehow wormed his way into your life and has you wondering if maybe he can’t help mend the pieces of your broken heart.

Except you don’t know if that same spark is ignited within him and if his gesture of dinner is simple kindness. A response to the kindness you’ve shown him over the last two months or if he’s feeling that same attraction you do.

God, you hope he does.

You spend the morning cleaning, trying to pour your nervous energy into something productive other than worrying about what the evening may bring. Driving into town, you agonize over what to make even though he’s been eating what you’ve made without complaint for weeks now. You opt to keep it simple—pasta with homemade meat sauce, a nice loaf of bread and a couple bottles of wine.

While the sauce is simmering on the stove you get ready. You dress for comfort, a simple pair of leggings and a flowy top that hangs slightly off your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the mirror and give yourself a silent nod of encouragement. Despite this just being dinner, the night brims with the possibility of maybe something more.

Once the food is prepared, you carefully pack everything in a large basket and begin the walk to Logan’s cabin. The night is cool, but still holds the warmth of day and the promise of summer to come. You feel your anticipation heighten the closer you get to his place and your stomach drops when you see it appear up ahead.

It’s just Logan, you remind yourself.

Stepping up onto his porch, you give a hesitant knock at the door. He greets you almost instantly and you suck in a deep breath. Logan looks good and your heart does a flip as you take him in—well fitting jeans, a clean white shirt underneath a soft red flannel button down, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower.

“You’re early,” he comments, standing aside to let you in. You catch the slight frown tug at his mouth as he notices the basket. “You coulda cooked here, you know.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know if you’d want me invading your space,” you reply, following him deeper into the cabin and setting the basket down on the counter.

Logan turns back towards you, bracing his hands against the counter. “I don’t mind you in my space.”

His words hang in the air between you and you can feel your pulse quicken. You glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you—steady and unflinching—sends a thrill down your spine.

You clear your throat, trying to settle the nerves in your chest. “Next time then,” you say lightly, hoping he can’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Logan’s lips quirk into a half smile. “Next time,” he agrees.

He reaches into a cabinet above him, pulling down a couple of plates and glasses, setting a small table in the corner of the small kitchen. You keep yourself busy unpacking the food, arranging the bread, pasta and sauce on the table, working around him as he uncorks the wine and pours both of you a glass.

Logan joins you then, raising his glass and clinking it gently against yours. He nods in a silent cheers and tips his head back as he drinks, his eyes never leaving yours. You can’t suppress the shiver that shoots down your spine.

Setting down his glass, he serves you and then himself, commenting, “This smells amazing.”

“Family recipe,” you reply, taking another sip wine. “Remind me to make it for you when I have fresh tomatoes. It’s even better then.”

“I’ll have to do that,” he says with a smile.

Conversation starts off slow, but not awkward, as you both test the limits of what you’re wiling to share. Logan’s answers are often short, reserved, but what he does reveal helps bring into focus the outline of the man before you. An outline you’re hoping he’ll let you fill in.

“George says you’re a mutant,” you start slowly and you don’t miss the way his posture stiffens, his fork scraping harshly against the plate.

He goes still and you wonder if you fucked up. Crossed a boundary he wasn’t willing to cross.

Eventually, Logan’s eyes flick up to yours and he lets out a small hum. “He did, did he?”

You nod, chewing. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “It bothers most people.”

“I’m not most people,” you reply, your voice soft.

Something in his face softens then, the furrow of his brow a little less pronounced. A slight smile plays at his lips. “No. No you’re not.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest and your face flushes. Taking another bite, you ask, “Can I see?”

Logan studies you for a moment and you can see him deciding whether or not to show you that part of him he’d rather keep hidden. He sets the silverware down and he flexes his fingers before resting his palms back on the table. Then, he unsheathes his claws and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips.

You see him flinch at your reaction and he goes to retract his claws and you reach for him. “Don’t,” you say, your fingers hovering just above the blades.

As he relaxes, you gently rest your fingertips against the metal, finding it surprisingly cool but still holding a faint warmth from his body. His eyes drop to where you’re touching him as you slowly begin to trace each blade with your fingers, following the slight curve down to where they emerge from his skin. You look up at him, finding his gaze fixed on you and you shiver under the intensity.

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper. You feel him shudder beneath you as he retracts his claws, leaving your fingertips nestled against the skin between his knuckles.

You pull your hand away from his, mourning the loss of his skin against yours. Logan clears his throat and pulls his hands into his lap, glancing down at them as if they’re foreign, something he’s never taken the time to notice before. He flexes his fingers once more before dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Do they hurt?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Thank you for showing me.”

Logan studies you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s trying to figure you out. You know he’s probably not used to this, someone seeing him as something other than a mutant, an aberration, someone who should be hidden away. Then, his face softens.

“People don’t usually ask,” he says quietly.

You smile gently, feeling that flame inside you burn just a bit brighter. “I just want to know you.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze still steady, but more open, as if some of those invisible walls he surrounds himself with have started to come down. If only just enough to let the light shine through.

An unspoken tension simmers, thickening the air, and you know he can feel it too, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy with promise. You turn your attention back to your plate and for a few moments, neither of you speak.

“So,” you say after a beat, “Do you ever use them as forks?”

Logan huffs out a laugh, the sound surprising you and his eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “I can’t say that I have,” he replies with a smile.

You grin. “You should give it a try.”

“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

The rest of dinner passes with easy conversation and you feel your nerves begin to settle, just a bit. Logan seems less guarded too, more at ease than you’ve ever seen him.

You help him clear the table, ignoring his request that you just sit and relax. As you stand next to him, emptying the leftovers into a container, you feel his eyes on you. When you hand him the container, your fingers brush again, but this time he doesn’t immediately pull away. His fingers linger just a bit longer than necessary and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks for dinner, he says quietly, voice low. “And for…understanding.”

You nod, feeling that unmistakable pull between you, the tug that’s kept you orbiting closer and closer to him. “Anytime, Logan,” you answer softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s been burned before and is still figuring out if he can trust what you’re offering him. And you understand his turmoil, trust having shattered your heart into pieces, pieces you’re still trying to pick up and reshape.

Logan steps a little bit closer then and before you can say anything else, his hand gently reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is simple but intimate and it sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling lowly in your belly.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let me walk you home.”

He grabs your basket before you can protest and you follow him out into the night. There’s a full moon hanging heavy in the sky, illuminating the path in front of you, yet you remain close to Logan. You curse to yourself as you trip over an exposed root and then you feel Logan reach out for you, his fingers wrapping securely around your own. The heat of his palm against yours is almost overwhelming.

Your cabin comes into view and Logan slows, his fingers slipping from your grasp as he sets the basket down on the porch.

“Good night, Logan,” you say softly as you walk up the steps.

As you turn from him, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers curling and pressing hotly against your skin. Your breath hitches as he climbs the steps to join you on the porch, and your gasps dies in your throat as he tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze.

“Do I make you nervous?” His voice is low, breath hot and damp against your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe, somehow inching closer to him, your fingers reaching for the hem of his flannel and twisting into the fabric.

“Why?” He brushes his nose against yours and you chase after the touch.

Swallowing hard, you look up at him from under your lashes. You tilt further into him, your mouth hovering just over his. “Because I haven’t felt like this in a very long time and I don’t want it to go away.” Don’t want you to go away.

Logan nods and whispers, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” And then he presses his mouth to yours.

It’s soft, barely a hint of skin against skin, but when you whisper, “Please,” against his lips, Logan growls and then he’s everywhere. His kiss claims you, his tongue licking in your mouth and you whimper as his fingers curl along the nape of your neck somehow pulling you impossibly closer.

You wind your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the short strands at the back of his head. Your entire world is focused down to the feel of his lips on yours and the press of his fingers against your jaw as he pulls you towards his hungry mouth.

Logan’s grip on you tightens, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him. The heat between you is palpable, each movement of his lips setting you further aflame. You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his beard scraping against your skin, leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless and his forehead rests against yours, your shared breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are dark and intense as they search your face and you feel untethered, Logan being the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, but surprisingly tender as his thumb traces along the line of your jaw.

You nod, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Good.” He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his hand lingering at the side of your face. He presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he steps back and walks down the path back home.

+++

You can’t stop thinking about the kiss—Logan’s lips against yours, the taste of his tongue, the press of his hands against your skin, hot and heavy, yet gentle.

You want to live in that moment forever. Want to know only his kisses for the rest of your life, for him to be the first person you kiss good morning and the last person you kiss goodnight. For him to kiss you just because he can, because he misses you, because he can’t get the feel of your mouth out of his mind and he needs to feel you again pressing against him.

You also want to run away, hide yourself from these emotions that are overwhelming you and leaving you feeling raw and exposed and absolutely terrified. You haven’t kissed another man in two years and he broke your heart, leaving nothing but shattered pieces and dust in his wake. Dust that still clings to you despite your best efforts to sweep it up. Those pieces of your heart are still sharp, jagged where they should be smooth.

You’ve always been trusting, choosing to see the light in others as opposed the darkness. Believing deep down that everyone deserves kindness, deserves a second chance, that one bad deed does not a bad person make. But he stole a part of that from you and you hate him for it. Hate that even now, after all this time, he’s able to worm his way into your brain and make you question the motives of the man who’s made you feel more alive than you have in months.

Last night you felt unshackled, unbound by the fear that had chained you for so long. You felt as if Logan’s very touch, his presence, had set your soul on fire and instead of fearing the burn, you were ready to embrace the warmth.

But now, raw contempt begins to simmer in your veins and you need something to pour your frustration into before it threatens to consume you whole.

Throwing your hair up into a messy bun and throwing on a paint-stained shirt and ripped jeans, you head outside looking for a project to sink fingers into. In the small shed behind the cabin, you find a few gardening supplies—a small shovel, trowel, bow rake—and you drag them out and to the overgrown flower beds.

You don’t even bother with the tools at first, ripping at the dead growth with your bare hands, pulling it from the earth in great clumps and tossing it aside. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears as you move from bed to bed, clawing away the old growth, your breathing growing ragged and your palms staining with dirt.

Grabbing the rake, you dig at the remaining plants, tearing at the roots, destroying the new growth. Tears run hotly down your face, blurring your vision and your throat aches from force of your breathing and screams you’ve been holding back.

From behind you, you hear the sound of your name and you whip around so quickly, the rake goes flying from your hands. You can hear the snikt of Logan’s claws as they unsheathe and the splintering of wood as he deflects the rake flying at him. It clatters to the ground between you as he retracts his claws and looks at you, his brow furrowed in concern.

You wonder, then, exactly what you look like in that moment. Dirt caked on your hands and under your fingernails, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair a halo of disarray. The pure adrenaline you’d been running on wanes and your limbs suddenly feel heavy and you sink to the ground in front of him. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, because you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

Logan approaches you slowly, kneeling down in front of you and gently raising your chin to look up at him. The stark worry etched on his face makes you ache and fresh tears burn in your eyes. You wipe at your eyes, which only serves to smear dirt across your face.

“I’m terrified, Logan,” you whisper, wanting to reach for him, but afraid to touch him. “I terrified of how much I like you.”

“You scare me too,” he confesses softly and your heart breaks.

He leans closer, fingers resting hesitantly against your knees. You reach for him too, grabbing on to the open sides of his jacket and pulling him to you. Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push back and instead envelopes you into his arms, your head resting against the solid warmth of his chest.

Safe in his arms, you cry. Harsh, broken sobs as he rubs your back, the soft caress of his fingers along your spine anchoring you to him as he holds you. He murmurs into your hair that he’s got you, to let it all out, and you do.

Eventually, you calm and sigh, pressing your forehead against his chest, loathe to move just yet. “I’m broken, Logan,” you mumble into his shirt. You look up at him then, the softness and concern on his face making you physically ache. “I still have broken pieces where I should be whole.”

Slowly, tentatively, he brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. His thumbs brush at the dirt and tears under your eyes and he smoothes the hair away from your forehead. “Maybe some of my pieces fit,” he says, voice low, but steady.

His words send a flood of emotion through you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Then the gravity of what he’s saying hits you—he’s offering you himself, all his jagged and scarred pieces, the pieces no one else sees.

The pieces he wants you to see.

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. His sigh is hot against your cheek, but he doesn’t press further.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin and somehow it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever said.

“C’mon,” he says, “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”

You nod, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Logan stands, offering you his hand. You take it, your fingers slipping into his and his grip is steady, yet gentle as he helps you up.

Without a word, Logan grabs the broken rake and begins removing the debris from the beds you laid waste to. You watch him work for a moment before joining in, pulling the weeds from the beds you hadn’t gotten to yet. Every now and then your eyes meet, but you don’t say anything. You don’t feel the need to fill the space with words, his presence beside you speaking volumes more than he could ever say.

After a while, Logan pauses and looks over at you, wiping the dirt from his hands into his jeans. “You still got those seeds I gave you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Go get ‘em,” he says nodding towards the cabin. “We’ll plant something new.”

You retrieve the small pouch where you’ve kept it safe and come out to find Logan kneeling in the dirt, his fingers making small pockets of earth to house the new flowers. He looks up at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You join him on the ground, dropping a few seeds in each well as he moves to create the next one.

“I’m not very good at this,” Logan starts, covering the last well with dirt, “but I promise I won’t break you. You don’t gotta be scared of me.”

He looks at you then, his hazel eyes meeting yours and you reach for his hand, your thumb brushing across his dirt stained knuckles.

“No,” you reply with a smile, “I don’t think I do.”

+++

It’s been three days since that moment with Logan in the garden and the air between you has been quiet. Logan hasn’t come by the cabin, but you hadn’t sought him out either. You weren’t avoiding him, exactly. More a need for space, a chance to process the feelings you felt for him, to test if you were truly ready to open yourself up to him.

Your mind never strays far from him, though. An almost constant loop plays in your brain of the way he held you, the way he spoke, the quiet promise he made not to break you. There’s a large part of you that believes him; your heart is screaming at you shed your lingering doubt and trust him, but your rational brain is grasping desperately to the kernel of truth that vows can be broken.

So you turn to what you do best—pour your energy into other things. The cabin is spotless now, cleaned of disuse and age, turned into a cozy place of retreat, a simple shelter turned into a home. And yet…

You’re sitting on the porch, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the book you’d been trying to read long forgotten. The forest is peaceful, alive with the sounds of early summer. But as calming as it is, you can’t ignore the ache in your chest—you miss him. More than you thought possible.

Just as you’re about to stand, the sound of boots against gravel catches your attention. You look up and there he is—Logan. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket as he walks up the path. His look is cautious, as if he’s unsure whether or not you’ll accept his presence.

Your heart skips a beat and you stand, wiping your palms against your jeans as he draws closer. His hazel eyes meet yours and there’s something softer about him, something open.

He stops a few feet away from you, gaze steady. “I wasn’t sure if I should come by.” His voice is still gruff, but quieter than usual. “If you needed space or not.”

“I did, need space. But not from you,” you clarify. You take a hesitant step towards him. “I missed you.”

Logan sighs then, his posture relaxing just slightly. “I wanted so badly to see you. I didn’t know if I should stay away.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you step down from the porch, closing the distance between you. You stand in front of him, noticing the faint lines of tension around his mouth, the way his jaw is clenched as if bracing himself for your rejection.

“Don’t stay away,” you say softly, “I want you here.”

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against his hands as you pull them from his pockets. Logan doesn’t pull away and the warmth of his skin against yours feels like the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, that familiar pull—the one that’s been there since the beginning, drawing you closer and closer into his orbit, his sun.

You brush your thumbs across his knuckles and look up at him. “You wanna come inside?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll make you something to eat?”

Logan nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

As you lead him inside, something in the air between you shifts, something subtle. But you know one thing for certain—you’re not afraid anymore. Not of this.

+++

The sun has set, the food long gone and as Logan’s hand reaches for the front door, you slip in front of him. His scent overwhelms you, that earthy dampness you’ve come to associate with him flooding your senses.

“What if you stayed?” you ask, the slight waver in your voice betraying your boldness.

You watch as his eyes darken and he leans even further into your space. “Do you know what you’re asking, sweetheart?” he replies, eyes searching your face.

Swallowing, you nod. “I do,” you whisper.

Then you slide your arms around his waist, pulling him closer as you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. You can feel him swallow hard beneath your lips and you smirk into his skin as you drag your mouth higher, over the long column of his neck to nip at the corner of his jaw.

“Stay,” you murmur in his ear.

Logan turns, his nose brushing against your cheek as he seeks your mouth and you inhale deeply as his lips find yours. His fingers wind themselves into your hair, resting against the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer. You whimper into his mouth when he pulls back, eyes blown black.

“Show me where,” he says, his voice low.

You lead him up the stairs, his hand warm in yours and you barely make it to the top before Logan’s spinning you around, mouth finding yours. His is kiss is demanding, so different from that first one all those nights ago. This is urgent and desperate, like he can’t possibly get you close enough to satisfy the need deep within him. And you feel it too, pouring yourself back equally into the kiss, moaning as his tongue finally slips alongside yours.

Your fingers fumble along the top of his jeans, pulling his shirt from where it’s tucked and sliding your hands up along the sides of his ribs. He rewards you with a deep groan of his own, nipping slightly at your bottom lip.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your lips, kissing you once, twice, “I’ve been dyin’ to feel your hands on me.”

“Me, too,” you reply, gasping as his hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to brush his fingers hotly along your skin.

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at your face, his fingers still clutching the fabric of your shirt, but lifting it just a bit higher. His gaze is questioning, asking for silent permission to continue. You nod once and he slowly drags the shirt up, his fingers skimming along your sides, over the swells of your breasts as he pulls the shirt over your head.

Despite the heat coursing through your veins, you shiver under the intensity of his stare. He kisses you again, inhaling deeply, before moving down, nipping over your chin, your throat, in between your breasts.

Logan’s hands follow his mouth, running a trail from your shoulders, down long your spine, easily flicking open the clasp of your bra on the way. He glances up at you as he moves to pull the straps aside, dragging them down your arms.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs fanning out across your nipples.

A jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine and pools low in your belly. You feel like you might spontaneously catch on fire and he’s barely touched you. You can’t remember ever feeling like this when a man has touched you, so consumed by want and need.

His fingers trail lower, brushing along the top of your jeans, popping open the button. You grab for his hand, stopping him. You see the concern flicker across his face and you smile. “Your turn,” you say, sliding your palms up his chest and pushing the flannel from his shoulders, his shirt following suit.

You revel in his muscular physique, your fingers tracing along his collarbones, down over the broad planes of his chest, feeling the wiry hair beneath your fingertips. His muscles flutter beneath your touch as you follow the trail of hair lower, down to the vee between his hips.

Logan’s arousal is evident by the tenting of his jeans, and your eyes locked on his, you dip lower, giving the faintest of caresses over the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses. “Take your pants off.”

It’s a command, not an ask, and one you’re more than willing to comply with.

Nervous energy licks at your skin as your fingers tuck into the waistband of your jeans and pull them down. Logan follows your lead, unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans over his hips, kicking them aside. His cock juts out proudly, thick and heavy, nestled in a bed of hair.

Logan’s on you before you can kick away the last leg, hoisting you up under your thighs and forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips. His palms are hot against your ass and you can feel his cock trapped between you.

He moves you both to the bed, setting you down before crawling over you and slotting himself between your thighs. Leaning back on his heels, he stares down at you, skin flushed. He kisses you softly once, before dragging a single finger down the center of your chest, hooking it into the waistband of your panties.

“What do you like?” he asks lowly, eyes boring into yours.

You stare at him, unable to comprehend his question as he slides his finger back and forth across your skin. Electric sparks of anticipation crawl up your spine and you can feel the rapid flutter of your heart against your ribs.

“You want me to touch you with my fingers?” His voice is low, so low and you shiver.

Your mouth has gone dry and you can only nod.

“You want me to touch you with my mouth?” Logan leans down, skimming his lips across your collarbone, nipping lightly.

Your fingers stutter across his shoulders and wind themselves into his hair. Logan’s smirk presses into the corner of your jaw. “Want me to touch you with both?”

“Please,” you whine into his neck, breath hot against his skin.

Logan trails back down your body, kisses peppering over your neck, both breasts, your belly before he presses a kiss to the top of your clothed mound. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at you, asking for permission. At your nod, he pulls he material down, eyes never leaving yours as he trails his fingers down your legs and tosses the fabric aside.

You’re fully bare, exposed in a way you haven’t been in a long time and your nerves blush across your skin. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he stops you, his hot palms curling against your thighs.

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” Logan says, kissing your knee and spreading your legs further apart. “You’re so pretty like this. Flushed and wet and smelling so sweet for me.”

A jolt of desire zips down your spine. Nothing could have prepared you for the filthiness of words that would spill from his mouth. Or how much you’d enjoy hearing them.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you murmur.

“That’s not possible.”

“Other men have—“

Your words die in your throat as Logan grips your chin, forcing your gaze up to his face. His expression is soft, but his eyes flash with a glint of something dark. “When I fuck you, I’ll be the only man in your bed, understand?”

The roughness and edge in his voice makes you shiver and heat pools between your thighs. You swallow heavily and nod.

“I want this,” he says, his tone softer. “I want you. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Slowly, you reach for his hand and guide his fingers to where you’re wet and aching for him. At the first brush of his fingertips against your folds, you gasp and your fingers dig deeper into his skin.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Logan coos. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

And then he’s touching you, fingers dragging through your arousal before circling around your clit. He caresses you like he knows you and you’re molten beneath him. One finger, then two slip inside you, pressing against that spot that makes you squirm and grip at the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “You weren’t lying.” Logan quirks an eyebrow, fingers still curling within you, his rhythm picking up speed. “You are good with your hands.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest as he continues to move, this thumb working over your clit. Your hips jolt off the bed when Logan replaces his thumb with his tongue, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth.

He continues to work your cunt, long, flat presses of his tongue against your clit punctuated by the short, sharp thrusts of his fingers. The dual sensation is enough to wind that tension in your core tighter, building you up higher and higher until you feel yourself reaching that inevitable peak.

“Logan, I—I’m so close,” you gasp, fisting your fingers into his hair.

His growl against your cunt is enough to send you over the edge, the vibrations rippling through your body as your orgasm washes over you. Through half lidded eyes, you meet his gaze from between your thighs, his eyes dark with desire and you shiver at the intensity of his stare.

Logan crawls over you, pressing a kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on his lips, bright and sour, as he licks into your mouth.

“Do you trust me?”

Logan’s fingers are still moving against you, wringing out the last of your orgasm and you can only nod. He withdraws his fingers and you whine, but he just smirks and taps your hip.

“Turn over,” he commands lowly.

A shudder ripples through you as you willingly comply, rolling onto your stomach as Logan’s palm trails from your hip over the swell of your ass. His fingers kneed into your flesh and you squeak as he curves them over your skin, pulling you up onto your knees, drawing your hips flush with his. The thick feel of his cock presses into your ass and you can’t help but push back, enjoying the strangled moan that falls from his lips.

“I can’t wait to be nestled deep inside you,” he groans, slotting his cock between your thighs, running the length along your wet cunt.

You peer over your shoulder and smirk at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Logan lines up then and the air punches out of your lungs as he slowly eases himself in to the hilt. He’s deep at this angle and you feel claimed, owned in the best way possible as he begins to move his hips. The drag of his cock against your walls is exquisite and you’re sure you’ve never experienced pleasure quite like this before.

His fingers dig into the flesh at your hips, grabbing as much as he can to pull you back into him and you push back, meeting him thrust for thrust. His grip is enough to be bruising, teetering that line between pleasure and pain and yet you relish it.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Look so good stretched around my cock.”

Pleasure zips along your spine and curls along your limbs, each drag of his cock against you coiling that band in your belly tighter and tighter. Yet, you need more. You need to feel him, feel his arms around you, on you, feel his mouth hot and open against your skin.

“I need to feel you closer,” you whine. “Please, I—”

Logan’s arm slips underneath you, curling just under your breasts and pulling your back flush to his chest. He holds on, fingertips splaying across your ribcage as he fucks up into you, his breath hot and damp against your ear.

You turn your head just enough to capture his lips, your mouth pressing against his in an open-mouthed kiss. He steals the moan from your throat as his other hand dips to where you’re joined, fingers beginning to circle around your clit.

Slipping a hand into his hair, you hold him to you, your head falling back onto his shoulder. Logan groans when you rake your nails along his scalp and you do it again. Your mixed groans and the wet noises from where he’s thrusting into you fill the room and time seems to stop. There is nothing but the thick feel of him between your legs, the fervent press of his fingers against your clit and the tight grasp of his hand across your breast.

A litany of praise falls from his mouth and his words burn through you, setting you aflame from the inside. It’s too early for thoughts of love and forever, but you can feel something real, something undeniable pulling you together, uniting you in a way more than just physical. You’re bound to him.

Logan’s hand slides up your sternum, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, pulling your focus back to him. The pad of his thumb pulls at your lower lip. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he husks into your ear. “I wanna hear those pretty sounds you make.”

And you do, two more forceful thrusts sending you teetering over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you. Logan doesn’t stop, fucking you through wave after wave, his thrusts getting sloppier as he chases his own release.

“Let me feel you, Logan,” you pant, your breath coming out in short gasps. “Please.”

With a deep groan into your shoulder he comes, his cock spasming deep within you, painting your womb with his seed. His arm around your hips holds you firmly in place as he uses your body to wring out the last of his pleasure, shallowly thrusting as your walls caress him. When he finally stills, breath hot against your skin, you can feel your combined come slick against your thighs.

You don’t know how long he holds you like that, back to chest, keeping you in his arms simply because he can.

Only later, when the sweat begins to cool on your skin and your flesh pebbles, does Logan lay you down, finally slipping from within you. He pulls you close and you rest your head against his chest, the comforting lull of his heartbeat echoing in your ear.

You lightly trace your fingertips over the crest of his hipbone just to feel him beneath you. His breathing evens out, approaching that blissful edge of sleep when you glance up at him. Logan opens his eyes, gaze meeting yours and he smiles.

“Logan?”

His hum vibrates through his chest.

“I think we’re healing each other.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he answers, “I think we are.”

#logan howlett x you #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #origins wolverine #origins logan howlett #the wolverine #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fanfiction #logan x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader

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yandere-daydreams · 5 months ago

Text

Title: Hypothermia.

Pairing: Yandere!Winter Spirit x Reader (OC).

Word Count: 2.6k.

TW: Kidnapping, Hypothermia, Obsessive Behavior, Implied/Mentioned Death, Manipulation, Implied Stalking, and Implied Cannibalism.

[Spring]

You’d heard, once, that in its final stages, freezing to death could actually be quite warm.

It was called paradoxical undressing, or something similar enough to warrant the connection. First, you’d be shivering and lost, then rigid and confused, and in the final moments of your life, hypothermia would compel you to spend your last drops of energy stripping yourself of all things good and warming, ridding yourself of any barriers that might’ve saved you from its fatal touch. In the end, you’d die paralyzed, breathless, and worst of all, convinced that you were the warmest you’d ever been. It was a cruel thing to do to anyone, let alone a innocent victim of bad luck. That, or it was supposed to be a kindness, meant to make you feel just a little more at-home as you laid down and accepted what you couldn’t stave off. How you’d take it was something you couldn’t speak for just yet, but you had a feeling that would change soon enough.

So, to reiterate, you’d know you were freezing to death when you started to feel warm. Whether or not it was true, the superstition proved to be a small mercy, because you still felt pretty fucking cold.

You couldn’t feel anything below your knees. Your arms were at least somewhat protected where they were tucked against your chest, half-buried underneath the heavy flannel you’d been able to steal on your way out, but there wasn’t anything you could do about how the snow and ice sunk into the leather of your boots, how the wind seemed to cut through the paper-thin denim of your jeans. A scarf saved your nose and mouth from the worst of the chill, but in the middle of the night, miles and miles and miles away from the nearest streetlamp or flashlight, you couldn’t afford to cover your eyes. It was a miracle that you weren’t crying. You weren’t sure, but you didn’t want to find out if your tears would freeze against your cheeks.

You took another shuffling step forward, and your foot caught on a half-buried tree root, sending you crumbling to the ground. Cold bit into your hands and knees, and you choked out a miserable whine, your dignity abandoned around the time you lost the ability to move your fingers. Not for the first time, you thought about turning back. You could still taste blood on your lips, sure, could still attempt to ignore the ache in your gut where hunger should’ve been, but nothing could’ve been worse than this. At least, next time you tried to run, you could do it during the day, when the cold would be just a little more forgiving. At least, next time, you could save yourself a few hours of trouble and drown yourself in the sink, right next to the other co—

Something flashed across your peripheral – movement, light. You shambled to your feet, snapping in the direction of a dull glow just barely bright enough to cut through the dark of the forest, to prove that there were other people wandering these godforsaken woods at this unholy time of night. You were exhausted beyond sleep, hopeless beyond aid, but still, you forced yourself to stumble around trees and over snowdrifts, to blink away the haziness in your vision and believe that the silhouette of a cabin you could see through the darkness was just that – a cabin. It was a small structure, no more than a couple of rooms, and you couldn’t see any roads or cars, but the windows were lit, and smoke was rising from the chimney, and the snow had been cleared away from the porch, proving that someone was actively taking care of the property. For the first time in hours, you dragged yourself onto something other than endless sleet and for the first time in your life, found yourself thankful to be walking on perfectly solid, perfectly dry earth.

You made it onto the porch before stopping. It was a stupid thing to worry about, really – whether or not some recluse living all alone in the middle of the woods would like you. The roads were closed, iced-over, and you weren’t going to get another chance to find help, but that also meant you weren’t going to find other help. If the cabin’s owner didn’t take kindly to uninvited guests, then you might’ve been better off wandering back into the forest. There were worse things in the world than the cold.

…

Actually, on second thought, there really weren’t. Before you could hesitate again, you brought a fist to the door and knocked stiffly. It swung open in an instant.

You blinked once, then twice, before acknowledging the man standing in the now-open doorway. Saying he looked out of place would’ve been an understatement. Rather than the old, grisly, lumberjack-type you’d been expecting, he almost seemed princely – a little too tall and a little too angular, willowy in a way that made you feel smaller by comparison. His skin was bone-white, like the blood running underneath it was blue rather than red, and his shoulder-length hair was so pale, calling it any shade of blonde wouldn’t have done justice to its absolute lack of color. He was dressed for another season – his white tunic long-sleeved, but thin and open to the navel, and his pants made out of a similarly unsubstantial type of linen. His eyes were the worst part, the same pale blue as open sky or clear water. The color wasn’t damning on its own, but something about the lighting made his pupils seem nonexistent – shades of blue spiraling into themselves indefinitely. You might’ve thought he was blind if his gaze hadn’t been so tangibly fixed on you.

“My love,” he sighed, each word slightly distorted by an accent you couldn’t name. Then, with a slight gasp, “Come in, come in. Ah, poor thing, you’re already half-frozen.”

More than half, but you weren’t in a place to correct him. “…I’m sorry to bother you,” you muttered, letting yourself be swept into the cabin and all-but dropped into an armchair so close to the fireplace, it felt like the flames were licking at your knees. You shuffled that much closer and peeled off your scarf, embarrassed not to have thought to do so before knocking.

While your host fluttered around you, mumbling about hot drinks and meals, you took another stab at explaining yourself. Even if he wasn’t listening, it couldn’t hurt to make yourself seem that much more unfortunate. “I—I’m staying in another cabin a few miles up the mountain. It was me and a few friends, but the snowstorm caught us off-guard, and after losing power—”

“They always seem to,” he cut in, pausing behind you. A quilted blanket was draped over your shoulders, and you pulled it over your chest with no hesitation. “I can’t fathom why. The seasons change at the same time every year.”

You bit back a scowl, not sure whether to feel patronized or offended. “We were waiting for the roads to re-open, but there was an accident, and—”

“And you ran out of food.” Another log was thrown on the fire, sending tendrils of heat crawling up your arms and rooting into your chest. “I should make you some tea, shouldn’t I? Oh, or would you prefer something to eat?”

You should’ve been starving, but the idea of eating alone had you gagging on bile. You dropped your eyes into your lap. “…I’m alright, thank you. Just a little cold.”

There was another sigh, this one more dismissive than the first. You heard light footsteps against old wood, the sound delicate shifting, and then, he was perched on the lip of the fireplace, his chin propped on his fist and his expression wistful in a distant sort of way. Well, as much as you could see of it, anyway. You refused to let your gaze rise above his collarbones. “You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?”

The question was playful, accompanied by an airy laugh. This time, you couldn’t swallow your frown. “I’m sorry, but if we’ve met before, I don’t—”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” He seemed to have a problem with that – coming too quickly, before you were fully prepared to move on. “I think people are still calling me Boreas, but it has been some time since I last checked. I wouldn’t mind if you chose another name.”

“Bor,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I’m—”

“(Y/n).” You physically recoiled – crowding yourself against the back of your seat. Bor only laughed. “That’s my fault. It’s just—I’ve been so excited to meet you. There aren’t a lot of people who understand each other like we do.”

Huh.

Well, he was crazy, clearly. That was fine. It was still better than freezing to death. Probably.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” he asked, practically grinning. “That’s alright. Winter’s a scary time, and we ought to seek refuge in one another.”

It was a sweet sentiment posed at the worst possible time. Memories of dark rooms and torn blankets flickered across your mind, but you did your best to keep them at bay. “I think I’ve had enough huddling, for a while.”

“Of course, nor would I expect otherwise. You’ll be comfortable here, I promise. We’ll knit, and embroider, and cook – there’s quite a lot of things you can cook over an open fire. It’s a shame most people never get a chance to try it.” He paused, shook his head, as if cutting himself off. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat? You must’ve walked an awfully long way.”

The idea of eating was still repulsive, but when you tried to reaffirm your rejection, you couldn’t quite seem to. You were starting to regain feeling in your chest again, and with it, your stomach. With the cold momentarily put aside, emptiness took precedent – exhaustion and thirst and would-be hunger forming a shell of hollowness at your core. You’d have to get out of this cabin at some point, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to give yourself something to burn when you did.

“A cup of tea would be nice.”

Bor beamed. “I’ve already got the kettle on.”

And, just like that, he was gone, swept into another room before you could so much as mention that you preferred cream to sugar. With a deep exhale, you collapsed against the back of your chair, glancing around the cabin’s interior. It was larger than you guessed – the living room alone bigger than the entirety of its exterior would’ve suggested. Your tired eyes glanced over shelves of clutter and knickknacks, tables crowded with well-worn books and half-emptied mugs, chairs and sofas all piled high with pillows and blankets in every shape and color and form you could imagine. It would’ve been homey, under better circumstances. Even now, under circumstances that were very much not better, you found yourself slackening, shifting, closing your eyes for just a touch longer than you should’ve. By the time Bor blustered back in, a teacup in either hand, you were tracing the delicate conch shells carved into either armrest of your seat just to keep yourself awake. He waited patiently for you to pick yourself up, accept the cup, and bring it eagerly to your lips.

The taste was familiar and light – peppermint, or something similarly seasonal. Rather than returning to his post by the hearth, Bor perched himself on the arm of your chair. “Isn’t that better?” And then, before your addled mind could thing to answer, “It must’ve been difficult – being all alone for so long. I’d say I can’t imagine how you must’ve felt, but I had plenty of time to imagine.”

You drained half the cup before managing to drag it far enough away from your mouth to respond. “It was only a few days.”

“Far more than you should’ve had to endure. I was tempted to send you company, but—” His smile took on a bashful lilt. “You wouldn’t have liked it. Maybe later on, if I’m ever forced to leave you on your own again.”

“You make it sound like I’m not going home.”

He was almost too quick to clarify, laughing as he strung an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close to his side. He was cold as ice, but you let him – too tired to resist. “And we’d never want you to think something like that, would we? I already feel terrible about how long you had to stay away.”

His words were sympathetic, but that was all. You could still make out the crescent moon of his smile, the glee in his voice, the satisfaction in how tightly he held you against him. Bristling, you tried to pull away, but you must’ve spent more of your strength than you realized. As soon as you drew back, a spear of pure cold bit into your arm where his hand was curled around it, then your chest, sending you shrinking and shivering into his side. Bor only hummed, raking his fingers through your hair. “Tired, darling?” You wanted to refuse, to pull yourself together, to leave, but even as you started to shake your head, you knew it just wasn’t possible. Slowly, shakily, you managed to nod, and Bor rewarded you with a ginger kiss to the top of your head. His lips were as cold as his skin. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Walking was a fantasy – as implausible as flying pigs or Christmas in July. You made no effort to protest as Bor gathered you in his arms and, with a surprising amount of strength for his lean form, carried you deeper into the cabin. The passing scenery blurred together, your mind too exhausted and your vision too fogged to hold focus. You only fully processed where he was taking you when you felt your back press into something soft – a bed, one softer and warmer than anything you’d ever felt, before.

It was nice. As if by instinct, your hands found the buttons of your borrowed flannel, fumbling for a moment before a more capable pair took over. Your shoes were done away with next, then your jeans, leaving you in just your oversized undershirt. You wouldn’t have minded if he took that, too. Anything to make you feel a little less overheated.

Eventually, his weight settled next to yours, and with your eyes shut, you curled into him – resting your head in his lap as he rubbed freezing shapes into your back. By some miracle, you found the will to speak, if only in a whisper. “I didn’t hurt anyone. It was an accident.”

“I know. No one would say that you did.”

“It’s what they would’ve wanted. Not all of us had to die.”

“My thoughts exactly. We should take care of each other, shouldn’t we?”

“I don’t want to go home.” You could still taste the iron on your tongue – raw meat tinged with ice-cold ash. “I don’t think I can.”

A chirping laugh filled the bedroom – bright and piercing and as cutting as a cold wind through tender flesh. You forced yourself to open your eyes, and by anything but your own volition, met his. “But, love,” he murmured, leaning down to press a lingering kiss into your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then finally, your lips.

In the brief moment before he pulled away, you genuinely believed you would never feel cold again.

“You’re already here.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere monster #monster x reader

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b1eedthefreak · 16 days ago

Note

can you do more girly!reader and daryl pretty please? it’s okay if not! but i looooved your one shot :3

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Princess Duty

⌇daryl dixon x girly!reader

⌇summary: you hurt your ankle after a trip with daryl, so he takes care of you like you’re a princess

⌇warnings: fluff

⌇word count: ~5.2k

a/n okay lowkey i don’t really like this i feel like it could’ve been more emphasized she’s girly reader but it’s okay because i will never stop writing girly reader so i will do this request more justice

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❀ ⋆｡˚ ˚｡⋆❀

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

⸻

The air was crisp with the faint scent of the open wilderness as you and Daryl made your way through the quiet roads, the morning sun breaking through the trees above, casting long shadows over the path. You had begged him to come with you on a short trip to explore a nearby area that you’d heard about. An old abandoned mall. Daryl had been hesitant at first, his wariness of straying too far from Alexandria weighing on him, but he couldn’t deny the small spark of curiosity that flickered in his chest.

So, here you were, walking side by side through the woods, hand wrapped around the handle of your bedazzled satchel bag, a gentle breeze blowing through your hair.

“Ya sure this place is gonna be worth it?” Daryl asked, voice low but teasing as he glanced sideways at you. His brow was furrowed, his face always partially hidden under the shadows of his hair and hood, but you could see the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“I think so,” you said excitedly, bouncing a little in your step. “I heard there’s a store in there with, like, perfumes, makeup, and clothes. Can you imagine? Like, things from before everything just went zombie apocalypse mode!”

Daryl let out a breath, rolling his eyes in a mock exasperation, but there was a softness to it. “You’re gonna get lost in there baby,” he muttered, the word rolling off his tongue like something familiar, something that had become second nature.

You laughed, the sound carrying through the trees. “I know! That’s why I have a big strong man with me, duh!”

“Right.” Daryl replied with a smirk, though there was a protectiveness hidden beneath his words.

As you reached the mall, the building stood before you, looming in the distance like a forgotten relic of the past. The gray brick walls were chipped, covered in ivy and moss, but the structure still held strong. The doors creaked as you pushed them open, the bell above the entrance giving a jarring little jingle. It almost felt like stepping into another world, one where the chaos of the world outside didn’t exist.

The inside was eerily quiet, dust covering every surface, but there was something magical about it. A forgotten time, a faded memory.

And then, you saw it.

“Daryl, look!” you called, excitement practically spilling out of your words. Your finger pointed toward a section at the back of the store, a shelf lined with perfume bottles, their glass shimmering faintly even in the dim light. It was like a beacon.

Daryl walked up beside you, glancing over at the shelf. “Yeah, baby, I’m lookin’,” he said softly, his voice filled with amusement as he watched you move forward.

You practically skipped toward the shelf, your hand reaching for one of the bottles. “I just—” you started, a grin plastered on your face, “I just wanna smell something nice, y’know?”

“Don’t go fallin’ and hurtin’ yourself tryin’ to reach somethin’,” Daryl warned with a half hearted scowl as he watched you stretch up onto your toes, trying to get your hands on the bottle.

You smirked over your shoulder, determined. “I won’t! I’m almost there!”

But, of course, the world had other plans. As you balanced precariously, trying to grab the perfume bottle just a little higher, your foot slipped. Your ankle twisted, and before you could stop yourself, you fell forward with a startled cry, landing in a soft heap on the floor.

“Ain’t that just like ya,” Daryl muttered under his breath as he rushed to your side. His hand was immediately on your shoulder, helping you sit up as he scanned you for any real injury. “Baby, I told ya to stop.”

You winced, trying to put weight on your foot, but the sharp pain that shot through your ankle made it impossible. “Ow…” you muttered, rubbing at the sore spot. “I’m okay. Really.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed as he crouched in front of you. “Yeah? Sure about that?”

You nodded, though the pain made your face scrunch. “I think I just twisted it. It’s fine.”

Daryl let out a small, frustrated sound before reaching down to gently lift your foot off the ground. “Ain’t gonna be fine if ya don’t let me take care of ya.” He scooped you up in his arms effortlessly, surprising you with the strength he always seemed to have, even in the most tender moments.

“Daryl! I’m a strong independent woman perfectly cable of—” you started, but he was already moving, his steps firm as he carried you toward the exit.

“Shh, no arguments princess,” he muttered, his tone firm yet caring. “Let’s get you back to Alexandria.”

The ride back to Alexandria was uneventful, the silence between you two comfortable. You leaned against Daryl, your head resting on his shoulder, and he kept one hand gently supporting your injured ankle, cradling it carefully like it was the most delicate thing in the world. You closed your eyes, allowing the comfort of his presence to wash over you.

By the time you made it back to the safety of Alexandria, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the walls of the settlement. Daryl didn’t hesitate to take you straight to your house, where he made you sit on the bed while he examined your ankle.

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” he said quietly, though his expression was still tinged with concern. “But ya still gotta take it easy for a while.”

You sighed, flopping back against the pillows. “I hate not being able to do my stuff… The kids are gonna be disappointed. I won’t be able to do my deliveries tomorrow, or teach them the way I usually do.”

Daryl frowned as he carefully wrapped your ankle in a bandage, his fingers moving with practiced ease, but there was a soft intensity in his gaze. “Ain’t nobody gonna be disappointed, princess,” he murmured. “They’ll understand. And you need to rest. You’ve been takin’ care of everyone else. Now it’s your turn to let me take care of ya.”

Before you could respond, a knock came at the door, followed by a voice from outside. “(Y/N)? You in there? We miss you! The kids are askin’ when you’re comin’ back.”

Daryl stood up straight, his body tense. You saw the shift in his posture, a quiet, protective energy emanating from him. He glanced at you, then opened the door. “She’s restin’,” he said, his tone a little sharper than usual. “She’ll be fine, just need some time.”

The guy from outside nodded and waved, stepping away. “We’re all missin’ ya around here. Don’t be too long, alright?”

As the door clicked shut, Daryl turned back to you, his face softening, but his gaze still intense. “Ya hear that? They’re all missin’ you.” There was a slight edge to his voice. “Don’t like the idea of everyone else makin’ sure you’re okay.”

You grinned, catching the undertone of his words. “Daryl Dixon! Are you jealous?”

Daryl’s eyes darkened for a moment, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to hide the hint of discomfort. “Maybe,” he muttered, lowering his gaze to your ankle. “Don’t like others fussin’ over ya.”

You chuckled softly, reaching for his hand. “Don’t worry, Daryl. I’m not going anywhere.”

With a small grunt, he knelt beside you again, his hands gentle as he adjusted the blanket around you. “You don’t need to be doin’ everything for everyone else, princess. It’s time you let me take care of you. Just you.”

You smiled, leaning into him, your head resting against his chest as his arms wrapped around you. “I’m lucky to have you, Daryl.”

“Yeah?” His voice was soft, but there was a deep warmth there. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Well, I’m the lucky one.”

The night passed slowly, with Daryl taking care of you in every way imaginable. From fetching your favorite snacks to tucking you in and keeping you close, he made sure you knew how much you meant to him.

And when the quiet of the night finally settled over you both, Daryl’s lips found yours in a gentle kiss, soft and full of affection.

“Rest easy, princess,” he whispered, “I’ve gotcha.”

As you drifted to sleep in his arms, the world outside seemed a little less chaotic, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❀ ⋆｡˚ ˚｡⋆❀

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #norman reedus #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon twd #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction

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hoe4hotchner · 3 months ago

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can i request aaron x prosecutor!reader where there's a case or smth and he's worried about her being a victim so in the middle of her preparing for an upcoming court hearing he forces her into his office. he swears it's for her safety but she's irritated and they may or may not have a little argument in front of the team 🤷🏾‍♀️

bonus if the unsub contacts her directly 👀

Overruled | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Prosecutor Fem!reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: Threats mentioned, argument, mention of death, power dynamics.

The knock on your office door was curt and authoritative. You didn’t look up from your notes, flipping through the organized chaos of case law and precedents sprawled across your desk. The highlighter cap clenched between your teeth shifted as you marked a line in a recent appellate decision, your mind already structuring the argument you would present in court.

“If it’s not an evidentiary ruling or a direct confession, I don’t have time,” you called without missing a beat, barely sparing a second to acknowledge the interruption.

The door opened anyway.

“You’re coming with me.”

That unmistakable voice had your hands freezing mid-scribble. Aaron Hotchner.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze, arching a brow. He was standing in your doorway, tie slightly loosened, his usual rigid posture even stiffer than normal. His jaw was locked, and his eyes—dark, serious, resolute—they left no room for negotiation. There was an energy about him, one you recognized as equal parts command and concern. He wasn’t here to discuss, he was here to dictate.

You exhaled through your nose, placing your pen down deliberately. “I have a hearing in less than—”

“I don’t care.”

You narrowed your eyes, fingers tightening against the polished wood of your desk. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not safe.” His voice was a low, unwavering command. “Pack up your things.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. “Oh, that’s rich. Is this about the threats? Because unless they’ve escalated to something actionable, you know as well as I do that speculation isn’t grounds for detainment. I deal with threats all the time, Aaron. Occupational hazard.”

“This isn’t a debate, counselor,” he shot back, stepping further into the room, the movement subtle but deliberate, reinforcing his presence. “We have credible intelligence that your involvement in the Martinez case has made you a target. That’s more than enough reason to remove you from your office.”

Your fingers curled around the stack of legal briefs on your desk, grip tightening. “Credible intelligence or speculation?”

“I’m not arguing with you about this.” His tone was clipped and controlled, but you could hear the underlying frustration laced beneath his professionalism.

“Well, you’re going to have to,” you countered, standing now, matching his intensity. “Because I don’t answer to the FBI, and I sure as hell don’t answer to you, Agent Hotchner.”

Something flickered in his gaze, a fleeting flash of something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tensed, his hands flexing at his sides as if physically restraining himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t.

“You’re being reckless,” he ground out.

“No, I’m doing my job,” you shot back, stepping around your desk to meet him head-on. “A job that requires me to be in that courtroom tomorrow, not hidden away in protective custody like some fragile witness.”

“A job that requires you to be alive to argue it.”

The air between you crackled, the tension no longer just about your safety, but about something deeper—an unspoken battle of wills, of concern masquerading as control, of autonomy clashing with protectiveness.

And then, of course, it had to get worse.

“Uh, should we—”

You turned your head sharply at the sound of a voice, only to find the rest of the BAU team gathered near your doorway, watching the unfolding showdown with varying degrees of concern, amusement, and outright alarm.

Prentiss cleared her throat, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Should we leave you two alone, or…?”

Hotch’s jaw flexed, his already strained patience thinning. “Go back to work.”

Morgan chuckled under his breath but raised his hands in surrender, retreating with a murmured, “Man’s on a mission.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temple, frustration giving way to something more complicated.

“Aaron.”

He stiffened at the use of his first name. The team had disappeared, but the weight of the conversation remained, pressing down on both of you like an unseen force.

“I’m not asking you to like this,” he said, voice lower now, edged with something almost—pleading? “But I need you to trust me.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to fight him on this, wanted to push back, but beneath the stubbornness was something undeniable—the quiet and insistent worry in his eyes.

“You’re going to miss my closing argument,” you muttered, trying to salvage the last shreds of control you had over this situation.

His lips pressed together, as though he were biting back the words he really wanted to say. Then, finally: “I’d rather miss it than have to give your eulogy.”

The fight drained out of you all at once. You swallowed hard. “Damn it, Aaron.”

“Pack your things.” Softer now, but no less firm.

You exhaled, shaking your head, but finally, you reached for your briefcase. The gravity of his words settled in your chest, heavier than you wanted to admit.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if I miss my hearing, you owe me dinner.”

His eyes softened just a fraction. “Done.”

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theveryworstthing · 8 months ago

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time to learn a little bit about the Yells. i've been writing a few lore posts for a while and instead of continuing to let they grow and fretting over them, i think i'm just going to throw a few out there and try to finish up the rest this week.

The Yells

Despite their imposing size, strange behaviors, and mysterious keepers, the Signallusc (or The Yells as most rabbits call them) are considered just another part of the island landscape. These towering faux trees serve as the island version of radio towers, and make all radio communication above and below ground possible.

Though the 2 largest of the naturally formed Yells are still upright and active (and heavily protected so that their natural life cycle can be properly studied), these days rabbits prefer to cultivate the towers so that they don’t grow in problematic areas or do…other things.

Wild or free growth Yells make their homes in dead rotting wood as natural decomposers, and many live out their lives as simple slime molds (or as simple as any slime mold can be). Certain conditions must be met to trigger the drastic color change and vertical growth that make them viable for communication use, and so wild Yells are usually found growing in small clusters in or around the resources they need to sustain their new forms. Dead trees or stumps with roots still in the ground are prime hosts for these slime molds and they’re actually seen as beneficial since they stabilize potentially dangerous dead trees and kill diseases or especially destructive insects that might harm surrounding living trees. Once inside these dead trees the slime mold eats them from the inside out, taking the branches first, and then devouring the mass from the top down.

Compared to other slime molds they can handle direct sunlight quite well, but wild yells still tend to favor hosts in shady areas and from the way these trees are devoured they seem to try and keep some sort of shell around them for as long as possible. This wooden shell not only serves as food, but also gives the growing Yell a moist, dark, home until its outer membrane is thick and strong enough to handle being constantly exposed. When wild Yells “die”, it’s usually because they’ve run out of host tree long ago, and have stiffened into a rigid structure that eventually cracks (usually due to being struck by lightning) and crumbles, releasing clouds of spores. The remains of a Yell dissolve in the first rain after they fall and tend to leave the area around the strange lotus pod-ish pit in the ground where “roots” used to be spotless, but smelling very metallic with a hint of foulness. Almost like not so fresh blood.

Through the observations recorded by island botanists and the specific botanical sect known as the Antenna, rabbits (and hares, as they were the first to investigate and made great strides in understanding the process before they left the island en masse) have learned exactly what triggers Yell vertical growth and have used this knowledge to cultivate Yells quite successfully. A combination of owl feathers, metal ore (mainly bog iron), charcoal sticks and or ash (best if created by lightning strike, wood preferred but animal remains like burned out hawks are perfectly acceptable), and a little starter wood are fed to the slime mold, and after it’s broken everything down it begins its transformation. It is then introduced to a host plant sprout, a type of fast growing, woody, creeping vine in the Grasp family bred specifically for this purpose (wild cultivars work fine but they’re half as hardy and the bond has a greater chance of triggering very upsetting mutations. These are different from the upsetting mutations, which are fine and harmless). From then on the slime mold seems to guide the host plant’s growth, forming a shell from the vines that is constantly growing and shedding. This serves as both a home and an ample food source.

The botany world is torn on whether this forms a mutualistic symbiotic relationship or whether it’s straight up parasitism. And yes, plant nerd blood has been spilled over this argument. Not a ton of blood, it’s not like this is the great lichen wars, but still.

The Antenna

All yell care-taking is done by the Antenna sect. This is a mysterious group of witchy botanists and engineers who, like the previously referred to upsetting mutations, are harmless despite their entire vibe. Well. Harmless enough for botanists anyway.

Not a lot is known about them by the general public but they keep things working smoothly and show up quickly when something isn’t.

Members of this sect haven’t had a set “look” or uniform for about a generation and a half due to the ending of a lot of the the founding member’s bloodlines, but each Yell site has it’s own culture that attracts certain kinds of people. Despite their differences, there are a few things that make Antennae easier to pick out of a crowd if you know what to look for. The skin of their inner ears develop thin branching markings or wave-like ripples depending on how they interact with Yells. Some have obvious hare ancestry and sport roughly branching horns that grow quite long and shed every year (these shed horns are fed to the Yells). Newer members wear a lot of lightweight ear jewelry to help pick up important signals and behavioral quirks from the Yells, but the longer they stay in the Antenna the less tolerant they are of this. Things get…loud. Behind their eyes. Inside their teeth. Seasoned members usually can’t stand wearing any metal jewelry at all. The head botanist of one of the most remote Yells wears ear plugs almost 24/7 because of left behind shrapnel from an accident in his youth.

He is deaf.

He says he’s not really blocking anything out, just sorting it properly.

No one really knows what he means. It’s fine.

#rabbits of downtrodden #long post #the yells #downtrodden #radio tower #rabbits

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misswynters · 6 months ago

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Alone in the rumble, as you died in his arms

short drabble

pure angst / hurt no comfort

requested. by anon

Flames danced in the ruins of Piltover, their light painting the chaos in flickering shades of orange and red. The once pristine city was now a battlefield, torn apart by Ambessa’s Noxian forces. Smoke billowed from the destruction, and the air was thick with ash and the metallic tang of blood. Ekko sprinted through the wreckage, his heart pounding with a fear he hadn’t felt since he lost his family in Zaun.

Every explosion made him flinch, every shadow looked like you. He had sworn to protect you, to keep you safe despite the horrors of this war. You weren’t supposed to be here, not in the thick of the fight, not in the crumbling heart of Piltover. But you had insisted, standing firm in that quiet, determined way of yours.

“Zaun fights against corruption. I won’t stand idly by and do nothing,” you had said, your hand brushing against his.

But now, as he tore through the smoldering streets, his heart filled with dread. Jinx’s globe, her insane, chaotic weapon of destruction, had careened into one of the towering structures nearby. The crash had sent debris flying like deadly shrapnel, and he had lost sight of you in the chaos.

He shouted your name, his voice hoarse from the smoke and desperation. His feet stumbled over rubble, and his eyes scanned every twisted beam and broken wall for a glimpse of you. Your name that once brought warmth now felt like a prayer. The world around him was collapsing, literally. Another blast shook the ground, and a wall buckled under its weight. But all he could think about was finding you.

And then he saw it. A hand peeking out from beneath a pile of rubble, fingers limp and covered in soot. His breath hitched as he ran toward you, adrenaline driving his every step. When he reached the debris, he fell to his knees, his hands trembling as he began pulling away the heavy stones and broken wood. “No, no, no,” he murmured under his breath, the words spilling out like a mantra.

Finally, he uncovered you. Your body was twisted and broken, your beautiful gown torn and stained with blood. Soot clung to your skin, and a deep gash ran along your temple. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Firefly…” His voice cracked as he leaned down, cupping your face with shaking hands.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dim. The spark that always lit them, the one that had drawn him to you in the first place, was barely there. “Ekko…” you whispered, your voice so faint it was almost lost amidst the chaos.

“I’m here,” he said, his tears falling freely now. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Just hold on for abit.”

You tried to smile, but it was weak and fleeting. “I… I don’t think I can,” you murmured, your words slurred from the pain.

“Don’t you dare say that,” he said, his voice breaking as he pressed his cheek to yours. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I know. You’re gonna make it. We’re gonna go home. You just have to stay with me.”

But your body was trembling, and your breathing was shallow. He could feel the life slipping away from you, and he was powerless to stop it.

“Mmhm,” you hummed softly, your voice trembling as tears spilled from your eyes. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, his heart shattering. “I know, Firefly. I’m here with you, okay?”

Your hand lifted weakly, brushing against his cheek. “I wanted to stay and see it… the future you talked about,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I wanted to be there with you.”

“You will be,” he said, even as the truth clawed at his throat.

But your eyes were beginning to close, the light in them fading like a dying star. “Promise me…” you whispered.

“I promise,” he choked out, his tears falling onto your face as he held you on his lap. And then, with a shuddering breath, you went still. Your body went limp completely against his, no more strength to hold onto.

“No.” The word left him in a broken whisper. “No, no, no!” He pulled you into his arms, rocking back and forth as the weight of your loss crushed him. The city burned around him, but he didn’t care. The world could end, and it wouldn’t matter. You were gone. The one who had brought light into his life, who had stood by him even when the odds were stacked against them, was gone. And it was his fault. He had promised to protect you, and he had failed.

His tears fell freely now, mingling with the blood and soot that covered your face. He pressed his forehead to yours, his voice a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Around him, the war raged on. But in that moment, Ekko was frozen, trapped in a world where the only thing that mattered was the girl he had lost. The flames reflected in his tear-filled eyes, their light a cruel mockery of the fire you had once carried within you. He held you close, his heart breaking with every passing second. And as the sounds of battle echoed around him, one thought consumed him: he would never let your memory fade. He vowed to himself that he would add you onto a mural, the one were the rest of the people he cared about were. The future you had dreamed of, the one you had believed in, it was his now. And he would fight for it, no matter the cost.

a/n. first time doing angst for him…idk if i can even do this to him bro 😞 (literally wrote this while at work so sorry if it doesn’t make sense)!

banner. @anitalenia

#arcane masterlist #arcane ekko x reader #arcane ekko #ekko fics #ekko imagines #ekko arcane #ekko x reader #ekko league of legends #ekko angst #arcane fanfic #arcane x gender neutral reader #arcane angst #arcane fic #arcane spoilers #arcane imagine #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane x reader

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ohisms · 1 year ago

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↪ 𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , HISTORICAL 〳 FANTASY edition ! ( a collection of 25 settings based upon the period 〳 fantasy genres ; meant to inspire drabbles or be used as prompts . WILL be updated . )

001. the interior of an elegant carriage .

002. seated at a large dining table set with an elaborate meal .

003. the shadowy corner of a lively tavern .

004. the top of a light house during a raging storm .

005. along the dimly lit corridor of a large manor .

006. the damp , dark brig of a pirate ship .

007. the ruins of an ancient structure lost to time .

008. a theater hall brimming with attendees .

009. the bustling streets of a market town .

010. a sun - drenched vineyard .

011. along a boardwalk overlooking the sea .

012. a moonlit cemetery full of weathered graves .

013. on horseback , deep in the woods .

014. a luxurious drawing room smelling of tea .

015. a sprawling dragon roost , hidden atop craggy mountain peaks .

016. a war - torn battlefield .

017. a beautiful cathedral bustling with churchgoers .

018. within a crammed opera box during a performance .

019. an elegant tearoom serving afternoon refreshments .

020. a lakeside pavilion on an especially hot day .

021. a sprawling network of underground catacombs .

022. a hidden glade in the middle of the woods .

023. the deep , dark dungeon of a castle .

024. a market square full of fruit and fineries .

025. a baker's shop smelling of wonderful pastries .

026. the quiet stables of a large estate .

027. on the outskirts of a magnificent water fountain .

028. in a dimly lit library , hidden amongst the books .

029. among the high walls of a hedge maze .

030. at the front desk of a warm , homey inn .

031. under the protection of a gazebo as it rains .

032. on the landing of a busy train station .

033. a gambling hall alight with raucous laughter and drink .

034. a pristine infirmary , mostly empty .

035. on board a huge ship making a long voyage .

+ 20 more setting prompts : 6 / 01 / 2024

036. in a sunlit garden adorned with blooming flowers .

037. at the edge of a serene forest lake under a starry sky.

038. within a quiet corridor of a castle during a lavish ball .

039. in a bustling blacksmith's forge , sparks flying .

040. on a rocky cliffside overlooking a vast ocean .

041. in a quaint village square during a festival .

042. within a secret chamber hidden behind a bookshelf .

043. in the grand atrium of a luxurious hotel .

044. along a narrow brick alleyway in a crowded town .

045. within a busy marketplace in a desert town .

046. on a tranquil beach at sunrise .

047. in a cozy cottage with a crackling fireplace .

048. at the helm of a majestic airship soaring through the clouds .

049. in a grand library filled with ancient tomes .

050. on a bustling harbor dock as ships come and go .

051. within a magical forest where the trees glow softly .

052. in an apothecary's shop filled with herbs and potion .

053. at a secluded cabin by a dangerously quick river .

054. within the opulent throne room of a powerful ruler .

055. in an enchanted glade where fairies dance in the moonlight .

#rp meme #rp prompt #inbox prompt #ohisms #rp inbox prompt

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n1ght0f-nyx · 28 days ago

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Watcher in the Woods

mothman x fem!reader smut

tags/ warnings- monster romance, size difference, virgin monster, first contact intimacy, consent-focused, praise kink, mutual curiosity, knotting bioluminescence kink, oral (F receiving), creampie, mating/bonding themes, non-human anatomy, protective partner

word count- 1486 words

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet.

You weren’t sure what made you wake up—maybe the way the wind shifted, the sudden stillness of the crickets outside, or the odd glow seeping in through the gaps in your wooden window shutters. You sat up, heart thumping, sheets tangled around your thighs.

There was something out there.

You padded to the door, curiosity outweighing fear. The porch light had long since flickered out, but a faint bioluminescent shimmer danced on the trees just beyond the clearing. It pulsed, almost like a heartbeat. Your breath hitched.

Then he stepped into view.

Towering. Winged. Eyes like twin blood-moons, glowing in the dark.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t scream.

Something in your body—your soul, maybe—recognized him.

He cocked his head, watching you through the screen door. His body was wrapped in soft, velvet-black fuzz, his wings twitching ever so slightly as he stepped closer. He didn't speak with words, but you felt him—his concern, his fascination.

He was here to warn you. You knew that instinctively.

But what he didn't expect… was you.

Later, you sat together inside, fire crackling gently. You wrapped yourself in a blanket and offered him tea—he didn’t drink it, but held the mug anyway, mimicking you.

He was beautiful in a way that defied logic. The curve of his shoulders, the ridged structure of his wings, the soft antennae that twitched when you moved. You noticed how his pupils dilated each time your blanket slipped a little lower on your chest.

“Do you… like what you see?” you asked quietly, voice cracking with shy boldness.

His eyes flashed. The mug trembled in his hand.

“I don’t… know.” The words sounded strange on his tongue, gravelly, like a wind chime wrapped in velvet. “You’re… not like me.”

“No,” you whispered. “But maybe that’s the point.”

It started with a touch.

He reached out, claws careful, and ran the backs of his fingers along your cheek. His hand was impossibly warm, slightly trembling.

“I’ve never… touched a female,” he admitted, voice low, reverent. “Not a human. Not… anyone. I only watch. I warn.”

You leaned into his touch, tilting your face to kiss the tip of one claw. He shuddered, wings quivering behind him.

“Then let me show you.”

He made a small noise in his throat—surprise, hunger, awe. His fingers moved to your neck, tracing the hollow there. When your blanket slipped down your chest, revealing the curve of your breasts, his breath caught.

“Soft,” he murmured. “You’re so… soft.”

You guided his hand lower, letting him explore. Every brush of his fingers across your skin was slow, deliberate. He moved like someone trying to memorize, to understand, not just touch. His claws were careful, curved just enough to trail without scraping, the pads of his fingers impossibly gentle.

“You’re warm,” he said, fascinated. “And your heart—” he pressed his palm to your chest, just over your breast, “—is fast.”

“You’re making it beat like that,” you murmured.

His wings fluttered again, brushing the floor. Pheromones filled the air—thick, sweet, heady like blooming nightflowers. They made you dizzy, your thighs clenching beneath your blanket. Your body responded to him in a way that felt primal, inevitable.

He smelled like rain and starlight and something… deep.

He dipped his head to your neck and inhaled.

“You… smell like wanting,” he murmured.

“Then take what you want,” you whispered, pulling him in.

He loomed over you, muscles taut beneath soft black fur, his chest rising and falling in an unfamiliar rhythm. His glowing eyes flickered across your body, from the curve of your hips to the slick heat between your thighs, mesmerized. His hand hovered there, trembling, claws sheathed to avoid hurting you.

“I want to… touch. But I don’t want to… damage.”

“You won’t,” you breathed, guiding his hand. “I want you to learn.”

He growled—soft, low, almost a purr—and followed your lead.

His fingers explored you slowly, reverently, dipping into your folds with careful pressure. The pads of his fingertips were surprisingly soft, textured just enough to tease the sensitive skin. You gasped, arching into him, and he paused.

“That sound… I like that.”

You gave a shaky laugh. “Then keep going.”

He obeyed, growing bolder. One long finger slid inside you—tentative at first, then deeper, curling when your breath hitched. He watched your reactions like he was studying something sacred.

“So wet… is this normal?”

“For you?” you exhaled. “Yes.”

His wings flared slightly, the edges glowing faintly as arousal surged through his body. His head dipped again, antennae brushing your inner thighs—ticklish, electric.

He pressed his tongue against you.

Your back arched as a hot, velvety stripe traced your clit. His tongue was unlike anything you’d felt before—broad, flexible, textured with tiny, silken ridges that caught every nerve ending just right. He moved slowly at first, savoring your taste, groaning deep in his chest.

“You taste… alive. Like lightning.”

Your fingers tangled in his thick black hair, pulling him closer as you trembled beneath him. He seemed thrilled by the way your hips bucked, each gasp pulling him deeper into instinct.

He flicked his tongue in quick, rhythmic patterns, and when your thighs began to tremble, he slid a second finger inside you, curling with unholy precision.

“Don’t stop—” you whimpered, hips grinding against his face.

He didn’t. Not until you were writhing, mouth slack in a silent scream, coming hard around his fingers as the world blurred with light and scent and his low, hungry purring against your core.

He pulled back slowly, licking your release from his lips, blinking like he was high on stardust.

“That… was because of me.”

“All because of you,” you whispered, dragging him up by the fur at his shoulders. “But I want to feel you inside me now.”

His cock had emerged fully now—long, ridged, thick at the base and tapering with a slight upward curve, faintly glowing with bioluminescent veins. It pulsed, leaking a clear fluid that smelled sweet, heady, not unlike the pheromones clouding the room.

“I’ve never…” he whispered, voice shaking. “This is the part that makes a bond?”

“Yes,” you said, wrapping your legs around his waist. “But it’s also the part that feels so fucking good. Let me show you.”

You guided him to your entrance, and he shuddered as his tip brushed your slick folds.

“You’re so hot,” he groaned. “So tight… is it safe? I don’t want to break you.”

You smiled, curling your fingers around his cheek. “You’re perfect. Just go slow.”

He pushed in carefully, inch by thick, pulsing inch. The stretch was intense—he was big, and the unfamiliar ridges dragged deliciously along your inner walls—but the way he watched your face, the way he held himself back, trembling with restraint, made it all the more intoxicating.

Once fully seated inside you, he paused, chest heaving.

“You feel like… a heartbeat around me,” he murmured, awed.

“You can move,” you gasped, clenching around him. “Please.”

He pulled back, then thrust slowly, deeply. His rhythm was hesitant at first, but your moans urged him on, and soon his hips found a steady, rolling pace that had you clawing at his back, eyes fluttering shut with each thrust.

The friction was divine. His cock dragged over every sensitive spot with purpose, and those glowing ridges rubbed your walls just right, sending sparks through your body.

His wings flared out behind him, glowing brighter now—pale blue, violet, streaks of gold blooming along the edges with each moan you gave him.

“I want to go deeper,” he growled, voice raw.

“Then take me,” you begged.

He groaned, low and guttural, and snapped his hips forward with more force. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the cabin, the wet slide of your bodies obscene and perfect. He gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, watching the way you took him—eyes dilated, antennae twitching wildly.

“You’re—you’re mine,” he rasped. “I can feel it. You’re… changing.”

“Y-yeah?” you gasped, your second orgasm crashing over you in a blinding wave. “I want to be yours. Fuck—don’t stop!”

That broke him.

He rutted into you harder, almost frantic now, his release building. His cock swelled inside you, throbbing, the bioluminescence intensifying until the whole room glowed with it. Your body was limp, trembling, legs hooked tight around him as you whispered his name—if it even was a name—over and over again.

He let out a ragged, primal cry as he came, hips driving deep and holding you there, flooded with warmth as thick spurts filled you. You could feel it pulse inside, feel his body quaking above you as he emptied himself.

And then—still knotted deep inside you—he collapsed, wings curling around you protectively, his breath ragged against your throat.

“I don’t… want this to end,” he whispered. “I don’t want to go back to just watching.”

You stroked his hair, kissed his forehead.

“Then stay.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

credit to @issysh3ll for the divider

please feel ask as many requests as your heart desires, i want to post a shitton before my holiday in two months!! i love requests pls dont be shy

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2kiran · 1 year ago

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゛ KEEGAN P RUSS ⸝⸝ “damn, kid, who taught you that?”

synopsis. a man who's too starved of attention and a man who's low on patience. you two make a great pair, in spite of the prominent presence of your denial. | word count. 0,9k // 978 ◞

caution. bratty keegan. top male reader. mentioned spanking. gun play. degradation kink. dumbification. rough anal sex. no use of protection (wrap it before you tap it). namecalling (whore, slut).

3KVENT NAVI ﹑ MAIN MASTERLIST

keegan russ who's the epitome of need. he'll shamelessly yearn for your presence, grabby hands clinging onto your shoulder to feign friendliness with the gesture. he grips harsher than necessary, stepping a little bit too close. it's normal; unordinary out of sight, until his clothed cock purposely brushes against your thigh and you decide that act alone is your final straw.

his face nuzzling the pillow within his arms, muffling the high-pitched whimpers that fleed his quivering lips. “please- haah.. don' be a tease.” keegan russ who lazily pushes himself back into your face when your harsh hand relents it's assault on his ass, now replaced with your mellow and wet tongue tracing the red prints.

spittle dribbles down your chin, gathering on his lower cheek. it stung, tears prickling keegan russ' lashes. the angry head of his cock spat out pre, weeping at the feeling of the pink muscle lapping at him. you were right there, his muscles contracting around nothing as he felt your breath hit his hole. if only he knew how to make you move closer.

“or what?” cold and deadly. something so familiar trailing down and down until it heavily rested against the base of his dick.

he's internally panicking, heart skipping beats until his hips gently rock, pursuing that sensation. keegan russ' mouth is lost and locked on his face. “you're fuckin' pathetic. are you not ashamed? a man like you gets so wet from a gun.”

he loves when you use that tone on him. he tilts his head enough, eyes peeking above his shoulder and he nearly cums on polished wood when his stare lands on your kneeling form. your teeth grazes him, tickles his flesh, injecting into his skin and you're suddenly a drug that's inscribed into his being. engraved into that distant heart of his, pounding with life solely for you.

“that's your doin'.” keegan russ states, matter-of-factly. he lets out a drawled whine when you pull away, saliva sticking to him and it's concerning how he doesn't feel an ounce of disgust. the sight has you itching to snap an image of his ass matching the crimson on his flushed face. “did i say you could speak, whore?”

you rise to your feet, fingers wrapping themselves in his strands and tugging him closer to you. he's like an obedient dog, well trained to know the signal, locking his lips onto yours. an intimate tangle, shoving your tongue into his awaiting mouth and swallowing down his surprised moan.

pressing your straining cock against his sensitive backside, it's as if you're sucking the air out of his lungs. he's the first to free himself from the kiss, panting harshly to recover.

“you - hnnn - asked me a question, and 'm not ashamed. i want it, want you.” he's murmuring through dreamy breaths, hips gently rolling to wordlessly convince you to finally fuck him.

the muzzle of your gun coaxes out a bone-chilling pattern up his length, rubbing along the underside of his tip. your jaw tenses, clenches, attempting not to lose your temper and give in immediately. his teasing undeniably worked on you, the memory of that daring look he passed you too tempting for you to rid of.

the hard structures built in his mouth dug into the silk case of the pillow, drool seeping and smearing across the material. his groans barely dulled, sobbing freely to eradicate the blur in his vision. keegan russ reduced to a stupefied slut, bent to your will as he's teetering both on the edge and your last nerve.

“is that th - the best you can do?” he gasps, clenching around you.

you grind inside of him, cock caressing his prostate with slow, smooth motions. drawing out, rim taut around the thickness. “shut it.” your hips slam forward, jolting the man and it has pain striking his abdomen when the edge of the desk jabs him.

the pistol sits neatly within your hold, pointed to the back of his head. it sends an abrupt shiver to his spine, the sense of death overwhelming him. “shit, you're so tight. what, you don't want me to pull out that badly?” he doesn't get to answer. you don't let him.

keegan russ who almost shrieks when your other hand grabs his hip, the bruising grip failing to genuinely hurt as you force him to fuck himself on your dick. “hnnngh! it's—” he interrupts himself with a loud gasping-moan, muzzle pressing on him harder.

“not your fault? just look at yourself.” you guide him, hole clinging onto you desperately, as if he's keeping you in - begging you to stay inside of him. he's never felt so full, unable to form rational sentences that would defend his current state. “all dumb 'cause of my cock. can't believe it took a few touches to get you like this.”

the pace quickens, body numbing from the force. you wrap an arm around his middle, yanking him upwards. the weapon against his temple, reminding him of it's presence, a weak whimper falling in between the pleasure-blinding moments. “what a slut you are.”

your leaky tip repeatedly rammed his sweet spot, his walls carrying the shape of your size. keegan russ cries out, hands reaching your forearm to ground himself to reality. a zip of ecstasy runs through him and up to cut his train of thoughts. brain idly sensing how your finger was centimeters away from the trigger.

his dick twitches, pearly, thick ropes spurting from his neglected slit. he would've doubled over if it wasn't for your strong hold keeping him in place, lowering the gun and kissing his cheek whilst he comes down from his high.

keegan russ groans out, the sound mixing with a half-whine. he was needy, and you lacked the copious amount required of patience to tolerate it. he had to have more. “why'd you stop?”

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simp-ly-writes · 2 months ago

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The Letter's

─────── · · Dreams of Dragons (pt.5)

PAIRING: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen!Reader, Cregan Stark x Reader

SUMMARY: Words are said to be the most powerful force all. And that statement continues to be truthful when letters are exchanged between the King of the North to that of the Seven Kingdoms. Eager eyes drink of the ink as you cherish your final moments in Winterfell.

TAGS: alternate universe, canon divergence, no use of y/n, second person perspective, female pronouns used, coarse language, protective!Daemon, angst, blood and gore, hurt/comfort, soulmates, time travel, targ-cest, engine-translated high valyrian, not beta read. MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,763 | PRIOR | NEXT A/N: i should be doing school work rn... but i my mind is HERE 😭

─────── · ·

DISMOUNTING FROM YOUR HORSE THE GROUND LOOKS TO BE TOUCHING THE SKY AS THE GREAT ICE WALL STANDS TALL ABOVE THE SILENT WHITE LANDSCAPE. The wooden elevator creaks with the weight of you all standing within the box. It swings slightly with every gust of wind sending your heart rate skyrocketing unlike the pace you were being brought up with.

You grip the wall tightly with your gloved hands, eyes frantic as you watch the ground become more distant before becoming minuscule to the sky. "Afraid of heights, your highness?' one of the guards asks whilst adjusting the crossbow on their back.

You offer a weary smile before adverting your eyes to the opening doors ahead of you all. "Well this is no dragon," you counter knowing that you couldn't begin to explain what an aeroplane is and you receive a chorus of humoured grunts before stepping out and on to the wall.

You first take a long look in both directions in order to try and grasp the sheer mass of the structure, your hand glides across the equal wood and ice walls with silent fascination as you pay no attention to the various men and women that stumble in seeing your presence before returning to their duties like nothing happened in the first place.

"I cannot begin to imagine how mankind created such a structure," you state while looking towards the Lord to already find his eyes upon you. Holding one another's gaze, Cregan takes his time to reply, "and so you must know why such a thing had to be created?"

You bow your head deeply, walking up a series of steps towards an outlook point and it as if all of the South fades behind you, your eyes stolen by a sea of nothingness that unsettles your bones better than the winds like a lingering dread that you cannot look away from. "I-" you are unable to respond, your mind painted in scenes of smoke and blood like your earliest dreams.

You twitch underneath your furs, leather boots creaking as you shuffle your feet at the gruesome scenes that play out in your mind. That familiar and overwhelming smell of copper laces through your nose finding its way right to your gut and suddenly a hand pulls your arm back as you squint as realities blur together.

It is a silent scream as you see red eyes and white skin appear before you, the hands move up your shoulders giving you a light shake, your name is bellowed to overcome your senses as you look into silver eyes and brown hair once more.

"You had a vision..." Cregans hands slide off your form, he takes a half step back, just far enough to give you space yet just close enough to let you know he's physically there to support you. "...what did you see?"

You swallow hard, the information you hold within yourself is dangerous in the wrong hands and in that moment you realize you are in a foreign state with men surrounding you that you fully didn't know. But the Starks saved me... surely... You take a hesitant look upwards at Cregan who tilts their head slightly in a silent ask to tell me.

Shaking your head, you step back away from the wooden raining, bumping your shoulder into an oil lantern that swings on a post before settling once more as does your heart rate. "If I speak anything on what is to come, it will change the outcome I know to be," you cryptically answer, tearing your eyes away and looking over the small group that tries hard to act like they were not listening to your conversation the whole time.

Amongst this group sits a man hunched over on a stool, his left hand gently grasps a piece of charcoal that drags across a cream coloured page. Their white eye-brows are furrowed as you raise your chin, trying to gain a clearer view of what they were sketching- two figures, you observe... one in a dress the other with a large sword- oh.

The artist looks up, offering you a smile before continuing their drawing. Cregan's arm brushes up against your own, you feel his warmth radiating out from his armour and off from his furs. "It is proof for the letter," he speaks quietly, eyes casting a stern look to the formed group that returns to their positions without another word. "You are distracting my men, princess," Cregan notes, eyes looking at the side of your face before returning to the artists hands.

You chuckle, moving a strand of fallen hair from your eye, "you are not the first to tell me that." Cregan hums in response, his hand moving to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger. A mutual silence is shared as the artist concludes their drawing, you both are presented the final image, your fingers drift over the corner as to not blur the unsettled material atop the page.

In all your studies it was rare to come across a complete drawing and now you held an original and better yet, an image of yourself. You pass the image towards the Lord, thanking the artist politely and watch as they take back the drawing and head back towards the elevators.

"It is sad that the drawing will have such a short life time," you comment, watching as people move up and down the hall with various supplies of alternating shapes and sizes. Cregan furrows his brow, "and why is that?"

You turn to face the Stark seeing as he has two cups in his hand of steaming liquid, he silently presses it into your hands before taking a sip of the dark liquid and your face lights up at the taste of hot chocolate. Yourself internally laughing at the Cold King of the North drinking the beverage with a stoic expression.

"Odds are if my mother or sister is not first to receive the letter... my father or uncle will be quick to crumple and burn it," you giggle, shaking your head as you waft the comforting smell of the drink towards your nose. Cregan watches you with an amused expression, lips turned to the smallest smile that falls all too quickly in remembering what he just heard.

Clearing his throat, he places your empty cups in a bucket of other used items before walking off with a silent expectance for you to follow along and you do so further across the wall.

You do not know how many hours you spent between the icy walls as Cregan noted the history of his ancestors to your eager ears, taking the occasional glance back to see your bright eyes lighting up with every fact you absorbed.

"Your father, grandfather and all those before you's dragons refused to pass the wall, the most ancient and deadly creates afraid of what lies beyond the horizon..." the Stark pauses, his next words seemingly hesitant in comparison to the calm even tone you were used to hearing, "...death and destruction." You misstep with your footing, a flash of red snow beneath your feet before you stabilize yourself.

Cregan adjusts the sword on his back, "I seem I guessed your visions correctly." You do not meet Cregan's gaze that provides him with enough of an answer, "And so is also why I am hesitant to continue our connection for I am not able to face two directions at once, your highness. I understand more than ever my duty to the North and I would not want to keep you from your family as other's have."

You open your mouth to outright protest but before you can speak a new face steps forwards, two swords swinging down by their hips, their hair grey and weathered yet they stand upright and at attention to their lord with their message, a small paper enclosed with a blood red seal, "a message from the Red Keep, my Lord."

The note is promptly handed over before they walk away, disappearing into the white walls. You stare at the small note in Cregan's large gloved hands with interest as he beckons you forwards, opening the small seal and rolling out the paper for both of you to read.

For the eyes of Lord Stark only...

Cregan raises a brow to you, head tilted ever-so slightly in a teasing manner in seeing that you don't even begin to look away from the note, eyes quickly skimming over the fresh ink and your fathers signature and stamp at the bottom.

I know the South and the Middle Lands by the back of my hand as you do the North and in reviewing every scar on the back of my hand that travels up my arm and past where I can view, my search is brought into your territory and so I must make a request of the North. My eldest daughter has been discovered missing, you know of her condition- of her value- and so I am lead to believe she is somewhere within your lands. If you are to find her, your reward in exchange will be grand- your name will be praised. And if it is found that you are to be withholding her- know that your blood will water the lands that will all but forget you and your people with our victory.

You watch as the letter rolls back into its original state, Cregan pockets the note as you both share a look before a smile breaks out on your face in seeing the Lords almost horrified expression. You place a hand on the Starks arm for reassurance, "Like I told you before, I will address my family and make sure you are rightly compensated for your kindness and hospitality."

"Yes, Princess, but it is but a half-lie that you have been kept here for longer than you-" You cut off the Lords anxious lecture, walking back towards the elevators, a few guards following in tow looking between you and their leader with concerned glances.

"I asked to stay, did I not? If my father is that thirsty for blood he shall drink mine as well if he strikes down upon innocent men," you counter, stepping into the shaft and spinning on your heel to face the Lord who stares at you for a long while. Eyes tracing over your schooled features before closing his eyes and taking in a long breath, releasing it as he stands beside you.

The doors shut as the cart is lowered to the ground, "you are already willing to die for a man you have just met in the name of supposed righteousness?" His tone is low, eyes having not left the doorway as your eyes cast up his frame and nod your head whilst looking away.

"I would argue the role you play is even greater than mine, even without morals it would be downright foolish of me to forgo the logic of it. Your army alone is enough to sway many battles and," you giggle to yourself, "you are a young man with great prospects and land to their name- the perfect set up for a heir," your smile leaves you with your next words, "As for my life... well... best not to think on it too heavily..."

─────── · ·

And yet when settling yourself back on to your saddle and trotting down the barren frozen paths before you- it was all you could think about. My life's a lie, my real parents only talk to me like I'm a pawn... and they are not wrong. My sisters going to have the throne, she will marry my uncle as the texts dictate...

The very words send a sicking feeling right down to your gut as you grit your teeth at the image of them close, of his hand caressing her cheek, of their lips connecting... your whirlwind of thoughts only continue on a downwards spiral... she will hold Dragonstone and befriend the King of the Seas while I'll be... there...

"Are you well princess?" Cregan slows his horse to a trot, his eyes cast over your face in seeing your soured expression that you try and cool. "I am fine," you respond albeit with a bit too much force that shuts down any progress you made with the reclusive lord, "I'm sorry," you breathe out after collecting your thoughts, stuffing them into a deep corner near the back of your mind as you open your eyes towards the present, "my father's words just made me see my choices differently."

The Stark nods understandingly, "fathers have a way of doing that," and you can tell by the way in which he speaks his words, they are from the heart. Your rekindling moment is soon broken as a flash of yellow snaps your attention down the path, you briefly hear as Cregan mumbles something underneath his breath before the direwolf, North comes into picture.

You lean to the side in your saddle to be closer to the Lord, "what is going on?" you ask as the party comes to a standstill.

"There is a bear on the path ahead," Cregan notes, looking over to you, amber swirling around steel in his eyes that he blinks away, cutting off his connection with the animal. You watch as he guides his horse to turn simply with his legs, his arms already directing the men and weapons are distributed.

You open your mouth to think of another way not to kill the animal before remembering that this was their way of life and the very furs that now rested upon your shoulders must have been made by a very similar situation. You swallow down your words before offering to help, "with horse riding my parents also made me do lessons in archery." A bow is soon tossed into your hands, a quiver of arrows stationed at your hip.

Your head is turned on a swivel, eyes casting wide and out towards the horizon for any signs of movement. The air is still in these quiet moments, no one dares to speak- wanting to get catch the animal off-guard for an easier kill. You adjust the arrow in your bow, cracking your neck side to side before freezing as the shadows appear to be moving in the tree line. Setting your horse parallel to the forrest you raise your bow, squinting your eye to combat the shimmering reflection of the setting sun off of the snow.

Watching where your arrow is pointed, Cregan casts his arm forwards as other men take a similar position and ready their aim. Once again you hear a mumble from Cregan and the furious growl of a bear has you jumping on your mount before taking aim once more as North darts back towards you all, a massive black bear chasing behind them.

Taking in a deep breath you pull back the arrow and watch as the animals sprint begins to falter as arrows land in its hip and torso, another shot in its neck- you don't remember letting your arrow fly. You hear its the scream of its long tail running across the plane before striking the creature in its eyes.

It's head swings side to side before you feel the force of its body fully greeting the earth. Next a spear is thrown, ensuring the animal to be dead before Cregan dismounts, walking up towards the bear and crouching down. His hands pick of the animals head, his fingers brush over the teeth before he looks over at you.

Dismounting you are quick to rush over and take a similar position. You feel as Cregan's hand pulls at your wrist, your fingers finding the softness of the black fur as you stroke one of the bears short ears with a sigh. You watch as the men that surround you lower their heads, a silent prayer is shared that you close your eyes to respect their culture.

Standing, Cregan looks to you as he unsheathes the large sword from his back, holding it between both of his hands as he takes aim to decapitate the animal. Look away now if you must, his eyes convey yet after everything you had seen today, you felt that it would be of disservice to yourself for not seeing the full practice.

You back away, seeing as red splatters onto the white carpet beneath your feet, some landing on your cheek and garbs that you pay no mind too. Cregan holds the heavy head in his arms before handing it off to another man who straps it to the back of their horse.

Next the skin and fur is stripped as thoughts are shared on how the pelt should be used when you all reached the estate. A flask is then shoved in front of your face that you silently drink from before handing it back to the Lord. "In my position I was often so far removed from these practices... the final product presented in front of my like magic with no prior thoughts," you comment, interlacing your fingers in front of yourself.

Cregan hums, taking a drink himself before storing it back at the side of his saddle, "I will have something commissioned for you when we reach back home."

You shake your head, moving to stand beside your horse seeing as the men had taken as much meat as they could, leaving the rest for nature and its predators to feast upon. "But you took the killing shot, princess, by my tradition you get first choice, often which is the head."

You bite your lip, sighing, "I have no idea what I will do with a bear head nevertheless some teeth, I already have plenty of those," you joke yet Cregan takes your words as truth and confusion clouds his features, "But I thought you did not hunt?"

It is your time to fully laugh as you hike up your skirt and mount your horse before trotting ahead, yelling back, "I meant myself, my Lord." You do not get to see or hear Cregans reaction yet you feel his gaze upon your back as you look back and smile before picking up more speed; feeling the wind in your hair and the kisses of winter burning your cheeks with its bitter attention.

─────── · ·

Back at the House of Stark, the gates shelter your company as you dismount once more and are welcomed by warm hugs from your staff Alexi, Eda, and Lyah. The first practically squeezing you to death while whispering in your ear, "Lady Stark yet?"

You flush sending the younger girl a glare before turning back to catch a flash of worry in Cregan's eyes that vanishes with your smile. Little did you know how hard the Lords heart was racing at the sight of it and how it ached knowing that this would be one of the last times you might see one another.

He raises the head of the bear to hear the praises from he crowd before placing it in the hands of another and from one loud moment turns to a quiet one. A sense of familiarity washes over you as you sit on the large stone fireplace once more and watch as Cregan sits at his desk, feather in hand, ink well just above, and an open page waiting to be marked.

He looks up without picking up his head, you lean your head back against the stone wall, crossing your ankles as you play with the ends of your sleeves. He props the feather back on his desk with a sigh, your head tilts to the side, eyes raking over the strands of hair that dangle over his forehead. "I have never been so worried over a mere letter before."

You do not laugh at his words as you hear the truth that lies behind the humorous tone, "words leave us when we need them most so it is no wonder we love them so much. For when we finally hear the words we need- nothing else matters."

"Usually my jokes are answered by silence or laughter, never poetry," Cregan deadpans as you crack a smile, standing and moving to the corner of his desk. Your eyes trace over the various letters, nicknacks and paperweights across its surface with utmost interest, your hand twitching to touch the dagger staked through a few notes and into the solid dark wood.

Cregan leans back in his chair, looking up at you, "I will miss you, Princess."

"And I you," you extend your hand feeling as his scared one traces over your knuckles before pressing a soft kiss, lingering before letting go. You bring your hands up to your chest, stroking your collarbone before turning your mutual attention back to the letter. "As any good letter should start, we should say hello."

"I am not saying a simple hello to the fucking king of the seven kingdoms," Cregan speaks in an even cold tone. You shrug, "thats all I've got," you say in a false sad tone, eyes gleaming with happiness as you catch yet another small smile from Cregan that makes you notice just how far your short relationship with the Lord has come since your near death in the woods at the beginning of the week.

Soon ink hits parchment as you begin to walk around the study once more, humming to yourself as the Lords eyes trail up from his note and back towards his page every time you cast your eyes back with a smile, "thought you couldn't look in two directions, my Lord," you tease to receive a grunt.

"I see your confidence grows the longer you stay, do not allow your fire to burn you from the inside out, Dragon-guide."

"I will keep that in mind, King of the North, if you promise to think of me too?" You receive no reply for Cregan knew he would think of you and your shared moments for the rest of his life with fondness. You listen as the paper is rolled and wrapped by a simple piece of twine.

You watch as a crow rattles in its cage by the Lords desk, stirring in preparation for its next job. You look to Cregan for permission to open the window, holding one another's gaze for longer than necessary knowing that this was but the first part of saying goodbye, and then he nods. The iron latch is cold to the touch as is the breeze that sneaks in before you shut it. Watching as the crow soars up into the clouds and flutters above the tree line before disappearing from sight.

"May I ask what you asked for your reward?" you do not turn to face the Lord, keeping your eyes to the outside landscape, trying to paint this scene in your memory so that you could request an artisan back in the Red Keep to paint the same scene in all its perfection.

"Do you truly wish to know?" Cregan stands, you feel as his footsteps shift the planks on the floors as he nears your side. You look at yourselves in the reflections off the glass with a nod.

"For a future Targaryen princess to marry one of my heirs." Your breath hitches, so this is how it happened, how it ends, you think to yourself before responding, "a fair ask," in an even tone, raising your chin so that the tears of disappointment do not fall down your cheeks understanding that your part of the story was only to be an observer that ensured the right story played out, nothing more.... nothing less.

You could shout at your younger self for always desiring to learn more but perhaps the excitement always came from the unknown rather than the prospect of knowing.

"I apologize for not being able to do more," Cregan whispers, eyes tracing over the side of your face with a heavy sigh, "I- you-" he closes his eyes before continuing, "I hope you find another man more selfish than I have already been with your attention."

"Nonsense, I am the selfish one, have we not already had this conversation? But thank you for your words.... maybe I will run away and marry a simple man and live a simple life with.... ducks and little fluffy cows." And the sound of Cregan's boisterous laughter filling your ears warms your heart.

─────── · ·

A CROW'S CAW BLEEDS THE EARS OF THE STAFF IN THE RED KEEP AS GUARDS WORKING THE TURRETS AND WALLS COVER THEIR EARS AS THE SCREAM PELTS AT THEIR EARS UNLIKE THE ROAR OF A DRAGON. And without another word, the young princess Rhaenyra takes off from a small council meeting and towards the halls, racing up a winding stair well in order to fetch the letter, an unknown force pushing her every step as she offers a few seeds to the creature, unhooking the note from its feet before watching as it takes back off into the blue horizon.

The paper is a dull yellow in colour, a simple unsuspecting twine laced around the scroll. The Princess wants nothing more than to see the occupants of the letter yet thinks otherwise of all the potential eyes around her as she tucks the paper into a pocket of her gown and walks at a more pleasant pace back to her room.

Seeing the oak frame in view, she picks up her skirts, heart pounding in her ears as her curiosity peaks, the paper burning against her side knowing that whatever was inside must have been important to have such a magnificently groomed bird drop it off.

Yet before she can twist the handle of her door open, a scream yet again sounds through the halls of the Red Keep and as she looks left and then right, she finds the source of it to be coming from herself as her Uncle Daemon grips her arms down tightly to her sides. His teeth gritted together, features sharp and eyes cutting through her weak smile.

"Uncle," she greets, feeling as bruises begin to form across her skin. "Don't think I didn't see that blasted bird as well, Niece. You know what I want so when I let go I expect that you present it to me."

The Princess blinks, mimicking innocence, "the note I hold is from Alicent Hightower, surly some mundane gossip is not of interest of the Rouge Prince?" She smiles, trying to shake out of the Princes grip that remains unwavering just like his hissed words, "you lie terribly. If you were one of my men your tongue would already be in my hand as I dare to to try again."

"Ao dare threaten se dārilaros naejot se Dēmalion Āegenko, kepus? (You dare threaten the heir to the iron throne, uncle)?" Daemons dark laugh rings through the Princesses ear drums as he releases his touch, hands clasped behind his back as he leans daringly close to her face, "Gaoman daor dare, mērī kivio, (I do not dare, only promise)."

"Only the troubled make promises for if you were a good man, people wouldn't need your word- they'd. just. know," and with that the Princess quickly turned into her room, slamming the door closes and pressing a chair to lock the handle in place. She listens to her Uncles shouts with a glee-filled expression, watching as the door vibrates with every knock and shove pressed to it as she sits on her bed and unravels the note.

Eyebrows shooting impossibly upwards with the large gasp she intakes in seeing who signs the letter. Sister, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

To the Mighty King of the Seven Kingdoms, I have received your letter, I have heard your worries and by my words and the image provided by my artisans, see that your daughter is indeed safe and has been resting under my care. She is healthy as she is well and has been learning about our culture in her stay and will be coming with a gift of our shared hunt- she by far had the sharpest eye out of all of my men. A feat not to be hidden but highlighted immensely. But in my praise, I do not wish for her hand, yet ask that in return that a future Targaryen Princess is to marry one of my heirs. May this letter find you with speed, grace, and health, Lord Cregan Stark

─────── · ·

A/N: back to being responsible now *heavy sigh*

─ · · DREAMS OF DRAGONS TAGLIST: @blkmystery @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @themoonlitquill @hnslchw @myownevils @vermillionwinter @r-3dlips @jubilee40 @wisdomcrys @purplecloaks

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