sugoroo · 23 hours ago
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ʚɞ warnings: fem!reader, reader plays volleyball, masturbation, oral (f receiving), obsessive behaviour, boobjob, penetration (p in v), 18+ minors dni.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who decides you're going to be his the very first time he sees you playing volleyball on the beach with your teammates wearing those pitiful scraps of material that can hardly be classified as a bikini.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes sure to pick up any and every extra shift he can just so he can figure out exactly what times you come down to the shore to practise.
pervy lifeguard!gojo whose new favourite pastime is just to sit in his lookout post, barely paying attention to the water to keep an eye on anybody who may be in potential danger — no, lately, his gaze always seems to be fixed squarely upon you.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but push his sunglasses up to rest in his hair so he can get a clearer view of you as you move around the sand, the way your scantily-clad body moves whenever you jump to hit the ball over the net just hypnotizing the poor man.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to disregard his duties completely to duck into a nearby beach hut when it becomes too much to just watch you, furiously fisting his leaking cock to the delicious mental image of your ass bouncing as you played.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who emerges from the hut looking like an utter mess, snowy locks dishevelled and swimming trunks hanging low on his hips as he stumbles back over to his lookout post. his strange behavior even grants him a few curious look from nearby beachgoers, but he couldn't care less.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who finds his hands clenching into tight fists by his sides when he observes one of the boys from the opposing volleyball team shaking your hand after a match. it's just a sign of mutual respect between players —  he knows that.
but that doesn't mean it irritates him any less.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who finally gathers the confidence to actually approach you later that afternoon while you're packing up your things, idly scratching the back of his undercut while he tries to think of a normal way to start a conversation.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who doesn't have to speak at all in the end, because you say the first words for him, greeting him with that pretty little smile of yours that he's only been able to see from afar up until now and outstretching a hand for him to shake.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but let a pleased grin spread across his lips while he returns the gesture, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction rising in his chest that his own touch on your palm has erased that previous guy's.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who falls even harder for you (if that's possible) during the few minutes he talks with you. it's nothing more than a friendly interaction between two regular beachgoers, but to him, it's one of many more to come.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels like he could do an embarrassing victory dance on the sand right then and there when you casually mention an upcoming volleyball competition that you'll be playing in. so you want him to be there, huh?
he nonchalantly responds that he might just be able pop by and watch some of it during his break — as if he isn't already planning on completely abandoning his post in favour of spectating the entire match instead.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is so full of excitement during the week leading up to the tournament that he just can't keep quiet about it for even a single second. his poor bestfriend lifeguard!geto is beginning to feel like he's the one with the giant, pathetic crush on you at this point.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who would most likely be fired if his boss was to see him right now, sprawled across a bench and watching you compete at volleyball instead of looking out for drowning children in the waves.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is sporting a not-so-subtle tent in his swimming trunks as he sits there, which he tries in vain to hide by crossing his legs over his lap. i mean, can you really blame him? just look at the way those doughy tits of yours jiggle in that downright sinful bikini top!
pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to clench his jaw to stop from snapping various profanities at the nearby beachgoers who have stopped in their tracks just to witness the match — he's not oblivious, he can see them checking you out just as he is.
but it's different when he does it. why? because you're going to be his soon enough. don't they understand that?
pervy lifeguard!gojo who isn't surprised in the slightest when your team easily triumphs over the other. after all, the opposing team doesn't have you on it. and although he knows little to nothing about volleyball, he can easily declare that you must be the best at it.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who would ideally like to run up to you and gush about how well you performed, but due to the very visible... problem in his trunks, ends up darting into the nearest beach hut for the second time this month to relieve himself because of you.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is halfway through sloppily jerking his hips up into his closed fist when sunlight suddenly starts to flit through the gap in the door — shit, he was so worked up he forgot to even close it.
rookie mistake, satoru.
pervy lifeguard!gojo whose eyes widen to the size of saucers when he realizes it's you who just walked in through the doorway, shutting it gently behind you. he's about to start furiously apologizing for what you stumbled in on when he notices you don't seem nearly as shocked as you probably should be.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can only watch in stunned silence as you slowly saunter closer to him, your hands hidden behind your back as they easily untie the strings of your bikini top before letting it fall to the floor.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who releases what can only be described as a pornographic moan at the sight of your freed breasts, his neglected cock twitching beneath his hand as he ogles you without shame. if he had any self-awareness left, he might've been embarrassed of the small trickle of drool oozing from his slackened mouth.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels his cheeks flush a shade of red brighter than the leaking tip of his bobbing cock when you purr to him... "do you really think i haven't noticed you checking me out for these past few weeks, mr lifeguard?"
pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow finds himself living out a scenario lewder than the wildest of wet dreams he's had about you, his jittery hips thrusting erratically between your tits as you keep them pressed together for him with your hands.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who reaches what is undoubtably the fastest orgasm of his life, his sunglasses toppling from his head as it falls back in bliss, messy white locks stuck to his forehead with sweat as he releases a series of broken groans and whimpers.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who immediately joins you on your knees once he's come down from his euphoric high, long pink tongue lolling out to lap up every drop of sticky cum he split on your pretty tits, sucking and nipping at every inch of supple skin within reach.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who just can't stop yapping, going on and on about how perfect you are, how you've been on his mind for what feels like forever, how sexy you look when you're hitting around that volleyball.
it seems the only way to actually shut pervy lifeguard!gojo up is to shove his beautiful face between your legs, the only sounds leaving him now being mewls of enjoyment as he mouths at your saccharine taste through your bikini bottoms.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is already too lost in you to properly remove the material keeping him from your pussy, instead lazily yanking it to the side with a single finger so he can dive nose-deep into your sweet cunt like he's been dreaming about doing for weeks.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is just so messy with it, practically making out with your dripping hole as he rapidly delves his tongue in and out, moaning so shamelessly you'd think he was the one getting eaten out and not you.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes you cum using only his sloppy mouth so many times neither of you even know just how long you've been cooped up in this beach hut where there's a real possibility that someone could walk in at any given moment.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't hold himself back from fucking you anymore — he's waited long enough already, after all. so he's effortlessly manhandling you onto your back as he pushes in, eyes locked onto the sight of your tits still glistening with his saliva and cum from earlier.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who buries his face between the valley of your breasts as he ruts into you like a rabid animal, word after word of slurred praise failing from his lips as he looks up you with those wide, lovestruck cerulean eyes.
god, he's so fucking obsessed with you. getting to finally feel you like this was just the final nail in the coffin.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow cums even harder than his previous climax, the overwhelming sensation of the tight, spongy walls of your cunt pulling him back in over and over again just unravelling his hazy mind with ease.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to psychically stop himself from letting out a choked whisper of 'i love you' as he spills his milky seed right into your womb where his cockhead is lodged, seemingly having enough awareness left to know that it's much too soon for that.
instead, pervy lifeguard!gojo settles for fixing you with a dopy grin so wide that both rows of his glinting pearly whites are on full display, murmuring a cheeky... "what do you say we make this a routine after every competition, pretty baby?"
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© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.
LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!
pervy yoga instructor!geto <- PREVIOUS PART.
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boobearymuch · 3 days ago
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Their Habits —♡ LADS Scenarios
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—♡Summary: Everyone has habits, but not everyone enjoys having you point them out... —♡Tags: gender-neutral, pure fluff —♡A/N: Silly thing I whipped up after being told I bounce my leg too much lolll —♡ masterlist
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—♡ Zayne
Zayne squints so much without his glasses. He insists he only needs them when his eyes get tired—but clearly—that wasn’t the case. “Zayne, look!” You eagerly pointed out a flyer posted on the door of his favorite boba spot. They were hosting an event next weekend, it read, and encouraged customers not to miss out on the opportunity. You watched his hazel eyes sharpen into a squint.
“Event…?” He still had trouble reading it, though, and absently tugged your clasped hands forward as he leaned in for a better look. After a few seconds, his eyebrows relaxed, and he hummed appreciatively, “They’re introducing new flavors. Perhaps we should…what?” 
You failed to conceal an amused smile. “You need your glasses, old man.” The nickname was not received well, by any means.
“The text is small.” He answered coolly, “The average person would also have difficulty reading it.” Then he slipped his hand around your waist, eyes narrowing, “And I’m not old.”
You couldn’t help yourself, you laughed, “Have you considered contacts?” The look he gave you was deeply unamused, “No, no, you’re right. You look cuter in glasses, anyway.” Zayne's ears tinted pink under your playful stare. 
“...Let’s go inside before they close.” You pinched his flustered cheeks.
“Are you sure? The menu is so tiny. What if you can’t read it and order the wrong thing?” Your mouth promptly shut after his grip on you tightened in a warning. Zayne remembered to bring his glasses on your next outing (and the one after that).
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—♡ Sylus
Sylus hums nonsense when it’s too quiet. It’s like he constantly needs to fill silences with some kind of noise. Even his humming is off-key…
“What song is that?” 
Sylus barely spared you a glance, “What song?” His fingers worked a microfiber cloth into the metal of his pistol. 
“The one you were just humming.”
He huffed, “Didn’t realize I was humming, sweetie.” Then he removed the cloth to admire his handiwork, “Don’t you recognize it?”
You almost felt bad for saying this but, “...No?” Sylus finally glanced up from his work to shoot you a look. A concerning one.
“Really? You had it on repeat all day, yesterday.” Horror dawned on you at the realization, “The chorus has been stuck in my head since morning…” And then a laugh sputtered from your lips. 
“Oh my god, that sounded nothing like it.” Sylus glared and returned his focus to his pistol with what you could only describe as a pout. 
“What a picky kitten.” You bit your lip to stop the smile threatening to break loose. He was a god awful singer, but the room felt emptier without his noise. Gently, you padded over to where he sat, and invited yourself onto his lap. Despite his mood, a hand wrapped around your waist without hesitation.
“Sing it again.” Sylus’ hold on you tightened, “I think I like your version better.” A soft chuckle left him, and quietly, he hummed once more.
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—♡ Rafayel
Rafayel taps. All. The. Time. Taps his legs, hands, pens, pencils, anything and everything within reach. And he’ll deny the hell out of it when you ask him to stop. “I wasn’t doing anything,” The candies on his phone screen lit up and exploded with color as he scored another combo. Too engrossed in his phone to realize the arm slung around your shoulders was still tapping you. You leaned into him with a huff.
“You’re doing it now.”
Rafayel gave you a sidelong glance, frowning, “I dunno what you’re talking about, cutie.” You suddenly captured his hand to still it, and Rafayel gave you the most scandalized look, “If you wanna hold it that badly, I’m not stopping you.”
“You’re not even aware you’re doing it,” You blinked incredulously, “Are you?”
Rafayel threw his head back and groaned dramatically, “Doing whaaat?” Then he lifted his head to press his forehead against yours and huffed, “Is this your way of telling me to get off my phone?”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “You look like a fish up close like this.” Rafayel pulled away to roll his eyes and clicked his phone off.
“Alright, fine, you have my attention.” Then he began tapping his foot, “You know, that’s a little offensive to say to a Lemurian. You could get cancelled for that.”
Your hand drifted to his bouncing knee, and you watched as both your hand and his leg now jumped up and down. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?!”
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—♡ Xavier
Xavier is always chewing on something, and it is almost always never gum. It’ll be something random, like a straw from a drink he’d long since finished. The strings of his hoodie, a toothpick. Once, it was a plastic tie. He reminded you of a teething puppy; he’d probably chew on wires if you left him alone long enough. Today, though, his chew toy of choice looked a lot like…
“Xavier, is that my pen?” 
He blinked, eyes floating from his comic book to your frown, “Yours…?” His jaw froze mid-chew. 
“Yeah,” You scooted closer on the couch, “the one from my desk at work.” 
A blush crept along his cheekbones, but he didn’t drop the pen like you expected him to, “...Are you sure?”
Your eyes fell to the pen trapped in the corner of his mouth, “The one with little stars on it? Yeah, that’s mine. I thought I lost it at work, why do you have it?”
The comic book shifted in his hands, “I found it, that’s why.” This explanation would be more convincing if he hadn’t shifted his gaze sideways. His blunt fingernails picked nervously at the corner of his book, curling the edges.
“Xavier,”
“Okay, I borrowed it.” You bit back a chuckle, and he guiltily removed the pen from his mouth. It shined with his spit, and the cap bore teeth marks, “You can have it back.”
You couldn’t hide your grimace fast enough, “...Actually, you can keep it.” Xavier merely blinked before bringing the tip back to his mouth. Then a smile curved the corner of his lips.
“My pen now, hm?”
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casuallyanidiot · 3 days ago
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More Yandere Nerd thoughts...
Dead Dove Do Not Eat! MDNI ! NSFW !
Tw. Dubcon/ Noncon, stalking, yandere, mansplainer supreme, voyeurism, dumbification
Yandere Nerd who stares at you every single day in class. He thinks you're so pretty and cute, and he fucks his fist to the thought of you multiple times a day. He thinks you're far too dumb to truly be on par with him, but he likes that you're just smart enough to understand the same things he does.
Yandere Nerd who loves the confused little face you make when he goes off about some niche, hard to comprehend topic that he spends far too much time researching outside of class. You're not a ditz, but he likes being the one to put you in the same place as all the other brainless, pretty faced sluts he sees prance around on campus. No, no see you've got substance, don't you? That's probably the only thing more alluring that that adorable little hole he knows you have hidden so unfairly underneath all of your clothes.
Yandere Nerd who seethes with jealousy every time you get a shred of attention from anyone else. He hopes you're not fucking someone else behind his back. If you are, he loses his mind. How could you go for someone so lackluster in comparison to him? He'd lavish you with gifts, praise and attention if you would just look his way. In fact, he'd give you a lot more than that. He'd pound into you until you were babbling, speechless, and all you had to worry about was how stuffed full of cum you were going to be by the time he was done with you.
Yandere Nerd who is so damn insufferable when he gets his hands on you. He loves the fact that he has a little cutie like you in his life, and sometimes online he'll post photos of your gaping, stretched out entrance onto some obscure forum just so he can brag about how his little fucktoy is the best one there is.
Yandere Nerd who wants to see you wearing shit from his favorite hentai. Microkinis with stockings, cat ears, bunny outfits, maid costumes, virgin killer sweaters: you name it, and he's slapping his card on the table just so he can pound you silly in it. He loves taking photos of you from lewd angles. He makes you sit down and compare the ones he takes of you now that you're "dating" versus the more rushed, unflattering ones he got while sneaking cameras into your old room. He also makes you masturbate to your own pictures. His little darling has got to practice self love, you know?
Yandere nerd who tries to get you into every fandom and interest he has. He'll strap you down and keep you tied to a fucking machine for hours if you get the lore wrong for his favorite video game or book series, so you better pay attention if you don't want to get any dumber.
Yandere Nerd who makes you come up with new ways to reward him every time he accomplishes something academically.
"If I get a 98 or above on this exam, you have to cock warm me with your mouth for at least three hours while you sit on a dildo as a treat. You will do it, right? For me? Don't I deserve a treat for once?"
He doesn't even have to try all that hard to score that high, he just likes seeing you hope that he fails even though you know it's no use. Yandere Nerd is an asshole, and he totally deserved to be rejected by you before you got kidnapped, but how're you going to tell him that when you're stuck sucking on his balls?
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bbyseok · 2 days ago
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expanding on this post, where you kiss gojo and he starts floating
gojo satoru x gn!reader
you’re greeted with the light of dawn streaming in, and the tickle of white tufts of hair against your chin. satoru’s body is curled close, one of his arms and his legs thrown over you.
it’s not the first time you’ve stayed overnight in gojo’s dorm room, but this is your first time staying over now that you’re a couple. it had been like any other night, but more meaningful touches and a shared buzz of warmth in your chests. and you had fallen asleep in his bed, entangled with his coziness.
but it’s morning now, and you know you should probably leave before yaga finds out you’re not in your own dorm. so somehow, you manage to wring yourself free from satoru’s grasp, even though he mumbles sleepily in complaint.
you can’t help but scoff fondly, peering down at him. his hands feel around in the space you had just been, a groan resonating from his chest as he blearily squints.
a small laugh creeps out of you then, “g’morning, ‘toru.” you bend down to brush your lips against his fleetingly, “i’ll see you in class later.”
when you leave his dorm and hear a soft ‘thud’, you think nothing of it. but it’s only a few steps down the hallway that you realize that you left your uniform jacket hanging on the edge of satoru’s bed.
so you head back, knocking twice on the door to let him know about your presence before opening it.
only to see that your boyfriend that you had left on the bed just moments ago was no where to be seen.
your brows furrow. “satoru? where are you?”
“up here, darling.”
and then your gaze flits up, up, up, just above the mattress. it’s gojo, on the ceiling, looking disheveled with his bed hair a mess, a sheepish grin on his lips.
“uhh, satoru?” you approach the bed, no longer concerned about your jacket as you stare up at him. “what’re you doing up there?”
he blinks down at you. “i woke up.”
you snort. “get down.”
“…i can’t.”
there’s a pause of silence, a period of staring at each other. you’re even more confused. “what do you mean you can’t?”
“i just can’t!”
it’s too early for this, and you’re sure that your chance of being discovered by yaga has shot up by a considerable amount.
“gojo satoru. just deactivate your technique.”
he pouts down at you. “you don’t think i tried that? i don’t know what happened, okay? i woke up from head-butting the ceiling, and even worse, to you gone without a word!”
it’s funny, how he’s much more upset about the fact that you had left him in bed alone rather than the fact that he’s stuck up there.
and it’s also really funny that he was sleepy enough that he didn’t remember you kissing him farewell not even five minutes ago.
“‘toru,” you laugh, shaking your head, “i said good morning and i kissed you.”
aaand now he remembers. he blinks once, twice.
“oh.”
and this time, you burst into a fit of giggles, to which gojo dopily grins down at you — happy that he’s the cause of it, even if it’s because he’s a little silly.
“i can’t believe you still floated even with you still half asleep.” you say, inching even closer to the bed and tilting your head further back to look up at him. “can you seriously not come back down?”
usually after he gets kissed, you or someone else is there to ground him before he floats off, and if not, he regains his composure soon after.
satoru’s pout deepens, fumbling and adjusting his awkward position on the ceiling. “nope.”
with a groan, you toe off your shoes and move to stand on the bed, hands grasping at his shirt and tugging in an attempt to bring him down.
“ugh, come on.”
you try with his hands next, and he’s all too eager to twine your fingers together as you tug on them too. he still isn’t budging.
“babe..” he starts, and you hear his cheeky grin before you see it, “think you needa kiss me again.”
you give him a pointed look. “and why in the world would that work?”
“c’mon, trust me,” satoru pries with a slight whine, “you did this, maybe you can undo it.”
you blink at him incredulously. “i did this? it’s not my fault you turn into a balloon every time i-” you shake your head when he does nothing but stare pleadingly. “fine, fine.”
you lean up on wobbly toes to give him the second kiss of this morning. it’s short but sweet all the same, and gojo chases after your lips as you pull away.
“see, i told you it wouldn-”
satoru yelps and crashes down on top of you, the two of you landing smack down on the bed.
you groan, trapped underneath his weight. at least you know now to be extra careful with your kisses. you can feel him nosing at the underside of your jaw teasingly.
“heh, good morning to you too, sweetheart.”
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hamilando · 1 day ago
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ੈ✩ 4K video (smau) ੈ✩
pairing : lando norris x fem reader
summary: some things are better kept quiet about
tw : angst, fluff
fc : ester expostio
a/n : thank you so much to @evasmlp for suggesting this ! lysm 🫶🏻 THIS FIC CONTAINS SENSITIVE TOPICS ( leaked videos, hate, s!ut shaming) please understand that I don’t mean to harm anyone with this fic, but kind of reflects on the recent Seunghan Scandal in the Kpop industry. ( he was a member of a boyband riize, and got kicked out and people sent death wreaths to him because his photos of kissing his girlfriend got leaked) #riizeis7, let the celebs live a normal life please
·:。・゚゚・ ✩ ・゚ ・゚·:。・゚゚・ ・゚·:。・゚゚・ ✩ ・゚ ・゚·:。・゚゚・・゚·:。・゚゚・ ✩ ・゚ ・゚·:。・゚゚
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liked by landonorris, aron.piper and 3,568,297 others
ynpapi did I just graduate high school at the age of 24!?
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user1 NETFLIX RELEASE IT
user2 can't wait to have a crush on everyone
manurios babygirl 👄
ynpapi aren't you like gay?
manurios babydick 😒
ynpapi your management will be calling you in another 2 mins
user3 I am also gay for you yn 😔
aron.piper oh god, you really took your spanish roots seriously
ynpapi bow down to your papi 👄🤭
aron.piper please don't be high on set
user4 I just follow her to see her friend group drama
landonorris Aron, Danna, please make sure my girlfriend doesn't die by flushing herself down the toilet
aron.piper got it boss 💪🏻
danna you don't even have to say it
mariapedraza even I exist!! I can also take care of her!
manurios you just took a bottle of vodka from my cupboard
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liked by landonorris, alexandrasaintmieux and 3,987,267 others
ynpapi can't believe my f1 champion is 26
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georgerussell I think I skipped a century worth of f1
charlesleclerc when did this short kid become the champion?
carlossainz that too before me!?
francolapinto in a Williams? Highly unlikely
carlossainz you don't even have a seat kid
ynpapi STOP BULLYING MY LANDO AND I CAN SAY WHATEVER I WANT
ynpapi lando baby, I love you and they are just jealous of you
landonorris I love you
landonorris GOING TO ZAC
landonorris I AM SO WINNING THE WDC
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liked by user1, user2, user3 and 452,937 others
hollywoodlife BREAKING! Y/N Expostio’s ex boyfriend ( non-celeb) has been arrested for leaking their private videos from when she was just 19. Y/N Expostio is currently dating F1 driver, Lando Norris.
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user1 that’s fucking sick
user2 SHE WAS 19!?
user3 if he wanted to ruin her career, he should have just blackmailed for money
user4 DOING ANYTHING TO RUIN A CAREER IS SICK !
user5 we love you y/n, stay strong 💪🏻
user6 I can’t imagine how tolling it must be for yn and lando
user7 but glad she got what she deserved, her fault for even making that video
user8 EXCUSE ME !?
user9 that’s just straight up bs
user10 PARDON HER FOR ENJOYING LIFE WITH HER BOYFRIEND !?
user11 now get her out of elite, didn’t like her acting anyways
user12 exactly! replace her !
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ynexpostio with the recent speculations going on, I would like to announce that me and Lando have decided to take a break after 3 years. It was a mutual and amiable decision and I wish him all the best!
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liked by user1, user2, user3 and 345,388 others
f1wags BREAKING! Lando Norris revealed the reason of their break up with Y/N Expostio!
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user1 and you all are still hating on that poor girl !
user2 she literally sacrificed her love just so he doesn’t get any hate!
user3 but lando should have declined!
user4 like always they have posted half the stuff
user4 Lando said after that line that he didn’t want to do that but Y/N was struggling mentally and so he decided he to respect her desicion.
user5 I swear being a celebrity means living your life on the edge
user6 you know it's bad when she changes her username back to her own name 😭
user7 they have not broken up! they are on a break !
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liked by landonorris, aron.piper and 1,376,346 others
ynexpostio my d1 ♥️
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liked by user1, user2, user3 and 538,368 others
f1wags Alexandra and Y/N were seen in the Ferrari paddock for the Mexican GP!
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user1 umm, she is going after Carlos now ?
user2 both Ferrari drivers are dating
user3 first a slut and then a cheater ?
user4 this lady is messed up
user5 YOU BREAK WITH LANDO FOR THIS !?
user6 can't even defend her anymore
user7 SHE IS FRIENDS WITH ALEX AND CHARLES! she can go there as a friend too !
user8 imagine her cheating with Charles
user9 READ THE DAMN NEWS, HER EX BOYFRIEND HAD ESCAPED POLICE CUSTODY AND WAS STALKING HER, ALEX AND CHARLES ARE HELPING HER !
user10 he better stay in jail for the next few centuries
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liked by landonorris, aron.piper, charlesleclerc and 2,268,286 others
ynpapi break over, the movie resumes 🎬
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user1 SHE IS BACK !!
user2 WE LOVE YOU !!!
user3 don't scare us like that ever again
user4 what happened to the ex ?
user5 killed off from the movie
user6 he is in jail ☺️
tg: @sainzzreputaticn
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ideksams · 2 days ago
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a rough fanart for this lovely fanfic that i think about a lot!
when he found out that anya knew the truth all long…
※ the writing in the picture is not mine. it belongs to one of my favorite (if not THE favorite) fanworks written by the lovely @piracytheorist!
a little out of the blue, this is along the line of things i've wanted to draw for fun since forever…! the latest chapter reminded me in a way… apologies for the quick roughness, it's like practice, or a trial run for these ✍️ i'd like to do more and practice different things! like backgrounds...
※ anywho- masterpost of the entire work here, for those interested in reading it too! (see warnings!)
https://piracytheorist.tumblr.com/post/720279101761552384/macabre-theme-and-variations-masterpost (i just really, really love it. and the way that twilight, yor, anya, and everyone is written. i shouldn't go in too much depth about it, but there's something about how it covers this aspect between loid and anya- can you imagine how loid would feel if he found out that anya knew since the BEGINNING that he's been lying to her? well, this fic covers it and i LOVE. IT.)
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bananayuyu · 2 days ago
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Game Over
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Pairing: gamerbf!yunho x fem!reader
Genre: smut
Word count: 2.8k
Summary: Trying to get your boyfriend's attention while he games is sometimes really difficult. Too bad when he finally turns his eyes on you, his only intention is to punish.
Warnings: smut, MDNI, reader calls Yunho sir, pet names (baby, princess), orgasm denial, Yunho covers reader in cum, degradation, yunho calls reader slut once, yunho slaps reader once, mean dom yunho for sure
A/n: This was inspired by a lovely little conversation I had with @yuyusbabygirl. I hope it lives up to your expectations babe! It was nice to work on something short while I'm working on a much longer and darker Yunho one shot, which I cannot wait to post. I hope you all enjoy this one! <3 (anyone else like getting slapped in the face during sex? just me?)
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You walk into your shared bedroom to find your boyfriend in his favorite grey hoodie, legs stretched wide with a controller in his hand.
It was his favorite way to wind down after work, the position you found him in countless times. But after your little trip to the lingerie store this evening, you're finding it hard to accept that his attention isn't on you.
You'd purchased a beautiful pink set today, one you'd been eyeing for months now. On your walk home you'd seen it in the window, finally on sale, and you couldn't resist. The style accentuated your body in just the right way, and the bottoms were amazingly comfortable given just how tight and up your ass they were. And really, you just looked amazing in it; even you could admit that, despite not always loving your body.
You thought you'd wait until the weekend, until your planned date night to show it to him. You could make it total surprise, as he had no idea where you'd just been. But when you opened your bedroom door and he didn't even look up, you couldn't deal with the way it seemed like he didn't even notice you.
Out in the living room you strip off your clothes, hastily slipping on the lacy pink set and promptly walking straight back into your bedroom.
"Babe, can I show you something?" you ask, standing in the frame of the door. Finally Yunho's head turns towards you, after he carefully pauses his game. "What do you think?" you ask, turning in a slow circle and posing for him.
"It's beautiful baby. Those are the ones you wanted last time we were there, right?"
"Yeah, they were on sale today, so I couldn't resist," you smile, momentarily relieved that his eyes are on you and not on that damn TV screen.
"You know I could have bought them for you," he says, sighing slightly. Is he disappointed? Do you not look as good as you think? You stare back in surprise, his tone suggesting he isn't affected by this at all. And god does it irk you, enough to grab your silk robe from the closet and throw it over your shoulders. No way in hell were you taking off this beautiful set, and if he wasn't going to enjoy it, then you'd spend the evening enjoying it yourself.
You settled back down on the couch in the living room, absentmindedly scrolling your phone and texting back a few of your online friends. You got lost in it for a minute, but you'd be lying if Yunho's tone of disinterest wasn't still playing in the back of your head. You were bothered that he still hadn't come out to you, that he hadn't been affected in the way you knew he always was by your body. Was his game tonight really that interesting?
Without thinking you stood and walked back into the bedroom, walking over to the side table on his side of the bed. Leaning down to open the drawer you squeeze your chest together, knowing that from this angle he has a perfect view of your tits in all their glory.
"You good?" he asks, again his tone sounding a little distant, despite the way his eyes are glued to your chest.
"I can't find my charger, I thought I might have left it over here," you lie, closing the drawer again and standing back up, sauntering out of the room and looking back over your shoulder as you exit, seeing his eyes glued this time to your ass. You're sure now he'll come out, sure that once his game finishes he'll be pouncing on you, and you wait with bated breath, again pulling up your phone and randomly scrolling.
But again, he doesn't come. Your anger is building, and before you know it your legs have taken you back to the bedroom, this time climbing onto the bed and standing up, pretending to adjust a poster on the wall and partially blocking his view with your thigh.
"Baby, seriously?" he asks below you, tapping on your leg to try to get you to move it.
"I noticed this poster was about to fall," you lie again, pursing your lips together in a pout and staring down at him. From this angle you know he has quite the view of your center, only a very thin strip of fabric not even totally covering your outer lips. You know he loves your thighs, and this time you're sure he'll break, but again, somehow, he's still focused on his game, somehow winning the level despite the screen being partially out of view.
You sigh and head back out the living room, not sure what to do with yourself. The lingerie is getting you worked up yourself, and so is the way he's not paying attention to you. It's making you feel desperate, angry, pathetic, and you're not sure how much longer you can take this little game. You pace around the room, not even looking at your phone anymore, not able to think of anything but the throb that has started in your core and Yunho's soft, large hands sweeping deftly over that black controller.
You're stumbling back into the bedroom again, this time even less sure of your movements, and you find yourself in front of the TV, dusting the top of the picture frames that hang on the wall there.
"Hey, seriously, what's up?" you hear Yunho ask, but this time you don't even respond, carefully dusting over the top of the frames so as not to knock them down. "Baby..." he trials off, and finally you hear his tone of voice change.
"Baby, answer me," he commands, and his voice is low and almost scary in a way that's making your whole body tingle.
"I just- I've been meaning to dust these for a long time and I keep forgetting, so I thought I'd better do it before I forget again for months," you stutter, still not turning around.
"Turn around, look at me," he demands, and you turn yourself around to face him, your hands behind your back as you stand provocatively, pushing out your chest. "I think you're trying to piss me off, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not I swear," you respond, turning on those pathetic puppy-dog eyes of innocence, and it makes his blood boil that you keep lying to him so effortlessly.
"I think you're lying," he says, gently setting down his controller and pulling off his hoodie in one swift motion, smoothing down his hair that was tousled out of place. "You want my attention on you, not on my game, huh?" He cocks his head to the side, a proud smile on his lips as he knows he's right.
"Nuh-uh," you shake your head, maintaining your facade, too far in now to back out. "Those pictures really needed dusting."
"And you needed to be wearing that, while you dust? You couldn't wait till I was finished with my games tonight to do it? Sounds pretty fucking unbelievable, if you ask me," he responds, now standing by the side of the bed and staring you down, his physical presence adding to the intimidation in his tone.
"I swear," you say, pouting again.
"Look at you, lying again. What do you think stupid little liars deserve?" he asks, hands on his hips.
"I- I don't know, sir," you say, slipping into the headspace best for punishment before he can even say it.
"I think they deserve a little punishment, don't you? For being bad. Lying is bad, wouldn't you agree?" he asks, his voice dripping in mock sweetness.
"Yes, sir," you nod your head, your clit throbbing with anticipation and your eyes already heavy with lust.
"Get on the bed, princess, right there." He points to where he was just sitting, his feet not moving an inch as he watches you crawl across it and sit yourself down. "Now spread your legs for me," he commands, and you follow automatically, like you don't even have a choice. You're anticipating a slap, a pinch, something painful to start the punishment, so you're surprised when he just sits himself down in front of you, so casually you'd think the two of you were just sitting down at a restaurant for a meal.
"Now, are you going to be honest with me?" he asks, eyeing you sharply.
"Yes, sir, I promise," you squeak in response, your head already buzzing with the way your legs are spread and open for him.
"Were you lying to me, earlier?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in expectation. You squirm, your eyes darting everywhere in the room but just him, not expecting him to force this out of you.
"I- uh-" you stutter.
"Baby, eyes on me. And stop hesitating, it's pissing me off," he says, his eyes dark when you finally meet his again, the breath leaving your lungs.
"I- yes- yes I did, I'm sorry," you whine, hoping this won't add to the punishment ahead.
"I'm sorry?" he asks, head cocked to the side.
"I'm sorry sir," you rush out, tears now threatening to form in your eyes.
"And you know lying is bad, so you know you deserve this punishment, right?" he asks. You nod your head vigorously, breath hitching in your throat. "Say it," he spits, his tone angry.
"I deserve this punishment, sir," you say, your eyes getting droopy with lust, your heart pounding in your chest with all of the adrenaline coursing through you.
"So you won't beg for it to stop, will you? You'll let me have my way with you until I think you've learned your lesson?"
"Yes sir, I promise," you respond, but you know it's not true, there's no way it could be. The begging is what he likes more than anything, and you know in mere moments you'll be weeping for him.
"Good. Now put your hands behind your back and don't you dare move them till I say you can," he says, moving forwards towards you, resting on his knees between your legs. He brushes a thumb over the lace fabric covering your hips, tracing the edging down and finally past your soaking, aching core, making you moan immediately at the contact. He slowly brushes his thumb in a large oval, hitting over your clit at the top, but with the fabric in between it just doesn't feel as good as you know it can. You're waiting for a slap, waiting for a change in position, honestly, so you're shocked when he reaches into his own pants with his other hand and frees his cock, the head red and already leaking.
He begins stroking himself slowly, matching the rhythm of his thumb on your cunt, and slowly the pleasure builds, agonizingly slowly. You're trying to relax into it, but you're tense from the anticipation of what punishment might be coming, so you don't quite know what to do. Your eyes are locked on his cock, on the way his hand moves up and down it so fluidly, Yunho spitting on it and spreading the wetness around, his strokes visibly speeding up. After what feels like ten minutes, but is probably barely sixty seconds, you're sure he's not punishing you after all, and your head swims with pride for a second that he's so turned on he's forgotten his intentions entirely.
"More, yuyu, please," you whine, trying to buck your hips into his thumb to gain more pressure on your clit.
"More, who? And is that begging I'm hearing?" he growls, his eyebrows pinched together in a look of dominance and anger.
"I- I'm sorry, sir," you squeak, your eyes locked on him and your mind whirring in realization that he's still in control, still planning on seeing this through.
"Don't you get it, princess? This is your punishment. You wanted to wear that lingerie so badly tonight, well now you get to. I'll touch you as much as I can, but it's not my fault it doesn't feel as good," he chides, and you groan in response, a part of you wanting to whip your hands out and pounce on him, forcing him to fuck you well and good. "What, does that sound so bad? I'm still touching you, you know," he continues, making you squeeze your eyes shut as you try not to whimper or groan again. You guess he's just teasing you with the way he's stroking himself, showing you just what your missing, and you know you'll have to hold out a long time to get the reward you're really after. You inhale deeply and steady yourself, closing your eyes and surrounding to the weak feelings on your clit, letting the feeling of being taken over envelop you.
It feels good for a little while, now knowing this is your punishment, knowing that he's teasing you and making you wait. You can do that, you know you can, and frankly, compared to the other things you thought he might have in mind, this wasn't so bad. You opened your eyes to watch him again, his beautiful hand stroking his length hard and fast, and you swear his cock is on the brink of spilling everywhere, given just how flushed and hard it looks. It's intoxicating to watch; you wish it was in your mouth, your cunt, anywhere but two feet away and in Yunho's hand, and you feel yourself salivating at the sight.
"You wish that was inside you, don't you?" he teases, a chuckle leaving his lips at the way you don't even answer him, your body forced to swallow the large amount of spit that gathered in your mouth at your stared at him, agape. You're in shock at how long this is taking, you swear it's been more than ten minutes at this point, and your pussy is suddenly throbbing so hard that you're not able to think of anything else.
"Sir, please, don't make me wait any longer," you cry, the tears forming in your eyes now, and you stare up at him pathetically, your breathing shaky.
"What makes you think you deserve that?" he snaps, rubbing himself even harder, so turned on at the way you're a bumbling mess in front of him.
"Please sir, I've waited- I've-" you can't even finish your sentence, a small sob escaping your lips instead.
"I thought you promised you wouldn't beg, slut," he spits, his hand on your cunt coming up to slap you across the face, a moan escaping your lips at the action. Momentarily your clit is alight in pleasure, the stinging pain radiating down your face and going straight to your core, making your muscles clench down on themselves. And again you're hoping this means he'll finally break, that he finally wants to manhandle you and fuck you hard, but instead you're shocked when you feel hot ropes of his cum covering your face, your chest, and even your stomach and thighs. You look up to see Yunho's blissed out face, as he strokes himself through the last of his orgasm, his face flushed and a sheen of sweat covering him entirely.
"Fuck, you look so fucking sexy when you beg like that," he sighs, collapsing down beside you but propping up his head so he can still catch a good look at the absolute mess he's made. You're staring at him with wide eyes, your cunt still throbbing with anticipation, your body wholly unsatisfied with everything that just went down.
"What, was that not fun for you?" he chuckles, and you know from the tone of his voice that your scene hasn't ended, that maybe this one will extend until tomorrow morning. You look down at your body, your beautiful pink lace lingerie covered in his cum, your legs twitching with the remnants of anticipation.
"You ruined it," you whine quietly, still not moving, just moping in place and trying to make him feel bad.
"Baby stop sulking, you know I'll buy you a new one. Now come on, let's get you cleaned up and ready for bed. You can move your hands now."
And in the morning he's still treating you the same, making you follow his commands, eating what he's prepared for breakfast and wearing the outfit he's set out for you. He kisses you goodbye, making you promise you'll be good at work today, before handing you the lunch and snacks he's packed you. And when you finally return in home in the late afternoon, your brain tired from a day of focused work, you see a familiar looking bag on your desk. Opening it you find the same set of lingerie, the pink edging catching on the light of your desk lamp, and you sigh into your chair, hoping that maybe tonight, he'll finally let you cum.
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satxnsupreme666 · 3 days ago
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Blooming flowers: Agatha Harkness x Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader
Masterlist
Requested by: Anonymous
Summary: You own the flower shop in Westview, you’re a good friend of Wanda and Agatha, who would have said you were going to fall for them.
Flowers and their meanings are beautiful, even if they are growing inside your lungs.
Warnings: Angst but with happy ending, mentions of blood and coughing also: Hanahaki disease is a fictional disease in which someone who experiences one-sided love coughs up flower petals, and it only ends when the love is returned or the victim dies
Word count: 12.8k 
Author´s notes: Hello, sorry for being a little bit inactive, and for the requests I have already been sent, have in mind I will be writing them and posting them, just give me please a little bit of time, also this was a requested story three years ago, so, this was one of the first stories I wrote three years ago, I had posted them on Tumblr on my old account, but due to my mental health, I had to take a break from Tumblr and the toxicity and hate that had suddenly increased, I deleted all of my stories and my old account, now I have decided to upload them again here on Tumblr and also on Ao3.
Also I am almost done uploading all of my old stories of 2021
I hope all of you enjoy this!🥺💕💕
Taglist: @italianaidiota (Hey I am trying to tag you but I do not know why it does no let me) @midnight-lestrange @eliscannotdance
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 To love one person was something you knew people were used to do, but to love two at the same time?
You did not mean for that to happen.
You didn’t even know how it had happened in the first place, it just happened, so fast, you had fallen for them without realizing it.
You had fallen so quickly and so hard, how hadn’t you realized it before?
At first you had thought it had been just pure admiration for both women, they were so beautiful, so amazing and brilliant, they were fascinating.
To love two people was something you didn’t believe you were going to do, but how could you stop it?
You had just realized it three days ago when a single purple petal had come out of your mouth, you recognized the petal, it was a purple crocus petal, the flower was the symbol of royalty and nobility, it also represented, success, pride and dignity, you related that flower to Agatha, she was so beautiful and had all these traits in her, if a flower could define her, it was this beautiful one.
“Good morning doll” You didn’t hear the ring of your doorbell sounding, you were too distracted thinking about the owner of the voice that had just entered to your flower shop.
“Good morning Agatha” You said to her and unconsciously you smiled, her voice made you heart flutter.
Turning yourself around to see her walking to the counter in which you were behind, she smiled at you and you felt your face getting warmer.
“What can I do for you?” You asked her while placing one of your elbows on the counter, letting your chin rest in your hand.
“Oh, darling you can do a lot for me” She touched your forehead with her finger and you were sure you had a loving expression on your face, you loved all the gestures Agatha had towards you.
“I was wondering if you could make an arrangement of flowers” She inquired looking inside her purse
“Of course, what’s the special occasion?” You asked smiling while taking a piece of paper and a pen ready to write down.
“It’s for Wanda, today’s our anniversary sweetheart” You could hear Agatha’s excitement in her voice, they really loved each other so much, it was beautiful and painful at the same time for you.
“That sounds amazing, congratulations” You were really happy for them, you’ve never seen two people loving each other as much as they did it.
You wrote down in the piece of paper the word anniversary along with the names of different flowers you thought could be the best for the occasion.
“Thanks doll” You didn’t see the expression on Agatha’s face.
“So, which flowers would you like to include in the arrangement?” You asked before lifting your head to look at her.
“I was thinking about some roses” You saw Agatha bringing her hand to her face while she thought, you loved that she always did that whenever she was deep in thought, red roses were beautiful they reminded you of Wanda and her beautiful red hair, for you red roses represented Wanda perfectly, she was such a passionate woman whom you really admired.
“That’s a great election, red roses mean enduring passion, romance and true love”
“I didn’t know that doll, what other flowers do you think would be best to include?” Agatha leant onto the counter placing her hands on it, you thought about it for some seconds after talking again.
“I would recommend you also dahlias, red tulips and carnations” You went to the other counter that had some bouquets with different flowers and you took one of the three flowers you had told her, walking back to where she was you showed them to her.
“In general dahlias can demonstrate the lasting bond and commitment between two people, also they are great for anniversaries, you can choose from red, white, purple and pink dahlias, the meaning can change a little depending on the color, my favorite one is the pink because you can show your love to someone and how that person is irreplaceable in your heart, but never give black dahlias to someone, even though they are beautiful they commonly symbolize betrayal” You said to her in a soft tone, you handed her a single pink dahlia and she took it with a big smile on her face.
“Red tulips are a great choice to express that you love someone deeply, they symbolize passion, romance, eternal love, perfect love and true love, so red tulips are an amazing choice to give to your true love” You gave her the red tulip you were holding in your hand and she gladly took it.
“Now, last but not least, carnations, they mean love and fascination but depending on the color the meaning can change a little, for example, the light red ones mean admiration, the dark red ones mean deep love and affection, white stand for pure love and good luck and pinks usually mean a mother’s undying love, I find carnations to have the purest meanings, here take this one” You offered her a single white carnation.
“All of this is beautiful, thank you for sharing this with me” She told you while carefully caressing the petals of the red rose.
“Any time, so would you like a bouquet of all of these flowers or you want me to tell you about more flowers and their meaning?” You tilted your head a little to look at her
“I think these three types of flowers would do; their meaning is so beautiful”
“Alright so, what color do you want the dahlias and the carnations to be?” You asked her while taking again the pen to start writing down the colors
“I want the carnations to be dark red and the dahlias to be pink” She said in a whisper and you wrote it down the colors in the piece of paper, of course she was going to choose these colors for her girlfriend.
“Alright, is it alright for you to come back in two hours?  Or do you need them before?” You asked her while admiring her messy bun, some strands of her hair were falling from her face and down to her shoulders, she was so beautiful it hurt you.
Before she answered you, you started to feel something bothering in your throat and you knew what it was so you tried to clear your throat a little.
“Can you excuse me for a minute, I have to go check if I have baby’s breath for more decorations in the storage room” You said in a rush, Agatha blinked in confusion, she had seen the way you slightly touched your chest, she heard you coughed a little before you disappeared in one of the rooms in the back.
 When you were finally alone in the bathroom in front of the sink, you started to cough a little more, you tried not to make a lot of noise because you really didn’t want her to know there was something wrong with you.
You couldn’t let anyone know this, you had only heard about this in the news and how it was a really rare disease that only affected to a small percentage of the population, you didn’t want to think a lot about it, you already knew all the effects, the symptoms and how the disease developed, but you really didn’t want to think about it.
Pressing your hand over your opened lips, your throat finally felt free and you didn’t have the bothering feeling of something in it.
Taking the petal that had come out of your mouth with your fingers, you stared at the single red petal, this time it was a red rose petal and you sadly smiled at the sight, red roses were beautiful they reminded you not just of Wanda, but also the love Agatha and Wanda shared, you could see how much they loved each other, Agatha, Wanda and their kids were a really beautiful family and even if you wished you were a part of that, you felt so bad for wanting to be part of them, you knew you couldn’t and you could never be part of their amazing family, but it was so beautiful to think and dream about it.
You slowly threw the petal into the trash bin before washing your hands in the sink, after that you washed your face as well and passed the Cotton towel over your face to get yourself dry, when you looked at yourself in the small mirror in front of you a sad smiled appeared on your face, you didn’t know how many time you had left, but you were going to really enjoy it.
You had heard many times phrases like “Love can hurt” or “Love can be painful” but you had never stopped yourself to think a little about them and now you found yourself getting lost at nights thinking about how those phrases had a deeper meaning for you.
You sighed before putting on a smile again and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door you walked back to where Agatha was standing in front of the counter.
“It looks like I still have fresh baby’s breath, did you know that baby’s breath mean everlasting love and purity? That’s why I was thinking about adding them into your floral arrangement, also they make a really good decoration” You said with a smile when you were in front of her again.
“That sounds amazing sweetheart, you’re so sweet” You felt Agatha’s hand caressing your hair and her gesture made your heart flutter in excitement, how much you wished that touch was meant to be in a romantic way, but you knew she just did it because she was that way, you knew her good enough to know that she was always like this, your state of pure joy was quickly replaced by a sadness that you knew you had to hide.
“Are you alright? Doll?” The way she called you made you always feel warm, you love all of the endearments she had for you.
“Yes, yes, I’m alright, my throat was feeling a little itchy but I guess it’s just the dust, you don´t have to worry” You tried to shrugged it off, Agatha wasn’t convinced and you saw it on her face.
“So, at what time do you want me to have them? I was telling you that you can come back in two hours but if you need them before I can be faster” You said looking at her with a smile on your face, you really hope she dropped the other topic.
“It´s alright darling I can come in two hours, I don´t want you to rush things” A sad smile appeared on your face at her phrase about not rushing things, you really hoped this illness didn’t rush inside you.
“Alright then, your flowers will be ready in two hours, do you want me to write something in the card?” You asked her while taking a tiny card out of the stack you had in your files, it was simple and elegant, you really loved writing things down in cursive letters, it was so fancy, you have seen and written down many small love letters, some times it was a poem, some other times people just asked you to write some words down, but in the end you knew it was worth it, you loved to think that these tiny details make people feel loved.
You knew some people preferred to show their love and affection giving gifts and one of the best things was to receive flowers, each one of the many different and beautiful flowers had its own meaning and for you that was beautiful.
“What about
-Each flower means exactly what I feel
Even after they wither and their petals fall
My love won´t be something I have to conceal
And my love will stay with you after all.
Even when I fade away
My feelings will be here with you
Our souls will meet in a getaway
And we won´t feel blue again-“
You finished your little poem writing the last words in the tiny card, leaving the black fountain pen on the counter, you took the card in your hand and handed it to Agatha so she could see it.
You saw the way she carefully took it into her hands and you saw the way her lips formed a smile.
“This is beautiful, I didn’t know you wrote poems” She said to you in a whisper and you felt your face getting warmer again
“It´s nothing, it´s something I really like to do sometimes, so, do I attach the card to the flowers?” You asked while trying to hide your face behind a bunch of flowers you had taken in your hands to put them in a new vase.
“Of course, you´re really sweet darling, everything you do is beautiful” You gave her a small smile
“Thank you, Agatha” You said while biting your lower lip a little and she smiled, she thought you were a really sweet person
“I will come here again in two hours, I still have to run some errands, I know it will be beautiful” Agatha waved her hand at you before walking towards the exit of your flower shop, closing the door behind her when she walked out you sighed.
You´ve never loved someone before, not until now and now that you had just got to feel how it felt to be in love, you couldn’t help but think about all the time you had seen two people loving each other and wondering how did it feel to be in love, you had thought that to be in love would feel as you were walking on clouds, you had thought that being in love was like eating cotton candy, feeling the sugar melting in your tongue, tasting the sweet flavor in your mouth, you had thought that being in love with someone was like enjoying a sweet hot chocolate during a cold winter night, you were sure it was like that, but maybe not for you.
You knew some for some people was too easy to find their true love, some people found easy to fall for the right person, but maybe this wasn’t your case, after thinking a lot about it, you had come to the conclusion that maybe you had just come to earth to be a simple bystander admiring how true love was, maybe you weren’t born to be loved, maybe you were doomed only to see how real and true love looked like, and that was why you had fallen in love with two people at the same time.
But why you? Why it had been you the one to get this beautiful but painful and deadly disease?
It was already too painful to be in love and being aware that this love will never be reciprocated, but to have a constant reminder of this inside you made it worse, life was already painful but at the same time beautiful, and what was growing inside your lungs reminded you of the beauty and the pain that came with being in love.
How ironic, flowers always made you feel alive you loved them and now flowers were going to be the ones to take it away from you, at least you were going to feel some kind of love until your last days.
Trying to shrug the thoughts off you went to take the flowers you would be needing to make the floral arrangement for Wanda and Agatha´s anniversary.
You started by accommodating and placing red roses first inside the pretty white bouquet you had chosen, you thought about how many roses you should add, 9 roses to show eternal love, 10 to tell someone they’re perfect or 13 roses? They would never know the meaning of the numbers of the roses, if you put 13 roses you knew the meaning behind the number, it usually symbolizes friendship or a secret admirer.
After some minutes you decided to add just 13  red roses, you were aware that the meaning of this number and you didn’t mean them to symbolize friendship, you knew they didn’t know a lot about flowers, so they would never know; you were careful enough not to hurt yourself with the thorns and when all of them were placed inside the bouquet you took the tulips to start arranging them between the roses.
The next flowers you decided to put were the pink dahlias, you really loved this flower, it was so beautiful, the smooth leaves that belonged to it, the numerous and delicate petals encircling the tiny core of the flower, for you this flower had the purest meaning of all the flowers, to Victorians represented commitment to another person and eternal love for someone, if someone gave this flower to their partner they were showing the deep love they felt for the other person as well as showing appreciation.
Agatha and Wanda were really lucky to have each other, you could see the delicate but strong bond the two of them shared, they complemented each other so well, while Wanda tended to be guided by her heart, her emotions and sometimes her impulsivity, Agatha tended to use her mind, her cleverness, and she always thought on the consequences before doing something, you could see Agatha was the one who carefully analyzed everything, she wanted to know what other different options she could get, meanwhile Wanda rushed things a little.
If Wanda got angry you knew how she could react, she was always ready to fight back whoever who messed with her family, you really loved her passion about things, for you this wasn’t a flaw in Wanda, for you this was strength, she was so passionate about what she believed and what she wanted,  Wanda just wanted to protect her family and her beliefs and for you that was awesome.
When Wanda got angry at someone or if Agatha just realized her girlfriend was having an argument with someone, she would always step in to try to calm Wanda and you were amazed how Agatha was the only one who could calm down her girlfriend, you knew the older woman just wanted to make sure that her girlfriend was alright and after calming her Agatha always made sure to say something to whoever who was arguing with Wanda, you´ve never got to know what is it that she says to them, because they always back off with a horrified expression on their faces.
You really loved how Agatha was aware and seem to be conscious on how people would react and she always knew what to say to everyone, how couldn’t you love them?
They were so amazing, you just wanted to feel a little of what it was to be loved, but knowing what was inside you, made your heart ache, it was painful to know that you could just admire them from afar, nothing else, the only thing you could do now was to try to be as supportive as you could and be grateful that you got to be here to admire what true love felt like.
You finished placing the pink dahlias around the roses and you loved the combinations, it was the perfect representation of passion, love, tenderness and softness, the two of them shared such an amazing love, you could only wish, but that was alright, life could be painful but it could be beautiful at the same time, just like roses.
Roses were amazing and beautiful flowers, their petals were something people loved, it is the most common flower that represented love, but people didn’t like the thorns.
That´s life you thought, even with thorns that can hurt you and tear you apart, there was beauty in it, you never understood why people took away the thorns from their stem and they threw them into the trash bin, you didn’t understand it because for you the thorns of the roses, symbolized that even in beauty could exist pain and for you that was beautiful, it was just like life, even with the awful and hurtful things that happened each day, there was beauty in it, you were grateful for  seeing what love was like, you were grateful for being able to smell the sweet scent of the flowers, the scent of the wet soil, you were grateful for being able to see the colors of the sky.
Sighing you went to take the dark red carnations to start separating and choosing the best ones to put the flower arrangement, lately you couldn’t help but think on all the things you would miss.
Watching the dark color of the carnations’ petals you found yourself smiling, maybe what you were going to miss the most was the soft feeling of the petals against the skin of your hands and your fingers.
With a sad smile you kept doing what you were supposed to do, placing the last a carnation inside the bouquet you passed your finger over it, admiring the beautiful petals, taking the red tulips to start making the same process of choosing the best ones to put them into the arrangement you smiled, it was so bright and with different shades of red, the pink dahlias looked so pretty between the darker colors, finally you took some red tulips, to represent their true love, they were so lucky to have each other.
Finally, you took some baby´s breath to finish the floral gift, you loved the meaning of these tiny flowers, everlasting love; it was a really beautiful concept when you think about it, to have someone whose love would always persevere sounded so delightful.
You felt you throat getting itchy again and you tried to cough some times to see if something came out, but nothing came out of your mouth, trying to clear your throat it didn’t work at all, you still felt the sensation of having something in your throat so you went to take some water.
You took a glass and filled it with water and when you felt the cool water running down your throat, the tingling sensation went away; you frowned a little because you knew these were just the first symptoms, if this was already making you feel a little uncomfortable you couldn’t think on how it would feel when the final stages came.
You tried to brushed the thought aside an grabbed a small lace to attach the tiny card onto the arrangement, when you were done you stare at the flowers for some time, thinking about how much you were going to miss this.
You were lost in thoughts that you didn’t notice two hours had already passed until you heard the same voice you loved so much.
“Doll you seem deep in thought again” You heard her voice on the other side of the counter and it made you smile; you could never get tired of her.
She was smiling at you, you were sure her smile could light up an entire town, she was so charming, you were so in love with her, were you too obvious? No, you were sure you weren’t obvious, you knew how to keep your feelings to you, or at least you hope you knew how to hide your emotions and the love you felt for her and for Wanda.
“Oh no Agatha I was just admiring the flowers, they´re so beautiful, I think flowers can really talk for themselves, and they can also help us to express what we feel” Your eyes wandered to the different flowers In front of you and your hand caressed the petals of some yellow carnation you had in front of you.
You didn’t get to see the look in Agatha´s eyes, she always thought you were an interesting girl, you were always trying to help Wanda and her, when you babysat the twins, she always loved the way when the two of them came to their house, they would always have an amazing view of you playing a boardgame with them or playing hide & seek.
She walked closer to the counter and she pressed one of her elbows on the counter letting her chin rest in her hand, Agatha found herself amazed by the passion you seemed to have about flowers, you knew a lot about flowers and their meanings, you were so smart, you could arrange beautiful flowers in order to make something marvelous, she always loved all the effort you put in your work, she loved it.
“Oh yes, sorry, you´re arrangement is right here” She was distracted from her thoughts when she heard your voice, you pointed to the beautiful floral arrangement that was on top of the other counter.
“y/n, this is wonderful” Her comment made you smile and the way her face had lit up made you feel delighted.
“Wanda´s going to love it” That made you feel happier, you had made it for the two of them and you really hoped they both liked what you had done for them.
“I really hope so” You said while taking a piece of paper and you tried to hide your smiled behind it, Agatha always found all of your gestures adorable.
“Oh sweetheart I swear, she is going to love it” You saw the way Agatha admired the flowers and you saw her eyes shining, she really knew how to appreciate flowers and you loved it, you were sure she understood how flowers were so delicate but held a lot of power at the same time.
“How much is going to be sweetheart?” You heard her asking you and you bit your lip, you had thought about gifting her the arrangement, would it be too much? Would she think it was inappropriate? You didn’t know, but at the same time, you didn’t know how much time you had left so in the end you thought, why not risking a little?
“It´s nothing Agatha, this is my gift for the two of you” You said to her with a shy smile on your face, you couldn’t see her directly at her face so instead of looking her in the eyes you grabbed your pen and started to write down on it the things that you were almost run out of.
“Sweetheart, no, I have to pay you for this-”
“It’s alright Agatha, really, I want to give this to the two of you” You interrupted her with a soft tone but you didn’t dare to look at her
“Seriously, you don’t have to worry, I want to give this to the two of you, I want this to be my gift for your anniversary, I want to do this, can you let me do it, please?” You softly explained to her and slowly lifted your face a little to look at her.
You saw how her confused expression changed into a happy one, the way her eyes squinted when she smiled made you even fall for her more, you were already head over heels for her so you decided to look away to start writing on the same paper again.
Agatha walked towards you and she placed herself in front of you, her hand went to softly grabbed your hand that was holding the pen and she slowly made you stop writing, her soft hand was on yours and you loved the way she was caressing the back of your hand with her thumb, you felt your heart melting at her touch, how much you wished your heart didn’t confuse things, you knew she was always like that, all the time and you really thought this wasn’t alright, it would only be more painful for you.
But did you really wanted her to stop? Of course not, you wanted to keep feeling her hand against yours, you wanted her to hold your hand and that she would hug you, but you were aware that wouldn’t happen.
“Thank you so much doll, you’re incredible, thank you so much for this, I love it and I’m sure Wanda will love it too, you’re so sweet” You knew she was smiling and you wanted to see her smile, so you raised your hand and saw her face, she was so beautiful.
When she took her hand off yours you instantly missed her touch, but what surprised you was that she brought her hand to touch your face to caress your cheek in a soft way, unconsciously you leant into her touch and you closed your eyes, you were really going to miss her a lot.
“It’s alright, I really hope that you and Wanda enjoy your anniversary” You replied with a smile on your face.
Agatha took her hand off your face and you could see the happy expression she had on her face.
“I’m so happy that you’re here, you make Wanda and I really happy, thank you again for these beautiful flowers, I will think to do something to repay you darling”.
“It´s alright Agatha, really, you don’t have to, I wanted to do this for you, the two of you are amazing, you´re really good friends and I really love the two of you” The seven last words meant something deeper for you, but that was alright, it was alright, this was because of you, this wasn’t their fault, it was yours for accidentally falling for them and you knew it was alright, you can´t rush love nor make it an obligation, you were more than fine with being their friend, and that was what made you feel better, the reassuring feeling that at least you were close to them.
“We really appreciate you as well y/n, you´re always supporting and helping us, we´re happy” You became curious because she stopped talking and she looked down at the counter.
“We´re happy that you´re our friend too” You smiled at her comment and you nodded, you were happy to be their friend no matter what.
“I have to go and hide this, but we can keep talking later” You nodded and you stood straight nodding, Agatha took the floral arrangement and she stopped to look back at you.
“You´re an angel y/n” You were surprised at how easily Agatha could make your heart leap, you didn’t know what to say and unconsciously you bit your lower lip.
“I´ve got to go but this is very important to me, thank you” She said to you while pointing to the floral arrangement you´ve done for them.
Agatha started to walk towards the opened door and when she arrived at the door, she turned herself around one more time to look at you again and she winked at you, you felt heat in your face and you felt as if you wanted to hide.
You saw through the windows when she left in Wanda´s black car, watching the clock you realized it was already time to close your flower shop, it was time to go home.
Was it home though? Of course, it was, it had to be. You were happy this way.
Maybe if you repeat it many times in your head, you will start to believe it until it didn’t hurt anymore.
Stop, you said to yourself, there was no time for sad or self-pity thoughts, you had to keep going, you couldn’t let yourself fall into this increasing sadness, there was still a lot for what you could at least try; you couldn’t let what was growing inside you take away the last feeling of happiness, you needed to try to enjoy life, you weren’t going to waste this time letting the sadness consume you.
You remembered the first time Wand talked to you, she had entered to your flower shop, looking for some flowers to give to Agatha, you still remembered the way she was so excited to give something to the older woman.
“y/n you have to help me” She had said to you pressing her hand on your counter, her eyes were wide opened and fixed on you while her mouth was slightly opened, the view had made you chuckled because she was clearly in a hurry.
“Sure, what do you need from me?” You inquired and she ran her hand through her hair.
“I need to give something to Agatha, we had a little argument and she´s angry at me now, she´s not talking to me at all” You could almost even sense her mood, she bowed her head a little and she seemed to think about what had happened.
“Why is she angry at you?” You asked while tilting your head a little, Wanda raised her head and she sighed.
“It´s really not a big deal, I just, I forgot her birthday” She quickly said, and you chuckled.
“Oh Wanda, how could you have forgotten?” You asked her with a light tone.
“I swear I thought it was tomorrow, I thought today was Friday, I didn’t realize that it was already Sunday, it was a mistake” You saw the way Wanda was pouting and you found it adorable.
“Lucky for you today I have purple hyacinths they are perfect to give in a moment like this”.
You showed her the flowers before talking again.
“These flowers are an emblem of forgiveness and when you give this to someone, it means I´m sorry, please forgive me, you can give her a bouquet of these to show her you´re sorry, I´m sure she will love it”
“They are even purple, you´re a lifesaver y/n these are perfect” You laughed at her comment.
“Do you want to write something in this card? Also, we could put some baby´s breath if you like, baby´s breath mean everlasting love” You suggested and took one of the cards in which you usually wrote down small notes to go with the flowers, you handed the blank card and she carefully took it
“You can write down what you just told me about you mistaking the days and write down something lovely to go with it” You said while handing her a pen so she could write it down, you would have offered yourself to write it down with cursive letters, but you were sure Agatha would appreciate more that Wanda wrote it.
You saw Wanda thinking for some seconds what to write and then she stated to place words into the blank space, you couldn’t help but smile at her.
When she finished writing, she left the pen on the counter and looked at you with a smile on her face.
“What color do you want the lace to be? I recommend you to be white, so it looks good with the purple flowers, or do you want it to be a different color?” You inquired.
“White is good, thank you” You nodded and took a white lace to go with the arrangement.
You blinked when you heard the sound of your alarm in your phone, looking at the screen you noticed you had passed almost an hour lost in your thoughts, it was already 4:00 pm and still you hadn’t closed the shop.
Sighing you walked to the storage room to close it, you had already cleaned everything earlier so now you just needed to close the doors and head to your home.
Taking your keys and saving your phone on your pocket you got distracted by a small bouquet of white lilies, you remembered arranging this bouquet yesterday in the evening when you were about to closed, the flowers were beautiful but it made you sad their meaning, usually people would only give white lilies in funerals and that was because they symbolized peace and tranquility, it was meant to be given to the people who had lost a loved one.
You decided you would take it home with you, flowers always calmed you and even though it was another reminder of how your life was going to, at least it was recomforting to know that you could relate to a flower somehow, this flower meant to you a lot due to the circumstances you were passing through.
Taking the small bouquet in your hands you decided to finally leave and closed the shop, turning the lights off you locked the doors and looked at the empty street.
You were sure most people were in their houses enjoying the day, maybe with family or their loved ones.
What could you do when you arrived at your house? There weren’t many things you could do, you really wanted to do something different to start this new chapter in your life, you wanted to enjoy things as much as you could but at the same time you just wanted to lay in bed.
After minutes of walking you finally arrived at your neighborhood, the feeling of loneliness wasn’t helping your mood.
“Y/n!” You recognized that voice, it was Wanda´s voice, her accent was something you could never forget.
Turning yourself around to look at her you noticed she was walking towards you with a smile on her face and it made you smile too, the slight wind on her made her hair wave a little in the air, she was wearing a black hoody and black jeans, she looked so pretty as always, when she was closer to you, you felt your heart pounding faster in your chest and you were afraid she could hear the beating inside your chest.
You saw her playing a little with the sleeves of her hoody when she finally placed herself in front of you”.
“Hi Wanda, congratulations for your anniversary” You said a little shy holding closer to your chest the bouquet of lilies.
“Thank you so much” The two of you stared at each other for a while until she blinked and cleared her throat.
“These flowers are really pretty, are you going to give them to someone?” She questioned and you shook your head quickly.
“Oh no, no, these are white lilies, these are just given in funerals to try to give some kind of comfort to the people who lost someone” Wanda frowned a little, she was clearly confused, you noticed her expression and panicked a little.
“I just wanted to bring this with me because I know if I let them there alone, they will quickly fade away, so I´m going to take care of them” Wanda eyed you with a strange look on her face, you didn’t want her to suspect anything so you tried talking more.
“So, how are you going to celebrate your anniversary?” You asked moving slightly your eyebrows up and down.
Your question made Wanda´s expression changed; she went from confused to happy in seconds.
“Oh y/n I have a surprise for Agatha, she´s thinking we´re just staying home, but no, I made a reservation in the nice restaurant in the center of the town, she´s not waiting what I have planned for her” You could see that she was really excited, the way her eyes sparkled and her mouth curved into a smile, it was always a joy for you to see her.
“That just reminded me, I was looking for you because I wanted to ask you if you could watch the kids for at least two hours? It´s alright if you can´t” Wanda said the last words in a rushed moving her hands in front of her.
You smiled because this meant you weren’t going to pass the evening alone, this was a great opportunity for you to do something else, also being with the kids always made happy they were really funny and never failed to make you laugh.
“I can watch the kids; at what time do you need me to be there?” You asked her with a grin.
“You can come to our house at 6 pm” You nodded at her.
“Alright, I´ll go to your house at that hour” You really didn’t want to stop talking to her, but you had to. Had she already received the flowers? if so, had she liked them? You really wanted to know but if Agatha hadn’t done it yet, you were sure you were going to ruin the surprise, so you decided it was better not to.
“I´ll take a movie or two to watch it with the boys” You smiled at her, you could see she was thinking about something else but you weren’t sure, she looked as if she wanted to say something but she didn’t dare to, it was alright you could wait, you were really patient, and you had a lot of time.
Wanda kept playing with her sleeves, was she nervous? You couldn’t really tell.
“Well, I think I will go now, I have to prepare myself” She said to you after long minutes of just looking at you and then to the ground again.
“Sure, I´ll see you later Wanda” You gave her one last smile and you turned yourself around to walk to your house, your house was just two houses away from hers, so you just had to walked a little bit more.
You didn’t see that the woman just stood there in the middle of the sidewalk looking at you.
If only you had turned your head to look at her, Wanda thought, if only you had done it, sighing she just lowered her head and walked to the other side.
Wanda and Agatha had already discussed this, but she wasn’t even sure of what they had talked, what if it wasn’t true? She didn’t want to ruin anything, it would be another day, there was plenty of time, or at least that´s what she thought.
。 ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶
Watching the hour in your phone you decided it was time to go to Wanda and Agatha´s house, you always liked to be on time, you took two super-hero movies that you were sure the boys were going to love and walked towards your door, giving a last glance at the bouquet of white lilies you opened the door to walk outside your house.
You rang the doorbell and waited for someone to open the door, you were sure Billy or Tommy would yell at Wanda or Agatha to come to open the door, because they were not allowed to open it by themselves.
“Mom, there´s someone at the door” You heard Tommy yelling and you chuckled, you knew that was going to happen.
“Is not someone, y/n is the one who´s at the door mom” You could even feel Tommy rolling his eyes, rushed footsteps came to the other side of the door and someone opened it for you.
“Y/n!” The boys came out almost running and they hugged you, you patted slightly their heads, you were happy to see them as well.
“Thank you for coming y/n” You heard Wanda saying in front of you and when you lifted you head to see her, you eyed her all of her outfit and felt your face getting warmer, you had to look away because you felt like you were staring; she was wearing a red suit and she looked so beautiful it almost felt like a crime to look at her, you had to remind yourself that she was just your friend just like Agatha, sometimes you even felt guilty for having feeling for them.
Wanda of course noticed the way you had looked away from her so quickly and instead you looked at the floor, she pressed her lips together and tilted her head to look at you.
“You don’t have to thank me Wanda, I enjoy passing time with the boys, they are so funny, also I brought this for you guys” You showed them the two movies they you had picked up and you heard their gasps.
“Oh my god, we´ve been wanting to watch these for the past week, we didn’t know they were already available” Tommy said to you while taking the movies in his hands and passing one to Tommy so he could see the cover, they were excited and you smiled.
“I supposed you were going to say that I know how much you love the saga” You knelt in front of them and they hugged you again.
Wanda was watching you in awe, she always loved the way you look out for them, she knew her boys were in good hands with you, you were so good with them and she loved the way you interacted with her kids, you were so patient and sweet, her heart melted every time she saw these interactions.
“Can we put the movie on the tv, please mom?”  Tommy asked his mother whine Tommy nodded aggressively.
“Alright boys, you can go to put the movie on” Wanda said to them and they started to run towards the living room.
“I´ll take care of them and I will make them go to bed on time” You said to her while still trying not to look at her.
Wanda was about to say something, but someone knocked on the door and you frowned, who could it be at this time?
You placed yourself behind Wanda and she opened the door revealing Agatha standing there with the arrangement of flowers, you were surprised because you had thought she was already inside, you could see she was wearing a black blazer dress and she looked so beautiful.
“Agatha?” You heard Wanda asking the older woman and Agatha stretched her hands with the arrangement out to Wanda so she could take it.
“Happy anniversary love” Wanda took the arrangement in her hands and she placed a soft peck on Agatha´s lips, their love was so beautiful and once again you found yourself looking away from them, you knew this was too personal for them, you were not part of it and you felt like an intruder, you didn’t want them to bother them so you walked towards the living room, leaving the two of them so they could enjoy their beautiful moment together.
It broke your heart but you had to accept this was not your world, it was theirs and you had to just accept it, this dumb heart of yours, why it couldn’t understand this wasn’t yours, this wasn’t your life and you would never be part of it.
“Hey kids, did you already put the movie on?” You asked the kids when you arrived at the living room, they were already sitting in the couch.
“Yes, yes, come sit with us y/n” They asked you and you put your ginger on your chin feigning to think about it.
“Of course, but don´t you want some popcorn?” You saw the way their faces lit up and they nodded, you laughed at their reaction at the mention of popcorn.
“Well, then I will go to make some” You were just going to the kitchen when you heard your name being called, turning yourself around you saw Agatha and Wanda walking towards the living room, Wanda walked closer to you with the arrangement in her hands.
“Agatha just told me you gifted us this” Shyly you nodded and unconsciously you bit your lip a little, you couldn’t help it, it was something you did when you were nervous.
“Thank you so much, this is amazing” Agatha put herself behind Wanda to look at you.
“It´s nothing I really wanted to give something to you, I knew this was a special occasion so I wanted you to have it” You whispered while you touched your hair with your hand.
“Mum y/n was going to prepare some popcorn, you´re distracting her” Tommy recalled and the three of you laughed.
“That´s true I better get going otherwise the prince here will get desperate” You joked gesturing with your hand as if you were telling a secret.
“I´m don´t want to be a prince, I want to be a hero” Pouted Tommy.
You rolled your eyes playfully at Wanda and Agatha and the redhaired woman chuckled.
“You better go, I don´t think you want to be late for your date” You said to them, you didn’t understand why they hadn’t left yet.
“Yes, you´re right, we have reservations, we will be back in two hours, before the boys bedtime” Wanda said to you and you saw how the boys stood up from the couch to hug Wanda and Agatha, you couldn’t help but feel like if you were an intruder, turning yourself around to look at the flowers in one the vases on one of the shelves, and you sadly smiled, the roses inside the vase were withered, you knew that withered flowers meant rejected love, how ironic, you thought.
“Be good boys” The two kids had returned to the couches and this time you turned yourself around to finally look at them again.
“We´ll coming later y/n” You nodded, and they smiled at you, after that they walked to the door to finally go, when you heard the door closing you sighed.
 “I´ll go to prepare the popcorn, you can start the movie without me kids” They nodded without looking at you.
Entering to the kitchen you went to look inside the cupboards, you saw one container that had written with marker in it “pop corn kernels”, you didn’t know who had made it but it made you laugh a little.
It took only ten minutes for the popcorn kernels to pop, after that you placed them in a bowl to let them cool a little, being here on Wanda and Agatha´s house made you feel like if you were home, you felt safe here but at the same time you knew you didn’t belong here, this was not your place.
Trying not to think about that you took the bowl in your hands and went back to the living room where the boys were almost glued to the tv.
“Here is a bowl full of popcorn” You handed the bowl to them and they thanked you before grabbing it.
You were just about to sit in the couch when you started to feel the itchy sensation in your throat, but this time you felt it more, you started to feel the urge to cough, this time it was more violent, you didn’t just feel your throat itching this time it was really an uncomfortable feeling.
You tried to hide the fact that you were coughing but you knew you couldn’t hide it for a long time.
“I´ll be back in some minutes guys” Standing as quickly as you could from the couch you rushed yourself to arrive at the bathroom, opening the door of it you quickly closed it trying not to make a lot of noise.
The feeling was awful it was as if you couldn’t breathe, you tried to take deep breaths, but it was hard to breathe, the tickle in your throat started to be unbearable and trying to clear your throat many times the feeling didn’t go away.
The sound of the movie was loud enough for you to hear it even inside the bathroom so it was safe for you to make more noise, you couldn’t stand the feeling and your coughs started to be more aggressive even to the point where you thought you were choking.
After what it felt like hours finally you spat purple and red petals into the sink, you couldn’t believe how many petals had come out of your mouth, there were several and still you felt as if you couldn’t breathe properly.
Trying to clear your throat again, hoping that the uncomfortable feeling would go away, but it didn’t, after calming a little, you tasted blood in your mouth, but you were confused, just some days ago you had just spat two or three petals and now there were more, was it possible that the disease could have progressed more in just some hours? That couldn’t be possible right?
You took the petals that were in the sink and threw them to the trash bin, now you were a little scared, this was happening so fast, you were afraid now, and you couldn’t even tell anyone.
Washing the sink, you proceed to wash your hands with the liquid soap, splashing some water into your face and drying yourself, you looked at yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t believe what had just happened.
You couldn’t even explain what had happened at all, why had you suddenly started to cough in such a violent way?
Looking at yourself in the mirror you noticed that what it looked like little veins were visible in your chest and part of your neck, you were sure those weren’t veins, they were the roots of the flowers growing inside your lungs, they were barely visible but you could see them if you pay enough attention to them.
You came back to the living room and you felt relieved that the boys hadn’t noticed anything, you really didn’t want them to notice anything, it wasn’t good.
“Do you want some?” You heard Billy and saw he was offering you a can of soda.
“Thanks” You smiled and took it from his hand, they were good kids and the situation you were in made you fear, you were going to miss them, you were going to miss spending time with them and with ther mums, you had been preparing yourself for what you knew was going to happen, but now you were afraid, it had hurt a lot and the sensation of not being able to breathe was awful.
You couldn’t focus on the movie playing in front of you, there were many things going on in your head at the moment, everything was happening so fast and even though you had thought you were ready, but in fact, you weren’t.
You felt too tired that you didn’t even notice you fell asleep on the couch next to the kids.
。 ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶
You felt a hand shaking you a little, and slowly you opened your eyes to see that in front of you was Agatha with her hand on your shoulder, you quickly straightened and sat upright, how much time had passed since you fell asleep?  At what time had they arrived?
“What time is it?” You blurted out.
“It´s 9:30” Agatha said softly, and you grumbled a little.
"I’m sorry I fell asleep, I don’t know what happened, I just felt so tired, I’m really sorry” you said to her, you felt guilty about it.
“It’s alright doll, you don’t have to apologize, are you alright?“ Agatha asked you and you quickly nodded.
"The boys told us they had heard you coughing in the bathroom, y/n, is everything alright?” Asked Wanda coming closer to you to sit next to you in the couch.
Your eyes went wide opened because you had sworn the boys hadn’t heard you.
“Darling earlier in the flower shop you were coughing as well, I heard you, are you sick?” At Agatha’s question Wanda frowned, she was concerned about you.
“I’m fine, I’m more than fine, maybe it’s just a cold” Agatha and Wanda exchanged looks, they were really concerned because you looked tired and paler.
“I think it’s too late and the twins have to sleep just as you, so I think it will be better if a leave” You rushed yourself to say.
"We can accompany you to your house if you want-
“No, not it’s alright, my house is just three houses far from yours, so I’ll arrive quickly”.
They were confused because they didn’t understand why you were in such hurry to suddenly wanting to leave, they could see that you really wanted to go, but it was strange to them, that you didn’t even say goodbye to the kids, they really didn’t want to pressure you, but they really cared for you deeply, and your behavior was strange, they really wanted to help you, but they couldn’t if you didn’t let them first, they could sense there was something in the wind.
They exchanged looks and just let you go, they will have time in the morning to talk to you again, their worry won´t be appeased until they were sure you were alright.
Looking at you are walking outside their house and closing the door with such quietness was odd for them.
“I think there´s something off with her” Wanda whispered to Agatha and the older woman nodded, it was true, there was something going on with you.
“I know love but what can we do if she doesn’t let us know?” The dark-haired woman inquired with a disappointed tone.
“What if we…?” Agatha´s eyes widened, and it was clear that she knew what her girlfriend was talking about.
“No, we can´t do that to her, we will be breaking her trust Wanda!” Agatha rushed to say to her while taking Wanda´s hands on hers.
“But otherwise how are we going to know what´s happening to her?” Agatha gave a disappointed look at her.
“No, I said no, we won´t read her mind, we can´t do that, if we do that, she´s going to feel betrayed and you know it, we have to wait until she feels ready”.
“Alright, we won´t do that, I´m sorry, it´s just that I feel really concerned, I can´t be in peace knowing there´s something affecting her” Wanda said while caressing the back of Agatha´s hand with her thumb.
“I know but she just needs some time” Agatha tried to reassured her girlfriend, the older woman left a soft kiss on Wanda´s forehead before standing up from the couch to go to the bathroom to was her hands.
Entering to the bathroom and letting the water run down she had to turn the faucet off because something caught her attention at the bottom of the floor.
“Wanda?” She called for her girlfriend and the worried tone in Agatha made her walk faster to the bathroom.
“What´s going on?” Agatha´s heart was beating faster against her chest, she prayed it wasn’t what she wasn’t thinking.
“Are those petals?” Wanda asked confused kneeling a little to have a closer look at them.
“But they have blood in them, Wanda, do you think that, maybe those came from her?” Agatha´s hand started to shake a little and Wanda covered her gasping mouth, quickly standing up from the floor.
“That must be why she´s been coughing a lot, but who´s doing this to her?” Wanda grabbed her girlfriend´s hands in hers and she hold them closer to her, fear was what they were feeling at that moment, the uncertainty of what was going to happen from now on, the fear of you fading away like a withered flower scared them to death.
It wasn’t unfair, you were so bright, you were so smart, you could light up every room even a whole city, you just brough joy to the lives of the people you talked to, why was this happening to you?
“It´s not fair Agatha” The dark-haired woman pulled Wanda closer to her chest and they stayed ther for some minutes.
“I know it´s not fair, she doesn’t deserve this” Tears were threatening to fall from the corner of her yes.
“We have to talk to her, I thought she needed time, but we don´t even know how much time she has left, maybe we can do something, I know we can save her, alright?” Wanda just nodded against her chest, she really hoped they could save you.
。 ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶
When you arrived at you house you tried to sleep, but you couldn’t sleep at all, you felt as if something was pressing your chest, you couldn’t breathe well, and you knew very well that indicated the roots were growing more, they were starting to obstruct your lungs.
You had been thinking about this for the whole week since it had started, but the truth it was that you still weren’t ready to leave this life, the simple thought of your breathing stopping frightened you, you weren’t ready at all.
Turning and tossing all nights because you couldn’t sleep made you feel frustrated, the mere thought of full flowers coming out of your mouth scared you, you knew that in some more days full flowers would come out of your mouth and you were going to feel real pain due to the thorns of the roses, for the first time in your entire life you wished you could have never loved someone, you knew it wasn’t their fault, you kept blaming yourself, it had been your fault, if only you weak heart hadn’t fall for them, if only you had been born with an incapacity to love, this wouldn’t have been so painful, you had tried to suppress the sadness that you knew deep down you felt, for days you had tried to suppress it, trying to act as if you were calmed and that you were alright with the thought of flowers blossoming inside you, but the truth was that you weren’t alright with it.
The urges to cough again came to you and this time it was harder to contain it, you went to the bathroom faster as you could you didn’t even have time to spit them into the sink, you did it right at the entrance of the bathroom, the coughs were more violent than hours ago, you were almost choking with the amount of petals coming from your mouth, the beautiful petals were covered with your own blood and you couldn’t even stand the sight, you were trembling, but you had to clean out, so that´s what you did.
You were scared, the only mistake you had done was to love them and now you were suffering, you couldn’t just stand the thought of them never loving you back, they were happy with each other and you knew you had to feel happy for them, but you just wanted to be selfish at least for tonight, just for tonight you wanted to cry and get rid of all the sadness and pain you felt in your chest, the thought of no one loving you and dying with a broken heart was awful, you didn’t want anyone else to feel what you were feeling, you didn’t wish this to anyone.
You wished you could stop loving them, but you couldn’t, you couldn’t, you had fallen for them, you will be facing death in some days, flowers obstructing your lungs and throat was a tragedy but, was it a beautiful tragedy? Now you just wanted them to notice how much they meant to you and the feelings you had for them, but you knew you couldn’t this to them, it was so unfair for them, you had to suffer in silence, they could never know what was growing inside of you.
The next day when you finally woke up after only having some hours of sleep you went to the bathroom to wash your mouth and spit some more purple and red petals out of your mouth.
You saw your reflection on the mirror and you could see that the roots were now more visible than yesterday, they look a lot as if they were veins, but thy were too many; passing softly your fingers over your skin you could even swear you could feel them under your skin.
Washing your mouth so the taste of the blood could go away you heard the doorbell rang, who could it be at this hour? It was too early in the morning.
Opening the door, you were surprised to see the two people who you loved the most with worried looks on their faces.
“Who’s doing this to you?”  Wanda asked with tears on her eyes, she was pointing at you, Agatha and Wanda entered to your house, making you placed yourself to the side of the door so they could enter, and you just felt astonished what were they doing here on a Sunday morning? And did she mean?
“What are you talking about Wanda?” You asked her while closing the door behind you.
“Don´t lie to us y/n” Agatha had a sad look on her face that made you feel hurt, you´ve never seen her like this.
“We saw the bloody petals on the bathroom´s floor” Wanda came closer to you her tone of voice was full of concerned, you sighed and closed your eyes lowering your gaze, you couldn’t see them in the eyes, you had been afraid that they could notice it and they already knew because you couldn’t hide the petals.
“We want to help you. Who´s doing this to you?” Agatha took your hands in hers and you let out a bitter laugh.
“I can´t tell you” You whispered, and Wanda softly rubbed your shoulders.
“We just want to help you, don’t push us away” You didn’t want to push them away, but what else you could do? It wouldn’t help you at all.
“Why don’t you want us to help you? We´re your friends- “
“That’s why you can´t help me, I´m sorry” You blurted out and dropped Agatha´s hands, you couldn’t tell this to them while looking at their eyes.
“I´m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to fall, I couldn’t stop myself, when I realized it was already too late” Tears came out of your eyes, moving your hands in the air trying to get some kind of relief to the pain in your chest.
“I can´t help myself, I can´t stop myself from loving you, and I´m sorry, this is not fair for you, this is all my fault”.
Covering your mouth with you hand, you tried to silence the sobs coming out from your mouth.
“y/n” You heard Wanda´s voice calling you behind you.
“Please, I can´t do this, not now” You didn’t turn yourself around to look at them, so they put themselves in front of you.
“Baby girl, you don’t have to be ashamed of your feelings” Agatha wanted to grab your hand but she wasn’t sure if it would be the best to do, she didn’t want to make you feel more upset.
“We thought, you were in love with someone else, and that broke our hearts, because we thought we were going to lose you” This time it was Wanda the one who spoke
You couldn’t look at them, so you didn’t lift your head, you just kept looking to the floor.
A soft hand came to your chin, Wanda´s hand softly lifter your head with her hand but still you couldn’t look at them.
“Please printsessa, look at us” You shook your head and tried to move her hand away with yours, but Agatha stopped you, instead she grabbed your hand and hold it into hers.
“We feel the same y/n, we´ve been wanting to tell you, but we didn’t know how o when to do it, we were scared that you weren’t into it, we thought we could only have your friendship, but darling we can cure you, we feel the same” What had Wanda said?
“That´s not true, you can´t joke with that!” You didn’t know where the anger had come from.
“She´s not joking, she´s saying the truth y/n, we feel the same about you” Agatha tried not to raise her voice, she didn’t want to upset you she just wanted to make you believe them.
“Stop lying, I´ve read many times that there are cases in which the other part just lie so they don´t have to feel guilty about this, please, you don´t have to lie, I already accepted, this is not your fault, you don´t have to lie to make this stop”
“We´re not lying!” Wanda said suddenly raising her voice.
“How could we be lying about this?” Wanda´s voice was desperate; you could hear the desperation in her voice.
“You have to believe us, we´re not lying doll” Agatha´s voice was filled with grief.
You didn’t know what to believe, what if it was true? What if they were lying just because they didn’t want you to die? There many possibilities, you didn’t want them to be lying but you couldn’t believe that they were saying the truth, suddenly it started to be hard for you to breath, it started to be more painful to breath, you felt a strong pressure on your chest, the sensation of something making pressure inside your throat made you choke, you couldn’t breathe.
Instantly you knelt on the floor, gasping for some air.
“What´s wrong? y/n?” The view horrified them, you were choking, you were trying to breathe but you couldn’t, they saw the way you pressed one of your hand to your throat, trying to relief the pressure in your neck.
You felt something coming out of your mouth and even when you tried to spit it you couldn’t, you felt it was too big and you couldn’t even spit it.
“We have to do something Agatha, she´s choking, there´s an entire flower coming out of her mouth, we can´t let her die!” Wanda was shaking with fear and the tears keep streaming down her face.
Agatha came to your side to hold your body against hers, you were passing out due to the lack of air, you were closing your eyes and it scared her.
“I will try to remove them from her lungs with my magic, I don´t what´s going to happen, but we can´t let her die Wanda, you have to help me” Agatha told her while holding your body against her and Wanda came to her side, Wanda opened your shirt a little and the saw the roots of the flowers, they were a lot inside your chest and they could see them underneath your beautiful skin, Agatha couldn’t contain her tears anymore and even though she wanted to scream she tried to maintain calm.
The two of them pressed their hands on your chest and purple magic and red came from them, some stems were already coming out of your mouth and they could see that more red petals were coming out, they really hoped this could help you, they were scared, Agatha wanted to remove the seed of the flowers, the seeds of your painful and deep love for them in order to save, Wanda knew what this meant, but if that meant to sabe your life, she was going to do whatever even if that meant, you would never love them again.
。 ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶
  You woke up in a room you´ve never seen before, but you recognized the smell of the perfume that lingered in the room.
You remembered what had happened and quickly you looked at your chest, there was no trace of the roots underneath your skin, the pressure in it wasn’t there anymore and finally you didn’t feel the annoying sensation of something itching in your throat.
You heard the door being opened and you saw Agatha and Wanda entering to the room, Wanda looked as if she had been crying, her eyes were puffy and a little red as well as Agatha´s eyes.
“What happened?” You asked them when they were close enough of you, Wanda sit next to you and Agatha sit next you to as well on the other side of the bed, they were both by your sides.
“We saved you” You blinked many times, how had they done that? You thought that the seed could be removed only by surgery.
“But that´s impossible how-¨ You stopped talking when you saw Agatha´s hand making a movement with her hand and purple mist covered her hand.
“We saved you, we didn’t want you to die, we removed the seeds from your lungs, as well as the red rose that was blossoming” You could hear sadness and Agatha´s voice but you didn’t understand why, suddenly you felt a hand holding yours.
“We almost lose you; we were so scared; you were asleep for three days! I thought you weren’t going to wake up again” Wanda was crying again, Agatha´s hand came to rub your shoulder a little, you didn’t understand why they were so sad.
“But I´m here, you saved me” You said to the two of them, holding both hands in each one of your hands.
“You saved me and I´m grateful for that, I was so scared I was going to die” You saw how the two of them exchanged a look and Wanda stood up from the bed.
“We have something for you” She looked back at Agatha and you saw that she was nodding at her, you were confused, why were they being so secretive.
Wanda left the room and minutes later when she came back to it you saw she was holding a bouquet of flowers; you felt your heart leapt at the sight of the beautiful Ambrosias.
“We wanted to give you this, we know how much love flowers, and even after what happened, we´re sure your love for them, will be the same” You felt your lip trembling a little and you took the small bouquet in your hands, of course you knew the meaning of the flowers, but did they knew?
“What does this mean?” You asked them while eyeing both women.
“It means exactly what you are thinking, doll” You felt like you were going to cry at any time.
“We weren’t lying y/n, we made a research about what flowers someone can give to the loved one, we wanted to let you know that our love for you is mutual, we´re not sure if you still feel the same, but we just wanted to let you know how we feel” Agatha explained to you, never letting go of your hand.
“But my feelings for you haven’t changed, why do you think that?” Wanda blinked several times.
“You mean, that you still feel something for us?” Agatha asked you while squeezing your hand a little.
“Yes, I don´t know why you think my feelings changed” You said with a shy smile.
"So, now you believe us?” Asked Agatha and you shyly nod.
“Now, this means we can have a chance?”  You felt your heart beating faster against your chest, you could swear the blush in your face was visible.
Agatha couldn’t help herself and she hugged you passing her arm around your waist when she separated from you Wanda was the next to hug you, just as the same way Agatha had done, one of her arms passed around your waist.
“You don’t know how happy you just made us y/n now we can have what we have been wanting for a long time, you don´t need to hide anything from us, you can trust us y/n” Agatha´s hand was caressing your cheek while Wanda softly stroked your hair.
You didn’t know what was going to happen from now on, but you were happy, this was your new chance to live, and you were going to make sure you enjoy it this time, the pain and sadness wasn’t inside your heart anymore, you felt content and with the two women there with you, you knew you weren’t going to feel sad again, you were happy that weren’t lying and all of what had happened you were sure, had been worthy.
“Now we can be the ones to give you flowers baby girl” Agatha´s voice distracted you from your thoughts.
“You are aware I own a flower shop, right?” Wanda laughed and Agatha playfully rolled her eyes.
“Yes, we´re aware of that, but we can still give them to you, we already know the meaning of many flowers we can give to you, to show our love for you” Wanda hold your hand and finally you understood how it felt to be loved.
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pandapetals · 2 days ago
Text
The Whispers at Howlett Manor
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Your parents are forcing you to marry Lord Howlett in hopes of securing the future of Langley House. However, there is more at play than you realize.
lord logan howlett x fem!reader - no use of y/n, light reader description, reader has a last name - langley for story purposes, angst, forced marriage, regency era stuff, brooding logan, reader is stubborn, reader has sisters and a family, some fluff towards the end, sexual tension, light enemies to lovers, logan is a softie
a/n: Okay, so i love pride and prejudice/bridgerton (anything like that) so it was only a matter of time before i wrote something like that for logan. Anyway, this was going to be inspired by bridgerton but ended up being more inspired by logan’s comic book childhood mixed with just regency typical era stuff. 
Also, i literally didn’t think this would be this long (i will admit the ending isn’t the best, i got tired of writing/kinda got writers block so sorry). also sorry it took so long to post but it's long af.
word count: 28k
“Must you always be so difficult?” Lady Langley’s voice carried across the room like the crack of a whip, sharp enough to pierce through the layers of the emerald chiffon being draped over your shoulders. The maid fumbled with the fabric, her hands trembling as she tried to secure the delicate buttons along your back.
You drew a long breath, pressing your lips together to steady your voice. “Mama, I have done everything you asked,” you said, your tone strained but calm. You waved the maid away, your impatience slipping out in the motion.
“Everything?” your mother scoffed, her fingers coming up to massage her temple in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Dearest, you have done the opposite of everything. That dreadful scene at dinner the other night—do you even realize how close you came to ruining us? Lord Howlett was barely polite by the end of it.” She turned, her skirts sweeping across the polished floor as she began to pace, the rhythmic click of her heels only adding to the mounting tension.
You spun away from the mirror, the sight of your own reflection—eyes dark with resentment, cheeks flushed with the heat of suppressed anger—was too much to bear. 
“Why must it all fall to me?” you burst out, meeting her gaze with a defiance that startled even you. “Why must I be the one to endure it all, to wear the fine dresses and force a smile, as though I am some precious porcelain doll to be displayed? Did you and Father not bring us to the brink with your own decisions?”
Lady Langley’s eyes widened at your boldness, though whether with indignation or a glimmer of guilt, you couldn’t say. “We did what we had to do for this family,” she replied, her voice low and tremulous. “And now, you must do your part. Marrying Lord Howlett will restore everything. His wealth is our salvation—our only chance to keep Langley House from crumbling.”
You turned back toward the mirror, but not to admire your appearance. The gown was exquisite—deep green with gold stitching along the neckline, chosen for the way it complemented your hair and hinted at your mother’s hope that it might catch Lord Howlett's eye once more. 
All you saw was a stranger trapped in silks, her future bound to a man she hardly knew. A man whose stern gaze and gruff manners at the dinner table had left her with a vague sense of unease.
A man who seemed old enough to be your father, though still handsomely rugged, with a strength in his bearing that spoke of battles fought far from the comforts of an English drawing-room. Lord James Logan Howlett—his name alone seemed to carry a weight that threatened to crush you beneath it.
“I will not be sold off like cattle,” you said quietly, almost as if testing the words. The defiance wavered in your chest, but it was there—small and growing. “You cannot force me, Mama.”
Lady Langley’s gaze softened, if only for a moment, and her hand reached out but stopped just short of your shoulder. “My dear, there is no force. Only necessity,” she whispered. “Think of your sisters. Think of your father’s health. We cannot afford a scandal.” 
The room seemed to close in, the walls heavy with expectations that clung like dust to every surface. You felt the weight of it pressing down, smothering that flicker of defiance before it could truly catch fire. There would be no escape from the duty laid upon your shoulders—not without dragging the entire family down with you.
As the maid returned to finish securing the gown, your gaze drifted back to the mirror, catching a glimpse of your own reflection. You tilted your chin up and straightened your spine, forcing yourself to appear composed. You would have to play the part—at least for tonight.
The question lingered in the back of your mind: Who would Lord Howlett be, once the doors closed and the pretense fell away? It scared you more than you cared to admit. 
Without another word, your mother swept out of the room, leaving behind only the faintest rustle of silk in her wake. You exhaled, shoulders drooping as the maid finished pinning the last curl into place. Downstairs, the murmur of your sisters' voices drifted up, accompanied by the distant sound of your father’s halting footsteps.
As you descended the grand staircase, your sisters gathered at the foot, their eyes bright with excitement and curiosity. “Oh, look at you!” one exclaimed, reaching out to brush the delicate fabric of your gown. “Such a beautiful color,” another said, her fingers tracing the lace trim with envy.
Your father stood at the end of the stairwell, leaning heavily on his cane. His smile was gentle but tinged with a quiet weariness. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said, extending a hand toward you. His voice had lost some of its usual strength, but there was still warmth in his gaze as he squeezed your fingers. “I am sure you will have a splendid time at the play.”
You returned his smile, though it felt stiff, as though someone had drawn it onto your face with a trembling hand. “Thank you, Papa,” you replied softly. “Though I—”
Your mother’s sharp voice cut across the hallway, shattering the moment. “You shall behave tonight,” she declared, appearing around the corner with a frown etched so deeply into her face that you wondered if it had been permanently carved there. “Do you understand?”
You sighed, dropping your father's hand as your sisters scattered like birds startled by a hawk. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”
“I am serious, girl.” Lady Langley stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as though she could will obedience into you through sheer force of will. “The Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett is to be your chaperone, and I have heard she is not a woman inclined to kindness. This is your last chance to make a favorable impression on Lord Howlett.”
Before you could reply, your father interjected, his tone soothing, yet strained. “My love, she will be fine. There’s no need to fret.” He reached for his cane again, wobbling slightly, and one of your sisters, who had been listening around the corner, darted forward to steady him.
You took a step toward him to help, but a knock echoed from the front door, interrupting you. The butler promptly moved to answer it, revealing Lord James Howlett and his mother standing on the threshold.
Lord Howlett’s dark, brooding eyes swept over the entryway, landing on you with an unreadable expression. His face was set in its usual stern lines, the strong jaw rigid as though it had forgotten how to soften. Beside him, Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her thin lips pressed into a line of disapproval as if the very air of Langley House was beneath her.
“Good evening, Miss Langley,” Lord Howlett said, inclining his head slightly. “I trust you are ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, my lord,” you replied with a polite curtsy, though your tone carried a hint of edge. “It is, after all, only a play.”
The faintest glimmer of something—was it irritation?—flickered in his eyes. “Indeed. Perhaps you might endeavor to watch this one instead of glancing longingly toward the exit.”
You arched a brow, a small, mirthless smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “I assure you, my lord, I shall be entirely captivated—provided, of course, that the performance is not as stiff as some of the company I keep.”
The Dowager’s eyes snapped to you, sharp as a hawk’s. “Mind your tongue, girl,” she said in a low voice that dripped with condescension. “A lady ought not to jest so carelessly.”
“Oh, but I am quite in earnest, Lady Elizabeth,” you replied, meeting the older woman’s gaze with a practiced sweetness. “I would not dare make light of such an important evening.”
Lord Howlett’s lips twitched, not quite forming a smile. “Let us hope, then, that your enthusiasm lasts until the final act,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
You hesitated a moment before taking his arm, the rough fabric of his sleeve brushing against your skin as you settled beside him. His posture was rigid, as though every step was calculated to maintain the distance between you, and there was a tension in the air that crackled like static.
“Tell me, my lord,” you said as you descended the steps together, “do you always bring your mother along when courting?”
His gaze slid sideways to meet yours, a dark brow arching slightly. “Perhaps I thought you might benefit from a proper example of decorum,” he replied, his voice as dry as autumn leaves.
You tilted your head, your lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “How considerate of you,” you said. “Though I should warn you—I’ve never been easily subdued. Even with a watchful eye upon me.”
“Then let us hope,” he said quietly, “that you find something worth behaving for this evening.”
Together, you descended the steps with Lady Elizabeth two steps behind. You climbed into the carriage and the weight of the Dowager’s gaze bore down on you like a cold hand gripping your shoulder. Lord Howlett settled opposite you, his expression veiled in shadow, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more beneath that brooding exterior—something other than duty and disdain.
The thought was fleeting, and as the carriage lurched forward, you turned your attention to the dimly lit streets outside, wondering if the play would prove to be the most engaging performance of the evening, or if the true drama lay in the careful dance of words between you and the man who might soon be your husband.
────୨ৎ────
The play had begun with a flurry of activity on the stage, enough to momentarily capture your interest. But as the actors’ exaggerated gestures dragged on and the dialogue grew stale, your thoughts drifted elsewhere. By the halfway point, you were tapping your finger impatiently against the gilded armrest of your seat, biting back a yawn.
Lord Howlett sat beside you, his posture rigid, gaze fixed on the performers as if he were determined to will some life into the lackluster production. Behind you, two rows up, his mother, the Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett, sat in conversation with Lady Drummond, her sharp whispers cutting through the quiet like a needle through cloth.
“Must you do that?” Lord Howlett murmured, his voice low and taut, though he didn’t look your way.
You arched an eyebrow, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “If you mean by ‘that,’ not falling asleep in my seat, then yes, I must. This play is dreadful.”
His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin as though he was grinding down the words he truly wished to say. “It is hardly the fault of the actors if your attention span is as short as your temper,” he muttered.
You bristled, half-turning toward him. “Or perhaps, my lord, it is because I find greater amusement in watching the dust settle on these velvet curtains than in enduring one more moment of this drivel.”
Without waiting for a reply, you stood and swept out of the aisle, the swish of your gown echoing in the hushed theater as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway. The air was cooler out here, and you took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of relief and defiance coursing through you. Surely, there must be something more engaging than sitting like a doll, pretending to be enthralled by dreadful theatrics.
“Miss Langley.”
The clipped voice was unmistakable, and you rolled your eyes before turning. Lord Howlett had followed you, pushing the theater door open with a firm hand, his expression shadowed and irritated as he stepped into the corridor. “You cannot simply leave in the middle of a play,” he said, his tone laced with exasperation. “It is beyond improper.”
You let out a dry laugh and crossed your arms. “I can do as I please, my lord. If I find myself losing the will to live through another act, I shall not sit there and suffer just to uphold some antiquated notion of propriety.”
He took a step closer, his brow furrowing as though you were some curious creature he was trying to decipher. “Why must you always defy what is expected of a lady?” His voice dropped lower, edged with something like genuine bewilderment. “It seems you take a particular delight in making a spectacle of yourself.”
“It seems you take particular delight in brooding and casting judgment,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Is that not a spectacle in its own right? Or is it simply the pastime of a man who finds fault in everything and amusement in nothing?”
For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something else in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or even admiration. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same stony look he always wore. “You think this is a jest?” he said, his voice low and rough. “You have no idea what is at stake.”
You scoffed, turning away from him and pacing a few steps down the corridor. “Oh, I am well aware. My family’s reputation, our fortune—such as it is—dangles by a thread. You are meant to be our savior, are you not?” You whirled back to face him, your eyes flashing. “I am to marry you and secure my family’s future, regardless of my feelings on the matter.”
He stepped closer still, his eyes hardening as he looked down at you. “You do have a choice, Miss Langley,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “You may refuse me, of course. You may tear up the marriage contract and walk away. But do not pretend you are unaware of what will follow if you do.”
You felt the sting of his words, the cold truth in them. “You mean the ruin of my family, the loss of our home, our dignity?” you replied, bitterness curling in your voice. “You think I do not know what is at stake? I know it better than anyone.”
“Then why do you resist so stubbornly?” His tone was quieter now, the anger ebbing into something else, perhaps even a touch of weariness. “Do you truly wish to see Langley House crumble? Your sisters scattered to find their fortunes, your father’s health worsening under the strain of financial ruin?”
Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the bravado slipped. “Of course not,” you said softly, the fight draining from your voice. “But that does not mean I wish to spend my life bound to a man who sees me as a duty—a burden, even.”
His expression shifted something unspoken passing through his gaze. “I do not see you as a burden,” he said, though the words sounded as though they cost him something to admit. “But I will not pretend this arrangement is anything other than what it is: a necessity.” He took a step back, his jaw tightening once more. “However, necessity does not mean cruelty. I would not make your life a misery, Miss Langley. I may not be the husband you would choose, but I would see to it that you do not suffer.”
You searched his face, looking for some hint of insincerity, but found none. “You speak as though you would do me a favor,” you said, your voice quiet but edged with defiance. “But I cannot help but wonder if you say this only because you, too, have no other choice.”
He inclined his head, a faint, humorless smile curling at the corner of his lips. “You are selfish,” he said, his voice low and edged with disdain. “You would let your family slip into ruin simply because you find me... unlikable? Is your pride worth so much, Miss Langley? Why can’t you be an obedient lady and do what is required of you?”
“Obedient?” You scoffed, the word scraping against your throat like gravel. “Oh, I see. I am a dog to be trained, then? A creature to sit and stay at your command?” You stepped closer, defiance burning in your gaze as you met his eyes without flinching. “That is where we differ, my lord. You would have a wife who falls meekly at your side, a pretty ornament to nod and smile on cue. But I would rather have a husband who doesn’t haunt brothels while demanding loyalty in return.”
 His expression hardened, a flash of something dangerous igniting in his eyes. The silence between you was like a blade drawn taut, ready to cut. “You do not know me, Miss Langley,” he said quietly, the words seething between clenched teeth. “You presume to judge, but your knowledge is nothing but rumor and spite.”
“Then enlighten me, my lord,” you shot back, your voice rising despite yourself. “Tell me why the other ladies of the ton avoid you like a blight. Explain why a man of your wealth and standing must settle for a bride who has no choice in the matter. It seems to me that you are as desperate as the family you claim to save.”
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might reach for you—whether to silence your insolence or pull you closer, you could not say. But he kept his hands at his sides, though they were balled into fists. “Watch your tongue, Miss Langley,” he said in a voice so low it was nearly a growl. “You speak of things you cannot understand.”
“Then perhaps you should make me understand,” you replied, refusing to back down. “Because what I see before me is not a savior but a man grasping at the last thread of respectability. If you think marrying me will somehow restore your standing, then you are the one who is mistaken.”
He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. “You truly believe you have the upper hand here, don’t you?” His gaze flicked over you, as though appraising something less than worthy. “But let me make this clear, Miss Langley. It is not just your family’s name that hangs in the balance—it is your sisters' futures and your father’s health. Or do you not care about that, either?”
The words stung, and for a moment, the fight drained from your voice. “Of course, I care,” you whispered, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. “But do not expect me to be grateful for a fate I did not choose, nor for a man who believes he can command my respect by demanding it.”
He took a step closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke. “And do not expect me to offer comfort where there is no gratitude,” he said, his voice a rough murmur. “I do not need your approval, Miss Langley, only your cooperation. Your disdain matters little in the grand scheme of things.”
“Then you shall have my cooperation,” you said, your voice steady even as a knot tightened in your chest. “But make no mistake, my lord—cooperation is all you will ever have. If you are hoping for an obedient wife to dote on you, you shall find yourself sorely disappointed.”
“Obedience is not what I seek,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “But I will have a wife who understands duty. That, at least, I can count on from you.”
You turned your face away, refusing to let him see the flicker of uncertainty that stirred behind your anger. “Then you shall have what you wish, Lord Howlett,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “But do not mistake duty for affection. You may secure this marriage, but my heart is another matter entirely.”
For a moment, his expression softened like a cloud breaking to reveal the faintest glimmer of light behind it. Then it was gone, replaced by that same stern resolve. “Affection,” he repeated, as though the word itself were a foreign concept. “I think we both know that sentiment has little place in arrangements such as these.”
With that, he turned and strode back toward the theater, leaving you standing in the dim corridor, your breath coming a little too fast, your pulse thrumming with a mix of fury and something unsettling that you could not quite name. The door closed behind him, muffling the distant applause from the stage and the dull murmur of voices, leaving you to wonder whether this confrontation had left either of you any closer to understanding the other—or if it had merely drawn a deeper line in the sand.
The carriage had barely rolled to a stop outside Langley House when you flung open the door and stepped out, your movements quick and agitated, as if you could outrun the suffocating weight of the evening. The cool night air bit at your cheeks, but it did nothing to soothe the roiling in your chest. All you wanted was the solace of solitude, to shed the layers of pretense like a stifling gown.
Your steps had scarcely touched the gravel drive before you heard the heavy thud of boots behind you.
"Miss Langley." Lord Howlett’s voice cut through the quiet, steady, and unyielding as ever. His mother, the Dowager Lady Elizabeth, called after him with an impatient huff, but he paid her no mind.
You quickened your pace, the glow from the house’s lanterns casting long shadows along the steps ahead. "I wish to be alone, Lord Howlett," you said sharply, your voice fraying at the edges. The marble step was slick with evening dew, and your foot slipped, your balance faltering.
In an instant, his hand was at your elbow, steadying you before you could tumble forward. The grip was firm, strong enough to remind you of his presence but not rough. Still, the warmth of his touch burned like an affront, and you wrenched your arm free, glaring up at him. "Do not touch me," you hissed, taking a step back.
His jaw tightened, but he did not retreat. "We need to speak about the marriage," he said, his tone low and even, though there was a trace of something gentler beneath it—a reluctant concern, perhaps, that seemed to soften the hard line of his brow.
"There is nothing to discuss," you scoffed, folding your arms tightly across your chest as if to barricade yourself against him. "The terms are clear—I have no choice in the matter, so let me have at least this one freedom." You gestured toward the door behind you, your voice trembling with anger. "Allow me to go inside and be alone before I am forever bound to you."
For a moment, he said nothing, merely studied you in the dim light, his gaze searching yours as if he could see the truth buried beneath your defiance. He exhaled a soft, reluctant sound. "You think I wish to force this upon you?" he asked quietly. "You think I delight in binding myself to a woman who loathes the very sight of me?"
"Then why follow me out here?" you retorted, your voice rising despite yourself. "If you do not wish to force my hand, then why not leave me be?"
"Because," he said, his voice firming again, "if there is even the slightest chance that we could find some common ground—some understanding—then we owe it to ourselves to try." He took a cautious step closer, his expression gentling just a fraction. "I do not want a wife who feels trapped," he murmured, as though the admission cost him something. "But I cannot simply walk away from this marriage without condemning your family to ruin. Nor can you."
You hesitated, caught off guard by the faint softness in his tone. It was the first time he had spoken of the marriage as something other than a grim obligation, the first time you glimpsed a hint of vulnerability in him—like a crack in a fortress wall, small but real. "And you truly believe that 'understanding' will change anything?" you asked, skepticism thick in your voice.
"I believe it could make the difference between a life of misery and a life of endurance," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or perhaps even... something more." The words were spoken so quietly you almost doubted you’d heard them right, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that made your pulse quicken in an unfamiliar way.
You swallowed, the chill of the night air seeping into your skin as the anger ebbed, replaced by a cautious unease. "And what would you have me do, my lord?" you said, your tone softer now, though no less guarded. "Pretend to be content? To play the obedient wife you seem to think I should be?"
"No," he answered, his voice rough with honesty. "I would not ask you to pretend. I would ask you to give us a chance to learn who we truly are, beyond what is expected of us." He hesitated, then added, almost hesitantly, "You may find that I am not the monster you imagine me to be."
A bitter laugh escaped you despite yourself, and you shook your head. "You ask much of me, Lord Howlett," you said, taking a step back toward the door, your hand finding the cold brass of the doorknob. "But I shall consider your... proposal, if only because it seems I have little choice in the matter."
He inclined his head, accepting your words with a solemnity that surprised you. "That is all I ask," he said quietly. "For now."
Without another word, you turned and slipped inside the house, the door closing behind you with a soft click. As you leaned back against the cool wood, you pressed a hand to your chest, where your heart still raced with the remnants of anger and something unsettling. 
It was a small concession, what he had asked for—a chance. Whether it would lead to any true understanding between you was as uncertain as the flickering candlelight in the dim entryway.
────୨ৎ────
For the past few days, you had managed, almost miraculously, to forget the looming specter of your engagement to Lord Howlett. The bustle of your sisters’ chatter and the endless duties of tending to your father’s needs kept your thoughts mercifully occupied. It wasn’t until afternoon tea, in the quiet stillness of the drawing room, that reality began to creep back in.
"Dearest, you should be getting ready," your mother said, her tone as clipped as the neat pour of tea into her porcelain cup. She glanced at you over the rim, the same expectant look in her eyes that always made your stomach twist.
"Getting ready?" you echoed, glancing up from the delicate pastry you had just bitten into. "Whatever for?"
She set the teapot down with a soft clink. "Lord Howlett is calling upon you this afternoon. I told you several times already—he said it was urgent."
You paused, your brows knitting together in confusion. "I don’t recall—"
"Of course, you don’t," she cut in, already turning her attention back to the list she kept by her saucer. "But mark my words, he’s coming to make his proposal official. It is time you finally accepted your future, dear. There are matters to be arranged, details to prepare for the wedding. You should be grateful he’s being so… proper."
The word grateful sat uneasily on your tongue, and you swallowed it down along with your annoyance. Pushing back your chair, you rose hastily, a flutter of unease stirring in your chest as you rushed toward your room. The idea of marrying Lord Howlett had begun to seem less daunting—he had not been altogether unkind, and there was a certain steadiness about him that could be called reassuring. The thought of him proposing, of that moment when he would slide a ring onto your finger and the arrangement would become irrevocably real, sent a jolt of panic through you.
When you entered your chambers, you found your maid already laying out a gown of ivory muslin—a gesture of assumption that made your cheeks burn with resentment. Still, you let her help you into the dress, her fingers quick as they tied the ribbons and smoothed the fabric. You wore your hair loose, allowing it to tumble down your back in soft waves; an act of small rebellion, for you knew your mother would have preferred it neatly pinned.
By the time you descended the stairs, Lord Howlett was already waiting in the drawing room, standing near the window where the afternoon light softened the harsher lines of his features. He turned as you entered, his gaze sweeping over you with a measured look that betrayed nothing.
"Miss Langley," he greeted, inclining his head with that familiar formality. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice."
You curtsied, your movements practiced and restrained. "I was told you had something urgent to discuss, my lord. I must confess, I am curious as to what could not wait."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile but something close. "Then I shall not keep you in suspense." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, velvet box, opening it with a quiet snap. Inside, nestled against the dark lining, was a ring—a delicate band of gold set with a single emerald, flanked by two smaller diamonds. The green stone gleamed in the light, as deep and rich as the forests of Howlett Manor.
You were surprised by the quick stab of pleasure that rose in your chest. "The ring… it is beautiful," you admitted before you could think better of it. You caught his eye and saw something flicker there, a brief, almost imperceptible softening.
"I hoped you would like it," he said quietly, and for a moment, the tension that always seemed to hang between you loosened ever so slightly. "The emerald reminded me of—" He stopped, glancing away as though he had already said too much. "Well, I thought it would suit you."
A silence stretched between you, more thoughtful than awkward, before he cleared his throat and closed the box, slipping it back into his pocket. "There is also another matter," he said, his tone returning to its usual steadiness. "My mother is hosting a ball in our honor tomorrow evening. She insists it will be a grand affair, and I—" He hesitated, as though weighing his next words. "I would be honored if you would accompany me, Miss Langley."
"A ball?" you repeated, and though you meant for your tone to sound disinterested, you couldn’t quite keep the hint of dread from creeping in. "So soon? I would have thought we might… wait, given the circumstances."
"Lady Elizabeth is not a woman inclined to wait," he replied, a wry twist in his voice that was not without sympathy. "She wishes to make our engagement known to society without delay. It will be… expected, of course, that we present a united front."
"Naturally," you said, though the word felt bitter on your tongue. You looked away, toward the gilded clock ticking away on the mantel. "And what, precisely, would that united front entail, my lord? Do you expect me to pretend to be a willing bride, eager to embrace my future with you?"
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost kind. "I expect only what you can give, Miss Langley. If all you can manage is civility, then that will suffice."
You glanced at him, taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. "You surprise me, Lord Howlett," you said, your voice softer than before. "I did not think you capable of such… understanding."
"I am not as devoid of feeling as you seem to believe," he replied, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "But I would not have you think I am resigned to a marriage without hope of something more than mere obligation." His gaze met yours, steady and unyielding. "If there is any chance at all that we might find some semblance of happiness, I would take it."
The words lingered in the air, as fragile and uncertain as a new leaf on a winter branch. You hesitated, and a small part of you were reluctant to dismiss him entirely. "Very well, my lord," you said at last. "I shall attend this ball, and we shall play our parts for society. But do not mistake my agreement for acceptance."
"I would not dare," he murmured, and there was the faintest hint of relief in his voice. He pulled the velvet box from his pocket handing it to you before taking his leave. 
You found yourself opening the box, glancing at the ring once more, that emerald stone glinting like a tiny spark of hope. It was a beautiful ring, you thought, though whether it would come to signify a promise or a prison remained yet to be seen.
────୨ৎ────
"My, my. Howlett Manor is even more magnificent than I imagined," Lady Langley breathed, her voice hushed with awe as the two of you stepped into the grand entryway. 
The butler bowed with a practiced grace, and the quiet echo of your footsteps on the marble floor seemed to emphasize the vastness of the space. "This is to be your home, dear," she added, her gaze drifting upward to the vaulted ceiling, where intricate plasterwork and painted frescoes caught the morning light.
You huffed softly, resisting the tug at your heart. The manor—no, the estate, as it ought to be called—was indeed more splendid than you cared to admit, though you had steeled yourself not to show it. Even from the approach, its beauty had been undeniable: the sprawling gardens with their perfectly trimmed hedges, the marble fountain in the circular drive, its water sparkling like diamonds, and the lush oak trees lining the path like silent sentinels. Yet the sight of the interior, with its polished wood paneling and gilt-framed paintings, stirred something inside you that you could not quite name—a feeling somewhere between wonder and resentment.
"It is... pleasant," you said at last, the word falling flat even to your ears. Your tone was deliberately blasé, a feeble attempt to veil the fact that the grandeur of Howlett Manor made Langley House seem almost shabby by comparison. You watched your mother drift toward a painting—a portrait of some long-dead Howlett ancestor, his expression as stern as the current lord's.
"Pleasant?" She shot you a disapproving look over her shoulder, one brow arching in that way that always made you feel like a child again. "Do not be coy, dearest. This estate could rival a palace, and you know it." Her voice took on a lilting quality as she turned back to admire the ornate chandelier suspended above you, its crystals glittering like a thousand tiny stars. "It will be quite the step up from Langley House."
You bit the inside of your cheek, turning away from her. "If only that were the most important consideration in a marriage," you murmured, more to yourself than to her. As if marble floors and gold leaf could ease the unease that settled in your chest. The manor may be exquisite, but it was still a cage, albeit a gilded one, with walls that seemed to close in the moment you stepped inside.
Just then, a door on the far side of the hall opened, and Lord Howlett emerged, his dark gaze sweeping over you and your mother with a hint of appraisal. His expression softened—though only slightly—as his eyes settled on you. "Miss Langley, Lady Langley. I trust the journey was not too taxing?" His voice was low and measured, as though politeness was a formality he had long since mastered but did not particularly enjoy.
"It was quite manageable, thank you," your mother replied, flashing him a practiced smile. "And I must say, Lord Howlett, your home is truly breathtaking. I believe my daughter finds it to her liking as well, though she is being rather modest about it."
You bristled at the suggestion and shot Lord Howlett a look that was equal parts defiance and wariness. "It is certainly... impressive," you said, your tone more guarded than before. "Though I would imagine it feels rather empty at times, with all this space."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It is certainly quieter than the bustling atmosphere at Langley House, I imagine," he said, with a slight lift of his brow. "But I assure you, it is far from lonely."
His words hung in the air, and you wondered if there was an unspoken meaning hidden in them, something deeper than mere pleasantries. For a moment, you allowed your gaze to wander over the grand staircase that swept upward, the dark wood banisters gleaming under the chandelier's light, and the tall windows that overlooked the grounds, where sunlight poured in, bright and unforgiving. It was a beautiful place, undeniably, but it wasn’t yours.
"Well, I suppose I shall have to grow accustomed to all this… splendor," you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned. "After all, it will soon be my duty to see that Howlett Manor is properly kept." The words felt strange on your tongue, as though you were speaking of another woman’s life.
Lord Howlett’s expression shifted, just a touch. "It will be more than a duty, Miss Langley," he said quietly, his gaze steady on you. "I would have you feel at home here. In time." There was a note of sincerity in his voice that gave you pause, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he truly meant it—or if he was simply trying to soothe you like one would a skittish horse.
You nodded, though you did not entirely trust yourself to reply. The weight of the ring on your finger suddenly seemed heavier, its emerald catching the light with a glint that reminded you of promises yet to be fulfilled, and choices that had been made for you long before you ever set foot in this grand house.
"Come, dearest," your mother interrupted, her voice bright with forced cheer as she swept back over to you. "Lord Howlett’s mother is expecting us for tea. We wouldn’t want to keep the Dowager waiting, now would we?"
You inclined your head in reluctant agreement and began to follow her, but just before you reached the door, you glanced back at Lord Howlett. His gaze met yours, and for a brief, disquieting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something genuine there—a glimmer of hope or perhaps doubt. Then he turned away, and you were left wondering if you had imagined it altogether.
────୨ৎ────
"I am pleased you accepted my invitation for tea," Lady Elizabeth said, her tone as cool and crisp as the fine china from which she sipped. 
The butler moved gracefully between the three of you, filling cups with practiced precision. "I am a very busy woman, as you can imagine, but I thought it prudent to speak with you before the ball this evening." Her gaze slid over you and your mother with an assessing look that felt more like judgment than welcome. 
Your mother offered a polite smile, though you could see the strain in it. "We are honored, Lady Elizabeth. I have heard so much about your journeys. You must have seen some remarkable places. I do envy such a fulfilling life… though, of course, my duties keep me at home with my family."
Lady Elizabeth’s lips tightened as if your mother's words had struck the wrong chord. Her eyes—cold and calculating—rested on you, and you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. It was clear she did not much care for the Langleys, despite the upcoming union. Perhaps she tolerated this match because it served her son’s purposes, but not out of any fondness for you or your family.
Sensing the chill in the room, you made an effort to soften the atmosphere. "You must have had some wonderful experiences. Where do your travels take you, Lady Elizabeth?" you asked, attempting a pleasant tone.
The older woman waved the butler away, her movements sharp as she took up her teacup once more. "All over England, and occasionally the Continent. I have been fortunate enough to travel extensively," she said, though there was a faint trace of bitterness in her voice. "Of course, it was never meant to be a solitary pursuit. My late husband and I had always dreamed of seeing the world together." She paused, her expression hardening. "Alas, we do not always get the lives we wish for."
Your mother nodded sympathetically, though Lady Elizabeth seemed to pay her little attention. "How dreadful, losing one's partner," your mother said softly. "It must be some comfort to have your son by your side."
Lady Elizabeth gave a faint, humorless chuckle, setting her cup down with a little too much force. "Logan?" she said, as though the name itself tasted sour on her tongue. "He is a dutiful son, I suppose, though I always did wish..." Her voice trailed off, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line before continuing, "Well, it does not matter. One cannot change what is already done."
You felt a jolt of surprise at her words. There was no warmth when she spoke of Lord Howlett—only a veiled disappointment that seemed to cut deeper than mere disapproval. The realization unsettled you, and against your better judgment, a small pang of sympathy stirred in your chest. What must it be like, you wondered, to be judged so harshly by one’s mother? To be seen as little more than a reminder of unfulfilled dreams?
"Lord Howlett has been… kind," you offered, your voice gentler than before. "He has made efforts to make me feel welcome."
Lady Elizabeth’s sharp gaze flicked to you, her eyes narrowing as though she could sense the faintest hint of defense in your tone. "He is a man who understands his duty," she said curtly. "Nothing more, nothing less. But you would do well not to mistake that for kindness, Miss Langley. He has his father’s temperament—stubborn and unyielding. It will not be an easy life for you, no matter how pretty the ring on your finger."
Her words were like a slap, though you weren’t entirely certain if they were meant for you or her son. The way she spoke of him, as though he were a disappointment, made your chest tighten with an emotion you hadn’t expected—pity. It was a curious thing to feel toward a man you’d only just begun to know, but it was there all the same, lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a stubborn shadow.
Your mother quickly changed the subject, her voice a touch too bright. "Well, Lady Elizabeth, I must say, your home is simply splendid. The ball will surely be the event of the season." She turned to you with a pointed look, the silent reminder clear: Remember why we’re here. Play your part.
"Yes, I’m sure it will be… lovely," you murmured, though you felt none of the enthusiasm your mother’s words suggested. The idea of the ball—a grand spectacle where you and Lord Howlett would be displayed like fine wares, a symbol of union that felt far from heartfelt—made you want to retreat even further into yourself. But retreating was not an option, not when duty beckoned.
Lady Elizabeth's expression softened, though only slightly. "I expect nothing less," she said, her gaze sweeping over you both. "We must present a united front, after all. Appearances matter, even when the heart is not engaged."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. You glanced at your mother, who was nodding as though everything Lady Elizabeth said was perfectly reasonable. Yet you couldn’t help but wonder if there was a warning hidden in her tone—a reminder of what this marriage was truly about.
"Well, then," your mother said, setting her empty teacup aside, "we should go upstairs and prepare. There is much to be done before this evening."
Lady Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes. I have given instructions to the maids. They will see that everything is in order."
With that, you rose from your seat, grateful for the excuse to leave the stifling parlor. As you and your mother made your way up the grand staircase, you cast one last glance at Lady Elizabeth, who was staring into the distance, her expression as cold and remote as the marble statues that lined the hall.
At that moment, you thought of Lord Howlett again and wondered what it would be like to grow up under the shadow of such an unforgiving woman—one who seemed to see nothing but what could have been, rather than what was. It didn’t excuse his sternness, his brooding demeanor, but it offered some small insight into why he might be the way he was.
────୨ৎ────
The ball was a spectacle of shimmering lights and lavish décor, each detail carefully orchestrated to impress. The chandeliers above cast a warm, golden glow over the guests, who moved in graceful circles across the marble floor like figures in a painting. 
Your gown—an opulent creation of deep sapphire silk embroidered with silver thread—caught the light with every turn, the fabric glinting like starlight and drawing the eyes of those around you. You felt their stares lingering, appraising, but it was as if they were looking at a finely dressed doll rather than a flesh-and-blood woman.
Your mother had drifted off, eager to mingle and sing the praises of this grand match. It left you standing alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, the polite chatter around you blurring into a single, indistinct hum. Though the event had ostensibly been arranged in your honor, it felt more like you were a prize on display, set out for the approval of society rather than for any true celebration.
Determined not to appear lost, you moved to the edge of the ballroom, your gloved fingers trailing over the polished surface of a side table laden with flowers. You caught snatches of conversation as you passed by small clusters of guests, their voices rising and falling like the strings of an orchestra.
"Well, I must say, it's quite the surprise that Lady Elizabeth managed to secure such a match for her son," a woman's voice murmured, low and conspiratorial. You glanced to your left and saw a pair of elegantly dressed women in their middle years, their fans fluttering as they spoke. "I had begun to think poor James would never find a bride. His temperament is not exactly… charming."
Another voice chimed in, this one with an edge of mischief. "And his mother hardly helps matters, does she? Lady Elizabeth has been a terror for years, ever since her husband died. I can't imagine growing up under such a cold hand."
"Well," the first woman continued with a sigh, "he was always the dutiful son. But duty is hardly enough to make one pleasant company, is it?"
Their words settled over you like a damp mist, uncomfortable and cloying. You were still learning who Lord Howlett—or James, as they called him—truly was, but you had already sensed that the relationship between him and his mother was strained. Hearing it discussed so openly, with such dismissiveness, only added to the unease you had felt since the start of the evening. It was as though you were intruding on a story that was not yours, but in which you had unwillingly become a central character.
Feeling a knot tighten in your chest, you turned abruptly and made your way toward the terrace doors. You needed air—something to clear the suffocating sense of being scrutinized, and judged, even before the real marriage had begun. 
Pushing through the doors, you stepped out into the cool night, grateful for the brisk wind that carried the scent of autumn leaves and distant rain.
The garden stretched out before you, illuminated by lanterns that flickered in the dark like tiny fireflies. You had barely taken a few steps when you saw a figure leaning against the stone balustrade at the far end of the terrace. His silhouette was unmistakable, broad-shouldered, and tense, with the light of the nearest lantern casting half his face in shadow.
"Lord Howlett," you said, your voice carrying a trace of surprise despite yourself. "I didn’t expect to find you out here, avoiding your ball."
He turned at the sound of your voice, his dark gaze finding yours in the dim light. "And I didn’t expect to find you fleeing the festivities," he replied, his tone dry but not unkind. "Is the grand occasion not to your liking, Miss Langley?"
You moved closer, folding your arms against the chill, though it was not entirely the cold that made you shiver. "It is grand, yes," you said, the words feeling hollow even as you spoke them. "But it is also… overwhelming. It seems everyone here has something to say about you and your family."
His expression tightened, a shadow passing over his features. "Let me guess," he said, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "They’ve been speaking of my mother and me, as though we are some tragic figures to be pitied or criticized." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "People always do."
You hesitated, uncertain whether to reveal what you had overheard. Something in the darkness of his gaze, in the way his shoulders seemed to carry a weight that had nothing to do with the fine tailoring of his coat, made you speak. "They said… that your mother is difficult, and that you…" You trailed off, suddenly unsure. "That you have always been dutiful, but that it does not make you pleasant company."
His jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought he might turn away from you and retreat into the silence of the garden. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "My mother is a difficult woman," he admitted, his tone devoid of any attempt at pretense. "She was not always so, but after my father died… she became colder. As though his death froze something in her. She has never quite forgiven me for not being the son she imagined I should be."
The raw honesty in his voice startled you. It was the first time you had heard him speak so openly, and the words cut through your resentment like a knife through silk, leaving you with an unexpected ache. "I'm sorry," you said softly, though you knew the words were inadequate. "It must be… difficult, to carry that."
His gaze shifted back to you, his expression softening just a fraction. "It is," he said quietly, "but I do not seek pity, Miss Langley. I am only telling you this because—" He hesitated as if weighing the significance of what he was about to say. "Because I would have you understand that I do not wish to marry out of obligation any more than you do. But life is rarely kind enough to allow us our preferences."
You took a slow breath, feeling the tension in the air between you, taut and humming. "Then what do you wish for, my lord?" you asked, the question coming out softer than you intended. "If not obligation, then what?"
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze steady on you as though searching for something in your eyes. "If we must go through with this," he said at last, "then perhaps we might find some way to make it bearable. To be… companions, at the very least." He gave a small, rueful smile, one that barely reached his eyes. "And you needn’t call me 'Lord Howlett' anymore. It sounds as though we are forever strangers. You may call me Logan if you wish."
The use of his given name felt strange on your tongue, but not unpleasantly so. "Logan," you repeated, testing the feel of it. The intimacy of the gesture surprised you, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps there was more to this man than the stern exterior he showed the world. "Very well. But only if you call me by my name as well. I would prefer not to feel like a stranger in my marriage."
"Agreed," he said, the faintest trace of warmth returning to his voice. "Then we shall start there, at least."
You nodded, a small, reluctant smile curling your lips. The path ahead was still fraught with uncertainty, but for the first time, the weight on your chest seemed to lift just a little, as though you had found a foothold on a steep climb. The night air no longer felt quite so cold, and the lights of the ballroom behind you seemed a world away, as though the two of you were the only people in existence.
"Perhaps…" you began hesitantly, your voice almost lost in the cool night air. "Perhaps you like to dance?" The suggestion came out more tentative than you intended, as though you were testing the ground beneath you for cracks. "I—I don't know if you are a dancer, but—"
"I am not," Logan interrupted, his tone blunt as ever. His gaze flicked to the ballroom beyond the terrace, where the strains of a lively waltz floated out through the open doors.
You nodded quickly, heat rising to your cheeks as awkwardness settled over you like a heavy cloak. "I see. Well, then," you said, already beginning to turn away, "I should probably—"
"Wait," he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he regretted his abruptness. "I may not be a dancer by nature, but…" He extended his hand, gloved and steady, toward you. "I suppose I could make an exception. For tonight."
You hesitated, glancing between his outstretched hand and his eyes, which held a flicker of something unexpected—perhaps even a hint of apology. It seemed as though he was offering more than just a dance; he was offering a moment of truce, a chance to find common ground, if only for the span of a waltz. 
Slowly, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your glove.
He led you back through the terrace doors and onto the polished floor of the ballroom. The light was softer here, the shadows of the grand chandeliers dancing across the marble in tandem with the swirling couples. 
Logan's hand found its place at your waist, and you felt the light pressure of his fingers against your back as he drew you closer. His other hand held yours gently, as though he were wary of holding on too tightly.
"You may find I am somewhat clumsy," he said, his voice low and edged with a reluctant humor. "I am better suited to riding or fencing than to this… delicate footwork."
"Then I shall tread lightly," you replied, a small, teasing smile touching your lips as you met his gaze. "It wouldn't do to embarrass you in front of your guests."
A wry glint sparked in his eyes. "I'd wager you would enjoy that far more than you should," he murmured, his tone laced with dry amusement.
The music swelled around you, and as you began to move, you could feel the tension in Logan's posture. His steps were careful at first, almost hesitant, as though he were measuring each movement to ensure he did not misstep. Yet, as the dance went on, a certain ease began to creep in. There was a surprising steadiness in the way he guided you, his hold neither too firm nor too tentative, as though he were learning how to match your pace.
"You're not a terrible dancer, you know," you said after a moment, allowing yourself to relax into the rhythm. "I think you may have misled me."
He gave a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "If you say so. Though I still feel like an imposter among these graceful sorts." His gaze swept briefly over the other dancers, his expression thoughtful. "I imagine this isn’t exactly the kind of evening you dreamt of when you thought of marriage."
You glanced up at him, surprised by the note of genuine curiosity in his voice. "No," you admitted, your tone candid. "But I’m not certain I ever dreamt of marriage at all. Not in the way young girls often do. I always thought… well, that I might have a choice in the matter. That I would marry someone of my choosing." The words slipped out before you could weigh them, and you immediately wondered if you had said too much.
Logan’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. "And yet here you are," he said quietly, his gaze locking onto yours, "dancing with a man you did not choose."
"Here I am," you echoed, unable to disguise the faint edge of resignation in your voice. "But you should know, Logan—I have not resigned myself to being simply dutiful." There was a challenge in your eyes as you met his, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you moving in time with the music. "I do not intend to be a wife in name only, nor a woman without her mind."
The corner of his mouth lifted, though the expression was not quite a smile. "Good," he said, the word a murmur. "I would not want a wife who could be so easily subdued." There was a pause, and then he added, as if it cost him something to say it, "You have a strength about you, a fire. It… suits you."
His words, spoken so plainly, sent a shiver down your spine from the strange thrill of being seen, even if only for a moment. "Logan?" you asked, your voice almost a whisper. "What do you want from this… arrangement?"
The dance slowed, and he guided you to a stop at the edge of the ballroom, where the light was softer and the music faded into the background. His gaze never wavered from yours, and for an instant, you could see the layers of guardedness in his eyes, the uncertainty mingled with something deeper.
"I suppose I want what anyone wants," he said at last, the honesty in his tone startlingly raw. "A life that is… bearable, at the very least. Perhaps, in time, something more than just duty." His hand lingered on your waist, as though he was reluctant to let you go. "But I will not force affection where it does not exist. I would rather we find some common ground, even if that is all we ever share."
The tension between you hung in the air like a breath unspent, and you found yourself nodding, your throat tight. "I suppose that is a start," you said, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips. "But I will warn you, Logan—I have little talent for settling for 'bearable.' If I am to find contentment, it will be on my terms."
"Then let it be on your terms," he replied, his voice soft but resolute. "As long as you allow me to learn them."
The music swelled once more, the moment passed, but something unspoken lingered between you, fragile and tentative. As you moved away from the dance floor, you could not help but feel that you had glimpsed the man behind the title—neither a brooding lord nor a reluctant suitor, but someone trying, just as you were, to make sense of the path that lay ahead.
────୨ৎ────
The days before the wedding passed in a blur of preparations, each one more elaborate than the last. Your mother seemed determined to outdo herself in every detail, from the arrangements of the flowers to the grandness of the banquet, as though an opulent ceremony could distract from the quiet desperation behind it. 
The Langleys were teetering on the brink of ruin, yet she had no qualms about spending lavishly, especially since it was Lord Howlett’s money footing the bill. It only pressed your nerves further, making you feel as though you were hurtling toward an unknown fate with no time to catch your breath.
Your sisters were surprisingly calm about it all, their usual youthful chatter subdued by a vague, uneasy acceptance. One of them, the youngest, had even confessed her concern as you helped her brush out her hair the night before. “Do you have to marry him?” she whispered, her wide eyes full of worry. “People say he’s… odd. They say his temper is frightful, and he spends too much time away from society.”
You forced a reassuring smile, though you could not quite summon the words to soothe her fears—when your own still lingered in the corners of your mind.
Yet, if there was any solace to be found in those frantic days, it was in the quiet hours you spent by your father's side. His health had declined steadily over the past year, leaving him confined to his bed more often than not, and you took every opportunity to care for him, fetching his tea, sitting with him in the evenings, and reading aloud from his favorite books. He was the one constant in your world, and though you tried to keep the worry from your voice, he seemed to sense the storm that raged beneath your calm facade.
One evening, you sat beside him in the dim glow of the bedside candlelight, the murmur of the household carrying faintly through the closed door. Your father’s eyes, though weary, still held a spark of the warmth that had always comforted you. He reached for your hand, his grip gentle but steady. "You seem troubled, my dear," he said softly. "I imagine it is not just the bustle of the preparations weighing on you."
You hesitated, but then sighed, letting some of your defenses fall. "I suppose I am… uncertain," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "There is so much talk—about Lord Howlett’s character, about his reputation. I hardly know him at all, and yet I am to marry him."
Your father’s expression softened, a faint smile touching his lips. "You’re right to have your doubts, but there is more to James than society sees," he said, his voice low and earnest. "He is a good man, despite what people may say. I have known him for some time."
You looked at him with surprise. "You have?"
He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes as if recalling something from long ago. "I once had the chance to see the measure of his character firsthand," he began. "It was a few years back before his father passed. There was an incident in the village—a fire broke out in one of the cottages. I had gone down to see if I could offer any assistance, and there was James, knee-deep in the smoke and chaos, helping to pull a family from the burning house. He didn’t wait for anyone else to act—he just did what had to be done." He paused, his gaze meeting yours with quiet intensity. "Afterwards, when the villagers tried to thank him, he brushed it off as though it were nothing."
You listened, the image of Logan emerging from the smoke—a man of action rather than words—forming in your mind. It didn’t fit the stories whispered about him at all, the rumors of a cold, temperamental lord who preferred his solitude to society. 
"He doesn’t wear his virtues for others to see," your father continued, his tone tender. "But they are there, and I would not have agreed to this marriage if I didn’t believe he was worthy of you." His voice dipped, softening. "In fact, it was I who insisted upon it."
The admission struck you like a sudden breeze, and you blinked in surprise. "You insisted?" 
A faint chuckle escaped him, though it was tinged with sadness. "Your mother had other plans," he confessed. "She wanted you to marry Viscount Ashcombe. But I knew that man for what he was—a charming rake with a smile that hid his vices. He would have squandered what little we had left and treated you as nothing more than a pretty ornament for his arm. I could not allow that."
A shudder of relief ran through you. Viscount Ashcombe had indeed been a frequent guest at Langley House, his charming demeanor masking a calculating gaze you had never quite trusted. That your father had shielded you from such a fate filled you with a new, deep gratitude, but also a touch of guilt. "And… Lord Howlett?" you asked, your voice hesitant. "You truly believe he is a better choice?"
"I do," your father said simply, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "James may not be the gentleman of society’s dreams, but he is honorable, and he would not see you come to harm. I have seen how he looks at you, even if you have not noticed it yourself. There is a kindness there, though it is buried deep. I only ask that you give him a chance to prove himself to you."
You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes, not out of sadness, but from the overwhelming tenderness in your father’s words. He had always been a voice of reason and quiet strength, and if he believed Logan was a good man, perhaps there was something more to this arrangement than mere obligation. "I shall try, Papa," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "If you think it right, I shall try."
A soft smile curved his lips, and he reached up to tuck a stray curl behind your ear. "That is all I could ever ask of you, my dear," he said gently. "And remember, marriage is not defined by society's expectations or even by the beginnings it is built upon. It is shaped by the choices you make together, by how you face the world as one."
You stayed with him a while longer, resting your head on the pillow beside his as he spoke of simpler things—memories of your childhood, stories of when he and your mother first met. Yet, as his voice grew softer and the evening deepened, your thoughts drifted to Logan, and you wondered if this marriage could truly be more than just duty.
────୨ৎ────
"Stop squirming, dear. You'll ruin the lace," your mother chided, her tone sharp with impatience. The maid's fingers fumbled with the last of the tiny pearl buttons running down the back of your gown. You tried to stand still, though your nerves thrummed beneath your skin like the tension of a tightly wound string.
"But it's itchy," you complained, wincing as the delicate lace sleeves brushed against your arms again, the fine fabric more irritating than luxurious at that moment. The dress, an ivory satin creation with lace overlay, clung to your frame like a beautiful prison, its layers heavy and constricting. You stared at your reflection in the looking glass—the bride-to-be staring back at you was almost unrecognizable, her cheeks pale and eyes wide with the uncertainty she couldn’t quite mask. 
"Beauty is not meant to be comfortable," your mother said briskly, stepping forward to adjust your veil with quick, efficient movements. "Today of all days, you must endure a little discomfort." She pressed a kiss to your forehead, though there was no true tenderness in the gesture—only the determination of a woman who would see her daughter wed, no matter what doubts might linger in the air.
You glanced toward the window where the light spilled in, illuminating the fine dust motes that danced in the air. Beyond the glass, the sprawling grounds of Howlett Manor stretched out, perfectly manicured and bedecked with white roses for the occasion. Guests were beginning to arrive, their carriages forming a neat line along the drive, and you felt a fresh wave of apprehension as the realization settled in by the end of this day, you would be Lady Howlett. No longer just yourself, but part of something larger and more daunting than you had ever imagined.
"Come, dear. It is time," your mother said, her voice taking on a softened tone that still carried an edge of insistence. She took your hand and led you down the grand staircase, the train of your gown trailing like a whisper behind you. As you reached the bottom step, a footman opened the doors, and the warm summer air rushed in, carrying with it the faint strains of music and the murmurs of assembled guests.
The ceremony itself was to take place in the garden, beneath a canopy of white silk, with roses entwined in the trellis above. You took your place at the entrance of the aisle, your breath catching in your throat as the music swelled.
Ahead of you, the guests rose to their feet, their eyes upon you like a sea of expectations. You felt as though you were walking into a story already written, where every step was a line you could not change.
Then you saw him.
Logan stood at the end of the aisle, his back straight and his face composed, but there was a different look about him today—something more open in his expression as if the stern lines of his features had softened slightly in the golden light. He was dressed in a dark coat and waistcoat, his cravat a crisp white, and for the first time, you thought he looked less like the brooding lord and more like any other man, perhaps even a little… nervous. The thought was oddly comforting, to see that he too might be feeling the weight of this moment.
What truly caught your attention was the sight of him speaking with a young woman—his cousin, Marie, whom you had met briefly the night before. She stood close to him, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed softly at something he said. Logan’s face, usually so guarded, was uncharacteristically warm. He reached out to gently touch her arm, a small smile playing on his lips. There was an ease in his manner that you had not seen before. It was a different side of him—a side that seemed capable of tenderness.
As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up and met your eyes. The warmth did not fade from his expression; if anything, it deepened, and he gave you a small, reassuring nod. It was a subtle gesture, but there was something in it that steadied your breath—a silent acknowledgment that whatever lay ahead, you did not have to face it alone.
The music began again, and you took a step forward, then another, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you moved down the aisle. Your gaze remained fixed on Logan, his presence grounding you as you drew nearer. When you finally reached him, he extended his hand, and you placed yours in it, the warmth of his touch radiating through your glove.
His fingers squeezed yours gently, a subtle comfort. “Breathe,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You’re doing fine.”
You exhaled, a shaky breath escaping you, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosened. “You seem remarkably calm,” you replied quietly, glancing up at him. “Are you not nervous at all?”
His lips curved into a faint smile, one that was almost playful. “Terrified, if you must know,” he admitted, his eyes holding yours. “But I’ve been told I hide it well.”
A surprised laugh slipped out before you could stop it, the sound quiet and breathless. You hadn’t expected him to share such a candid confession, and somehow, it made everything feel a little less daunting. 
The priest began to speak, the familiar words of the ceremony flowing around you, and though your mind still buzzed with nerves, you found yourself clinging to that moment of shared honesty, to the knowledge that beneath Logan’s composed exterior, a man was grappling with uncertainty, just as you were.
As the vows were exchanged, Logan’s voice was steady, but there was a sincerity in his tone that made you look up at him again, your pulse quickening. He held your gaze as he spoke, and at that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had faded away—leaving only the two of you standing there, joined in a promise neither of you had fully chosen but both were willing to see through.
When it came time to place the ring on your finger, his hand lingered over yours, his touch careful, almost reverent. “You’re not alone in this,” he said softly, just for you to hear, his breath warm against your ear. “And you never will be.”
The words settled in your chest, bringing with them a quiet sense of resolve. As the priest declared you husband and wife, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation, as though you were standing at the edge of something new and uncertain, but not entirely unwelcome. 
You glanced at Logan once more, catching a glimpse of that same warmth in his eyes, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps there might be room, however small, for something real to grow.
When he leaned in to kiss you, you hesitated for a moment. He was gentle, almost tentative as though he were offering you not just a gesture of the ceremony but a promise of something more. The guests cheered and the music swelled pulling you back. 
────୨ৎ────
The reception was in full swing by the time you made your way downstairs. The lively hum of conversation and clinking of glasses echoed through the grand hall, but the merriment seemed to blur at the edges of your awareness. Your mind was still reeling from the conversation you’d had with your mother moments before—her not-so-subtle suggestions about "wifely duties" and the inevitability of sharing a bed with your husband tonight. 
The thought made your stomach twist, and your cheeks were still warm with embarrassment. You had hoped to delay that particular aspect of marriage, at least for a while, but there was no denying the weight of expectation pressing down on you.
As you rounded a corner into one of the quieter wings of the manor, you slowed your steps, grateful for a moment of reprieve from the noise and the prying eyes. 
It was then that you caught sight of Lady Elizabeth, standing near the far end of the corridor with another woman you vaguely recognized—a guest, perhaps, or a distant relation whose name escaped you. They were somewhat obscured by the shadows, their heads bowed close together as they spoke in low, urgent voices.
You stopped short, instinctively stepping back to avoid being seen, but their conversation drifted toward you in hushed but distinct whispers.
"…it was the only way to ensure his claim to the manor," Lady Elizabeth said, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. "You understand, don’t you? A bastard child cannot inherit Howlett Manor unless certain… conditions are met."
The other woman gasped softly, her fan fluttering nervously at her throat. "Are you saying James is—"
"A bastard," Lady Elizabeth cut in, the word sharp and unyielding. "Yes. He is the son of a groundskeeper we had. I had an affair—brief, foolish—and yet, here we are. The late Lord Howlett agreed to raise him as his own, but only if Logan did what was necessary to preserve the family name and secure the estate. That meant marrying, producing an heir… appearing respectable." Her tone held a trace of bitterness, as though the situation was a distasteful chore she had no choice but to accept.
The truth struck you like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from your lungs. You gripped the edge of the doorway, your fingers digging into the wood as the world seemed to tilt around you. Logan is not truly the heir to Howlett Manor? He is… illegitimate?
The whispers continued, their voices fading in and out. "…must keep it quiet, of course," Lady Elizabeth was saying. "If anyone found out the truth, it would cause a scandal. All the wealth, the manor—gone. That is why this marriage was so important. He needs a legitimate heir, and quickly."
You could hardly process what you were hearing. The weight of the revelation pressed down on you, filling your chest with a mixture of shock and betrayal. You had known there were expectations upon this marriage, pressures you had not fully understood, but this… this was an entirely different kind of entanglement. It wasn’t just a matter of appearances or duty—it was a lie. A lie that Logan had kept from you, that his mother had kept from society, a lie that now entangled you as well.
Forcing yourself to remain calm, you stepped back quietly, retreating before they could notice you. Your heart pounded in your ears as you made your way to one of the smaller parlors, where you sank into a chair, your mind spinning. 
The scandal this could cause—if the truth were to come out, it would ruin not just Logan, but your family as well. The very thing you had married to avoid—the loss of Langley House, the disgrace—would become inevitable. I cannot tell anyone, you thought, a tremor running through you. No one can know.
Later, you found yourself drifting through the reception, the laughter and music around you feeling like a distant, disjointed melody. You did your best to play your part—the smiling bride, the gracious hostess—but every time you caught sight of Logan across the room, a fresh wave of unease washed over you. 
You wondered how long he had known, how long he had kept this secret hidden from you. Had he intended to tell you eventually, or had he planned to let you live in ignorance, a pawn in his efforts to secure a future for himself?
As if summoned by your thoughts, Logan approached you near the edge of the ballroom, where you had retreated once more to catch your breath. His expression was softer than usual, and there was an unexpected warmth in his eyes as he came to stand beside you. "You look… radiant," he said quietly, his voice low and gentle. He reached out to brush a stray curl from your cheek, his fingers lingering near your temple. "I was looking for you earlier. I was hoping to steal a dance."
You stiffened at his touch, the tenderness in his tone feeling almost like a mockery in light of what you now knew. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and nodded. "A dance? Yes, of course. It is… our wedding day, after all."
His brow furrowed slightly, as though sensing that something was amiss. "Is everything all right?" he asked, his voice dipping with concern. "You seem… distant."
How could I possibly tell you? The question burned at the back of your throat, but you swallowed it down. "I'm just… overwhelmed," you replied, letting out a small, shaky breath. "It’s all been so… sudden." It wasn’t entirely a lie, and you hoped he would accept it.
His hand found yours, and he gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze. "I understand," he said softly. "It’s a great deal to take in. But you’re not alone in this." There was a genuine kindness in his eyes, a sincerity that should have comforted you, but instead only deepened your sense of betrayal. You knew that while he spoke these words of reassurance, there was a secret between you—one that threatened to unravel everything if it ever came to light.
You allowed him to lead you onto the dance floor, you couldn’t help but feel like you were playing a role, just as much as he was. The music swelled, and you fell into step with him, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his arm firm around your waist. He looked down at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, but instead of feeling warmth, you felt a chill.
"I’m glad you’re here," Logan murmured as you danced, his voice low enough for only you to hear. "I know we didn’t choose this, but… I’d like to think we could find some measure of happiness, even if it’s not the kind we once imagined."
You met his gaze, your heart twisting painfully at the sincerity in his expression. He looked at you as though you were the only person in the world, and yet… you could not forget the conversation you had overheard, the truth that hung like a shadow between you. "Yes," you replied, forcing the words out even as they tasted bitter. "I suppose we could try."
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "We’ll figure it out," he whispered. "Together."
The word together stung, and as you looked up at him, you wondered if he was truly offering you a partnership—or simply playing a part in a carefully crafted lie.
────୨ৎ────
The wedding celebration had stretched late into the night, and when it was finally over, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The laughter, music, and endless well-wishers had been exhausting, and you had longed to retreat somewhere quiet and familiar. 
But Langley House was no longer your sanctuary; Howlett Manor was now your home, and the realization settled heavily on your shoulders as the last guests departed, and the manor returned to its usual stillness.
The early morning air was cool and damp, the dew clinging to your skin as you stood on the grand steps of Howlett Manor, watching your family prepare to leave. The sight of their carriage waiting at the end of the gravel drive stirred a longing in your chest, a longing to climb inside and return with them to the warmth and comfort of your childhood home, to the place where you still knew who you were.
Your father embraced you gently, his kiss a soft brush against your cheek. "You’ll be fine, my dear," he murmured, his voice both reassuring and tinged with sadness. "Remember, if ever you need anything, we are only a letter away."
You nodded, managing a small, tight smile. "I know, Papa." But as you pulled back, a knot formed in your throat, and you had to bite your lip to keep it from trembling.
Your sisters crowded around you, their eyes bright with mischief and concern. "Now you're a proper lady, a married woman!" one teased, nudging your arm. "We expect to see you behaving with all the decorum of a countess." Another giggled, adding, "Try not to be too miserable without us."
You forced a laugh, waving them off as they climbed into the carriage, and you watched it roll away, the wheels crunching over the gravel until the sound faded into the distance. As the carriage disappeared from view, the sense of loneliness settled in, a cold, creeping sensation that sank into your bones. 
Howlett Manor was vast, with its sprawling halls and echoing chambers, but it felt impossibly empty, like a hollow shell. The servants bustled about with quiet efficiency, their footsteps barely audible on the polished floors, but their presence did little to fill the silence. There was no life here, none of the warm chaos you were used to—just endless rooms and corridors that all seemed to lead nowhere.
You wandered, your slippers brushing over the ornate rugs, your fingers trailing along the smooth banisters. At Langley House, there had always been some comfort in the small, familiar things: the chipped vase on the mantelpiece, the faded armchair your father favored, the distant sound of your sisters' laughter drifting through the halls. 
But here, everything was pristine and grand, untouched by time or sentiment. It was as though the very walls resisted your presence, like an indifferent host merely tolerating a guest.
Eventually, you found yourself in a small library tucked away on the eastern side of the manor. It was far more modest than the grand, formal library you had glimpsed earlier—this room seemed a bit forgotten, its shelves crammed to the brim with books of every kind. The air smelled faintly of dust and leather, and a few stray beams of sunlight spilled through the narrow window, illuminating particles that danced lazily in the air.
You sank into a worn armchair by the window, its upholstery faded from years of sunlight. It wasn’t a particularly inviting chair, but it was the first place you had found that didn’t seem to insist upon its grandeur, that didn’t make you feel quite so out of place. 
Your fingers traced the spines of the books nearby—collections of poetry, histories, and old novels whose covers were cracked with age. You pulled a volume at random from the shelf and settled back, trying to lose yourself in the words, but the text seemed to blur before your eyes, and you couldn’t shake the emptiness that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.
The loneliness here was different from what you had expected. It wasn’t the sharp sting of missing your family, nor was it the cold silence of being truly alone. 
Rather, it was a kind of isolation that seeped into you even when surrounded by people—people who knew their place here, who moved about the manor with the easy familiarity you lacked. Even Logan, who you’d scarcely seen since the wedding day, seemed a stranger to this place at times. You had caught glimpses of him in passing, his brow furrowed in thought or his expression distant, and you wondered if he too felt as though he did not entirely belong.
You had just begun to drift off into an uneasy doze when the sound of voices outside the library door roused you. You started, closing the book and setting it aside as the door opened and Logan stepped in, speaking quietly with his cousin, Marie. There was a lightness to his tone, a warmth you had rarely heard in his voice. He laughed at something she said, the sound deep and genuine, and there was a soft smile on his lips as he reached out to ruffle her hair in an affectionate, brotherly gesture.
You felt a pang of something you could not quite name—jealousy, perhaps, or simply longing. It was strange to see him this way, unguarded and almost joyful. 
As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up and saw you seated there, half-hidden behind the armchair. His smile faded slightly, but a flicker of that warmth remained as he inclined his head toward you. "I didn’t realize anyone else was in here," he said, his voice carrying a faint note of surprise. "I hope we didn’t disturb you."
"Not at all," you replied, rising to your feet, though the sudden movement made you feel unsteady. "I was just… trying to pass the time."
Marie gave you a friendly nod before excusing herself, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet library. Logan's gaze followed her for a moment, then returned to you, and you felt the weight of his attention, his curiosity.
"Have you found everything to your liking?" he asked, his tone polite, though there was a hint of something else in it as if he was searching for reassurance himself. "I know it must be quite an adjustment…"
"Yes," you answered, forcing a smile that felt strained. "It is… different, certainly." The understatement felt almost laughable, but you could not bring yourself to confess the depth of your unease. Not to him. Not yet.
Logan’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "If there’s anything you need—anything at all—please let me know," he said. "I would not have you feel like a stranger here."
The kindness in his voice unsettled you, for you could not help but wonder if it was merely an act, part of the role he was expected to play as a new husband. After all, how could he speak of not wanting you to feel like a stranger when he had kept the most significant part of his life hidden from you? When the very foundation of this marriage was built on secrets and necessity?
"Thank you, my lord, but I fear I will always be a stranger here," you blurted before you could stop yourself. The moment they left your lips, a flicker of regret curled in your chest, but it was too late to take them back.
Logan's brows furrowed, a shadow of concern crossing his features. "I had hoped to make you comfortable," he said, his voice measured, as though he was choosing each word with care. "If there is something amiss… Is your chamber not to your liking, or—"
"It is not the chamber," you interrupted, shaking your head. "Everything here is grand. Perhaps that is the problem." You gestured vaguely around the room, where the dark wood paneling gleamed in the afternoon light, where the velvet drapes hung heavy and untouched. "Nothing feels… homey. It is as though I am trapped within these walls, surrounded by all this grandeur, but with nothing of substance to occupy me. There is an emptiness here and I…" Your voice trailed off, uncertain how to convey the rest without sounding ungrateful or childish.
He took a step back, the distance between you widening, though his gaze remained fixed on you, unwavering. "How can you be so unhappy when it has only been hours since our wedding?" There was a hint of frustration in his tone, barely concealed. "I know this is all new, but I thought—" He broke off, his jaw tightening. "I thought you were willing to give this a chance."
A dry laugh escaped you, tinged with a bitterness you hadn’t meant to reveal. "Willing, yes," you replied, a tremor in your voice. "But happiness? That is another matter entirely. I was not happy to begin with, and though I did promise I would try to make this marriage work, I don’t know if I can." You paused, your throat tightening around the words. "I am alone here, without my family, without my father. He has no one by his side."
Logan’s expression softened slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "I know it is difficult," he said quietly. "But I would not have you feel this way. If there is anything I can—"
"I do not need reassurances, my lord," you snapped, the sharpness of your tone surprising you. You took a step toward him, the frustration and fear that had been simmering since the wedding rising to the surface. "I need honesty. I need to know that I am not merely here to serve as the solution to a problem that was never mine to begin with."
He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What are you talking about?"
You opened your mouth to respond, the words balanced precariously on the tip of your tongue. I know the truth. I know what your mother said—that you are not truly the heir, that you are a— You swallowed, the weight of the secret pressing against your chest like a stone. But as you met his gaze, you saw a rawness there, a genuine concern that made you falter. The words died in your throat, and you looked away, unable to bring yourself to shatter whatever fragile understanding existed between you.
"Nothing," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "It is nothing."
"Is it?" he pressed, his tone gentling. He took a tentative step closer, his hand lifting as though to touch your arm, then falling back to his side. "I know this marriage did not begin as a love match, but that does not mean we cannot build something worthwhile from it. I am trying to give you a place here, but you must meet me halfway."
A bitter retort hovered on your lips, but you swallowed it back. "Halfway?" you echoed, a faint tremor in your voice. "And what would that look like? Me sitting in silence while you attend to your duties, while your mother watches over me like a hawk to ensure I fulfill my role as your wife and nothing more?"
Logan's jaw tightened, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—anger, perhaps, or hurt, or some mixture of the two. "My mother does not dictate our marriage," he said, his tone firm. "Nor does she have a say in how I treat you."
"But does she have a say in why you married me?" The question slipped out before you could think better of it, and as soon as the words hung in the air between you, you wished you could take them back. You saw the way his expression changed, the guarded look that closed off whatever warmth had been there moments before.
"What are you trying to say?" His voice was low, his gaze piercing as though searching your face for answers you were unwilling to give.
You took a step back, wrapping your arms around yourself as though to ward off the sudden chill that seemed to fill the room. "Forget I said anything," you murmured, turning away from him. "I am simply tired. It has been a long day."
You walked away, the tension hung between you, a taut string threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel Logan's eyes on your back, his unspoken questions pressing against you like a weight. You had come so close to revealing what you knew, and now the secret lay thick and unspoken between you. Its presence impossible to ignore.
However, the damage was done. The words you hadn’t said had already begun to build a wall between you, one that grew higher with every passing silence.
────୨ৎ────
It was days later, in the quiet hours of the late afternoon, when Logan found you curled up in the worn armchair with a book in hand, nestled in the small, tucked-away library. It was far removed from the grand and imposing main library, which you had visited only once and found too vast, too cold for your liking.
This library felt different. It had a lived-in quality, as though it were a place where someone came to retreat from the weight of duty, a place where time seemed to slow. You had claimed it as a sanctuary of sorts, a space where you could be alone with your thoughts and the company of the old novels that lined the shelves.
You didn’t notice Logan’s presence at first, not until the faint creak of the door announced him, and you looked up, startled. Rising to your feet, you brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, your loose curls tumbling over your shoulders. 
"My lord, I did not notice you there," you said, your voice betraying a hint of the nerves that still stirred whenever you found yourself alone in his company.
Logan’s lips quirked in a faint smile, his gaze sweeping over the room before resting on you. "You don’t need to stand on ceremony here," he said, his tone softer than you had expected. "And you certainly don’t need to call me ‘my lord’—not in this place." He glanced around at the cluttered bookshelves as if reacquainting himself with the space. "I always thought of this library as a refuge, of sorts. It seems you have found it, too."
You relaxed slightly, though you still felt a touch self-conscious. "I did not realize this was… your library. It felt less formal than the others—more… welcoming," you admitted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "I hope I did not intrude."
"Not at all," he replied, stepping closer, his hands clasped casually behind his back. "In truth, I’m glad to see someone making use of it. I’ve always preferred this room over the larger one. There’s a kind of comfort here, wouldn’t you agree?"
You nodded, glancing back at the book you had set down—a collection of poetry. "I suppose I’ve always preferred smaller spaces. They feel less like… museums, more like places meant to be lived in."
Logan’s gaze drifted to the book resting on the armchair. "Byron," he noted, recognizing the gold lettering on the spine. "A man who made his life as dramatic as his verses. Are you fond of his work?"
"I am," you said, your eyes brightening at the familiar subject. "There is something about the way he captures longing and melancholy… It feels so human, so true."
Logan’s expression softened, a glimmer of shared understanding in his eyes. "Yes, there is a kind of honesty in his verses, even when they’re full of exaggeration. It’s as though he’s trying to make sense of his own heart."
He reached out, pulling a slim volume from the shelf beside him. "But I’ve always been more inclined toward Wordsworth," he confessed, turning the book over in his hands. "His love of nature, the way he finds solace in it… There’s a quietness to his poetry that I find calming."
You tilted your head, a touch of curiosity lighting your gaze. "That’s surprising. I didn’t take you for the type to seek out… calm."
Logan let out a chuckle, his thumb brushing over the book’s worn cover. "I suppose that’s why I do seek it. A man doesn’t have to look very far to find chaos, but peace… that’s something worth searching for." He glanced at you, and the lightness in his expression gave way to something more thoughtful. "You know, my father always called me James. I suppose it was the name he preferred—more dignified, I think, in his mind. But my mother… She always called me Logan, from the time I was a boy."
He hesitated, a shadow crossing his features. "I suppose I never stopped thinking of myself that way. James feels like… a stranger, a name for the person I am supposed to be, rather than the person I am."
The confession surprised you, and you found yourself searching his face, trying to understand the layers of the man standing before you. "Is that why you asked me to call you Logan?" you asked softly, as though the gesture could bridge the distance that still lay between you. 
He nodded revealing a small smile, and for a moment, the tension seemed to ease. 
“Then I shall call you Logan if that is who you truly are.” You said after a moment before sitting back down in the armchair, gesturing for him to take the one across from you, and after a moment’s hesitation, he did, setting the Wordsworth volume on his knee.
"You’ve made quite a collection here," you remarked, glancing around at the overflowing shelves. "I didn’t realize you read so much."
Logan’s expression warmed, and he shrugged slightly. "There was always more to learn, more to understand," he said. "I suppose books were the one constant when everything else seemed uncertain."
You understood that sentiment all too well, and it struck you how much you had underestimated him. He was not just the reserved and sometimes brooding man society saw, nor merely the heir struggling to uphold his family's expectations. There was a depth to him, a yearning for something beyond duty. You wondered if you had misjudged him—or at least, not truly seen him.
"You mentioned your father," Logan said gently, breaking the silence. "I know you miss him. I… I would not want to keep you from seeing him. Once I’ve attended to some business here, I shall take you to Langley House. You can stay as long as you like."
The offer came so unexpectedly that you stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. "You would do that?" you asked, a faint tremor in your tone.
"Of course," he replied, his gaze steady on yours. "It is your home, after all. I promised I would not have you feel like a stranger here." His lips curved in a small, earnest smile. "Besides, I would not wish to be the kind of husband who denies his wife the comfort of her family."
A warmth blossomed in your chest mingled with a pang of guilt at the secret you still kept from him. For now, you allowed yourself to accept his kindness, to believe that perhaps there was something to be built between you, some foundation upon which to steady the uncertain future that lay ahead.
You returned his smile, a tentative hope stirring within you. "Thank you, Logan," you said quietly, and as the light faded from the window, the two of you sat in the small library, the silence between you no longer quite so empty.
────୨ৎ────
The sun was sinking behind the trees, casting long shadows across the entryway of Howlett Manor, as you paced back and forth, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The hours had dragged on, each one heavier than the last, filled with the monotonous duties of running the household—duties that had felt all the more tedious with your mind fixed elsewhere. 
Your father was ill, and the news had struck like a blow to the chest, leaving you restless and frantic.
You had received the message from your mother just after midday, her handwriting trembling across the page as she described your father’s sudden fever. The thought of him alone, struggling for breath while you remained stuck here, had been gnawing at you ever since. You had been prepared to leave immediately, but propriety demanded you wait for Logan’s return; a lady did not travel alone, no matter the urgency. Yet the minutes had crawled by, and still, he had not come.
Finally, as the last light of day began to fade, the front door swung open, and there he stood. Logan’s hair was damp with sweat, and his coat was dusted with the evidence of his travels, but he seemed unharmed—unlike your father, whose condition you had only grown more desperate to reach with each passing moment.
"There you are," you exclaimed, your voice sharp and edged with impatience. "I’ve been waiting all day for you to return. I need to leave for Langley House at once."
Logan blinked, taken aback by your tone. "I’m sorry, I—"
"My father is ill," you cut him off, your pacing quickening as you spoke. "He’s taken a sudden fever, and I will not wait here a moment longer. I must go to him." The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your chest tightening with every breath.
Logan frowned, concern flashing in his eyes, but his tone remained calm. "It’s already late. The roads are dark, and it would be dangerous to travel now. We should wait until morning—"
"Morning?" You spun to face him, incredulous. "You promised, Logan. You said as soon as your business was done, you would take me to Langley House. But now you ask me to wait even longer? My father could be—" Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over.
He stepped forward, his brow furrowing. "I know you're worried, but traveling in the dark—"
"I don’t care about the dark!" you shouted, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "My father needs me, now, not when it’s convenient for you." The frustration and fear you had kept bottled up surged forward, and before you could think better of it, the words you had been holding back escaped in a rush. "I know why you married me, Logan," you said, your voice trembling with the force of your emotions. "I know the truth about you—about who you are. A bastard son, trying to secure his inheritance through this marriage."
His expression froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What… what are you talking about?" he asked, his voice low and uncertain, as if the ground beneath him had just shifted. "Who told you—"
"It doesn’t matter who told me," you snapped, your heart pounding as you took a step back. "What matters is that you only married me to secure your fortune, and now you would have me wait while my father suffers? You are no better than a liar, Logan." The name felt bitter on your tongue, as though it belonged to a stranger.
He reached for you, his voice urgent. "Please, just listen to me. I don’t—"
You shook your head, unwilling to hear whatever explanations he might have. "I’ve heard enough," you said coldly, turning on your heel and marching toward the door. "I’m going to Langley House, with or without you."
Without waiting for his response, you stormed out of the entryway and hurried to the stables, your pulse thundering in your ears. A stable hand gaped at you as you demanded a carriage be readied at once, and you hardly noticed the incredulous look the servants exchanged as you climbed inside, your hands trembling with anger and fear.
The carriage lurched forward, and you stole one last glance at the manor as it receded into the distance. You half expected Logan to follow, to call out and demand you stay, but there was nothing—only the growing darkness and the sound of the wheels on the gravel.
As the night swallowed the road ahead, the magnitude of what you had done began to sink in. You had left without hearing his side of the story, and though part of you felt justified, another part—a quieter, more uncertain part—wondered if you had made a terrible mistake.
────୨ৎ────
A few days had passed since you arrived at Langley House, and you had barely left your father's side. His fever had not yet broken, and though he sometimes seemed to drift into a peaceful sleep, there were moments when his breathing grew labored, his skin pale and damp. 
You clung to his bedside, your hand wrapped around his frail fingers, fighting the exhaustion that pressed against your eyelids. The hours blurred together, and you lost track of time; all that mattered was being there, willing him to recover with every silent plea.
"You should rest, dear," your mother had said, her brow creased with worry as she hovered by the door. But you waved her off with a weary shake of your head, and after a moment’s hesitation, she left you be. It was the first time in days she had not insisted on something, and you were grateful for the silence.
At last, when even your determination could not keep your eyes open, you retreated to your old room. It felt strange to be there again—the space was exactly as you had left it, a time capsule of your girlhood, yet you felt like an intruder. 
The familiar lace curtains, the faded wallpaper, the worn quilt at the foot of the bed… all reminders of a past life, one that seemed distant now that you were a wife with different burdens to bear. You lay down, but sleep remained elusive, your thoughts tangled and restless.
A soft knock interrupted the quiet, rousing you from your half-conscious state. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as a servant peeked hesitantly through the door. "My lady," she murmured, "there is a gentleman here to see you."
Your chest tightened, a familiar dread curling in your stomach. "If it is Lord Howlett, tell him I am busy," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. You had not spoken to Logan since you left Howlett Manor in a fit of anger and hurt, and you were not sure you were ready to face him yet.
The servant hesitated, her eyes shifting toward the hall. "He was quite insistent, my lady." Before you could respond, the door creaked open wider, and there stood Logan, looking unlike you had ever seen him.
He was pale, his hair unruly as if he had run his hands through it too many times, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept in days. For a moment, he seemed almost a stranger, stripped of the composed exterior you had grown used to. There was a rawness about him that made your heart twist despite the anger you still felt.
"May I come in?" he asked, his voice rough, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that gave you pause.
You hesitated, your grip tightening on the edge of the quilt. "If you’ve come to offer more excuses, Logan, I’m not interested," you said, but the words lacked the conviction they had held days ago. His appearance, so disheveled and hollow, had already chipped away at your resolve.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing the door gently behind him. "I don’t have excuses," he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that left you breathless. "Only the truth."
You folded your arms across your chest, trying to steady yourself. "The truth?" you echoed bitterly. "And what truth would that be? That you married me only to secure your claim to Howlett Manor? That your mother’s schemes made a fool of me?"
A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he took a slow breath before answering. "I did not know," he said, the words almost a whisper, as though admitting them pained him. "I didn’t know… until you left." He took a step closer, his voice thick with raw honesty. "After you stormed off, I confronted my mother. She… she told me everything. That I am not the true heir, that my father was not my father, and that the marriage was her way of ensuring my claim remained undisputed."
You stared at him, the floor seeming to shift beneath you. "You didn’t know?" you repeated, scarcely able to believe it. "You expect me to believe that you were kept in the dark about something so… so consequential?"
"I swear to you," Logan said, his voice hoarse, "I had no idea. All my life, I believed what I was told—that I was the legitimate son of the late Lord Howlett. I never had reason to question it." His expression tightened, a shadow passing over his eyes. "But now… now I know the truth. And my mother—" He let out a bitter, broken laugh. "She’s furious with me for confronting her. She won’t speak to me. I’ve lost… I’ve lost the only family I thought I had."
The anger you had been holding onto slipped through your fingers, replaced by an ache you had not expected. You saw the hurt in his eyes, the way he struggled to keep his voice steady, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of sympathy, even guilt. Slowly, you let your arms fall to your sides. 
"Why did you come here?" you asked softly, your voice wavering. "Why now?"
"Because I needed you to know," he said, his gaze searching yours for something—understanding, forgiveness, perhaps even solace. "I needed you to know that I did not deceive you, not intentionally. And… because I hoped…" His voice trailed off, and he swallowed, his eyes dark with uncertainty. "I hoped you might still be willing to come back. If not for the marriage, then… at least to speak with me. To try to understand."
You hesitated, your heart tugging in two directions. You had been so sure of his betrayal, so certain that he had used you, and yet now, seeing him so undone, so lost… It stirred something within you, a reluctant compassion that you could not quite suppress. 
You slipped out of your bed and took a step toward him, your hand lifting slightly before you let it fall again. "Logan," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "I don’t know what to say."
He looked down, his shoulders slumping as though he had been carrying a weight too heavy to bear. "Then don’t say anything," he replied, his tone quiet and strained. "Just… let me stay. Just for a moment."
Before you knew what you were doing, you reached out, your fingers gently touching his arm. He looked up at you, surprise flickering in his eyes, and you saw how deeply this had wounded him—this revelation that had shattered the foundation of his life. Slowly, tentatively, you let your hand rest on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath your touch.
"It’s not your fault," you murmured, the words coming unbidden but somehow feeling right. "You didn’t ask for any of this."
His breath hitched, and he took a step closer, as though drawn to your warmth, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested on his shoulder. "I don’t know what I am now," he confessed, his voice raw. "I don’t know who I’m supposed to be."
"Well," you said softly, offering a small, tentative smile, "I suppose that's the one good thing about something so tragic. You now have the freedom to be whoever you want." Your voice carried a note of gentleness, an unspoken reassurance that you hoped might reach him.
Logan’s expression softened, though the lines of exhaustion remained etched in his face. He glanced away, as if considering your words, his hand still resting over yours. For a moment, you both stood in the quiet room, the only sound the distant ticking of a clock. The air was fragile, a sense that this moment was a truce, however brief.
You drew in a breath, your hand slipping away from his shoulder. "You look exhausted," you said, your voice just above a whisper. "You should rest."
His gaze met yours, and though he hesitated, he gave a slight nod. "If… if you don’t mind, I could stay," he murmured, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Just for a while."
You didn’t know why you agreed so readily—perhaps it was the rawness in his voice or the way his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world had settled there. "You can stay," you said, and then, after a beat, you added, "There is a chair by the window."
He took the offer quietly, walking over to the armchair and sinking into it as though his legs had finally given out. You climbed back into your bed, your movements slow and unsteady, and pulled the covers up to your chin, still half-aware of his presence. It was strange to think that just days ago, you had left him in a storm of anger and hurt, and now here he was—wounded, vulnerable, and seeking comfort under the same roof as you.
Your eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, the events of the past few days catching up with you all at once. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the weariness seeped into your bones, and soon, you drifted off, the soft rustling of Logan shifting in the chair the last sound you heard before darkness claimed you.
────୨ৎ────
You awoke with a start some hours later, the room dimly lit by the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. You turned over, expecting to see Logan still sitting in the armchair, but the chair was empty, a faint indentation on the cushion the only sign he had been there at all. For a moment, confusion clouded your thoughts, and you sat up, rubbing your eyes. Where could he have gone?
Rising from the bed, you wrapped your robe around yourself and padded into the hallway. The house was silent, the kind of deep stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. 
You wandered from room to room, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished wooden floors. The familiar sights of Langley House brought a pang of nostalgia, and for a moment, you could almost imagine you were a young girl again, tiptoeing through the halls after bedtime. But the gravity of your situation quickly pulled you back to the present, and your thoughts turned to Logan.
At last, you reached your father's room and saw the door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. You pushed it open gently and paused in the doorway, your breath catching at the sight before you.
Logan was seated by your father’s bedside, his head bowed and his hands clasped together as if in prayer. His voice was a low murmur, almost inaudible, and though you could not make out the words, you could hear the raw emotion in them. Your father lay still, his breaths steady but faint, and you noticed the way Logan reached out to touch the old man’s hand, his fingers brushing gently over the wrinkled skin as though offering a silent promise.
You took a step inside, the floorboard creaking beneath your weight. Logan’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. For a heartbeat, you both remained still, the air between you thick with unspoken words.
"I didn’t mean to intrude," he said quietly, his voice rough with fatigue. "I… I woke and found myself unable to sleep. I thought I might… check on him." There was a tenderness in his tone and it sent a strange warmth coursing through you.
You walked slowly to your father's bedside, your gaze shifting between the frail figure in the bed and the man sitting beside him. "You didn’t have to come here," you murmured, though there was no reproach in your voice, only a quiet gratitude you had not expected to feel. "But thank you."
Logan shook his head, a faint, tired smile pulling at his lips. "I wanted to," he replied, his hand still resting on your father's. "I thought… if I my father were like this, I would have wanted someone to be there with him. Even if it wasn’t me."
The words touched something deep within you, and you found yourself sitting down in the chair across from him. The silence settled over the room again, but it no longer felt oppressive. It was a silence of shared understanding, of finding comfort in the presence of another even when there was nothing more to be said.
"Why did you come here, Logan?" you asked softly, the question escaping before you could stop it. "Why did you follow me to Langley House after everything that happened? I know you said it was to tell me the truth but—" 
His gaze lifted to meet yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. "Because I made a promise," he said, his voice steady but low. "And because… I didn’t want you to face this alone."
A lump formed in your throat, and you looked down at your father, his breathing steady and rhythmic, as if reminding you that time was still on your side. "You didn’t have to keep that promise," you whispered. "Not after—"
"But I wanted to," Logan interrupted, his tone firmer now. "I wanted to because… because I care." The last words came out in a hushed tone, as though they were fragile and needed to be handled with care. "And because, despite everything, I hoped that… maybe we could still find a way to make this work."
You inhaled slowly, your gaze still fixed on your father's frail form. The sincerity in Logan's voice stirred something in you that you had tried to bury beneath anger and hurt. You reached out, your hand finding Logan's where it rested on the edge of the bed. His skin was cool beneath your touch, and you felt him tense for a moment before his fingers curled gently around yours.
"I don’t know what will happen," you murmured, your voice barely audible in the hushed stillness of the room. Your gaze remained fixed on your father's frail form, his breaths slow and steady. "My feelings… they’re complicated. All I can think about right now is him—nothing else." The words came out in a strained whisper, the weight of them pressing heavily on your chest.
Logan's eyes never left you, his expression open yet laced with concern. "I’m not asking for anything more than for you to trust me," he said, his voice steady but soft, as though he knew this was fragile ground you stood upon. "That’s all, I promise."
The sincerity in his tone unsettled you more than any declaration of love or grand gesture might have. You stood, shaking your head, unable to shake the feeling that this conversation was too much for your father’s ears—even if he was too weak to hear a single word. "Not here," you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you walked toward the door. "This… it’s too much."
Logan followed you into the dimly lit hallway, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click. The air between you felt charged and tense, and as you turned to walk away, you felt his hand catch yours, his fingers curling around yours in a tentative hold.
"I can’t make promises," you said quickly, pulling your hand free with a frustrated shake. "You say things like that, and my mind begins to spin. What if it’s all just another lie? Another way to keep me obedient and… and compliant." The words tumbled out, each one weighted with the uncertainty and fear that had been building inside you. "You would lose everything if we fail to produce an heir. Did your mother tell you that? Did she tell you what’s at stake?"
Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, there was a flash of something in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or frustration. 
When he spoke, his tone was calm, edged with a quiet determination. "She told me… enough," he admitted, his voice low. "Enough to know what is expected of us." He took a step closer, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your heart quicken. "But I am not my mother, and I did not marry you to force you into anything. I won’t make promises I can’t keep, but the one thing I can swear to is this: I have no intention of deceiving you."
You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. "You say that now, but… what happens when time passes and there is still no heir? Will you still be so understanding then?" The doubt laced through your voice, but beneath it was a flicker of hope that you desperately tried to suppress.
His eyes softened, a mixture of sadness and resolve glinting in the depths. "I don’t care about titles, or legacies, or any of the things my mother obsesses over," he said, his voice roughened by an emotion you could not name. "I care about you. I care about the truth between us, even if it’s a tangled mess right now." He reached for your hand again, his touch gentler this time, as if he were asking rather than taking. "I know I’m not perfect, and I know you don’t owe me anything. But I’m asking you to give me a chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve, and not just the husband you ended up with because of circumstance."
You stared at his hand over yours, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. The walls you had built up since leaving Howlett Manor felt as though they were crumbling, brick by brick, under the weight of his words. There was still a voice inside you, one that whispered caution.
"I don’t know if I can trust that," you whispered, your voice breaking. "How do I know this isn’t just a way to secure what you need? How do I know you’re not saying what I want to hear just to keep me from running?"
Logan’s grip tightened slightly, his fingers lacing through yours as if to anchor you. "Because I’m not asking you to stay for obligation’s sake," he said, the rawness in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. "I’m asking because I want to try and build something real with you—something beyond what anyone else expects of us." His other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. "If you walk away now, I won’t stop you. But if you give me a chance… we can start by just… finding a way to be ourselves again. Not lord and lady, not husband and wife, but just… us."
The tenderness in his touch, the way his eyes searched yours for any sign of hope, struck you deeply. You felt a swell of emotions rising within you—fear, longing, confusion—all tangled together and impossible to untangle.
Slowly, hesitantly, you let out a breath, your chest tightening as you took a step closer, feeling the warmth radiating from Logan’s skin. "All right," you said, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to steady it. "We can try… but only if we’re honest with each other. Completely honest." The words felt like both a promise and a challenge, an unspoken plea for something real in a world that often felt like a tangle of duty and deceit.
Logan nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. There was an intensity there, a quiet determination that made your pulse quicken. His gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips as they parted, and the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as though he were allowing himself, for the first time, to believe that there could be more between you than obligation. 
"That’s all I’m asking for," he murmured, his voice low and rough. His hand fell away from your cheek, lingering in the space between you as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go entirely.
The silence seemed to thrum with possibilities, the air thick with an unspoken question that neither of you dared to voice. You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the same uncertainty that you felt rising within you. 
The memory of your first kiss drifted to the forefront of your mind: a soft, quick exchange during the wedding ceremony, one that had felt more like a formality than a true connection. This time, though, would it feel different? Would it feel real, tangible? The air itself was urging you to close the gap, to explore what lay beyond the roles you had both been playing.
Just as you took a breath as if to bridge the final inches, a soft voice interrupted the charged stillness. "Am I interrupting something?"
You and Logan sprang apart, the moment shattering like glass. Your head snapped toward the doorway where your father stood, his frame leaning slightly against the doorframe for support. His color was better, his cheeks no longer pale and hollow, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes as they flicked between you and Logan. It was the most life you had seen in him since your arrival, and despite the awkwardness of the moment, a wave of relief washed over you.
"Papa," you said, your voice coming out higher than intended as you quickly brushed a hand over your hair, as if smoothing away any trace of what had almost happened. "I didn’t realize you were awake."
"I woke a short while ago," he replied, a slight grin tugging at his lips. "Though I can see I’ve walked in at a… delicate moment." He shifted his gaze to Logan, giving him a nod that was both acknowledging and appraising. "I suppose I should thank you, Lord Howlett, for keeping my daughter company while I recovered. I understand it must be rather difficult, managing a wife as stubborn as she is." His tone was light, teasing, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Logan dipped his head in a slight bow. "It is an honor, sir," he replied, his voice soft. "And I would say it’s rather a privilege to have a wife with such spirit. It keeps a man on his toes."
Your father chuckled softly, his laughter a welcome sound in the room. "Well spoken, my boy. Well-spoken." He glanced at you, his gaze warm with affection. "And you, my dear—you look as though you haven’t slept in days. You mustn’t worry so much over an old man like me. I’m feeling quite a bit better now, thanks to your constant vigilance." His voice softened. "I could hear you, you know… sitting by my bed, speaking to me even when I couldn’t respond."
A knot formed in your throat, and you quickly turned your head away, blinking back the sudden prick of tears. "I only did what any daughter would do," you murmured, the words catching slightly as you tried to compose yourself. "I’m just relieved you’re on the mend."
"Indeed I am," he said with a faint smile. "And I will continue to be, especially if I can trust that you’ll both refrain from causing a scandal in the middle of my convalescence." His gaze drifted pointedly back to Logan, a hint of fatherly protectiveness in his tone.
Logan met his eyes with a quiet assurance. "You needn’t worry, sir. I intend to take care of her," he said, his voice steady, but then he glanced toward you, the corner of his mouth curling up. "If she’ll allow me to."
There was something in his expression, something earnest and unguarded that sent a flutter through your chest. You felt a blush creep up your cheeks and quickly turned back to your father. "You should rest more," you said, avoiding Logan’s gaze as you walked into the room, busying yourself with adjusting your father’s pillows. "You’re still recovering, and I don’t want you overexerting yourself."
Your father gave you a knowing smile, then settled back into the bed with a sigh. "I suppose you’re right, my dear. But I expect to be up and about soon. And perhaps…" he glanced meaningfully between you and Logan, "if all goes well, I shall see some progress between the two of you by then."
"Father," you chided, though the blush on your cheeks deepened.
Logan only smiled, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet promise. "I think that’s a fair expectation, sir," he said, his voice softening as he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.
You turned to leave the room and the feeling of his eyes on you lingered like a gentle warmth, as though the moment you had shared wasn’t entirely lost—just postponed, waiting to be resumed in the stillness of a future yet to be written.
────୨ৎ────
It felt oddly intimate, sitting outside for afternoon tea with the whole family, including Logan. The air was warm, softened by a gentle breeze that stirred the leaves of the nearby oak tree and rustled the delicate lace on your sleeves. You were seated at the white metal table beneath the shade of a parasol, idly fanning yourself as you watched the scene unfolding on the lawn.
Your father, who had recovered remarkably well, stood with his cane in hand, his posture straighter than it had been in weeks. Beside him was Logan, who looked unusually relaxed in his shirtsleeves, his coat draped over the back of a nearby chair. They were both attempting to teach your youngest sister the finer points of pallmall, though judging by her shrieks of laughter and exaggerated swings, it was clear she was more interested in chaos than in any true mastery of the game.
Your father pointed toward the wooden ball with his cane, giving some encouragement, while Logan crouched down to demonstrate the correct stance, his deep voice carrying across the garden. 
You could see the way your sister's eyes sparkled as she looked at him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. There was a natural ease to Logan’s movements, a gentleness in his manner that you had not always seen. It stirred something unfamiliar and unsettling in you.
"He is rather easy on the eyes, isn’t he?"
You blinked and turned sharply toward your mother, who sat beside you, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips.
"Oh, please, do not speak about Father that way," you quipped, rolling your eyes. But when you saw the mischievous arch of your mother’s brow, you realized with a jolt that she had not been referring to your father at all. "Mama!" you hissed, heat rising to your cheeks.
"What?" She gave an innocent shrug, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement. "I may be an old woman, but I am not blind. And you’d do well to notice the way he looks at you." She glanced pointedly in Logan’s direction, and when you followed her gaze, you caught him watching you, his expression softening as your eyes met.
Quickly, you turned your attention back to your teacup, lifting it to your lips to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. "You’re imagining things, Mama," you murmured, keeping your tone dismissive, but there was no mistaking the warmth that crept into your voice.
"Am I?" your mother replied with a knowing smile. "Well, if I am, then perhaps I should get my eyes checked." She sipped her tea, her gaze lingering on Logan for a moment longer before turning to engage one of your sisters in conversation.
You chanced another glance across the lawn. Logan had returned to coaching your sister, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder as he corrected her stance. His hair fell untidily over his forehead, the sunlight catching in the strands, and there was an easy grace to him that seemed to draw you in against your will. It was as if you were seeing him anew. Someone who had begun to carve out a space in your thoughts, even when you hadn’t wanted him to.
As the game concluded and your sister raced off in pursuit of a butterfly, Logan strolled back toward the table, his gaze finding yours as if pulled there by some unseen force. He stopped beside your chair, a playful glint in his eye. "Would you care to join the game?" he asked, his tone light. "Your sister claims she is now the undisputed champion and says you would be no match for her."
You couldn’t help but smile at that. "Is that so?" you replied, arching a brow. "And did you encourage this confidence of hers, my lord?"
"Only a little," he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a faint smile. "But I believe it’s warranted. She has quite the swing."
"Then perhaps I ought to prove her wrong," you said, setting your teacup aside and rising from your chair. There was a flutter of anticipation in your chest as you stepped onto the lawn, and Logan offered you his arm, which you accepted, feeling a jolt of warmth spread from the point of contact. It was a small, ordinary gesture, yet it seemed to speak volumes—an unspoken acknowledgment that something was shifting between you.
He guided you to where the mallet lay on the grass, his hand lingering at the small of your back for just a moment. "Shall I show you the proper stance, or do you already consider yourself an expert?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.
You couldn’t resist the faint smile that tugged at your lips. "I think I can manage," you said, taking up the mallet and positioning yourself with as much grace as you could muster. But as you prepared to take the swing, you felt Logan step closer, his presence a comforting heat at your back.
"Here," he murmured, reaching around you to adjust your grip. His hand closed over yours, his touch firm but gentle, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your temple. "You’ll get a better aim if you angle the mallet just slightly…" His voice trailed off as his gaze met yours, his eyes dark and intent, as though he had forgotten entirely about pallmall.
You held your breath, aware of the inches that separated you—of how easy it would be to turn, to close that distance, to see if his lips were as warm and steady as his hands. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you wondered if he felt it too. If he, too, was resisting the pull.
Just as you were about to speak, to say something—anything—your sister called out from across the lawn, breaking the spell. The moment shattered, and you quickly stepped forward, your cheeks warm with something that felt dangerously close to longing.
"Thank you," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "For the… instruction."
Logan’s lips curved in a faint smile, though there was a hint of something unspoken in his eyes as he stepped back. "Anytime," he replied, his tone gentle. "Though I think you hardly needed my help."
You turned away as your pulse quickened. You looked back toward the table where your mother sat, her expression unreadable, and you couldn’t help but feel as though something definitely between you and Logan had shifted, even if you weren’t quite sure what it was.
────୨ৎ────
The journey back to Howlett Manor was marked by a heavy, simmering silence. The wheels of the carriage rumbled over the uneven road, but it did little to distract you from the charged tension that hung between you and Logan. 
He had spoken only a few words since leaving Langley House, his voice low and hesitant, while you had responded with polite nods, unwilling to break the quiet. It was as if something taut and brittle was between you, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
When the carriage finally rolled to a halt, you glanced out the window and saw Lady Elizabeth waiting on the manor steps, her expression as sharp as a blade. She stood rigidly, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the carriage. The sight of her sent a chill through you, and even before she spoke, you could sense the confrontation that awaited.
Logan let out a weary sigh, his hand already on the door handle. "Stay here," he murmured, his tone edged with frustration. "I’ll deal with her."
But you were already reaching for the door, refusing to remain hidden like some guilty secret. "I will not," you said, your voice firm as you stepped out into the cool evening air. 
The weight of his gaze was palpable as you moved past him, and you heard him mutter under his breath, a resigned, "Of course, you wouldn’t."
Lady Elizabeth descended the steps as you approached, her dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. There was no warmth in her expression—only a cold, calculated disdain that spoke volumes before she even opened her mouth. 
"So," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, "you’ve come back. And after the disgraceful way you left, no less." Her gaze flicked to Logan, as though seeking confirmation of your audacity. "I expect an apology, from both of you."
Logan's jaw tightened as he stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. "An apology?" he echoed, his brow furrowing. "For what, exactly?"
"For trying to bring scandal upon this family," Lady Elizabeth snapped, her eyes flashing as she turned her glare fully on you. "Leaving without a word, abandoning your duties as my son's wife. It was irresponsible, childish—"
"Enough," Logan interrupted, his tone sharp and edged with something you hadn’t heard before—a warning. He took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, as though shielding you from his mother’s words. "This is not her fault."
Lady Elizabeth’s mouth tightened into a thin line. "She left this manor in a fit of temper, and I will not stand by and have my family's reputation dragged through the mud by some—"
"She left because of the lies," Logan cut in, his voice rising. "Because of your lies." His eyes darkened, and he held his mother’s gaze without flinching. "She knows, Mother. About me. About the truth of my birth."
The silence that followed was like the calm before a storm, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something—fear, perhaps, or anger—in Lady Elizabeth's eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a cold, imperious stare. "And did you think it was wise to reveal such a thing?" she spat, her tone laced with venom. "To her?" Her gaze darted to you, filled with contempt. "What does she know of the sacrifices that were made to keep this family’s legacy intact?"
Your heart pounded in your chest, a surge of indignation rising in you. "I know that whatever sacrifices were made, they were not mine to make," you said, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and defiance. "I was used as a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing."
Lady Elizabeth’s lips curled into a sneer. "A pawn, indeed. It is you who stands to gain from this marriage, my dear. Or did you think your family's situation was not known to us?"
Logan took another step forward, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s enough," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I won’t let you speak to her like that."
His mother’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking through her composure. "You would take her side over mine?" she asked, incredulity dripping from each word. "I did what was necessary to secure your future, to ensure that you would not be cast aside. Now you turn on me for the sake of—"
"Leave," Logan said abruptly, his voice hardening to steel. "Leave now, before you say something you cannot take back."
For a moment, it seemed as though she might argue, but then she straightened, drawing herself up with all the dignity she could muster. "Very well," she said icily, her gaze flicking to you one last time, as though etching you into her memory with distaste. "But do not think this matter is settled." She turned sharply on her heel and strode back up the steps, disappearing into the manor with a swish of her skirts, leaving a chill in her wake.
The silence descended once more, you let out a breath. The encounter had left you shaken, and yet… there was a strange sense of relief, too. You glanced at Logan, who was still standing rigidly, his eyes fixed on the place where his mother had just vanished. There was a tightness in his jaw, an unspoken conflict that lingered in the lines of his face.
"You didn’t have to do that," you said quietly, your voice softening. "She’s your mother."
He shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. "That doesn’t give her the right to speak to you that way," he murmured, his gaze finally shifting to meet yours. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—like longing, or perhaps relief, as though in defending you, he had also taken a step toward freeing himself from his mother’s expectations. "I promised to be honest with you," he continued. "And I meant it. Whatever else happens, I will not let her dictate our lives."
You felt a rush of warmth, not just from his words but from the quiet intensity with which he spoke them. It wasn’t just a defense; it was a declaration—a small but significant act of loyalty that stirred something deep within you. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing against his hand in a tentative gesture of gratitude, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence stretched between you, almost as a shared understanding—a bond that had begun to form amid secrets and betrayals, and was slowly becoming something more solid. Logan’s fingers curled around yours, and the touch felt like a promise in itself.
"Come," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "Let’s go inside.”
You nodded, allowing him to lead you back into the manor, your hand still clasped in his. As you crossed the threshold together, you couldn’t help but feel that, despite everything, there was a glimmer of hope despite the uncertainty of the future.
Later that night, you found yourself pacing the length of your chamber, your footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath your bare feet. 
Sleep had become a rare visitor since the wedding; Howlett Manor held a kind of darkness that seemed to linger in the very walls, keeping you on edge. The vast, silent corridors, the draughts that whispered through the halls, the way the night settled heavily over the estate. It was as though the manor itself was unsettled, restless, and it had passed that restlessness on to you.
Then there were the sounds. Soft, distant groaning that seemed to rise and fall on the air. You had dismissed it before, convincing yourself it was nothing more than the old bones of the house shifting or the wind rattling the shutters. But tonight, as you stood in the shadows of your room, the sound came again, louder this time, and unmistakably human. It clawed at your nerves, tugging at your curiosity and, despite the unease prickling along your spine, you felt compelled to find out what—or who—was behind it.
Drawing in a breath to steady yourself, you reached for the door handle and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. The candles along the walls flickered as you passed, casting long, wavering shadows that danced on the stone. You followed the noise, the low groaning growing clearer, guiding you down the hallway and toward one of the rooms.
As you drew closer, the sound sharpened into muffled cries, pained and desperate. You hesitated at the door, your hand hovering over the handle. It was Logan’s voice, unmistakable even in its anguish. A shudder ran through you as you pressed your ear to the wood, your pulse quickening. Was he hurt? Was someone in there with him?
You turned the handle and pushed the door open gently, peering into the darkness of the room. Logan lay sprawled on the bed, the sheets twisted around his limbs, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he were struggling for breath. His face was contorted in agony, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. The groans came again, low and tortured, escaping his lips as he writhed in the grip of some unseen terror.
Without thinking, you hurried to his side, your heart pounding. "Logan," you whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Logan, wake up. It’s just a dream—"
The moment your fingers brushed against his skin, his eyes flew open, wide and unfocused. Before you could react, his hand shot out, grasping your wrist in a vice-like grip and yanking you closer. The suddenness of the movement sent you stumbling forward, and you cried out as his other arm came around, knocking you off balance. You fell against the bed, your wrist pinned painfully beneath his hand.
"Logan, stop!" you gasped, your voice high and trembling. "It’s me—"
His eyes were wild, unseeing, and for a terrifying moment, you weren’t sure he recognized you at all. His grip tightened, and you winced, a sharp pain shooting through your wrist. But then his gaze seemed to clear, the dark confusion lifting as he blinked and released you as though burned.
The room fell into a tense silence as you pulled your arm back, rubbing your sore wrist and staring at him, your breath coming fast. Logan's eyes widened with horror as he took in the scene, his chest still heaving with the remnants of his nightmare. 
"I—I didn’t mean to—" His voice cracked, and he sat up abruptly, his hand trembling as he reached toward you. "Are you all right?"
You nodded shakily, though your heart still raced. "I’m fine," you said, though your voice came out quieter than you intended. "It’s just… you were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but you…" You swallowed, the words trailing off as you looked down at your wrist, where faint red marks were already starting to form.
His gaze followed yours, and his expression crumpled with guilt. "God, I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice rough with shame. "I—I've never meant to hurt you. I didn’t even know it was you. I thought—" He broke off, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers tangling in the damp strands. "I thought I was still… there."
You hesitated, the pain in your wrist already ebbing, replaced by a different kind of ache—one that came from seeing the despair in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped as though he carried the weight of a lifetime’s worth of regrets. "Still where?" you asked softly, your gaze searching his face. "Logan, what did you dream about?"
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his hands, which lay open in his lap as though he were afraid of what they might do. "I have the same nightmare every night," he admitted, his voice low and unsteady. "It’s always the same. I see my father… the man who raised me. He’s lying there, lifeless, and it’s my fault. I’m the one who…" His voice broke, and he looked away, his breath shuddering. "I’m the one who killed him."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You stared at him, your pulse thrumming in your ears as the full weight of his confession settled over you. "Logan…" you breathed, not knowing what else to say. There was a rawness in his voice that tore at you, a grief and self-loathing that seemed to spill out in waves. You found yourself reaching for him, hesitantly resting your hand on his arm, your touch light and tentative.
"He died years ago," Logan continued his voice barely above a whisper. "It was an accident, but… I was there. I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it." He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that made your heart clench. "I suppose that’s why the nightmares won’t leave. They remind me of what I could never make right."
You tightened your grip on his arm, drawing his gaze back to yours. "It wasn’t your fault," you said gently, the words spilling out even though you knew they might not bring him any comfort. "You can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control."
His eyes searched yours, a flicker of something glinting in the depths. "You shouldn’t be here," he said quietly, though he made no move to pull away from you. "You should have left me to my demons. It’s safer that way."
"Perhaps," you replied, your voice barely more than a breath as you looked down at where your hand rested on his arm. "But if I left, who would keep you from them?"
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without fully understanding why, you leaned in closer, your touch sliding from his arm to his hand, your fingers threading through his. The silence between you was heavy. It was as though you were sharing the same breath, the same pain. Somehow, that made it a little more bearable for him.
Logan’s hand tightened around yours, and when he exhaled, it was as though some of the weight had lifted from his chest. "Stay," he murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. "Just for tonight."
You nodded, not trusting your voice to speak. As you settled back against the pillows, Logan lay down beside you, his body still tense but his grip on your hand unwavering. The darkness seemed to close in around you both, but this time, it felt less like a threat and more like a shared refuge.
Eventually, the rhythm of his breathing steadied, and you felt yourself slipping into sleep, lulled by the quiet comfort of his presence.
When the early morning light peeked through the curtains, its soft glow casting pale golden streaks across the bed, you were certain you were alone. The events of last night already seemed like a distant dream—the nightmare, Logan’s confession, the way you had fallen asleep side by side. The sheets felt cool where you lay, and for a moment, you wondered if he had left before dawn, quietly slipping away to avoid the awkwardness of the morning after.
You let out a small sigh and reached out tentatively, your hand roaming across the mattress, half-expecting to find only the emptiness where he had been. But then, your fingertips brushed against something warm. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you turned your head to see Logan lying there, his back to you, balanced precariously near the edge of the bed as if he had tried to keep as much distance between you as possible. It was almost comical—this broad-shouldered man, practically dangling off the side, as though the mere thought of sharing space with you was a dangerous line he dared not cross.
A small, unbidden smile tugged at your lips as you took in the sight. It was… endearing, in a way, how he seemed so out of place there, awkwardly trying to respect a boundary that neither of you had defined. The tension of the night had faded into something softer and sweet. You hadn’t meant to wake him, but you couldn’t help it—the sight of him like this, so different from his usual composed self, made you want to tease him, just a little.
"Are you planning on falling out of the bed, or are you just trying to escape?" you whispered, your voice still husky with sleep.
Logan stirred, a faint groan escaping him as he rolled over slowly, blinking against the morning light. His hair was tousled, falling into his eyes, and there was a faint crease on his cheek where it had pressed against the pillow. He looked at you, still half-asleep, and it took a moment for your words to register. Then a sheepish smile curved his lips, and he rubbed a hand over his face.
"I didn’t want to crowd you," he murmured, his voice rough and low. "You were asleep, and I… wasn’t sure if you’d…" He trailed off, his cheeks coloring slightly as if realizing how ridiculous he must have looked, hanging onto the edge for dear life.
A small laugh bubbled out of you, the sound light and unexpected. "I think the bed is big enough for the both of us," you teased gently, unable to hide the warmth in your tone. "You didn’t have to keep such a dramatic distance."
Logan’s smile grew, a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. "Well, I didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d taken advantage of your kindness," he said, his tone softening. "I didn’t want to… presume."
The sincerity in his voice made your heart squeeze, and for a moment, the awkwardness settled into something that made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized until now just how much his presence comforted you, how safe you had felt lying beside him last night. The realization came with a rush of something warm and unfamiliar, and it took you by surprise.
"Well," you said, your gaze drifting to where his hand rested on the sheets between you, "if you’re so worried about my comfort, perhaps next time you can stay closer… so you don’t fall off the bed." The words left your lips before you could fully think them through, and as they hung in the air, you felt a blush creep up your neck, your cheeks warming with the boldness of your suggestion.
Logan’s eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and something like hope shimmering in their depths. He glanced down at your hand, which had somehow drifted closer to his, and a crooked, endearing smile touched his lips. "Next time?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of playful curiosity. "So you’re already planning on sharing a bed with me again?"
You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping as you quickly shook your head. "That’s not what I meant," you stammered, though the smile pulling at your mouth betrayed you. "I just—well, I meant if… circumstances were to, you know… happen again." The words felt clumsy and inadequate, but there was no taking them back now.
Logan chuckled softly, his gaze warm and lingering on your face. "I see," he said, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. "If circumstances… happen."
You nodded, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness wash over you. The room seemed too bright, too intimate in the morning light, and you reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it higher as if it could shield you from the vulnerability of the moment. Logan cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence in a way that felt almost painfully loud.
"I should… I have matters to attend to with my mother," he said, his voice sounding rougher than usual. "I’m positive she’s still fuming." There was a faint hint of a wry smile on his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You nodded again, quickly, unsure if you could trust your voice not to betray the odd mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Relief, embarrassment, something like disappointment—it all tangled together, making it hard to breathe. Logan took your silence as agreement and turned away, slipping out of the bed with a fluid, quiet movement.
You found yourself glancing over at him before you could stop yourself, and then quickly averted your gaze when you noticed the way his nightshirt clung to his back, the fabric outlining the curve of his shoulders and the lean muscles beneath. You swallowed hard, focusing intently on a spot on the floor, as though it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
Logan’s bare feet padded softly on the rug as he gathered his clothes, his movements quick but not hurried, as if he too was acutely aware of the lingering awkwardness in the air. "I… I’ll see you later," he said, his voice low and hesitant, as though he were testing the words before letting them go.
"Yes," you managed to reply, though your voice came out softer than you intended. "Later."
For a brief moment, he hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the frame as if considering saying something more. But then, with a small nod, he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
You exhaled slowly, sinking back into the pillows, the blanket still pulled up close. The room seemed larger now, emptier, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he had felt the same pull that you had—the subtle, magnetic pull that had lingered in the space between you. You pushed the thought away, telling yourself that it was foolish to read too much into a moment shared in the quiet hours of dawn.
────୨ৎ────
The better part of the day had passed in the garden, where the air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and the gentle hum of bees. You had retreated there after hearing the heated voices echoing up from downstairs. Lady Elizabeth’s clipped tones and Logan’s frustrated replies had risen in a crescendo that spilled into the halls, making it clear that whatever rift lay between them was far from being mended. 
It seemed wise to keep your distance, and so you had found a book, tucked yourself into a quiet corner at the far edge of the garden, and tried to lose yourself in the pages while the murmur of nature surrounded you.
The stone bench beneath you was warmed by the sun, and though you kept your eyes trained on the book in your lap, the words seemed to blur together. You had long since given up on following the plot, your thoughts drifting back to the night before—Logan’s haunted confession, the way he had looked at you as if you were the only thing grounding him in the present. The memory of it lingered, unbidden, in the back of your mind, filling you with a confusing mix of tenderness and doubt.
The crunch of footsteps on the gravel path drew your attention, and you glanced up to see Logan approaching. His expression, which had been set in a firm line, softened as his gaze met yours. He looked weary, as though whatever argument he had just endured had drained him of energy, yet there was also a quiet determination in the way he carried himself, his shoulders squared despite the tension in his jaw.
"May I join you?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation, as though he were uncertain of his welcome.
You closed the book gently, offering a small nod. "Of course," you said, shifting slightly to make room for him on the bench. "How… how did it go with your mother?"
He sank beside you, his sigh barely audible but weighted with frustration. "As well as can be expected," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "Which is to say, not well at all." He paused, glancing at the neatly trimmed hedges and the flowers that swayed in the breeze. "But I've made a decision." His tone softened, and he turned to look at you. "My mother will be moving out of Howlett Manor."
The statement took you by surprise, and you blinked, unsure if you had heard him correctly. "She’s leaving?"
Logan nodded, his gaze steady. "Yes. I think… it’s for the best. It’s become clear that we cannot live under the same roof without tearing each other apart." He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee as though he were working up the nerve to say something more. "With her gone, there will be… a lot of space in the manor. I was thinking… if you’d like, your family could move in. The Langleys could make this place their home too."
The offer hung in the air between you, carrying with it the weight of an unspoken promise. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say, your thoughts tangling in your mind. "That’s… kind of you to suggest," you began slowly, your gaze falling to your hands. "But our marriage… things are still so uncertain." You swallowed your throat tight with the admission. "I don’t know if we should be making decisions like this when we don’t even know what the future holds for us."
Logan's hand reached for yours, his touch gentle yet firm. "I know things are uncertain," he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity. "But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this marriage real—to make us real." His thumb brushed over your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. "I like you. I like the way you challenge me, the way you look at me as though I’m worth trying for. I want this to work, not because we have to, but because I choose to."
His words seemed to reach inside you, stirring something that had been long dormant—something warm and fragile that blossomed with each passing second. You looked up at him, your heart racing, your breath caught somewhere between hope and fear. "You… you mean that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. "You’d choose this, even if—"
"I would," he interrupted softly, his other hand reaching to cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, as though he were afraid to break whatever spell lay between you. "If you’ll let me."
The moment stretched out, the world around you fading into the background until there was only him, his gaze locked on yours, his breath mingling with the warm air. You leaned in, almost without thinking, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips met his, tentative and searching. The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush that sent a tremor through you, but as he deepened it, a quiet urgency arose, his hand slipping to the nape of your neck to pull you closer.
The world seemed to tilt, and when you finally pulled back, breathless, you saw a light in Logan’s eyes that you had never seen before—a mixture of relief, hope, and tenderness. That set your heart racing all over again.
"You kissed me back," he murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice as his thumb traced your cheek.
"I suppose I did," you replied, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you felt the warmth of his hand still against your skin. "It seems I’ve made my choice too."
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath still slightly uneven. "Then let’s make this work," he whispered, the words like a promise carried on the breeze. "Together."
────୨ৎ────
The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of the nursery, casting a golden light over the pale blue walls and the delicate lace curtains that swayed ever so slightly with the summer breeze. The room was filled with the soft sounds of cooing and gentle rocking, and you sat in the cushioned chair near the window, cradling your newborn daughter in your arms. Her tiny fingers curled around your thumb, and you marveled at how something so small could hold your entire heart within her grasp.
The past year had swept by like a dream, and Howlett Manor had become a place of life and laughter in ways you hadn’t imagined when you first arrived. The once lonely halls were now filled with warmth, with family, and with a love that had grown slowly, steadily, and then all at once.
Logan appeared in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a streak of dirt smudged on his cheek, evidence of whatever task had drawn him outside earlier. His eyes softened when he saw you, his gaze drifting down to the baby nestled in your arms. "She’s awake," he murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet wonder that had not diminished since the day she was born.
You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection as you noticed the way he lingered in the doorway, as though hesitant to disturb the peacefulness of the moment. "Come here," you whispered, tilting your head in invitation. "She’ll be glad to see her father."
He crossed the room in a few strides, his movements careful as though he were still getting used to the idea of this tiny new life you had brought into the world together. As he reached out to take her from you, his fingers brushed against yours, and you shared a quiet smile. The love between you had become something tangible, something that seemed to shimmer in the air every time your eyes met.
Logan cradled his daughter with a tenderness that belied his strong, rugged exterior. She blinked up at him, her wide eyes reflecting the light as she reached for his nose, her tiny hand waving in the air. "There you are, little one," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur that was only for her. "You’re going to be causing all sorts of trouble before we know it, aren’t you?"
You laughed softly, leaning your head back against the chair as you watched them together. "If she’s anything like her father, she’ll be climbing out of windows and sneaking into the stables before she can even walk," you teased.
He glanced at you, his mouth curving into a playful smile. "And if she’s anything like her mother," he countered, "she’ll have a stubborn streak a mile wide and won’t take no for an answer."
The joy in his eyes was undeniable, and it was a joy that had become commonplace at Howlett Manor. The changes were everywhere—in the lively dinners shared around the long oak table, where your father told stories that made your mother laugh like a young girl again; in the afternoons when your sisters played with the dogs in the garden, their laughter carrying on the wind. The Langleys had made the manor their home, and though the arrangement had been born out of necessity, it had grown into something far richer—a tapestry of shared lives and everyday happiness.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, and your mother appeared at the door, a fond smile on her face as she saw the three of you together. "There you are," she said warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "We were wondering if you planned to join us for the midday meal, or if we should come to you."
"We’ll be down shortly," you replied, glancing at Logan as he swayed gently, his daughter’s eyelids beginning to droop once more. "It seems someone is already ready for her nap, though."
Your mother’s gaze softened as she watched Logan rock the baby in his arms, a look of deep contentment on her face. "She’ll be a strong one," she said quietly, her voice laced with pride. "Just like her parents."
Logan met your eyes, a shared understanding passing between you as your mother slipped back out of the room. You rose from the chair, moving to stand beside him, and as you laid a hand on his arm, he turned slightly to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as though he couldn’t quite pull away.
"I think life has turned out better than either of us could have imagined," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.
You tilted your head up, your gaze finding his. "I think we made it that way," you said, a quiet pride in your voice. "Together."
The words hung in the air for a moment, a reminder of the path you had walked to get here—of the uncertainty, the struggles, and the slow, steady growth of love that had bloomed between you. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss that spoke of more than just affection; it was a promise, a celebration, and an unspoken agreement that this—all of this—was just the beginning.
As you drew back, the baby stirred in Logan’s arms, letting out a tiny whimper that brought a smile to both of your faces. "Come on," he said, his voice soft and full of love. "Let’s go downstairs. Your family is waiting."
Together, you walked down the grand staircase, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, bathing the manor in a warm, golden light. The sound of familiar voices drifted up from the dining room, filling the air with the cheerful bustle of family life.
As you reached the bottom of the stairs, your daughter nestled safely in her father’s arms, you couldn’t help but feel that this life—so full of love, laughter, and even its small imperfections—was exactly where you were meant to be.
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musicallisto · 2 days ago
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· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)
… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3
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He speaks the language of princes.
It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.
Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.
But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.
Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.
You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.
"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.
The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.
"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.
But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.
You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.
"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.
Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.
Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?
This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—
"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"
"About you? Like what?"
"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.
"Maybe he was just bored."
"So I'm boring?"
"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"
"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."
The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.
"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."
A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.
"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."
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Singapore is a miracle.
Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.
After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...
and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.
Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.
"Twice in a row, cazzo!"
"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"
"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."
"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."
He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.
"Bravo, Carlos."
Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?
"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.
"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."
Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.
The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.
"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...
you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.
"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.
You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.
If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.
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Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.
Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.
Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.
This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.
Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...
maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.
Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...
"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."
"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.
"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"
"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."
"Absolutely not, mate."
"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"
"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"
Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.
You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.
Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.
Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.
"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."
This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.
You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.
"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.
You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.
Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?
"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."
"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."
"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."
Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.
"I should get some sleep."
Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.
"No, Carlos, wait."
He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.
"Why do you dislike me so much?"
And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.
"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.
So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.
One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.
But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.
"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."
"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."
If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.
"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."
Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.
You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.
"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.
"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."
"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.
"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."
"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"
"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?
"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."
If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.
"Don't mess with me."
"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."
"I won't tell Fred if you don't."
He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.
His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.
"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.
"After you win, you mean."
"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"
"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.
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"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"
Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.
"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.
The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.
"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."
He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.
Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...
Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.
You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...
"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.
He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.
In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.
For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.
"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"
A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.
"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."
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… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)
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dreamauri · 2 days ago
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♪ — 𝗠𝗬 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗕𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗨𝗦 max vertsappen  x  dutch! fem! driver! reader ( angst ) fic summary . . . when admiration and worship morphs into an obsession that borders on rivalry and hate, even as it remains tangled with traces of reluctant respect. From studying his every move as a young fan, Yn transforms into his fiercest competitor, driven by the need not just to beat her childhood idol, Max Verstappen, but to utterly dethrone him. (5.7K words)
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( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests | taglist )
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You pull off your helmet with a fury that blurs your vision, the weight of the day’s mistakes turning everything to red. You’d been so close—so damn close to taking the lead from him, only for Max to pull that brake test, sending both of you into the barriers. Without a second thought, you dropkick your helmet across the gravel, your scream piercing the air.
He’s already out of his car, stalking toward you with that smug, barely-contained anger in his eyes. The type of anger that’s wrapped up in confidence and control, the kind that shows he doesn’t care, not really.
“Are you out of your mind?” he barks, his voice clipped, only the faintest bit breathless. “What the hell was that?”
“You! You were what the hell that was!” you shout back, stepping forward until a marshal wedges between you, holding you both back with outstretched arms. “You pulled that damn stunt! You think you’re untouchable, Verstappen, but you’re not!” Your words echo across the track, catching the attention of everyone nearby.
Max’s lips curl into a mocking smirk. “Untouchable? Coming from the one who can’t seem to finish a race without nearly taking someone out?” His laugh is bitter, biting, and it grates on every nerve you have left.
“When did you turn into such a coward?” you hiss, every word as sharp as the tension in the air. “Or did the idea of losing to me start to get under your skin?”
Max’s face twitches, just for a second, but he covers it up with a shrug, like your words meant nothing. “Get real, Yn. You’re reckless. This sport has no place for someone like you if you’re going to risk both our necks out there.”
But as the marshals pull you apart, each of you going in opposite directions, the heat simmering in your chest turns from anger to something almost painful, a question that’s been lying dormant for too long: When did I start hating him so much?
In the quietness of the shower back in your drivers room, the memories come rushing back.
There was a time when you couldn’t even imagine hating Max. A time that you looked up to Max. You can see it now, your younger self glued to the screen, watching every race, every move he made on the track. Back then, he was a hero, a force you admired, your inspiration as you fought your way through karting, Formula 4, Formula 3.
It was one of those post-race interviews, back in the early days, when a reporter called you “Mini Max.” They’d smiled at you, waiting for your reaction, and you’d laughed, your cheeks flushed as you spoke about how much you looked up to him. It felt like an honor, a small victory, to be compared to him.
But somewhere along the way, admiration soured into frustration. Somewhere along the way, you started to hate him—hate that he seemed so invincible, that he could still overshadow you, that no matter what you did, he was always a step ahead.
Now, the thought of finishing behind him feels like a betrayal to the younger version of you, the girl who once dreamed of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her hero. No, now it’s no longer enough to be near him. You need to beat him. You need him to feel what it’s like to lose.
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
While he was enjoying the off-season, probably relaxing on some distant beach enjoying his winder break, you were here—training, pushing yourself past every limit until your muscles ached, until you couldn’t remember anything but the fire burning inside you. You wanted to be better. You had to be.
You’d already stolen one of his records: youngest F1 driver. But it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You wanted his wins, his titles, his legacy. Every drop of sweat, every missed social event, every sleepless night—all of it was for one thing: to dethrone Max Verstappen.
“You’re pushing too hard,” your performance coach warned one day, watching you with concern as you struggled to complete yet another lap on the simulator, your hands trembling with exhaustion.
“I’m not stopping until I’m faster than him,” you gritted out, voice strained, but you didn’t let up. You couldn’t. Because every time you closed your eyes, you saw him there, his smirk, his arrogant confidence, and it made you push harder, faster, ignoring every ache and pain.
Pre-season testing felt like a curse. The moment you hit the track, frustration settled in like an unwanted passenger, sitting heavy in your chest as you struggled with the car’s every turn. You needed something perfect, something that could carry you past him, but instead, the car felt like it was working against you, resisting every command.
“Is this really the best we can do?” you snapped at your engineer after another failed lap. Your tone was sharp, the bite in your voice making him flinch.
“It’s early, Yn,” he replied cautiously, not quite meeting your eyes. “We still have time to make adjustments.”
Time? You wanted to laugh, but it felt too bitter. There was no time—not when you could feel Max somewhere on the track, clocking in faster times in his rocketship, his team perfecting every detail while you were stuck here, in a car that felt like it was holding you back.
“It needs to be better,” you said quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper, but every ounce of frustration bled through. “I need it to be better if I’m going to beat him.”
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
As the season began, you avoided Max like he was some kind of curse, the plague even. Every time you saw him across the paddock, your jaw clenched, and you turned away. Every glance he threw your way felt like a challenge, and every interview brought questions you hated answering, questions about him, about your rivalry, about your chances against him.
The roar of the crowd was still pounding in your ears as you climbed out of the car, adrenaline coursing through you as every nerve thrummed with frustration. The race had been brutal—more than it should have been. You’d fought for every inch, every corner, only to have Max come up behind you on that last lap, reckless as always, clipping the side of your car and puncturing a hole right near the rear wing.
You tore off your gloves, tossing them to the side before stepping closer to examine the damage. The deep gouge was blatant against the pristine paint, a mark of just how close he’d come to forcing you out completely. Your fingers traced the edges of the hole, the anger simmering hotter with each second as you replayed the moment he veered in your direction, testing you in a move so blatant you couldn’t ignore it if you tried.
A nearby camera crew caught the scene, the lens aimed in your direction as you ripped off your helmet, pushing damp strands of hair from your face. You barely registered the red light on the camera, too consumed by the frustration boiling over.
“He really had to pull that move, didn’t he?” you muttered, voice dripping with bitterness as you wiped sweat from your brow. “Typical Max. God, he’s such a… such a bitch.”
The words came out low, rough, but it was enough for the camera to catch them, the red light blinking like it was in on the joke, laughing with you, or at you, whichever it was. You let out a huff, half-expecting him, Max,  to have heard it somehow, already imagining his response—a smirk, a raised brow, maybe some cocky comment about how close he’d gotten to overtaking.
As you ran a hand over your face, trying to shake off the rage, you felt someone approaching from behind. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Max’s presence was unmistakable, like a storm looming over you, too close, too intense.
“What?” you snapped, finally spinning around to face him. He was already out of his helmet, his blue eyes fixed on you with that unreadable look that made your blood boil all over again.
“What? No ‘thank you’ for keeping it interesting?” he replied, his tone light but his gaze sharper, more calculating.
“Oh, sure,” you retorted, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Thank you for trying to send me into the wall with that last move. Real sportsmanship, Max.”
He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t seem to mind getting a little aggressive when it suits you. Didn’t think you’d be this sensitive about it.”
“Sensitive?” You stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “That was reckless, even for you. I’m not surprised you’d think putting both of us at risk is somehow a good idea.”
Max’s smirk faded, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “If you can’t handle the pressure, maybe—”
“Don’t,” you cut him off, words coming out like steel. “Don’t you dare imply that I can’t handle it. I was still ahead of you, even with that stunt. Maybe you should stop hiding behind dirty tactics and see how long you can actually stay in front without them.”
The air was thick with tension, and you barely noticed the media crew and team members pretending to busy themselves nearby, clearly trying to avoid interrupting whatever this was turning into.
Max let out a slow breath, his expression softening just enough that it threw you off for a second. “Believe what you want, Yn. Just remember who crossed the line first.”
His words were like a taunt, but they left a hollow ache in their wake as he turned, walking away without another glance back. You clenched your fists, feeling the heat of the camera still on you, catching everything.
Fine. Let them see, let them know you weren’t about to let him get away with this. If Max Verstappen wanted a rivalry, then that’s exactly what he was going to get.
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The roar of the engines echoed around the track, every corner a battle between you and Max. Your car was an extension of you, a machine honed and perfected for moments like this, pushing you to the very edge as you fought for P1 in the sprint race. Max was right there—just inches away, as relentless as ever. Every overtake, every daring cut into the corner, was met with resistance from him, as if he refused to let you have even an inch of track.
“He’s defending like mad,” one of the commentators said, awe in his voice. “You have to wonder if they’re aware of how much this fight feels like Caesar and Brutus. Max as Caesar, of course, with Yn gunning for him like Brutus.”
Your focus sharpened even further, the comparison strangely invigorating, pushing you to take every move with more aggression. If they wanted a Brutus, they’d get one.
When the race ended, you crossed the line right behind Max, fuming and breathless but satisfied with the chase. It was in the media pen afterward, your mind still replaying every maneuver, that an interviewer brought up the commentary.
“Did you catch what they were calling you out there?” the interviewer asked with a sly grin, clearly relishing in the drama.
You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “No, what?”
“They called you ‘Brutus.’”
You blinked in surprise, a mix of confusion and amusement flitting across your face before you brushed it off with a shrug. “It’s fitting, isn’t it? Brutus was victorious in the end.” You tried offering, looking at the bright side and giving a small smile, letting the interviewer chuckle as you shrugged off the implication. You knew there was a bite to your words, an edge that hinted at more than a friendly rivalry.
Meanwhile, in Max’s own interview, when they informed him of the new nickname, he barely batted an eye. “Yeah?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. Then he gave a small, careless nod. “It’s fitting, ’cause she’s a brute.” There was a half-smirk on his face, and the way he said it was practically a challenge. You could practically hear his voice, even though you were nowhere near him.
The next day, you stepped onto the track with a new kind of energy, a thrill of anticipation in your veins. As you took your position on the grid, a chant from the crowd filtered into your helmet. You could hear it even over the sound of engines revving, the murmur and shout of the crowd growing stronger: “Brutus! Brutus! Brutus!”
The name had taken hold, and there was something about it that set your blood on fire. You embraced it, straightening in your seat as though you were some kind of warrior, sent with purpose to take down Max. It felt like you weren’t just racing for yourself anymore; you were embodying something larger, a symbol of the one who dared to challenge the reigning power.
You glanced to the side where Max’s car sat in P1, his familiar helmet tilted as he prepped, no doubt hearing the same chant. If he looked your way, you didn’t see it, too wrapped up in the energy that was now backing you. You were Brutus, and you were ready to show everyone, including Max, just how fierce you could be.
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Each race felt like peeling back another layer, another page in a book you couldn’t stop reading, even as it tore at you. Max had become everything that drove you—every late-night practice, every reckless risk taken, every corner claimed just an inch sharper. You’d built your entire career studying him, dissecting his strengths, cataloging his weaknesses, carving out a strategy with every heartbeat set to match his.
But that irony twisted in your gut like a knife. It was almost poetic, really: you’d spent years learning him, watching him, emulating him until you’d become something terrifyingly similar. It was as if you’d built yourself in his image, shaped your own ambition around his fire, around the relentless hunger he brought to every race. But the thought was bitter, cold. Every time someone compared you, every time they pointed out how alike you were, it felt like a betrayal.
A betrayal to the younger you, to the version of yourself who’d watched him with awe, who’d traced his lines on paper with stars doodled around his name. The one who had once seen him as a symbol of everything good and pure about racing.
Now, he was nothing more than a hurdle you couldn’t ignore, one you refused to let stand in your way.
But no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much you resented him for being the goal you chased, you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t. Not until every accolade, every win, every record was ripped from his hands. Not until you stood there, victorious, knowing it was your name on everyone’s lips. Even if it meant becoming the very thing you hated.
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The music pulsed, pounding through your chest as you leaned over the bar, nursing your drink with an intensity that bordered on dangerous. Tonight had been supposed to be an escape—a distraction from the simmering frustration that came with finishing just behind Max. Again. You could still feel the clench of your hands around the wheel, the image of him just a few seconds ahead as you crossed the finish line etched behind your eyelids. You wanted to forget it all. Lose yourself to the numbing, pounding bass and the warm haze of alcohol.
But that small sense of victory shattered the moment you caught sight of him across the club. Max. His eyes were on you, his presence impossible to ignore as he stood near the VIP section, laughing with friends, drink in hand. You groaned, tipping your drink back in a quick gulp. Of all the places...
You tried to ignore him, focusing on the dance floor, the bodies swaying around you, anything but the fact that he was watching your every move. But the alcohol mixed with the adrenaline still buzzing from the race, and that tiny, vengeful part of you wanted to prove something—to remind yourself you didn’t need to dwell on Max Verstappen.
But then you felt it: a warm, familiar touch wrapping around your waist. An arm pulling you back gently, firmly, into a chest that you knew too well.
"You know," he murmured, voice low, his breath warm against your ear. "You’re just like me."
The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated the way your heart reacted, a mix of anger and something else you didn’t want to name. You tried to wriggle free, stumbling slightly as the room spun around you. “Get off, Max. Go celebrate somewhere else.”
But he didn’t let go, his grip steady, holding you against him. “Come on, Yn,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "Let me take care of you. I'll take care of you."
His words wrapped around you like a taunt, like an invitation. You wanted to resist, to pull away and leave him there, but your head was foggy, your limbs heavy from the drinks, from the heat of his breath. You could barely manage a scowl as he pulled you closer, his hand steady against your waist.
“I don’t need your help,” you muttered, your words slurred but defiant.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice a warm murmur in your ear. “But I’m still here.”
Your mind swirled, the beat of the music fading to a low hum as you let yourself sink into his warmth, barely remembering how you’d stumbled out of the club, your legs unsteady as he led you down the hall to his suite.
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The next morning, you woke with a start, your head pounding as the light filtered through the hotel curtains. You groaned, burying your head in the pillow. You weren’t home—this wasn’t your bed. Slowly, memories of last night seeped in, fractured and surreal. The club. The warmth of Max’s arm around your waist. The soft rasp of his voice in your ear.
And then it hit you. The sex, the moaning, the positions, the kissing, biting, fighting, fucking. All of it.
You sat up, rubbing your eyes, only to feel a warm hand on your wrist, pulling you back into the bed. “Leaving already?” Max’s voice was thick with sleep, his blue eyes meeting yours with a soft, unreadable look.
You tried to pull away, the instinct to run screaming through your hazy mind, but he caught your chin gently, tilting your face toward him. “Stay,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
Your mind raced, half of you screaming to push him away, but the warmth of his mouth, the way his hand cupped your face—it was both maddening and disarming. Just for a moment, you let yourself lean into him, your guard down, all your reasons to hate him slipping through your fingers like sand.
The aftermath of the kiss felt like whiplash. Your initial hesitation morphed into pure, seething anger, and you shoved Max’s arm off, pulling yourself away. The alcohol may have clouded your thoughts last night, but clarity came barreling through now, sharp and laced with regret. You needed to get out—fast.
Throwing off the covers, you stormed to the other side of the room, grabbing your clothes off the floor with an urgency that matched your pounding heartbeat. As you shoved your legs into your jeans, Max stirred behind you, still sprawled half-asleep, reaching out as if to pull you back down beside him.
“Yn,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Why the rush? It’s not like you’ve got anywhere better—”
“Don’t,” you snapped, jamming your arms into your jacket. Your voice was clipped, your hands shaking as you fumbled with the zipper. “Just… don’t. I don’t know what I was thinking last night. This—” you motioned between you two, fingers trembling with irritation “—this was a mistake.”
Max sat up, that grin fading as he registered your expression. “Wait—hey, just hold on,” he muttered, pushing the blankets off and scrambling to find his boxers. You didn’t wait, storming toward the door, but his voice pulled you up short.
“So you’re really just going to walk out? Pretend this didn’t happen?” He was struggling into his pants, one leg half in as he hobbled after you.
You turned to him, words cutting through the morning air like a knife. “Yes, Max. I’m walking out because that’s exactly what this was—a mistake I’m leaving behind. We’re nothing alike, no matter what you want to think.”
He swayed, one hand against the wall as he finally managed to get his pants on, his eyes narrowing. “Are you sure that’s what this is? Or are you just scared to admit that you don’t hate me as much as you say you do?”
You paused, heart catching in your throat, looking at him for what felt like a minute before laughing bitterly, hoping your pause wasn’t too long for him to notice. Your heart ached. “You’re delusional. The only reason I was here was because I was too drunk to know better.”
Max took a step closer, eyes glinting with a challenge. “Then why don’t you tell me to stay away? Tell me to stop following you. I will, right now, if that’s what you really want.”
You faltered, your gaze flicking to the door, the pull between you both undeniable and frustrating. You could feel his stare digging into you, asking you to turn back, to stop pretending that he didn’t know you better than you wanted him to.
But instead, you gripped the doorknob and turned it, your knuckles going white. You didn’t say anything. Why didn’t you?
And before you let him say anything, you stepped through, slamming the door behind you.
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
You were sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the screen as another race played out before you. It wasn’t your own; it was one of Max’s races from a few seasons back. Your thumb hovered over the rewind button, your attention focused solely on catching every turn, every move he made. You leaned forward, squinting as you watched his lines, his techniques—any crack in his armor that might finally give you the edge you needed.
Behind you, your mother and father’s voices clashed in the kitchen.
“If you’d bothered to pick up the dry cleaning like I asked—” “Oh, don’t start. Just because you’re married again doesn’t mean you get to dictate my life, Liza.”
You tuned them out. Their back-and-forth was almost as predictable as Max’s lines around a slow corner; it was white noise now, nothing that could break your concentration.
Just as you spotted something—maybe a half-second hesitation in his approach to the apex—your father walked into the room, arms crossed, a smirk on his face as he eyed you and then the screen. He leaned against the doorframe, clearly amused.
“Still glued to that Verstappen kid, huh?” he teased, shaking his head. “I swear, it’s borderline obsession at this point.” He held something up, something that made your heart skip a beat—a familiar little notebook, worn and creased, with your childish doodles on the cover.
You looked at it, your chest tightening. The old notebook you’d kept as a kid, filled with every scrap of information about Max you could find—techniques, race strategies, his overtakes, his lines…everything.
He walked over, dropping the notebook onto your lap with a chuckle. “Remember this? You used to practically idolize him. Stars, doodles, the works,” he said, a slight hint of nostalgia in his tone. “You’d scribble notes while watching his races, your little hero.”
You swallowed, flipping open the notebook slowly. There it was: your handwriting, a little messy but full of enthusiasm, each page packed with observations about Max’s races. “Quick on the throttle here,” “Stellar defense move,” “Perfect line through Turn 4.” Some sections even had little stars around his name, doodles you’d drawn in the margins. Little hearts you hadn’t even noticed you’d drawn. Back then, he’d been like a god to you, the driver you’d wanted to be like, even surpass one day. The admiration on those pages was almost embarrassing now, a reminder of how innocent and naive you’d once been.
“Maybe I used to admire him,” you muttered, closing the notebook with a slight flush. You looked back at the screen, at the Max on the track, now an opponent, someone you wanted nothing more than to beat. “But that was before I knew what he was really like.”
Your dad laughed, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “Sure, sure, whatever you say. Just keep your obsession in check, alright? Wouldn’t want Max to get a restraining order.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t shake the feeling of those old memories lingering. The stars, the admiration—they were still in the notebook, a record of a time when you’d looked up to Max, and in a way, it reminded you of why you’d wanted to race in the first place. But now, you had something more to prove, and none of those doodles and stars could make you forget that.
The notebook lay open in your lap, one page showing a neatly drawn corner with “Max’s line” scribbled beside it. You had been meticulous, even back then, mapping his every turn, his every strategy like they were holy instructions, some sacred blueprint of how to be the best.
“Honestly, Liza, I’m not the one who left the thermostat set to Arctic!” Your dad’s voice cut through the hum.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know I had to run every single thing by you,” your mom snapped back. The sharp clink of a pan hitting the stovetop made you wince, your focus wobbling before you found it again.
You sat down heavily in your sim rig, the notebook clutched in your lap. Flipping through its pages, you skimmed over the small stars and scribbled praises, memories spilling out like ghosts as you stared down at all those words you’d once used to describe Max: quick, flawless, untouchable. A tiny part of you wanted to laugh at yourself; the other part ached, the way you did when you realized something beautiful had soured beyond repair.
You loaded up the AI program, Max’s settings set to the hardest mode. The muffled argument from the kitchen filtered through the walls. Your parents were at it again—voices low but tense, each word prickling at the air, growing louder with each moment.
“And what about last weekend? Who took Kendra to her recital while you were out playing golf with your buddies?” your mom accused, her tone biting.
“Oh, please, because I didn’t already spend hours making sure her car was fixed?”
You shifted your focus to the screen, finally blocking them out as you took off into the first lap. The AI Max was fast—just as aggressive as he was in real life, lunging to take the inside line at every turn, leaving barely an inch between his virtual tires and yours. You held on, matching his speed with ease, remembering every note, every trick you’d taught yourself just to keep up with him. Lap one down. You’d beat him.
“Oh, come on, Frank! If I had a dollar for every time you pulled that excuse,” your mom continued, voice muffled but unmistakable.
“Then go ahead, keep tallying, Liza. I’ve got a list a mile long if we’re counting grudges!” he fired back.
You reset the sim, sending the AI Max to challenge you again. The screen flashed, and you were off, Max’s virtual car zipping ahead as you pushed your own car to keep pace. The tension built lap by lap, each turn taking you closer to a victory over him—even if it was only a pixelated version. A feeling of triumph stirred in your chest as you overtook the AI at the final corner, winning another lap, then another.
Another loud clang from the kitchen pierced the air, followed by your mom’s frustrated,
 “Can we at least agree to stop shouting for once, Liz?”
“Sure, sure, until you find another reason to bite my head off,” 
But by now, it didn’t matter how loud they got; you couldn’t shake the realization sinking in as you felt the weight of the notebook in your lap. You’d beaten him here, again and again. 
Your gaze had dropped back to the pages in your lap, flipping through more of those pages, each one carrying fragments of that old adoration. Back when he was more than an opponent, back when he was someone you idolized, maybe even more than that. You felt your eyes burn as a tear slipped free, catching on your cheek.
You clenched the notebook tightly, fighting to shove down the wave of anger and resentment. When had it shifted? When had this fierce obsession turned into something ugly, something that kept you up at night, wanting nothing more than to knock him off that pedestal and destroy him?
The ache twisted deeper as you whispered, almost to yourself, 
“Why did you have to ruin it, Max?”
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The Abu Dhabi sunset cast an intense glare over the grid, heat rising from the track in waves as the entire circuit buzzed with anticipation. This was it—the final race, the decider. The season had been a brutal, relentless tug of war, and every inch you’d gained had been hard-won, paid for with countless hours and sacrificed peace. Yet all that melted into a charged, quiet tension as you stood on the grid, looking straight into the piercing gaze of Max Verstappen.
He looked calm. Unshaken. A flicker of something unnameable crossed his face as he watched you, that damn smirk just barely tugging at his mouth. It was the same cocky expression that haunted your memories, the one that lit the spark of anger you’d fanned all year. You looked back, hard, steady—fighting the urge to let your lips twist into something bitter. All you wanted, all you needed, was to cross that line first. To watch him falter, just once. You could almost feel the weight of the wish pressing into your chest, every quiet, secret prayer you’d ever made for him to fail. You wanted it so badly that it felt wrong—like holding fire too close to your heart.
Just let him crash, you thought. Just once. You closed your eyes briefly, wishing with all the intensity you’d buried over the years. It was twisted, immoral maybe, but you was past caring. This was yours to win.
The lights went out, and with a roar of engines, you launched forward, you world shrinking to the roar of your own car and the blur of track under your tires. Corner after corner, you battled, inches apart, daring each other to break first. Max was relentless, always in your mirrors, always pushing you to your limits. They danced around each other with a precision that spoke of rivalry, yes, but something more, too—years of watching each other, of studying each other’s moves like rival chess masters waiting for the inevitable mistake.
But it was Max who finally cracked.
A few laps from the end, as you watched him from your mirrors, you saw it happen in real time. He’d miscalculated, his car swinging out too wide, the split-second error sending him straight into the barrier. The force of it made you gasp, the sound of his car hitting the wall ripping through your chest, catching you off guard. Your hand tightened on the wheel, breath coming fast as the seconds dragged on.
“Is he . . . is he okay?” you asked, your voice shaky as you came through the radio. “Max? Is he okay?”
There was a pause, and then your engineer’s voice cut in, calm and steady. “He’s fine, Yn. Focus. Just bring it home.”
Those words, simple as they were, snapped you back into the race. The track blurred around you as you pushed, pushing yourself as hard as your car would allow. When you crossed the finish line, your screams rang out over the radio, your  engineer’s laughter joining you as the reality of it finally sunk in.
“Yn, you did it! You’re the champion!” he shouted, laughter bubbling over the line. “You are the world champion!”
“World champion!” You screamed, slamming your hands on the steering wheel in pure and overflowing euphoria. “Oh my God! We did it!”
You let out another whoop, a wild, unrestrained sound you didn’t recognize. Pulling into parc fermé, you climbed out, eyes bright as you leapt onto you car, your fists thrown in the air as cheers erupted around you. It felt surreal, everything you’d been fighting for finally, finally in your hands. Your team rushed toward you, their faces alight with joy as they lifted you up, your arms outstretched as you soaked in the moment, your heart swelling.
But as you turned to face the crowd, the energy draining just enough for clarity to creep in, your gaze locked on him. Max stood just outside the circle of people, his helmet still in hand, his expression unreadable. You almost froze, the swell of triumph slipping, replaced by something else. You forced yourself to look away, turning back to you team and pulling them in closer, their arms slung around your shoulders as they lifted you onto their shoulders, chanting your name. Their support grounded you, lifting you from the gnawing doubt you hadn’t expected.
As they set you down, your heart hammered, still buzzing from the race. But in that instant, you felt it—a pang of something like regret as you looked at him again, standing alone, just watching you.
Max took a small step forward, a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes. “Congratulations,— Yn! Congrats—” he called out, his voice barely rising above the roar of the celebration around them.
But you didn’t move toward him. Your team pulled you back into their cheers, and you let yourself be swept up, allowing the thrill of victory to drown out everything else. As your team lifted you onto their shoulders. And as the cameras flashed, the crowd cheered, and your name echoed around the circuit, you held onto the knowledge that you’d won, even if a small, nagging voice reminded you that you’d left something behind in the process.
the Dutch national anthem now plays for you.
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this is the longest one shot I've written so far, someone hold me
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violetwolfraven · 2 days ago
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Wait wait wait remember that post about how Team Starkid/the Lang brothers are going to be comparable to Shakespeare 500 years from now and it was mostly played for laughs like yeah lol you’ll need a paragraph of footnotes to explain the zefron poster but like
I don’t think that’s actually far off from how Starkid’s place in theatre history might play out and here’s why. Just hear me out
Why is Shakespeare so popular today when he definitely wasn’t the only playwright from that era? When he’s not even the only playwright from that era from England that we have surviving works from?
Two main reasons:
1) Shakespeare’s work is (relatively) universally relatable. The characters do things that are so fundamentally human. They make jokes at their friends’ expense. They complain about being awkward in front of their crush. They have daddy issues. The plot lines of the plays aren’t too complicated. The dick jokes land whether you’re watching in 1611 or 2024, and they probably still will in 2637. Shakespeare’s works are timeless because he didn’t try to outsmart his audience. He wrote about things everyone could relate to rather than trying too hard to peacock his intellect in front of the nobility. This is not true of every playwright.
2) Shakespeare was really popular right around the time England started colonizing everything in sight. Copies of his work got shipped all around the world, translated into dozens of languages, performed probably thousands of times. Setting aside the moral implications of this, the important thing to note is that Shakespeare was about the most easily accessible English playwright during a time of rapid, intense globalization.
Meanwhile, Starkid:
1) Invests hard in meaningful, relatable character arcs instead of spectacle and expensive sets or costumes. Also, lowbrow, immature humor and dick jokes that make A Very Potter Sequel funny and enjoyable regardless of if you’ve ever seen any other Harry Potter media in your life.
2) Posts professional recordings of their musicals to YouTube FOR FREE, making their shows about the easiest, best quality musical theatre you can get pretty much anywhere in the world, regardless of if your area has an active theatre scene. Proshots from other companies are rare and usually not free. Bootlegs are all well and good, but even if the video quality is alright (and that’s a big if) the audio is usually garbage. Starkid has been posting the best quality free recordings they can afford since 2009, shortly after the birth of social media, another time of rapid, intense globalization.
In short, I’m not saying that theatre historians in 500 years won’t remember any our current Broadway faves, but I am saying that in my opinion, Team Starkid is probably going to be more accessible for the general public. If you’re a 26th century English teacher trying to teach your class about narrative structure in 21st century theatre, what are you going to show your students? A bootleg of Hadestown with blurry video and garbage audio? Or the professional recording of Twisted, parts of which they will probably even enjoy, because even long after no one remembers Disney’s Aladdin anymore, your class of 26th century 16-year-olds are still going to laugh at “No One Remembers Achmed.”
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prettyoatmeal · 2 days ago
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Soft Sex with Simon <3
Warning!! nsfw, mdni, fem reader, dirty talk, one Y/N mention, NOT PROOF READ! A/N: Brain rot horny posting WOOF WOOF WOOF BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK Masterlist here!
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Thinking about soft sex with Simon!!!! <333 Where you're both desperate for each other. Where you need each other. 
Despite the stoicism he shows 99% of the time to those around him, he has a heart that swells with love whenever you're with him. That fills him with a yearning for your and only you.
For once, his lips are gentle against yours. Call it placebo, but they always feel especially soft when he's wrapped around your finger like this.
His movements become slow as if you have all the time in the world, an eternity to make each other feel good. He's slow to lay you down onto the bed, slow to spread your legs and place himself between them, slow to undress you both before his lips move downwards to meet with your clit.
But he's quick to make sure there’s a pillow under your head, he's quick to place one under your hips, he's quick to surround your sides with blankets if you feel too cold, and quick to start fingering you when he hears you getting restless.
It gets to a point where Simon's so infatuated with you, he immediately loses himself the moment he feels your warm, wet, gummy walls squeezing and sucking him in.
"Oh fuck,," He breathes, pelvis colliding with yours.
You're nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest, trapping you under him with strong arms on either side of you, and there's absolutely no space between you once he pulls your legs up to wrap around his hips. There couldn't be, no. He needs you as close to him as possible.
Your breaths mingle as he's working your insides, your nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing with each deep thrust.
In... out. In... out.
You can feel each throb and pulse, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix each time he buries himself inside you. And Simon's eating up your every reaction. Every sigh, every gasp, every sweet moan of his name is boosting his ego. Because he's the one making you feel like this. He’s the one taking care of you.
"Shit- oh God, y'feel so fuckin' good. So tight. So damn tight," He always gets talkative like this, it’s as if he just can’t keep his mouth shut. "You make me feel so good, sweetheart. My girl.. my sweet girl."
It's so intimate, so romantic, it makes you so wet there's no need for any lube throughout. It makes fireworks go off in your stomach.
"Simon-" you hiccup as you look up at him through bleary eyes.
"Yeah, angel? What do you need?"
“More.. please, I need more.”
And he’s right at your service. His baby needs more? Of course they do. So he’s quick to shush you and your pleading. His hands quickly move down and grab your hips. He positions them higher, the new angle making him thrust right up against that bundle of nerves that he knows you love so much. A little faster than before, he’s soon in a stable rhythm and has your eyes rolling back, gasping for air and making all those perfect sounds.
“Yeah, does that feel good? You like when I’m deep in you like this, fucking you just how you need?” He asks, his voice starting to shake slightly. But you can’t respond. Not when your own vocal chords won’t let you, preoccupied by your cute whines and mewls, doing your best to not be too loud for courtesy of the neighbours. All noises resembling speech are nothing but mindless babbles.
“Shhh, I know. I know, baby,” His voice is so quiet, so sweet it makes you almost sick to your stomach, “just sit there and take it like the good girl you are. That’s all you have to do.”
It feels good. It feels so fucking good. 
The way he makes your pussy flutter, makes your stomach flip from hearing his humiliatingly high pitched moans, makes your clit ache with need, begging for some friction right about now because all you can think about is cumming around his thick cock. You need to cum so bad, and Simon’s able to pick up on it. He notices the way you squeeze around him relentlessly, the way you go a little quiet as you try to focus on your orgasm. In his arms, you’re nothing but a whining mess, falling apart from how good he was making you feel.
“Open your eyes f’me, love. Let me see how pretty you look,” You take a moment to process his words before your glossy eyes barely flutter open again, “that’s a good girl. Keep those beautiful eyes on me.”
You feel his hand gripping your hip snake between your legs and down to your wet heat. It was only then when you took notice of the lewd, sloppy sounds coming from the both of you, your combined wetness and sweat creating a loud slap every time his hips met with yours. 
The pad of his thumb gathers some of that slick before pressing against your swollen nub, in turn making you jolt under him. He methodically works your clit in rhythm with his thrusts and with how worked up you already are, you feel your nether regions burning. You glance down at his hand, working you so effortlessly. The way his cock disappears inside you, taking him so well. Suddenly you feel so close. So so so so so close. You’re right over that edge, you just need a little more.
“Y’gonna cum for me? Make a mess all over my cock?”
You nod, the tears welling in your eyes ready to fall. God, yes. And as you nodded, a grin formed across Simon’s face. His smile was so pretty it made a wave of shyness wash over you.
“F-Fuck, can feel how close you are. Squeezing me like a fucking vice,” He leaned down to pepper small kisses along your soft jawline as his fingers on your quickened.
“Simon, I-I’m g’nna cum,” You manage to choke out, feeling his hips stutter as your walls pulse around him.
“Let go, sweet thing. Make a mess for me, I’ve got you.”
You feel your hips buck helplessly under him, a cry of pleasure getting ripped straight from your throat as you cum on his cock, your cunt pulsing and gushing around him. Hot tears roll down your flushed cheeks as you bury your face into his neck, his freckled skin catching them. Your hearing goes a little fuzzy, but you can make out his long groans as he keeps pounding into you. You writhe in overstimulation below him before his hips stutter again, burying himself inside you with a harsh thrust as his potent seed shot inside you. 
You sniffle into his neck in the aftermath. You hear him mutter a few soothing words as his lips make contact with your skin again, but his words fall on deaf ears as you try and catch your breath.
“Come on, (Y/N). Let me know you’re with me.” He whispers to you, and you nod in response.
“Thank you, lovie. Good girl, shh. You’re alright. Did so well for me.” Those were the last words you could hear before falling asleep in his arms.
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catgrandpa · 2 days ago
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I’m rewatching Labyrinth and I already know I’m going to make this about Tim Drake.
Bruce gets Damian as a baby, and makes Tim watch him while he goes out on the more dangerous missions.
Tim throws a fit and says the whole ‘Ugh, I wish someone would just take you far away from me!’ bit and then League assassins kidnap Damian.
Tim tracks down Ra’s and threatens him and Ra’s tells him, “Ah, but Detective… I’m doing you a favor. I heard you, you know. Just think how much better life will be when you don’t have to worry about taking care of my grandson.”
“…I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I really need my brother back.”
Ra’s stares at him for a few moments. “How disappointing. I suppose you’ll just have to find him, then.”
And that’s the last thing Tim remembers before waking up in the labyrinth. He walks forward for a few moments before he sees a figure training with a sword in a courtyard.
The figure turns and Tim spots bright green eyes and a streak of white in a head of black.
“Oh, Replacement. It’s you.”
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where-does-the-heart-lie · 7 hours ago
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Scrapped Magical girl au pieces
the post that this au became
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So this is what i had, i think the designs are solid but i think i put too much pressure on myself to draw in van gogh’s style for the cards. I also think i didnt have a clear enough vision.
I think the styles and colors i chose wouldve looked good together but i think using so many different inspirations wouldve eventually gotten sloppy for me. Like i took inspiration from Romani culture for the clothing and the cards, and i took inspiration from a Dutch artist, and i was doin some shit with Spanish clowns too and the waters were getting so muddy and i lost track of who i was fighting for.
I was losing my way, but then i remembered one of the most important aspects of magical girl shows. The familiars.
So i made up the familiars with the bear sheep and coyote, then things got even more muddy because that combination is not very European. It’s more american. So i completely scrapped these designs and i started from scratch.
I made a Pinterest board for the new au just to get all my ideas straight before i jumped right into it (heres the Pinterest board i made for the magical girl au to try to salvage it but it didnt work)
Im really bummed that I ultimately went with a different aesthetic because i love the old one a whole lot. But i think it was for the best. I can always make a celestial au later
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gotham-daydreams · 2 days ago
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Falling into Place
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Day 2 {Challenge Masterlist}
It was a simple question, a simple conversation. However, this is obviously bigger than they think.
[Yandere Batfam × Gender Neutral! Cop Reader]
[Warnings: Mentions of suicide, cults, occult like activities, death, blood, poisoning, violence, brief descriptions of fighting, descriptions of suicide.] (Note: Unless otherwise specified, it's to be believed that actions involved with harming, hurting, or heavily injuring the self are not talking about the Batfamily or the reader. Still, you have been warned.)
Sorry for the huge delay! Got hit with a bit of burnout at the worst moment... whoops!
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It was well into the morning when Bruce was just about finishing up whatever personal research he could gather. By the time Duke was heading out, Bruce was still by the batcomputer, trying to gather all he could on his own - and though he didn’t learn as much as he’d like, he knew enough to tell Duke to keep him posted on any activity he ran into during the day.
Again, Bruce wasn’t able to gather much, especially since the group themselves didn’t seem to have an official name, but based on what he was told the previous night, he had just enough to find what he could with a group that supposedly had no name. One thing he gathered is that they were more active in the day, but even then, they weren’t exactly known for grand or flashy displays - working and tampering in more odd and underground areas, which explains how they managed to slip past him for a while. Though, what he still couldn’t get was when, exactly, they arrived in Gotham, and when they seemed to leave Metropolis. That was one of the more important questions Bruce had wanted to answer, but, again, no luck.
It was then that Bruce had a choice. He could either keep going at this by himself, and risk spending more time than necessary on just trying to gather information when this cult was out there, doing god knows what in his city, and striving to achieve… well, whatever their end goal is - or he could ask for help, and potentially get things moving along faster so he can handle this quicker and much more efficiently.
There are countless reasons why Bruce didn’t want to make that call, a big one was that he didn’t want to involve more people into what was clearly a Gotham problem. These were people he was dealing with, humans, he’s supposed to be able to handle it on his own. That’s what he does. That’s what he’s supposed to be doing. Yet, if those in the manor with him now couldn’t sense anything… not even Cassandra and Damian… something was wrong. Not to mention that there was just a weird feeling Bruce was getting from all this. It all felt off in a way he didn’t know how to explain.
So, reluctantly, Bruce makes the call - but not after a few minutes of staring at his phone, and brooding.
In his defense, it was too early for something like this… for him, anyway, seeing as it was only ten o’clock.
-----------------------
When Clark came over, it was Alfred who greeted him, and let him in. The butler swiftly led the super to the batcave, and offered tea along with some biscuits and other things Alfred had prepared that morning as they walked. Of course, Clark took Alfred up on his offers, and when he reached the batcave, he had finished his tea, and had a few crackers in hand.
There, as usual, Bruce didn’t bother with greetings or formalities, and instead got straight to business.
“Tell me everything you know about this cult.”
Clark had to take a small moment to swallow down the cracker he had been chewing on just as he walked in, “Which one?”
Bruce exhaled heavily, “The one that came from your city, to mine.”
Now, that made Clark pause in his movements. Taking a breath, he took a few steps forward, and got more situated within the confines of the cave. “They came here? I mean- I heard them start to move, but I didn’t think they’d settle in Gotham too,” Clark admits, looking at Bruce, clearly concerned.
Bruce furrows his brows at the response, “‘too’? They went to other areas-?”
Just before the question could fully escape the detective, Duke’s commlink buzzes to life.
[“Uh, Signal, reporting in.”] Bruce looks over to the computer, shooting a glance at Clark before bringing his full attention to Duke.
“Anything come up?” He asks, hearing a short huff on the other end.
[Collecting his thoughts, Duke takes a moment before saying, “Beside the usual small fry, there’s nothing to report. Some guys just tried to vandalize the library and wreck the place, buuuuuut I don’t think that there’s much else-”]
“Have any bakeries or floral shops been attacked or stolen from? Maybe a grocery store, or something like that?” Clark suddenly chips in, now paying more attention to the screens too, “Something like a large pot, a whole shopping cart or basket of food items?”
[“Oh- okay, um, another flower shop was stolen from, and some guy was trying to steal another pot of, uh, what did the guy call them- irises? And someone was trying to break into the greenhouse- but even if I was able to stop them, someone must’ve snuck in during the night or earlier this morning before my patrol, since whatever virus that other place had got there too. And y’know how things are taken care of in the greenhouse, there’s no way something like that got there naturally and got so bad-”]
Clark���s brows furrowed, and he caressed his chin, deep in thought, but a strange detail was evident - he was nervous.
Noticing a change in the super’s demeanor quickly, Bruce asks, “What’s wrong, Clark?”
Not getting a response right away was suspicious enough, and the longer Clark took to say anything, the worse Bruce felt. Narrowing his eyes, the vigilante continues to inspect his friend - as if he could catch what was wrong before Clark could put it to words.
The super was tense and on edge, that much was obvious. Looking noticeably disturbed, almost pale - Bruce knew that whatever Clark was thinking about, obviously wasn’t helping - but that was the thing. Was Clark thinking about something, or did Duke’s response spark a memory of some kind? After all, from what Bruce could gather, he’s been dealing with this group for much longer, and if the earliest, possible headline he could find was anything to go off of - the super has been dealing with this group for a couple of months at the very least. About five if he had to give a specific number. It wasn’t a long time, but it was more time than Bruce, and that was the biggest difference. Clark knew the group, Bruce didn’t. Not yet.
Yet whatever the super was recalling now clearly disturbed him, and Clark was getting worse by the minute.
“Clark, talk to me-”
[“OH! Uh, Hi? [Last Name], right? What’re you doing here-?”]
That seemed to snap Clark out of whatever trance he was in, and draw Bruce’s focus away from Clark for the time being. The single mention of that name caught both of their attention - but for two different reasons. One out of familiarity, and the other out of slight suspicion.
“They’re awake at this time-?”
“Officer [Last Name] is with you, Signal?” Clark asks, tone a touch lighter now, his complexion becoming a bit better - and Bruce had to wonder if it was because Clark knew the officer, or something else was going on between the two for the super to act in such a way. Was it a matter of a simple, brief distraction? Or was there some history here that Bruce didn’t know about?
Something bubbled in Bruce’s gut, and he looked back to the screen once again. Nothing about this felt particularly good, and there was that sense again, of convenience. He wouldn’t call it easy per say, no, it just all felt too… simple. Like they were being led down some kind of path. Like he was being guided down a certain train of thought, or being purposefully put on some kind of path. By who, or why, Bruce doesn’t know yet, but he will. He always finds out.
Regardless, just sitting here and thinking wasn’t going to do him any favors, and frankly, he was wasting time - everyone was, and you seemed to be conveniently tied to this case too, so he might as well take this opportunity while it’s given to him. If this turned out to be some kind of play, or was another means to set him on a certain path… well, he has a few cards to play too. The house always wins, and Bruce practically owns this place. This is his territory, and no one can trick him while on his playing field. No one.
“Bring [Last Name] to the manor.” Bruce says, suddenly cutting into the conversation Clark and Duke were having.
[Duke is shocked into silence for a second, before he quickly recovers and utters a small, “Are you sure?” Which, yeah. While Bruce always seems to know what he’s doing, the young vigilante couldn’t help but hesitate and feel unsure. Was that the best idea? And even then, why did Bruce want to see you? Duke feels like he’s missing something here.]
“Yes, now, send them over, Duke.” After getting a reluctant ‘alright,’ in response, the connection is cut, and Bruce turns to look at the super standing beside him - who looks at him curiously and a bit confused.
Straightening out his posture, Bruce only says, “Clark, meet me out in front, and leave the glasses here.”
-----------------------
Arriving at Wayne Manor felt strange enough, but being guided there and given a ride by one of Bruce Wayne’s supposed adopted children felt weirder. The building practically loomed over you, and sure, you were used to the feeling since you came from the city, but something felt different about it now as compared to every other instance before. Like even the shadow it casted over you held a deep secret.
Honestly, something like this was bound to happen, but to be here now, and actually at the foot of the door leading into the manor? Well, you could certainly understand why so many people feared the Waynes just as much as others respected them. The building certainly reflected the people it housed incredibly well, almost unnervingly so.
Regardless, just as you didn’t think the situation could get any stranger, just as you were about to knock on the door, a gust of wind blew behind you, and you felt an all too familiar presence as the wind settled. It was only then that you decided to ring the doorbell instead, and straightened yourself out as you made small fixes to your attire and appearance.
“Didn’t expect to be seeing you here, Superman,” You greet, glancing over you shoulder to look at the superhero, who floated in the air beside you before deciding he had enough of the air, and touched the ground with practiced ease. One can’t help but wonder just how long it took him to land in such a way that didn’t shatter the earth beneath his feet upon impact, but, ah, those were questions for another day, perhaps.
Giving you that bright, charming smile he was known for, the hero nods, “Mr. Wayne gave me a call too, but honestly I’m a little surprised!” He chuckles casually, the gesture just as broad as his frame and smile, “It’s good to see you though, [Last Name], some of the officers miss you back in Metropolis - and some other folks too. You must be incredibly social to have so many friends!”
At that, you give a small shrug that matches the hero’s tone, “I have a big family, y’know? And it never hurts to be friendly, especially with so much trouble around, y’know?” You give a chuckle of your own, though it’s more light, and kept a touch low, “Though, it’s a little funny, honestly.”
Superman gives you a curious look, “What is?”
You give a smile of your own to the hero, “The fact that a man like him, can get someone like you to call him ‘Mr.Wayne’ instead of just ‘Bruce’.”
He raises his brows, and snickers a little himself, “Really? Well… I guess it is a little funny when you put it that way, but what makes you say that?”
“Hm, let’s just say I had the impression you two would be closer than that.”
Before Superman could ask you any more questions, the door is finally answered, and you’re greeted with the sight of a butler. Your attention immediately shifts to the older man, who you greet with a simple smile as you look away from the hero. ‘This must be Alfred Pennyworth. Honestly, he looks better than I thought - much healthier too.’ You think to yourself, and are subsequently proven right when he speaks.
“Sorry for the delay, Master Bruce is ready for you two now. Please, come in,” the words fell out of his mouth with a certain grace that couldn’t be ignored, and the voice he had just naturally commanded attention - holding elegance, authority, and yet in a way that none of it felt impolite or rude. All things that you didn’t see very often, and suddenly, you found yourself liking this ‘Alfred’ character more and more by the second, even if you had only met him today.
Still, you wave off his words, “Please, there’s no need to apologize, the wait wasn’t long at all,” and step inside while half way through your sentence. Superman follows in right after you, agreeing and saying something similar. It was small, subtle, but you could help but sense a feeling of familiarity between the two interacting, but brushed it off. Now wasn’t the time to focus on such things, and besides, you couldn’t waste this opportunity, could you? After all, it’s not every day someone is given the chance to just waltz into Wayne Manor - and you were lucky enough to be given such a chance. Really, you almost felt honored.
Moving on, Alfred led both you and the hero through the gigantic building, and eventually stopped just before a room. Once Alfred opened the door, you took a brief look around, and hummed, a bit impressed. For something that you assumed to be akin to a common room, or sitting room of sorts, it still looked very well furnished and taken care of - but having a lot of money certainly help with that, even if you’ve heard that Alfred is the only servant at the manor. He must be a very skilled and particular man, but still, it seems odd to see only one butler no matter how capable he is - that couldn’t be very efficient, could it? Hm.
Nevertheless, it took little effort at all to spot Bruce Wayne in all of his glory, and to your slight surprise, he didn’t look like he had just rolled out of bed - though, even for small, sudden invites like this, a celebrity must keep appearances, you suppose.
He gestures for you and Superman to take a seat, saying to “Make yourselves at home,” to which, you both promptly do so and take a seat to the couch opposite to Bruce with a comfortable amount of distance between the three of you.
You let Superman ask, “So, what did you need us for, Mr. Wayne?” since it seemed to make the most sense to have him ask instead of yourself. While he does so, you take the time to get a bit comfortable. Leaning back against the cushions, crossing one leg over the other, and taking the cup of tea that’s offered to you when Alfred comes up next to you with the tray.
As you take a sip of the tea while it’s still hot, Bruce simply replies, “Ah, I guess I should’ve offered some kind of explanation beforehand, my apologies .” Offering a carefree smile, and you had to give him some credit, for someone with a reputation like his, he does little to disprove any of the rumors you’ve heard. Though, maybe that’s a little rude - seeing as he’s only just spoken. “I’m also sorry for the short notice, but- you see, I’ve heard that something is going on in Gotham, and I’d like to hear all about it from those that seem to know the most about it!... From what I’ve heard, anyway.”
Now that makes you raise a brow, hm.
You’re plenty aware that Bruce Wayne may as well own the city, and it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest he likes to keep up to date on what’s going on, more so than him knowing to reach out to you and Superman. The group has been careful, and yes, while it makes sense for Bruce to have connections to people who could inform him of anything going on anywhere - and he certainly has the wealth to manage such a system - you still can’t help but be curious as to why he asked for you. Did he know the group came from Metropolis? That explains why you and Superman are here, but how did Bruce know that? How?
You pull the porcelain cup away from your lips. Now he’s really got your attention.
The most obvious question comes to mind first, “Where you’d hear that from, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Wayne?”
The wealthy man chuckles, a sort of naturally charming smirk growing on his face, “I have my ways,” of course someone like him would say that, “and, please, call me Bruce- ‘Mr. Wayne’ was my father.” With that, he took a sip of… what you assumed to be coffee by the faint smell. Curious.
“It’s fine, I insist,” your smile grows a bit before you move the conversation along, already getting a feel what was at play here, “anyway, what would you like to know, and about what, Mr. Wayne?” The huff that escapes him at your ‘insistence’ is incredibly amusing to hear, but you see he just brushes it off, and also decides to leave it be.
“Very well then, I’m sure you’ve seen it- or at least heard of it, officer, but…” Bruce goes onto explain the little he can, and though he is only able to vaguely describe what he means, you know what he’s talking about, and Superman seems to as well. Though, curiously enough, he asks you for details first.
Of course, you insist that Superman is more than suitable to give basic details, but when the hero himself insists, well, it doesn’t take much for you to relent.
When told to start from the beginning, you just say how originally there was a call about some loud and strange noises coming from someone’s neighbor, so, being the officer closest to the building, naturally you were put to the task to deal with the problem. The only thing was that, when you got there, well, the sight was gruesome, and when you finally got the door open thanks to a stray shot someone had taken - well, they were just about finishing up. You stated how originally you thought you had walked in a group suicide, and didn’t think anything else was going on until a similar instance popped up, and then another, and another. How, before you knew it, you were following a loose, bread crumb trail of similar situations that had the same outcome once an outsider arrived at the scene.
“Really, no one knows what it was, at first,” you try to explain, “but, again, before you know it, we’re trying to catch these guys before they even know we’re there, and find them doing these weird meetings, chanting, doing all sorts of rituals, and the like. They wouldn’t wear robes and do all of that cliche stuff- but they did all have some kind of marking somewhere on their person, nothing really seemed to connect the deaths besides the marking, and the most we could gather is that the place of the mark on a person’s body was symbolic to them. Though, that’s just a running theory. We haven’t had anyone able to actually confirm that yet.”
Bruce raises a brow, “Like… a similar injury or something? A symbol?”
You make a so-so gesture with your hand, “Yes, but it can differ from each person. It’s odd, but it’s like their way of showing some kind of connection, without making it too obvious that they’re all connected. Though, there are some similarities, like how the marking is carved into the skin, and represents a star or circle or eclipse of some kind.”
Superman agrees, adding, “I haven’t seen many of the symbols myself, but those I have did seem to show the sun in some way, but more often than not, it’s like they were trying to imply a blocked out sun.”
“Like a solar eclipse?” Bruce tries to confirm, brows furrowing.
“Yes,” Superman nods, though you notice how he starts to pale slightly. Hm.
From there, you go on and explain what you can - not going into full detail, but seemingly giving all the information you could provide, and to a civilian at that. With Superman chipping in every now and again, including some of what he’s seen and experienced on his own as well, which was… enlightening. More so than you thought when you originally saw him, but interesting all the same. Though, you do take note of just how little he’s giving as well. Most of his powers are no secret if you know who to ask, and just from that alone, you knew he wasn’t saying as much as he could, but didn’t press or even try to push. After all, you were just a police officer, weren’t you?
Regardless, the conversation goes on for a little longer. With you even mentioning how the group is normally separated, and each subdivision acts as their own entity despite reacting the same to being ‘caught’ and having very similar practices. Some will try to spread what they preach through acting as a church, and only letting in their most devout followers, to more lowkey approaches such as hiding what they’re really doing through parties, or college club activities, and so on. No official name is known about the group, and aside from the markings, similarities in practices, and whatever it is they preach, there is another thing that ties them together - and it’s arguably the biggest tie all the groups have to one another.
“It’s an event they keep mentioning, but no one knows what it really is. Considering their other… practices, everyones a little concerned to find out what it entails, but if you ask me, it could also be something they use to scare new followers- even if it sounds… well, for lack of a better term, ‘edgy’.” Bruce raises a brow at your words, and gestures for you to continue.
“Well… don’t leave me hanging, what’s the event called?”
“The Red Dawn.”
“... Do you have any idea what they even mean by that?”
“Not a clue, sorry, Mr. Wayne. Though, I doubt it’s anything to worry about. The only ones these people seem to be hurting is themselves, after all, and while I do intend to stop them and put an end to this, I doubt they’ll hurt anyone outside of their little ‘circle’.”
“Oh… alrighty, then.” Taking a sip of his cup, Bruce lets the information settle in before deciding to ask, “Do you think that could be the name of their group? Especially if they care about that ‘event’ so much, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to assume that, right? Not the most creative thing to do… but it makes some kind of sense, no?”
You offer a small smile, as if trying to reassure the man, “I highly doubt it. If that was their name, we would’ve known by now with the months that have passed, and besides, while that does seem to be an event they are focused on- I think it's only that. Just another small thing that just so happens to connect all the groups together or a name they go by as a collective, and even then it would suggest a kind of unity that we just don’t see in the group. As similar as they are, they are still divided. Well, from what we could gather, anyway.”
Bruce only gives a nod, “I see…”
With that, after a bit longer of conversing, you’re essentially let go. Bruce thanks you for the information, and sends you on your way, but not before mentioning a party he plans to host on Halloween with one last flash of a smile despite the conversation you just had, and Superman gives you a wave, saying he hopes to see you back in Metropolis soon, and to keep up the good work - but only when he’s essentially made to stay when Bruce says he has more questions to ask the hero. You don’t bother to question it, and just let Alfred lead you to the door - who wishes you the best of luck on the case, and to have a good day. Bruce Wayne was rich, you wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he had some special relationship with half the heroes on Earth, but that wasn’t worth thinking about now.
Especially not when you noticed someone at the door.
“... Should I ask why a kid like you is trying to hide in his own bushes, or is it just some ‘teenager thing’ I don’t understand, Thomas?” At the sound of your voice, and the sudden call out, Duke tenses and practically springs to life all over again as he jumps and practically scrambles to keep himself straight. You raise a brow at the defensive stance he initially takes, but upon noticing you, the teenager eases, and lets out a sigh of relief.
Clearing his throat, he says, “Uh, hi, officer [Last Name]! I… didn’t realize it would be over so soon! Haha!” His nervous response gets a snicker out of you, which only seems to further his own embarrassment, and thus, makes you more amused.
Though, you spare him some of the torment and don’t openly laugh at him, and instead just ask, “What’re you doing out here, kid? Can’t you just head inside? Since, y’know, you live here?” You tease a little, resting your hands on your hips, “Or am I mistaken?”
Duke chuckles awkwardly at your words, straightening himself out, shifting in place a bit, “No- no, I just… wanted some air?” He didn’t sound too sure of himself, but you let the teenager be, and just gave a nod.
“Right. Well, enjoy the outdoors in the bushes, Thomas, I’ll see you soon.” With one last amused grin, you take your leave, and once again wave behind you.
Honestly, you thought you’d just walk off silently once again, but this time, a yell is heard from behind you after you hear some shuffling around and the sound of rustling leaves.
“Wait-! Uh- Thanks for the muffin and small snacks from yesterday! They were really good!” You hear Duke shout, “Have a good day!” He seems to mumble something under his breath, but you’re too far away to hear it.
Regardless, you just continue to walk, and soon shove both your hands in your pockets.
You walk away with a smile.
-----------------------
Back in the Manor, Bruce takes a long sip of his coffee, and looks over to Clark - who looks down at the cup of tea in his hands.
“So?”
The super runs a hand through his hair, taking a moment to respond, but even then he seems confused, almost distressed, “It lines up, but I’ll be honest, Bruce. I don’t remember half of what they mentioned. Even the half I did remember… some of it I could barely recall.”
The vigilante stops, becoming too still to pause, and yet not stiff enough to freeze as he just stares at Clark. It’s only after a few beats of silence, and setting his cup to the side that he’s able to ask the only sensible question to a response like that, “What do you mean?”
Clark takes another second, running his hand down from his hair, to his neck and rubbing the muscle there, as if trying to soothe himself before taking in a deep breath, “Y’know that church [Last Name] mentioned? Yeah, I tried to do some research of my own, and went in as a curious journalist who was just trying to see what the church was like, and so on- you know how it is. I got there for the first sermon, bright and early, but when the pastor started to talk… well, the next thing I know is that I’m outside of the church, the service ended, and it’s now night. I was there all day, but didn’t remember any of it. I even checked my notes and everything- nothing. Like all I did was just… sit there, and then leave after everything was done.” It’s then that he looks at Bruce, distress a little clearer now.
“Of course, I tried a few more times, but the same thing kept happening, and the only thing that changed was that I started to feel sick- just really… gross and horrible all over, like going to each service was literally draining the energy out of me- and I noticed it wasn’t just the church either. I’d try to help out with bigger cases that dealt with the group and sometimes I’d just suddenly end up somewhere totally different, with no memory of how I got there, or what I did during that time.” He takes a breath, caressing the fragile china in his hands, and he raises the cup to his lips, but doesn’t take a sip right away. Instead, he lets it sit there, barely an inch in front of his face. “It wasn’t so bad at first. Just a few seconds or minutes lost with nothing really being done- it was harmless, just a little disorientating at times, but nothing to really worry about. But then… then it got longer the more I tried to help and involved myself with solving the problem. I lost countless minutes, even hours, and ended up in areas with little to no memory of how I got there, and decided it was best to pull away when an entire week had passed, with me having no memory of what happened, what I did, or where I even was- which was hundreds of miles away from Metropolis.”
It’s only as Clark takes another sip of his tea, which is a little cold by now, does Bruce use that opportunity to speak. Not only to get to the bottom of this, but to help his friend with this as well - since it’s clearly distressing the super one way or another.
“Do you think it’s some form of mind control?” When Clark shakes his head, Bruce gives him time to gather his thoughts and explain.
“I’m… not sure. Naturally, I tried to not get as involved, but couldn’t let the group spread or- or let them do whatever they wanted freely, so I asked for some help and it had… varying results.” He takes a moment to sigh, finishing the tea as he sets it to the side, and tries to find a way to say what he was thinking, “Some of those who are nonhuman were like me- they’d start to feel horribly sick after a few days, and lose track of time, starting out in small amounts, and eventually jumping to days and weeks, the others… well, they were like our human allies.”
The vigilante’s brows crease at that, “... Which means?”
Clark scratches the back of his neck, looking away as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I don’t know how exactly to explain it- but after some time, they’d become… too interested in the case. Trying to get more involved with things then they needed to be, and basically became… well, I don’t know if there’s a better term to use, but they almost seemed obsessed with the group, Bruce. It was.. horrible to watch, and I guess I just want to say…” he drags on, not sure if he should add more or not, but his heart gets the best of him, and he sighs heavily. Looking back at Bruce, he continues, “Please, be careful with this. You and your family. I really mean it, please.”
Bruce takes a moment to look at his friend, and take in the concerned look on his face. This wasn’t the first time the super had expressed his concerns, but if there was ever a moment that felt like Clark would genuinely do something if Bruce didn’t listen, or really wanted him to take what he was saying seriously, since Clark himself knew how Bruce is and could be - this would be one of them. The super was always openly and naturally caring, even if he worried too much at times, but something felt different this time around, and that was saying something.
Still, Bruce could only nod after a sigh of his own, “We’ll try our best,” is the best he could give.
… A moment of silence passes. With Alfred taking the opportunity to refill Clark’s cup, and allowing Bruce to finish his. It’s a gesture, in a way, to let the super relax, and to remind him that if he needed a small break, then he was more than welcome to take it here - and Clark seemed to realize that as he let himself ease slightly. This whole thing had taken its toll on the super, that was obvious from how he’s been acting all day thus far, and the worst part of it all was that it wasn’t even over. However, there also wasn’t an immediate need to acknowledge that right now, and so, both men took in this little breather, knowing they’d have to get back to work once it ended - and when that happens, who knows when they’ll get a chance to breathe like this again?
It’s that very thought that makes it stretch on for just a little longer, lasting until Bruce is on his second cup, and Clark is nearly on his third - and only then is it broken when Bruce asks, “What were you talking about before, when you said you didn’t think they’d ‘settle’ in Gotham too?”
With one last small sip, Clark says, “A while ago, I heard some of the voices I recognized as members of the group were getting further away, almost spreading out. I couldn’t tell where they were headed exactly, but they just seemed to… disburse. Go their separate ways,” a brow of his furrows again as he adds, “I don’t know if anything caused them to move, or if the directions they went in and the cities they possibly went to, was some calculated move- but I do suspect it was an organized effort. For what? I couldn’t say, but more mentions of that ‘Red Dawn’ [Last Name] talked about earlier did pop up around the city for a day or two before anyone went anywhere.”
Bruce hums at the information, taking mental notes before asking, “Is it possible that some members might still be in Metropolis and other cities near there?”
The super thinks for a moment, but eventually nods, “I wouldn’t see why not, and I could check to find out as many groups as I can, and try to keep you updated on that end.”
“That’d be a big help, Clark. Thanks,” Bruce gives a nod of his own, and Clark smiles.
“Of course! Anything to help, Bruce.”
———————————————
Despite the morning that had transpired, the night was relatively normal - it was for Jason, anyway. If anything, it seemed to lack a little more action than it usually did, but hey, the night was still young, and in Gotham it was always too early to make that kind of call.
Regardless, Jason just went about his night. Taking out a few criminals he ran into here and there, staying out of sight of his old man and Cass, the usual. Nothing stood out, and honestly Jason was starting to think that nothing outside of the ordinary would actually happen. Though, that is until he notices some shady looking people sneak their way behind a building, and hears a garage door open from where he was standing. Now, what was going on there…?
“BOO!”
Just as Jason took a step forward, about to tail the shady figures, he felt a sudden weight on his head, shoulders - which caused him to stumble on his footing, and though he barely caught himself, the vigilante found himself irritated as he yelped out a, “WHAT THE HELL-?!”
Giggling could be heard above him, “Did I scare ya? Admit it! I got you that time!” The grin was even evident in her voice, and Jason didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
“Get the hell off of me, Steph!” Jason hissed out instead, completely ignoring the fact he had ‘caught’ her on instinct, not wanting her to fall off and risk hurting herself with her reckless behavior.
“Aw, c’mon! I totally got you!” Stephanie said loudly with a laugh, only to yelp when she was practically thrown off of Jason’s shoulders, and even if she swiftly caught herself she still looked at Jason and huffs, crossing her arms, “Why can’t you just admit it? There’s no need to be so rude about it, y’know!”
Jason just scoffs, “You didn’t get me, okay? Just leave me alone, squirt.”
Stephanie, of course, doesn’t and sticks around - and as annoyed as Jason acts, he does little to actually push her away. The banter continues, and for a moment they are more than just two vigilantes, but instead, family in their own simple yet messy way. Both of their definitions of such a thing skewed, warped, and changed as they’ve grown up and lived through their lives, along with their definition of love, but now, something like that didn’t seem to matter. It didn’t, and even as they went after the shady figures Jason had seen earlier, it only seemed to matter less as the banter continued.
Dealing with crime in Gotham was always the same, and growing up on the streets made it easier to adapt to the different locations criminals liked to tuck themselves into - so much so that each location almost felt the same. The routine was familiar, sneak into the place, try to pick up on whatever was going on, and put a stop to it. Smugglers were common, nothing new, but what was curious was seeing how much of their supplies they had - guys must’ve been stacking up for weeks, maybe longer, but that didn’t matter. A trade of some kind was clearly going on, and as always, it was their job to figure out what was going on and to stop it.
Sticking to the shadows was second nature for numerous reasons, and the conversation they overheard sounded like the same one they’ve heard time and time again - seriously, did anyone ever think of something new to say? Or any other way to say things?
“You’ve got it?” “The load of it that was designated to us, yes.” “Is it ready?” “Yes.” “Are you certain?” “You know we can’t stall. Just take the load, and take it to the next destination.”
“Right.”
Just as the other spokes person made a gesture for the people behind them to gather the goods, that’s when the first strike was dealt. Stephanie had snuck up on a guy, and got things started, and as usual, the people pulled their guns - so Jason got to work.
Yet, just as he fired the first shot at someone’s shoulder, and they fired their own, did the vigilantes realize where the guns were actually pointed.
The criminals had their guns pointed at one another.
The shot Jason fired hit its mark, but so did the other as in one instance, Stephanie had someone in a chokehold, and in the next - there was no brain to send air too anymore. No eyes to roll back, and while the body went limp, what remained of the head was splattered on the young vigilante, and the space behind her.
More went off, and it took Jason a second too late to spring into action, and Stephanie a few more as the gunshots kept going off - and yet not a single bullet got close to her direction, unlike that first one. There was always a body in the way, and god, all she felt was sick. Though, when practically shoved to the side by Jason did she snap out of it a little, and try to save whoever was left.
They worked in a frenzy, trying to do what they could - even if Jason found out very quickly that just getting them out of the way wasn’t enough, as he heard a weird crunch come from the mouth of the woman he just saved, only for her to give a twisted smile before she started to seize, foam at the mouth, and he could do nothing as he watched her eyes roll to the back of her head but curse.
“DON’T LET THEM CLOSE THEIR MOUTHS! THEY’RE POISONING THEMSELVES!”
Oh, but Jason said it too late, as Stephanie also had the vial pleasure of watching the body seize and subsequently die in her arms despite her own attempts. They still tried, of course, because what else could they really do? Yet, the result was the same. It was like watching a massacre, except… well, the very people who died caused it.
All wasn’t lost as they were able to save two people out of the handful they had run into in the storage space, but at least it was something, right?
One of the criminals didn’t speak, and only glared at the vigilantes, while the other laughed suddenly as the two tried to catch their breaths. The man’s gruff laugh cutting through the deafening silence, blood now coating the walls, bodies lying about… how could anyone laugh at a time like this? Especially when his supposed comrades have just died right in front of him?... Not that the person glaring at them looks any more distraught or distressed at all by this turn of events.
When the man starts to speak, that sickened feeling Stephanie felt before grows, and a similar seed is planted in Jason’s gut - and that really said something, since they’ve heard maniacs go on all kinds of long winded rants unprompted… but this felt different. It lacked the sick humor of Joker explaining his schemes, or the thought and linguists put behind Riddler’s verbal puzzles, and just felt misplaced. As a pair, as vigilantes they’ve heard plenty of talks just like this, and yet… something about it stopped Jason from pulling the trigger early, or from either of them doing something to stop the man, and to just shut him up. Perhaps the sight they just witnessed was taking its toll on them now, but that coupled with this? This wasn’t just some run of the mill thing. This was deliberate, but wasn’t a trap either.
Still, the man goes on, even when his voice becomes hoarse as his vocals fight against the restraint put in between his teeth - just enough space to make him unable to not poison himself with… whatever chemical he had that’d do him in like the others who still had their heads intact. They strain as he wheezes out a laugh, actions rough for someone tied down, and left sitting on his ass. Just as his nails bloody as he scratches at his restraints, his own words scratch at his throat the more he speaks. So much so that instead of spit, blood flies out as he continues, going on about some higher being, how they’ve helped him see the light, and how just their presence alone has made him understand what ‘needs to be done’. How he knows they will guide him to a better end, because he can feel it when he’s close, that he is doing the right thing, and that they have become so connected with… whoever he’s describing, that even being in the city now satisfies him enough, and makes him see sense even in the most vial of situations.
It’s all nonsense, it has to be, of course it is - yet they listen anyway, unwillingly, unable to move, and he doesn’t stop. Will he ever?
“This world will experience a new beginning! A chance to be reborn anew, to be remade! And only by the best, as they are the only one who can be trusted with such a task!” The man’s laugh almost sounds like a bowl coupled with a growl at this point, “The skies will turn red, the night will vanish and be replaced with a light never seen before as we are all accepted into paradise! The sun will encapsulate the sky in a way it never has before, and reveal the true colors that the world has kept away from us! It will be one! We will be one! It was always meant to be one!”
Red runs down from his lips, and yet he continues despite the strain in his voice as his shouts become louder, practically booming in the small space, “The waters will churn like acid in the stomach, eyes will be drawn to the vessel who will bring upon the awakening of the world, and everyone’s hearts will be taken ahold of as they all come to realize that we are in good hands! Everyone should just accept the end for it is already upon us!” A wheeze escaped instead of a chuckle, but what it is intended to be is not lost on anyone.
“Just a few more measly days remain! Just a little longer and we will all be blessed with the sight of a new day! A new life! A new purpose! The Red Dawn w-”
Finally, it all comes to an abrupt end with one last gun shot. A shot, which goes through the man’s head, and pierces through it so cleanly, that it goes into the other person who was beside him, and drills a similar hole in their head - only stopping when it digs enough to crawl out of that second head, and land on the ground. The gleam of its shine almost innocent, as if it hadn’t killed the last two people who remained of the self-massacre - and now, it is only that. A complete, and utter massacre.
The shot brought both Stephanie and Jason out of the strange trance they found themselves under and tried to recover as quickly as they could. Jason sprung to action and tried to rush out and find whoever killed the people they tried to save- with Stephanie reporting to Bruce.
She tried to explain everything that had happened as hurriedly as she could, feeling sicker than ever and having to force herself to look away from the bodies, along the two new additions to the pile. Honestly, she didn’t even realize she had been hyperventilating until Bruce had her try to calm down, and take deep breaths - and yet every breath she took, she could only smell blood, earth, and an odd hint of something sweet that settled on the back of her tongue. Everything about it made her want to throw up, but she managed and tried to compose herself as much as she could.
When asked what was being smuggled, Stephanie looked over to the sacks stacked on top of each other neatly against the wall. Stepping over a few of the bodies, and trying to not look down more than she needed to - she took down one of the sacks and… what?
“It’s- it’s soil?” Why had these people killed themselves over this? There’s no way that this dirt could be worth dying over, right? Maybe it was a cover up. It has to be. It has to.
So, she cuts the bag open and soil spills out, except it looks… weird, “It- it’s either dirt or some weird moss, because there is no way this stuff is supposed to look this red.”
That does it for Bruce, and on his end, he quietly glances at Cassandra before looking out to the city once again, “Bring some of it in if you can, and bring Jason with you.” His voice is firm, and leaves no room for argument… as always.
[“Right, talk to you in a bit, B.”] With that, the connection is temporarily disconnected, and Bruce switches the lines, and immediately talks to Barbara again. Something about how while Superman is doing his search, they have to cover their own bases, and Barbara offers to call Dick to see if he’s run into something similar, and if he’s willing to help out here so they can get everything figured out faster, and Bruce lets her get to it would a simple thanks.
Cassandra can’t help but simply observe, curious as to what’s really going on, but getting a feeling that it’s nothing good. She can see that in the posture of Bruce, but it’s not just him - it’s the commissioner, the officers at the station, and so on. Yet kept so underwraps, that only does actively searching for it can feel it, as the civilians remain unaware, and go on with their lives. Though, something does bother her a little.
She didn’t see you much tonight, but when she did, you seemed just as tired and drained as you did the other night, and yet, there was no evidence of distress. Yes, there was some form of stress there, but you weren’t overly tense or even panicked, and while Cassandra didn’t know much, she could gather enough that something big could be happening. So why weren’t you more concerned? More… paranoid and just generally showed more signs of some inner turmoil like her father? You’ve been involved in this case for longer than he has, and yet… you’re the calmest one compared to everyone else. Cassandra can’t help but wonder why.
… Perhaps it’s about time she helped out in whatever was going on.
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