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mrschtappen · 24 days

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𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄

I : The Call of the Circuit -> II : Dreams Ignited (soon) -> III : Untitled (soon)

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Max Verstappen x Schumacher!reader

Synopsis: childhood friends Max Verstappen and you, the daughter of racing legend Michael Schumacher, evolve from best friends to fierce rivals to teammates. maybe then to lovers....?

Monday, 10th December, 2018 Faenza, Italy

You sat alone at your new office, your eyes fixed on the glowing screen of your phone. The Twitter announcement you had posted earlier that day was still causing ripples across the internet, igniting a firestorm of reactions and responses from fans and followers around the world.

As you scrolled through the flood of comments, memes, and well-wishes flooding your feed, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. The overwhelming wave of support and excitement from your supporters served as a poignant reminder of the incredible journey that lay ahead.

You made sure you turned off the lights of your new office when you were about to go. Settling inside your Audi R8, the soft chime from your phone took your attention away from driving.

As you read Max's message about bringing a Michael Schumacher merch from Germany, a wave of mixed emotions washed over you. The mention of your father's name, especially in connection with Germany, brought back vivid memories of the ski accident that had changed your lives forever in 2013.

your heart felt heavy, a subtle ache resurfacing as you recalled the challenging times that followed your father's accident. The uncertainty, the hope, and the unwavering support from loved ones, including Max, during those difficult years played like a reel in your mind.

Despite the pain and the bittersweet nostalgia, you weren't angry with Max for bringing up those memories. In fact, you felt a sense of gratitude for his thoughtfulness and the comfort of your shared history. Max had been a pillar of strength and understanding throughout your journey, and his genuine care and friendship meant more to you than any merchandise ever could.

Sitting alone in your car, you took a moment to let the emotions wash over you. You reflected on your journey and the pivotal decision to join Formula 1, a deep sense of determination and purpose filled your heart. Since you were three years old, the dream of racing in F1 had been a beacon of hope and ambition, driving you to push boundaries and defy expectations.

You knew that stepping onto the track wasn't just about fulfilling your childhood dreams; it was also a tribute to your father and the legacy he had built. The memories of watching Michael Schumacher's triumphant moments, especially his 6th championship title, had ignited a spark within you, fueling her passion and commitment to chase after her own aspirations.

Despite the challenges and the weight of the past, you felt a profound sense of gratitude and pride. You knew that your journey was a testament to your resilience, determination, and the unwavering support of those who believed in you, including Max.

Sunday, 12th October, 2003 Suzuka, Japan

As a three-year-old, you may not have comprehended the complexity of Formula One racing, the excitement buzzing in the air, the infectious energy of the crowd through the grandstands. The vibrant colors of the racing cars zooming past, the deafening roar of engines, and the flashes of cameras captured your attention, painting a kaleidoscope of sensory impressions.

Although your understanding was limited at such a tender age, the sight of Michael Schumacher, dressed in his iconic red racing suit, elicited a sense of pride and admiration within your young heart.

"That's my dad !" your little fingers pointed at the red car zooming the finish line, practically screaming at everyone as you started clapping then.

The warmth of your mother's embrace welcomed you as you cheered together, caught up in the euphoria of the moment.

your eyes wide with wonder as you watched your father bask in the spotlight and as Michael Schumacher descended from the podium, triumphant and beaming with joy, his eyes sought out you, your mother and your older brother Mick in the crowd. With a tender smile, he reached out to scoop up his young daughter, lifting you into his arms and hoisting you high above the crowd.

the cameras flashed and the crowd erupted into applause, you enjoyed the attention, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world to be held in the arms of your racing hero.

The image of your bond captured for all to see, you knew that this was a moment you would cherish forever—a moment when you felt truly seen and cherished by the man who meant the world to you.

your dad, Michael Schumacher.

Saturday, 27th November 2003. Gland, Switzerland

you stepped onto the karting track for the very first time, your heart pounding with excitement and nerves. The whole family was there along with your dad's friend's family, the Vertsappens. With your tiny hands gripping the steering wheel of your go-kart, you were confused on how the whole kart operates.

"You've got this schatzi !" You heard your dad cheer for you from a distance, calling you a nickname that means sweetie in German.

Frustrated, you spoke

"How do I do this ?"

Max Verstappen, the seasoned six-year-old racer, flashed you a mischievous grin as he leaned over to offer his expertise.

"Watch and learn, little rookie. First, you gotta push down on the pedal like this..."

With a swift motion, Max demonstrated, his foot pressing down on the accelerator pedal with practiced ease. You watched intently, your eyes wide with fascination.

"Like this?"

you mimicked Max's actions, but your foot hesitated on the pedal, unsure of the right amount of pressure to apply.

Max chuckled, reaching over to gently guide your foot.

"Almost there, y/n ! You just need to press a little harder."

you nodded eagerly, determined to master the art of go-karting with Max's help.

"Got it! Thanks, Maxie !"

As you zip around the track, the conversation turned to your shared love for Formula One racing.

"Do you think we'll ever drive in Formula One, Max ?"

Max grinned, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Of course! And when we do, I'll be the world champion, then Mick and you will be my trusty sidekicks."

you rolled her eyes playfully, a giggle escaping your lips.

"Dream on, Max! I'll be the one leaving you in the dust!"

"Hey, you two ! How's it going ? " a familiar voice chimed in from behind you, causing both Max and you to turn around

Max grinned, giving Mick a playful nod.

"We're having a blast ! little rookie here is a natural behind the wheel."

you blushed at the praise from Max

"Thanks, Maxie ! And hey, Mick, I'm going to beat you someday !"

Mick laughed heartily, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Is that so ? Well, I look forward to the challenge ! Let's see who can get to formula one first"

Your banter filled the air with laughter as the three of you raced around the track, your friendship growing stronger with each passing lap. And as you crossed the finish line second, just a few millisecond behind Max, a smile grew wide on your face.

"Looks like you've got a prodigy, are you sure this is her first time ? She's a natural" Max's dad said, a chuckle escaped from your dad

You crossed the finish line just 4 tenths of a second later than someone who was 3 years older than you. You can feel the pride surging even when you were just so little.

"wow you're fast" your older brother said, giving you a high five as you returned it enthusiastically with a tiny jump

"yeah, not so bad little rookie !" Max also gave you a high five

you smile with your tiny teeths showing, your dad embraced you, lifting you up in the air

"my daughter is a soon to be formula one racer, and the world shall know you as for you are, not the daughter of a six time world champion but y/n Schumacher."

you couldn't help but feel grateful for everyone's guidance and support, knowing that with them by your side, you knew you were able to achieve anything.

Thursday, 14 March 2019 Melbourne, Australia ROUND ONE

As you took your first steps out to greet the fans, a wave of exhilaration and gratitude washed over you. The energy from the crowd was palpable, a mix of excitement, anticipation, and overwhelming support. The sight of fans waving flags, holding up banners, and wearing team colors was a surreal and heartwarming experience for you.

Walking along the barricades, you were met with a sea of merchandise bearing your name and face, along with the iconic Michael Schumacher memorabilia that fans had brought along. The presence of the Michael Schumacher merchandise added an extra layer of emotion to the moment, reminding you of the legacy you were a part of and the immense responsibility that came with it.

As you greeted fans, signing autographs and posing for photos, several fans couldn't help but comment on the striking resemblance between you and your legendary father, Michael Schumacher. Their kind words and compliments about your beauty and resemblance to your father filled you with a sense of pride and humility.

Amidst the flurry of interactions, one fan caught your attention with a cheeky remark that left both of you laughing.

you backed away with laughter, cupping your mouth, looking at a marriage certificate by an older fanboy, a good looking one you couldn't lie.

"I'm 19 !" You exclaimed, a wide laugh still visible on your face

"Maybe in a few years !" You joked, before moving to another fan, signing her cap with the number 57 on it, a number you chose to drive for.

It was media day today which means there's no driving and the press conference began with Lewis Hamilton from Mercedes, Sebastian Vettel of Ferrari, Daniel Ricciardo from Renault, Max Verstappen of Red Bull Racing and of course yourself, y/n Schumacher from Scuderia Toro Rosso.

"We’re gathered under very sad circumstances, following the news that Charlie Whiting, the FIA’s Director of Formula One died during the early hours of this morning. I’d like to start this press conference by asking each of the drivers present for their thoughts and memories of Charlie. Lewis, could we start with you, please?" Lewis spoke to the mic

"I’ve known Charlie since I started in 2007. I made some comments this morning on my Instagram. It may have not worked, as I think it’s down but obviously incredibly shocked this morning to hear the sad news and my thoughts and prayers are with him and his family. What he did for this sport, I mean, his commitment… he really was a pillar, as Toto said, such an iconic figure in the sporting world and he contributed so much for us, so may he rest in peace."

as the other drivers stated their comments regarding the passing of the late Charlie Whiting, it was your turn to answer

"How about y/n ? I believe this has come to a big shock as well as your father was also racing when he was the f1 racing director ?"

"yes, my father raced during Charlie's tenure as F1 Racing Director. I've met Charlie a few times and found him to be a wonderful person. His dedication to safety and fairness in Formula One was unmatched. Charlie's ability to connect with everyone in the paddock and his unwavering passion for the sport made him irreplaceable. My thoughts are with his family, friends, and the entire FIA community during this tough time. His legacy in Formula One will always be remembered"

as they continued tho the next question, you were shocked as to how bold and daring for this male interviewer to ask the whole lot of drivers with you

"Given the whispers around the paddock about nepotism getting y/n Schumacher this seat due to her father's legacy, and considering she is the sole female on the grid, do you drivers genuinely believe she is as competent as the other drivers, or do you acknowledge a potential gap in her skill?"

As the interviewer's words cut through the tension of the room, your face tightened, a blend of disbelief and frustration clouding your features. The weight of the question bore down on you, amplifying your discomfort and vulnerability in that moment.

You felt exposed, the spotlight glaringly bright, intensifying the scrutiny you felt as the only female driver on the grid.

Sensing your discomfort, a subtle shift occurred amongst the drivers on the panel. Eyes darted towards you, expressions reflecting concern and empathy.

Among them, Max Verstappen's gaze lingered a moment longer, his usually confident demeanor softened by genuine concern for his fellow driver.

The collective silence that followed the question seemed to stretch on, the atmosphere thick with tension. But within you, a resilient fire ignited. Drawing strength from the supportive glances of your peers and your own unwavering determination, you steadied yourself. You would not let this moment define you or shake your belief in your own capabilities.

"could we start with you again Lewis ?"

Lewis's expression tightened, clearly upset by the nature of the question.

"Honestly, I find it disappointing that in this day and age, we're still having these discussions. Women have proven time and time again that they can compete at the highest levels of motorsport. I've been a staunch supporter of women in racing, and I've seen firsthand the talent and determination they bring to the track."

"Look, in Formula 1, everyone's path to the grid is different. Yes, some of us come from racing families or have certain connections, but ultimately, talent and hard work are what count. I've faced skepticism throughout my career for various reasons, and I've always chosen to let my performance on the track speak for itself. As for y/n, she's shown promise and skill in her journey to F1. The sport is better when we have diverse talents, and I believe she deserves her place here"

"Thank you for the answer, could we move on to Vettel next ?"

Vettel's brows furrowed, eyes narrowing with a mix of disbelief and growing indignation. "It's disappointing, really, to hear these questions. Every driver on this grid has earned their seat through dedication, hard work, and skill. Formula 1 is a tough environment, and to suggest that anyone is here purely because of their name or gender undermines the effort we all put in. I've met y/n and seen her commitment firsthand. She belongs here as much as anyone else."

Then they moved on to Danny. His jovial demeanor momentarily shifted as he heard the interviewer's pointed question directed at you. Being someone who often exudes positivity and fairness, Daniel values meritocracy and respects the grind every driver goes through to reach Formula 1. Hearing a fellow driver being questioned on the basis of nepotism and gender struck a chord with him.

"Ah, the old nepotism and gender card. It's not a new question in F1, but it's one that misses the mark. Sure, having a famous last name might open some doors initially, but it won't keep them open if you can't deliver on track. As for being the only female driver, I think it's about time we focus on skills and capabilities rather than gender. I've had the chance to get to know y/n, and she's got talent. End of story."

Then they moved on to Max, who is known for his fierce competitiveness and straightforwardness. It was clear that he was infuriated by the audacious implication and the discomfort it caused you.

Seeing you visibly uncomfortable only intensified Max's emotions. He felt a surge of protective anger, recognizing the unfair scrutiny and challenges you faced as the only female driver on the grid. In that moment, the friendship among drivers was evident, as Max's concern for your well-being was palpable.

His eyes flashed with fury as he seized the opportunity to address the interviewer's audacious question. His voice dripped with venom as he unleashed his pent-up frustration.

"Firstly, the audacity to question anyone's place on this grid based on gender or family name is just absolute garbage. She's earned her spot on this grid through sheer talent and hard work, just like the rest of us. Anyone who suggests otherwise is either blind or just plain ignorant."

His words were sharp and cutting, each syllable laced with disdain for the backward mindset behind the question. Max's aggression was palpable as he continued to tear down the baseless accusations.

"In case you missed it, Formula 1 is about racing, talent, dedication, and hard work, not gender or who your parents are. It's disappointing to still be facing these backward stereotypes in this day and age. We should be focusing on racing and the incredible talent we have on this grid, not trying to create controversy where there isn't any . For the record, I've raced alongside her, and I've known her my entire life. Y/n is an extraordinary racer through and through, and she's proven herself time and time again."

He paused, taking a breath to temper his rising emotions before continuing,

"So, how about we focus on the actual sport instead of dredging up this garbage ?"

Max's aggressive defence reverberated through the room, leaving no doubt as to where he stood on the matter and silencing any further attempts to undermine your place in the sport.

As you listened to Max's vehement defense, a mixture of emotions washed over you. Initially, there was a sense of relief and gratitude. Max's and the other drivers' unwavering support and fierce defence of you felt like a shield against the unfair scrutiny you had faced. It was reassuring to know that your fellow drivers stood your her and were willing to call out the injustice.

Your eyes briefly met Max's intense gaze, conveying a silent thank you and mutual understanding of the gravity of the situation.

Then it was finally your turn to answer

With a poised demeanor, you addressed the room, your voice steady and confident.

"I'd like to extend my sincere appreciation to my fellow drivers for their support. It speaks volumes about the fellowship and respect we share as competitors."

Pausing momentarily, you continued with a touch of irony,

"Regarding the questions raised about nepotism and being the only female on the grid, I was under the impression that Formula 1 valued skill, determination, and performance above all else. My presence here is a testament to my commitment, capability, and qualities I believe are fundamental to every driver on this grid."

Maintaining your composure, you added, "While these questions may have been posed, my focus remains unwaveringly on racing. I am here to compete, to challenge, and to succeed, just like every other driver. I look forward to letting my performance on the track speak for itself. Besides, I don't see 19 men ahead of me, I see 19 challenges to be conquered."

With this response, you gracefully but firmly addressed the issue, highlighting your professionalism and determination to rise above the noise and excel in your chosen profession.

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piperrhymes · 2 years

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The Wonder of God's: Christ Revealed~ His Righteousness

The Wonder of God’s: Christ Revealed~ His Righteousness

The last time I wrote concerning Christ revealed in Scripture, was a few years ago; longer than I care to admit. The season of Lent has moved me to contemplate Christ and all that He has done for me. Not only in my life, but for my life, through His sacrificial death and resurrection. Placing pen to page, I attempt to show you the Beautiful and Glorious Christ. I wrote before concerning the…

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#apologetics #Bible Study #Bible teaching #Christ #Easter #fulfilled prophecy #Lent #New Testament #Old Testament #resurrection #the Wonders of Gods Word

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rw7771 · 2 years

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#old testament #messianic judaism #bible prophecy #bible #jesus #christianity #faith #christians #theology #Jesus Christ #fulfilled #prophecy

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night-raven-tattler · 5 days

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Say hi to daddy!

Summary: How would these characters behave as fathers? What does their ideal family look like?

Characters: Octavinelle dorm (Azul, Jade, Floyd)

Other parts of the series: Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignyhide, Diasomnia, Royal Sword Academy

Warnings: mentions of helicopter parent and bullying (Azul)

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

For Azul, parenthood is the challenge of hiding the mess of a human that he has become while discovering what it's like to be responsible for a tiny human

The whole child aquiring process is the most stressful period of his life and he doesn't calm down until he's finally holding the child himself (and checkinh, double checking and triple checking everything during the whole process)

It becomes a running joke in the family that he considers the kid very talented for walking as early in their life as they did ("I was 15 when I walked for the first time!")

Jokes aside, Azul takes advantage of the fact that the kid can experience both the sea life and land life and he'll make sure to show them everything

His skills of reading people help him figure out quickly the talents of his little one and he helps emphasize their talents and develop in their weak points

After all, he wants to figure out the capabilities of the heir of his capitalist empire in the making as early as possible

He might come across as a bit of a helicopter parent, but it only comes to their social circles

Azul knows how fast things get out of hand when students at school start picking on someone

He knows the signs, he knows the mood changes, and he wants to prevent it altogether... and if he can't, he kicks himself mentally for years, no matter the effect it has on his child

For Azul, parenting becomes a testament of his determination and diligence, but it also teaches him to think on his feet more often as he is faced with the challenges of parenting

Azul looks like a boy dad (a boy dressed in a suit 90% of the time /j); he'd prefer one child but can be talked into having more

『••✎••』

The opinions on Jade becoming a parent are split: some think he'd be the most attentive father, and some think the Leech family doesn't need any additions

Responsibility has never been an issue for Jade, and the moment he became a dad his priorities shifted towards creating a good and safe environment for the children (an emphasis on "safe")

He's a loving, doting dad who wants to teach his children everyting he knows, but he also wants to teach his children everything he knows...

The kids' skillsets are gonna be... broad, to put it lightly

Jade's not even phased when one day he comes home and finds one of his kids in his vault behind the bookshelf in his office turning his "documents" into paper airplanes

He praised them for that feat despite his spouse being very concerned

Jade can come across as slightly detached as a dad since he is quite hard to read at times, yet he tries

But old habits die hard, and the world taugh him that unpredictability is safer

It is a rule of self conduct that he teaches his children as well, since he can't have the youngest Leeches fall short, can he?

While he struggles with being easier to talk to, Jade makes a genuine effort to bond with the kids the way he knows best: mutual infodumping

While he rambles about mushrooms and their environments, his kids ramble about what they find just as fulfilling

Jade's journey as a father helps him connect with people better, forming genuine connections while still never changing the most important part of himself

Jade would like at least two children, since he found being paired with Floyd to be very convenient, and if they turn out to be twins then he'd be pleasantly surprised

『••✎••』

The opinions on Floyd becoming a parent are split: some think he'd be the most entertaining father, and some think the Leech family doesn't need any additions

Especially when that family is grown by Floyd and his russian roulette of a mood

Yet he surprises everyone when he finds fatherhood to be quite entertaining

Floyd was surprisingly receptive ever since the whole conversation about children started; he always thought children are kinda cool, even with all the responsibilities

And even though he doesn't always help with their physical care, when he does he proves how good he is at the practical tasks

The kids get attached to him kind of quick because he unintentionally gets on their level (re: his tantrums kinda resemble his kids' sometimes)

Not gonna lie, sharing the timeout chair with daddy sounds kind of funny

Despite his struggle with his moods, Floyd usually avoids being too volatile with the kids

He's not a perfect dad, and petty fights and misunderstandings are bound to happen, but Floyd never takes anything said to him to heart

Floyd'd parenting focuses on teaching that you can always have fun, as long as you're smart about it

So pranks, practical jokes and mischievous schemes become part of the family culture

He does sometimes relent and joins in some of the more tame fun, like park walks filled with piggyback rides and tea parties with the sparkliest skirts ever

Floyd would find two kids as ideal, and he definitely looks like a girl dad to me

『••✎••』

#twisted wonderland #twst #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #floyd leech #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 9 months

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Hi hun. If you’re taking requests could you write something about dadrry maybe something where they have another baby and their first kid starts to act out and get jealous.

Jealous Baby Styles.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist is here.

word count -

in which, five days ago, you and harry welcomed another little baby into the world, but the blissful baby bubble isn’t all it turns out to be when you have a toddler as well.

Sitting on the cosy sofa with your husband, Harry, and your four-year-old daughter, Marlie, you find yourselves in a whirlwind of emotions and exhaustion. Just five days ago, you and Harry welcomed your precious baby boy, Billie, into the world. As you sit together, Marlie is the furthest away from you, engrossed in her iPad, while you hold Billie close in your arms.

At this moment, you're dressed in nothing but a sports bra and shorts, accompanied by a postpartum nappy that reminds you of the physical toll your body has endured. Your hair, untamed and unwashed, reflects the lack of time you've had for self-care since Billie's arrival. The need for a shower looms over you, but finding the time seems impossible.

The exhaustion is palpable, etched onto your face and seeping into your bones. Five days of little sleep have taken their toll, as you struggle to get more than three hours of rest at a time. Napping is a luxury you can't afford, for you have a toddler to look after alongside your newborn.

Despite the weariness, there's a deep sense of joy and fulfilment within your heart. As you sit on the sofa, the love in the room wraps around you, providing strength amidst the exhaustion. Harry's gaze is filled with admiration and unwavering support, offering reassurance in this challenging phase. Marlie occasionally glances up from her digital world to shower her baby brother with smiles, a testament to the bond forming between them.

Amidst the chaos and messiness of this phase, you find solace in the unity of your family. The sacrifices you make—sleepless nights, dishevelled appearance—are small prices to pay for the overwhelming love and fulfilment that parenthood brings. You draw strength from each other's presence, knowing that this stage, although demanding, is temporary.

You find yourself dozing off on the sofa, the weight of fatigue pulling at your eyelids as Billie rests peacefully in your arms. Just as sleep threatens to overtake you, your husband speaks up.

"Hey, love," Harry gently says, his voice breaking through your drowsiness. "Y'should go upstairs and lie down for a while."

You stir, feeling torn. As a breastfeeding mother, you can’t help but worry that Billie might wake up hungry and need a feed. The thought of leaving him even for a short while makes you hesitant.

"But what if 'he needs to eat?" You express your concern, looking at Harry with tired eyes.

Harry's reassuring voice comforts you. "Don't worry, darlin'. There's pumped milk in the fridge. If 'e gets hungry, I'll take care of it."

Your mind races, contemplating the logistics of it all. Harry would have to manage both Marlie and Billie while you catch up on some much-needed rest. It feels overwhelming', but Harry remains steadfast.

"I don't get up for the night feeds because y'breastfeed 'im," Harry reminds you. "I'm only responsible for changin' nappies. Y'deserve a nap. Let me handle things for a while."

Reluctantly, you give in, nodding your head in agreement. The weight of exhaustion and the realisation that you desperately need rest outweigh your concerns. Trusting Harry to care for both Marlie and Billie, you surrender to the idea of stealing' a precious moment of sleep.

And with that nod, the scene concludes, leaving you with the anticipation of the rest you so desperately need.

Once you've nodded, Harry gently takes Billie from your tired arms, causing the little one to stir slightly at the movement. With a soft whisper of reassurance, Harry slowly lowers him into the cozy bassinet placed in the front room.

"Don't worry, mate," Harry whispers to Billie, his voice soothing. "I've just gotta help y’mama get upstairs. You'll be alright."

Meanwhile, Harry turns his attention to Marlie, who is engrossed in her playtime on her ipad. "Marlie, m’love," he says, trying to engage her. "Y’keep an eye on y’baby brother, alright?"

Marlie, fully immersed in her imaginative world, remains focused on her screen and doesn't respond to Harry's words. However, both you and Harry are too preoccupied with ensuring a smooth transition upstairs to give much thought to her lack of response.

Harry offers his strong and supportive arm, helping you up each step of the staircase. You're still feeling the lingering discomfort from giving birth, and his gentle whispers of reassurance provide a comforting backdrop to your ascent.

"It's alright, m’love," Harry murmurs, his voice filled with tenderness. "Just take it easy. We'll get y’settled in no time."

As you reach the top of the stairs, Harry guides you into the peaceful sanctuary of your master bedroom. He lovingly pulls back the soft duvet, creating a welcoming space for you to find comfort. With careful attention, he assists you in getting cosy, ensuring you're nestled in just the right way.

Leaning down, Harry presses a tender kiss to the top of your head, a gesture filled with love and support. His presence is a soothing balm, reminding you that you're not alone in this journey.

"Rest well, m’beautiful," Harry whispers, his voice carrying a mix of affection and concern. "Is there anything else y’need before I head back downstairs?"

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you assure him that you have everything you require nearby. The essentials are within reach, and you're grateful for his attentiveness.

"No, I think I have everything I need," you reply, feeling the warmth of his care enveloping you. "Thank you, baby."

With a final loving gaze, Harry bids you farewell and heads back down the stairs. You watch him go, appreciating the support he provides as he tends to the needs of your growing family.

As Harry descends the stairs, a cheerful voice calls out to him, filling the house with excitement. It's Marlie, eager to have her daddy join in the playtime fun.

"Daddy, come play with me!" Marlie's voice resonates through the living room, brimming with anticipation.

Harry's heart melts at his daughter's request. With the arrival of their baby boy, he recognizes the importance of making sure Marlie feels loved and included. A warm smile spreads across his face as he joins her on the floor, ready to embark on a Barbie-filled adventure.

"F’course, sweetheart!" Harry replies, his voice infused with enthusiasm. "Who do we have here today? What's your Barbie's name?"

Marlie giggles with delight, holding up a doll with a vibrant purple dress. "This is Princess Lily!" she exclaims, her eyes shining with excitement.

Harry joins in the fun, adopting a high-pitched voice for his Barbie doll. "Well, hello there, Princess Lily! It's an honor to meet you. Shall we go on a grand quest together?"

Marlie claps her hands, her imagination taking flight. "Yes, Daddy! Princess Lily needs to find the hidden treasure in the enchanted forest!"

And so, father and daughter dive into the world of make-believe, crafting intricate storylines and creating magical moments. Their voices fill the room as they bring their Barbie dolls to life, each character imbued with unique personalities and aspirations.

Harry leans into the role, using exaggerated gestures and a playful tone to captivate Marlie's imagination. "Princess Lily, fear not! With my trusty unicorn steed, we shall journey through the enchanted forest and overcome any challenges that come our way!"

Marlie's eyes sparkle with delight as she continues the story. "Yes, Daddy! And Princess Lily is brave and kind, just like you!"

Harry's heart swells with pride, cherishing these precious moments with his daughter. As they play, their laughter fills the air, creating a symphony of joy and connection.

As the game unfolds, Marlie introduces new twists and turns, each narrative becoming more whimsical than the last. Harry is fully engaged, actively listening and responding to Marlie's ideas, allowing her creativity to flourish.

"Daddy, look! Princess Lily found a magic wand!" Marlie exclaims, waving a tiny plastic wand in the air.

Harry gasps dramatically. "Oh my goodness, Princess Lily! With that magic wand, you can bring smiles to everyone's faces and spread happiness throughout the kingdom!"

Their playtime continues, with Harry and Marlie exploring the depths of their imagination. They share laughter, engage in heartfelt conversations, and build a bond that transcends the mere moments spent on the floor.

As the playtime reaches its vibrant peak, a sudden cry pierces the air, interrupting the magical atmosphere. Billie, nestled in his bassinet, demands attention, and Harry knows he must momentarily step away to tend to his newborn son.

"Mar, m’love, I need to go check on Billie for a moment," Harry gently explains, his voice filled with concern. "He's crying, and I have to make sure he's alright."

Marlie's face scrunches up, her brows furrowing in protest. "No, Daddy! Stay and play with me!" she pleads, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Harry sighs, torn between the needs of his two children. He longs to grant Marlie's request, to stay and continue their joyful playtime. However, his paternal instincts compel him to ensure Billie's well-being.

"M’promise, sweetheart, it won't take long," Harry reassures Marlie, trying to ease her disappointment. "I just need to see if Billie needs some comforting. I'll be right back."

With a heavy heart, Harry makes his way to Billie's bassinet, his footsteps filled with a sense of urgency. As he reaches the bassinet, a pungent smell wafts through the air, indicating that Billie's nappy needs changing.

"Oh, baby darling, did y’make a poo?" Harry chuckles softly, carefully lifting Billie into his arms. "Let's get you to the changing table and sort this out."

Carrying Billie over to the changing table nestled in the corner of the room, Harry sets him down gently, his eyes filled with adoration for his newborn son. As he begins the task of changing Billie's nappy, Harry maintains a soothing and comforting tone, engaging in heartfelt conversation with his little bundle of joy.

"Alright, little man, let's get this nappy changed," Harry murmurs softly, his voice filled with warmth. "You know, Billie, you have the best big sister in the world. Marlie loves you so much, just like I love my sister, Gemma."

As Harry carefully cleans and wipes, he continues to share stories and whispers of love, creating a bond between father and son. He narrates tales of the adventures Marlie and Billie will embark upon, painting a vivid picture of a future filled with laughter, support, and sibling camaraderie

"You and Marlie are going to be the best of friends," Harry assures Billie, a twinkle of anticipation in his eyes. "Just like how Gemma and I have been there for each other through thick and thin, you and Marlie will have a lifelong friendship."

While Harry is engrossed in the intimate interaction with Billie, he remains unaware of Marlie's presence on the floor, her Barbie dolls momentarily forgotten. Tears stream down her face, her heart yearning for her father's undivided attention. She watches as Harry and Billie share this tender moment, her emotions running deep.

Harry carefully fastens a fresh nappy around Billie, stealing a glance at his son's cherubic face. Little does Harry know, the tender moment he shares with Billie coincides with Marlie's emotional outburst, leaving a trail of tears in her wake.

As Harry finishes the nappy change and turns his attention back to the room, he realizes that Marlie is no longer in sight. Concern fills his heart, and he quickly secures Billie in his bassinet, ensuring his comfort and safety. Gently, Harry rocks the bassinet back and forth, using the soothing motion to lull Billie into a peaceful slumber.

Once satisfied that Billie is settled, Harry grabs the baby monitor, clutching it tightly in his hand. With each step, he follows the faint trail of Marlie's sobs, determined to find her and offer the comfort she so desperately needs.

As he steps into the serene garden, the soft breeze rustles the leaves of Marlie's favorite tree. His gaze searches the tranquil space until he spots her huddled beneath the branches, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the golden sunlight. Harry's heart aches at the sight, knowing the depth of her emotions.

Silently, Harry approaches Marlie, his steps careful and deliberate. He takes a moment to compose himself, wanting to offer her solace and reassurance. With a gentle touch, he sits beside her, enveloping her in a warm embrace that conveys his love and understanding.

With a gentle touch, Harry sits beside Marlie under the comforting shade of her favourite tree. He wraps his arm around her trembling shoulders, offering a sense of security and warmth. But as he does, Marlie tries to crawl away, clearly upset with him.

Harry's heart sinks at her attempt to distance herself, understanding the depth of her emotions. "Marlie, m’love," he says softly, his voice filled with compassion. "Y’don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I'm here, and I'll sit with you."

Silence settles between them as they sit side by side. The tranquillity of the garden envelops them, granting them a moment of respite from the weight of their emotions.

After several minutes, Marlie slowly crawls into Harry's lap, her tiny fingers playing with the cross necklace dangling from his neck. She hesitantly begins to speak, her voice soft and fragile.

"I didn't mean to get upset," Marlie whispers, her eyes cast down.

Harry's hand continues to rub soothingly up and down her back. "It's alright, m’heart. What upset you? Y’can tell me."

Marlie shrugs her shoulders, her words barely audible. "I don't want to be forgotten."

A wave of realisation washes over Harry as he comprehends the root of Marlie's anguish. He holds her tighter, understanding the fear that lingers in her young heart.

"Oh, sweetheart," Harry murmurs, his voice filled with tenderness. "I'm so sorry if it feels like Billie is taking me and mama away from you. That's not his intention at all, it’s because he’s a baby that he needs a lot of our time, you were like that when you were his size."

Marlie's tears continue to flow as she searches for the right words. "I don't like my baby brother," she confesses, her voice filled with a mixture of sadness and confusion. "He keeps taking you away from me."

Harry's heart aches as he absorbs Marlie's words. He continues to hold her, rubbing her back in gentle circles.

"I understand, m’heart," Harry whispers, his voice tinged with regret. "When I was born, Aunt Gemma must have felt the same way. But y’know what? Mama and I love both of y’so much. We're going to spend lots of time with both of you, making sure you both feel special."

Marlie looks up at Harry, her tear-stained face searching for reassurance. "Really?"

Harry nods, his eyes filled with sincerity. "Absolutely. Tonight, you can sleep in our bed, and we'll have a special time together. Mama, you, Billie, and me."

And with that promise hanging in the air, the weight of their emotions begins to lift. Harry holds Marlie tightly, hoping to mend the cracks in her tender heart. Under the sheltering embrace of the favourite tree, they sit together, finding solace in their love for one another.

“Now,”Harry pushed some curls away from her face and stared into the matching eyes of his little girl. “How about we go make mama some cupcakes for when she wakes up, just me and you whilst baby brother sleeps?”

Marlie’s eyes lit up, nodding her head as she snuggled her face into the crook of her fathers neck. “Just us?”

“Just us.”

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tabernacleheart · 2 years

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The context of the annual Festival of Dedication of the Temple gives a special meaning to Jesus’ claim [of His divinity in John 10:30]. On this festival of the return of the LORD to his Temple (after its desecration by the Syrian King Antiochus Epiphanes) Jesus is claiming that He Himself is the abode of God. [Indeed,] throughout the Gospel, Jesus has been making His own the institutions of Judaism. At Cana, He takes over the jars of water for Jewish rites of purification, making them the wine of His wedding-feast. Then He goes to Jerusalem and [functionally] replaces the perishable Temple with the Temple which is His Body. He makes the Sabbath His own by working on it as only God may do. He, rather than the manna provided by Moses, is the life-giving Bread from heaven. At Tabernacles, the festival of light and water, He declares that He is the Light of the world and the Source of Living Water. Finally, He will make the Passover His own at the Last Supper, and as the paschal lamb. It is this [record of so acting and speaking with Divinely transmutative religious authority] which gives the context and significance to the claim that ‘I and the Father are one.’ [Tragically, even though] the hostile question of the Jews [sparked] off Jesus’ sayings, [they are still unwilling to accept His unchanging response] and immediately after this passage they take up stones to throw at Him, [only misunderstanding] His claim to be one with the Father as blasphemy [rather than Truth].

Dom Henry Wansbrough; Commentary on John 10:22-30

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 1 year

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Cory Mansfield | The Old Testament has anywhere from 200-400 prophecies that were fulfilled by Jesus. Although scholars differ on the number, the sheer unlikeliness that one person could fulfill all of these prophecies point to the fact that Jesus is indeed the true Messiah. The prophecies about Jesus, which can be found throughout the Old Testament...

#The Ultimate Guide to Old Testament Prophecies Jesus Christ Fulfilled #Cory Mansfield #Sermons & Articles #preaching.com

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its-wabby-stuff · 1 year

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Krang Will Rise

I have a couple theories, regarding the Krang.

There is such little evidence for it, that I don’t even think there’s evidence against it. But hear me out.

I think only Krang prime can abolish mystics. It’s not an ability tied to every Krang, only to him.

Thé Krang value strength above all else, putting no remorse into losing those deemed weak. As such, wouldn’t that make Krang Prime, their leader, the strongest? And what better way to deem yourself the strongest than carrying a unique ability that takes away your enemies greatest potential threat.

Another reason: it seems there are three types of krang. The biotech, the warrior, and the interrogator. I’m not sure how much they overlap, but I do think they carry specialities. Given krang brother is most often asked to- spread their krangness. He is responsible for krangification, domain expansion, and manipulating the technology they have (Nevermind how all these abilities make him the perfect match for Donnie)(also think Krang Brother is mute). Krang sister is the most skilled and best fighter. I’m sure she outclasses the boys in that regard. I’d go as far to say she’s second in command, leading the charge while brother krang stays behind (her role as commander matches as Commander O’Niels opposite in war, hence their quarrel). Leaving Krang Prime, who has the ability to dig into a persons mind, manipulate their captives, control the hive mind, and abolish mystic powers. Perhaps rare amongst Krang, this makes them the perfect leader (do I even need to explain why he’s Leo’s main antagonist, his opposite in every way?).

I mentioned how krang brother is likely responsible for krangification, which leads me to a second point. Clearly, from the start of the invasion to the end in the bad timeline, the krangs numbers increased 100 fold. From 3 lone survivors to hundreds if not more. Which has led me to wonder how krang are created. I have two theories: 1) in the bad timeline, the krang in the prison dimension didn’t die. Meaning that when Leo grabbed the key in the movie, and altered time, the resulting explosion caused the krang to be wiped out. 2) the probably more likely one- they repopulated.

Thé krang are clearly parasitic creatures. Meaning their reproduction is likely from a source, that source being humans. “Recreating this world in the image of krang.” Krang possession is simple, and any krang can do it, latch a bit of themselves to a human and start the battle of wills. Krang dogs are amother easier way to make more, a quick process that mangles the hosts body. We see this happen with the foot clan. But if you want powerful krang, with no chance to turn on you, and to truly become one with krang, you transform them.

Raph was found in a bubble. In a slimy krang cocoon stuck to the ceiling and filled with glowing yellow goop. He was going to be turned, transformed into Krang. And he was going to be powerful, his source material being stronger than most. He was- until the process was interrupted. Notice how the krangification didn’t come from the outside, it wasn’t attached, it was growing inside him. And, unlike the other krangified peoples we saw, his eye turned purple. It wasn’t just covered in hoop with the yellow hive mind eye, it was purple. Let it be a testament to Raphs inner strength cause he very well may have accomplished a feat deemed impossible to overcome. The process wasn’t supposed to be reversible, he wasn’t supposed to be able to break free, he was krang now. Krang Prime could feel his struggle, sense his resistance, and hear his thoughts as the turtle fought it off.

Once you turned, there was no going back. You were krang. Your old life didn’t matter. Your old friends didn’t matter. You had a new family. A new purpose to fulfill. New powers to explore. And given treasures for the hunt. The mark of a krang and a fucking massive piece of armor. This way of reproduction was useful when hunting new prey, as their knowledge of the species past through, truly allowing them to know their enemies and conquer planets. Krang can never die.

Then again. I could be wrong.

——————

Thanks for reading! Likes and Reblogs appreciated! Other related theories and stories:

Resistance to Krang; The Shredder armor; Emperym Life Blood

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monstersandmaw · 6 months

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Male orc (Rhuarc) x female character - Part One (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Thank you to the two people who explicitly expressed interest in this story via my inbox. This one's for you. Here's Rhuarc the single dad orc and his girl, and how they met. I've even got some visuals in this one too!

Content: kidnapping, attempted human sacrifice, violence, some light gore, implied age gap, older male character, single father orc x small human female

Wordcount: 4344

Rhuarc tried not to resent the fact that the Jarl of Markarth’s crusty old steward had looked him up and down as he’d stood in front of the so-called Mournful Throne, and decided that the orc was either entirely expendable or utterly stupid enough to take on an entire Forsworn camp. By himself.

Apparently it was the latter though, because with his two adopted girls waiting for his return in Whiterun, Rhuarc was most certainly not expendable these days. Perhaps twenty years ago, he might have hurled himself at the nearest frothing lunatic disrupting trade routes and abducting travellers off the roads without much care for the damage he took — the fact that he’d lost the sight in his right eye before he’d turned nineteen was testament to that — but these days, his contracts required thought and planning.

Kill the leader of Hag’s End, an old Nordic tomb complex nestled away in the frozen mountains to the northeast of Markarth.

Easy.

By himself.

Less easy.

The place was huge, and crawling with more Forsworn than termites in a mound, and there was every chance he would encounter a hagraven there too. Fuck, he hated those things. Whatever unnatural magic was used to create those half-bird, half-women, he didn’t want any part of it.

His own magic was fairly rudimentary by the standards of the average mage: a few fireballs here, a few healing spells there, and he could make a pretty decent lance out of ice if he had to. After all, orcs were known primarily for how ferociously they could bludgeon something into Oblivion, but magicka did coil its way through some of them too, and his mother had been both an alchemist and a mage.

Now though, as Rhuarc crept up behind the Briarheart warrior who led this bunch of rabid lunatics, and slipped his arm around the man’s throat to hold him still while he ripped the strange replacement heart out of the half-undead creature’s chest, he wondered exactly what kind of magic these people used that let them replace an otherwise healthy man’s beating heart with the poisoned seed of a Briarheart tree. And what special kind of lunacy allowed someone to undergo it willingly. Perhaps it wasn’t willing though? What did he know about these people?

As the orc’s fingers curled around the prickly seed that was about the size of an apple, the magic of it felt at once too cold and too hot; the way white hot metal feels in that moment of pure shock if you touch it by accident before the pain kicks in. He released the disgusting ‘heart’ and it fell with a splatter of gore onto the snowy carpet covering the cosy little platform, from where the man ruled over his clan of Forsworn. Rhuarc would have to find a scrap of cloth to wrap it in so that it didn’t leak everywhere between there and the city of Markarth, but he was looking forward to depositing it directly into the stuffy old steward’s lap as proof of the kill and the contract fulfilled.

The Briarheart warrior went instantly limp in his arms and Rhuarc laid him down silently on the frozen ground, already starting to plan his next move. A shout went up a second later from somewhere to his right — his blind side — and an arrow pinged off the bastion wall beside him. With a curse, he rolled and ducked behind the hide wall of the leader’s large tent, breathing hard. Of course he’d missed one of them, and if she alerted anyone else, or that lurking hagraven, Rhuarc was fucked. He was tired. And cold. His joints weren’t quite what they had once been, and his muscles were seizing with the cold and from crouching in dark doorways and corners on the long and winding way up to reach this part of the secret redoubt.

With a careful peek around the support structure of the leader’s tent, he realised that this new Forsworn hadn’t actually spotted him properly yet, and he hefted the haft of his war axe in his hand. Throwing a weapon away was never a great idea, but he didn’t have a bow on him, and if he called magicka to his hands, a hagraven would certainly sense it. Not a chance he wanted to take, and given that the place was called Hag’s End, he thought it pretty fucking likely that there was one of the bird-legged, psychotic matriarchs of the Forsworn roosting up at the top of the complex on that balcony almost directly above him.

So, he drew back his arm and sent the blade of his war axe whirling away to bite into the breastbone of the Forsworn before she could spot him or cry out again. She fell with the clatter and rattle of bone and fur armour, her silly antlered headdress skittering away behind her, and he was off running immediately to release the weapon from her corpse and seek a new hiding place in case the commotion had drawn others.

As it was, Rhuarc crouched for a long few minutes behind the gruesomely-displayed corpse of an elk that had been partly taxidermied by the cold and stuck on a stake, with his breath billowing all around him, and the stillness of snow in the air. Had he got them all? He was spattered all up one side of his body with blood and even had a red streak in his otherwise white hair that he’d shaved close to his skull above his ears and left long enough to tie back into a ponytail on top. What a mess. Still, it would be worth the groaning bag of coin he was going to get for clearing the whole bloody encampment and making The Reach a little bit safer for travellers.

Just as he’d begun to relax, half thinking of getting the girls each a new dress with his earnings, a scream like nothing he’d ever heard before tore the silence in two and his blood went cold.

It had come from the balcony above him where a spar of stonework jutted out into the winter sky like the bowsprit of a ship, and it hadn’t been the harsh shriek of a hagraven. The scream had come from a woman in blind, abject terror, and the sound of it shocked him back to his feet before he’d even realised it.

Rhuarc thundered up the stone stairs behind him and shouldered open the carved doors of the inner sanctum of the tomb, plunging into the relative darkness without stopping to think.

Not thinking was a sure way to get himself killed, and by some miracle of the fates, he skidded to a halt just in time to avoid a pressure plate in the floor that would no doubt have unleashed some kind of magical or poisoned trap on him. Whoever lived here clearly didn’t let just anyone inside, and blundering around like a panicked mammoth wasn’t going to help anyone.

“Think, you thick-skulled orc,” he growled at himself, chest heaving and heart pounding in his ears like a war-drum. He was only a few heartbeats away from slipping into that infamous, orcish berserker rage, and he never ever wanted to find himself on the far end of a state of mind like that again. Caked in blood and viscera and surrounded by an array of corpses with no memory of how they had been felled… He shuddered and forced himself to steady his breathing before moving on.

What he confronted as he wound his way carefully and methodically through the dark, blood-stained hallways of the upper Nordic tomb proved to be as great a test of his prowess with blade and his magic as any he’d ever faced in his forty-six years.

Savage witches clad in long, magicka-laced, black robes hurled spells and curses at him that he only just dodged or warded in time to sink his axe into their skulls, but what made his skin crawl the most was the hagraven who seemed to be taunting him, letting him get one or two shots in before a swirl of purple and black magic enveloped her and she vanished to somewhere else in the complex.

Was she an illusion? Had he lost his mind or, worse, accidentally imbibed some poison from one of his victims that was making him hallucinate? He’d spotted enough deadly mushrooms growing in the dank corners of the dungeon that the suspicion remained, even as he ploughed on through the coven of crazed witches towards the woman who had let out that heart-rending scream.

Just as he sensed he was gaining the top of the tower, the hagraven disappeared amid a final storm of eerie, flickering magicka, leaving him alone in an echoing chamber at the top of a staircase lined with mortuary shelves.

Over to his left, an arcane enchanting table crackled with residual magicka from a recent use, the blueish runes on its onyx surface glowing in the dim light, and on his right, an ancient monument reared up like a tombstone, carved with a script he couldn’t read. He had no time for any of that, and paused just long enough with his hand on the last door to gather his breath and the last ragged remains of his strength, before shoving all his weight into swinging them open and stepping out onto the snowy balcony beyond.

A blast of freezing air hit him full in the face, but it wasn’t the cold that stole his breath and his senses.

There on a low, wide, stone altar, a Nord woman had been bound hand and foot, stretched out and completely naked, and she was thrashing weakly despite the wounds at her wrists and ankles from the ropes. Tears tracked pale lines through the dirt on her face and her bare chest heaved with broken, choking sobs as she arched her back in futile protest.

Over her prone figure loomed the emaciated figure of a hagraven with a glinting, black dagger raised in her taloned hands.

Rhuarc didn’t think.

He hurled a bolt of ice at the creature, and might have been surprised to find that it had actually struck her right in the stomach if he hadn’t already been concentrating on drawing the ambient moisture into his hand to freeze into another shard of ice as thick as a tree limb. The hagraven let out a shriek that should have made his ears bleed, and hurled a fireball at him for the indignity of him getting a hit in first.

Searing flames exploded all around him and he smelled singeing, though he wasn’t sure if it was his fur armour or his own skin, and he didn’t care. He leapt forwards, diving into a roll in the snow to douse any lingering flames, and as he came up he launched a second spike of ice directly at the hagraven’s weathered, distorted face. Her black, beady eyes narrowed and she bared rotten teeth with a snarl as she clenched her clawed hand and prepared to fling a second fireball at him.

Rhuarc had closed the distance between them in a few powerful strides though, and before she’d finished the spell, he grabbed her by her flimsy arm and felt the snap of it breaking in his grip as he yanked her away from the altar. Before she could even muster a screech, he lopped her head off with his axe. He didn’t stop to watch her abandoned carcass slide over the edge of the parapet, down into the void of snow and cooling corpses below, and turned instead to the woman laid out on the table.

The dagger had fallen from the hagraven’s claws to land beside her right hand and she was reaching frostbitten fingers for it.

“Easy,” Rhuarc said, holstering his messy axe at the loop on his belt and realising he probably looked as frightening as the hagraven had. Six foot six and broad as a barn door at the shoulder, Rhuarc now had blood all up his face from one of the witches, a nasty burn on his shoulder that was only just now making itself known, and a long cut on his abdomen that was oozing blood down his solid paunch. As he’d got older, he’d lost the iron definition he’d had in his youth, but he was probably the strongest now that he’d ever been in his life.

No wonder the woman was staring wild-eyed at him like he was some animal barbarian, but his heart physically hurt in his chest when he saw the welts and bruises standing out starkly on her pale, Nordic complexion. Her long, midnight black hair was loose and lank and greasy, her lip was split and swollen, and there was a vibrant, purple bruise all around her left eye socket. Those dark brown eyes glared up at him with fierce defiance though, and her fingers found the hilt of the knife.

He smiled. “I know I look a sight,” he said in a low, quiet rumble, holding both hands up, bloody palms towards her. “I’m gonna help you though. Let’s get you healed up and out of here. I’m not sure what you can wear though…”

“My… My clothes are in… were in… a chest… in there,” she croaked, twitching her head slightly towards the chamber he’d just left. The swelling in her lip clearly made talking painful, and she sounded like she hadn’t had any water for days. That, or the thick, raw, red line around her throat was responsible, flanked by distinct, finger-sized bruises the colour of a ripe plum. It made his orc blood boil to see marks like that on a person’s body, but he made himself focus on the more immediate task of helping her.

“Alright. I’ll untie you — may I use that dagger?”

She nodded and reluctantly let her fingers go loose again. With the rope lashed so tightly around her wrist, she didn’t have enough purchase to lift her hand free of the hilt, so Rhuarc carefully slid his bloody fingers underneath hers and he eased the blade out.

Concentrating, he sawed steadily through the thick rope, and she hissed as she flexed her fingers when the rope finally sheared and one arm came free. The raw chafing showed him just how hard she’d fought her captors, and he found the warmth of pride glowing in the pit of his stomach for this stranger and her resilience. Methodically, Rhuarc moved his way around the table to free her ankles next before finally cutting the ropes binding her left arm to the cold table, and all the while keeping his eyes off her naked body as best he could.

“We need to get you somewhere sheltered. Can you sit up?”

She tried valiantly when he asked, but her strength failed her in a rush and she slumped back down with a gasp.

Rhuarc dropped the knife to the stone at his feet and stuck his right hand under her head just in time to stop her cracking her skull on the stone platform of the altar, and he cradled her lolling head in the palm of his hand. His already-bruised knuckles clunked against the altar under the full weight of her head as she surrendered at last, spent.

“Easy,” he said. “I’ve got some magic. I’m going to heal you, alright? Keep steady, then we’ll find you some clothes and get you out of here.”

Her dark eyes rolled as the golden light of healing magic washed around her, and she slumped at last into unconsciousness.

Rhuarc picked her up with detached efficiency and carried her out of the biting wind and back into the tower that formed the top part of the tomb’s inner sanctum, marvelling at the Nord’s resilience to the cold. He knew that her people were tougher than most humans in these conditions, but still, with everything she’d been through, she probably should be dead.

Her small body was soft where many Nords were made of hard muscle, and he suspected that she had not been raised to be a fighter. That the Forsworn would snatch her away from whatever battle-free life she’d led before and defile her like this made his blood sing all over again and his hands itched to sink his axe into a nice, crunchy, Forsworn skull. He let the thought go with a growl around his thick tusks and shouldered the doors open.

With her pressed against his bare chest, he felt the tingle of magic in her blood too, and he recalled the way her body had drunk his own restoration magic down like water poured onto dry sand. Perhaps the fact that she was probably a mage had been why the hagraven had been about to sacrifice her in that unholy ritual.

Inside the echoing, stone room with the enchanting table, Rhuarc found the chest she’d mentioned, and he crouched down awkwardly in front of it with her half-draped across his lap, her naked body propped up by his right arm. He really didn’t want to have to use one of the beds in the tower that the witches had clearly slept in, but if the woman needed to rest, then he would stay with her and see that she was safe.

Just as he was fiddling one-handed with the catch of the chest, which luckily wasn’t locked, she drew in a deeper breath and came-to with a mewling sob of discomfort. Her bare legs were touching the floor and the room wasn’t much warmer than the air outside because of a huge hole in the ceiling, but at least they were out of the wind.

“I know,” he said without looking at her. “I’m going to find you something to wear. Just give me a second.”

“Thank you,” she rasped, and the sound became a sob as she squirmed in his arms, trying to curl inwards on herself. Whether that was to cover her naked body better or simply because she was hurting in every way humanly possible, he wasn’t sure. “Thank you. I thought that was it, when… when she… she —”

“Shh,” he said, briefly tightening his hold around her shoulders with a slight curl of his right arm, worried that if she grew too distressed, he might drop her. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and then added with a little sniffle, “My name is Syl, by the way.”

“Rhuarc,” he grunted, finally lifting the lid of the chest. “This your stuff?”

She peered forward and nodded. An undyed linen shirt and brown trousers had been roughly stuffed into the wooden chest, along with a pair of softly-worn, fur-lined boots, a thick, fur-lined jacket, and a small alchemist’s pouch that fitted on a belt around the hips. He had something similar himself for the road, choosing to forgo the usual traveller’s pack with a bedroll and cooking pot. He hunted or foraged for what he needed and cooked it over an open fire and slept under the stars when he absolutely had to, but mostly, he actually planned his journeys to halt at an inn for the night these days, because he was too damned old now to be sleeping out of doors in the grass like a bloody wild boar. He also thought he glimpsed some linen underwear and wrappings in the chest too, but he didn’t let his gaze linger.

“You… need a hand?” he asked quietly, but she shook her head.

“I can just kneel here for a moment. I’ll be alright,” she said in a steady, if rough voice. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his thumb over his left shoulder.

He helped her slide off his lap where he’d crouched beside the chest, and steadied her briefly with a hand at the small of her spine to stop her tipping backwards. Her flesh was still cold from lying out there on the table, but she couldn’t have been out there for too long before he’d found her, or she’d have died of exposure. Even a Nord couldn’t survive naked in the snow for very long.

Only then, with his rough palm pressed against the pale softness of her skin, did it strike him that it had actually been a very long time since he’d seen another naked body, and the feel of her skin beneath the calluses of his palm distantly stirred the cold embers of desire in him that had lain dormant and out of mind for longer than he cared to remember. Even for an orc, he wasn’t exactly short of people showing interest, but it just… hadn’t been something he’d wanted. Then of course, he’d found himself the adoptive father of a pair of ten and eleven year old girls, and all thoughts of romance and the so-called ‘Dibellan arts’ had evaporated completely from his life like autumn mist.

With a sigh, he banished the faint and inappropriate sensation and levered himself stiffly to his feet. As he did, he felt the cut in his lower belly pull with a sharp prick of pain and when he looked down at it, he found it already suppurating. His thick, naturally green, orcish skin had turned a nasty, angry red around the slash and something was oozing out of it that wasn’t blood. Poison. Fuck.

Glancing around the room, he wondered if there were any ingredients stashed way that the witches would have used, but he was in the wrong part of their stronghold for that and anyway, who knows what they might have been brewing in there? Thinking about what limited stocks he kept in the emergency pouch on his belt, he drew out two carefully-sealed glass bottles and tipped their contents into the cupped palm of his left hand. It was hardly ideal, but it would do for now, and he smeared it onto the open wound.

The flash of pain made him grunt, but with a soft fizzing, the powders got to work and nullified the festering poison before it could spread.

“Rhuarc?”

When he turned around at the sound of her voice, he found Syl looking at him from where she was still kneeling in front of the wooden chest.

“Are you alright?” she asked with a frown.

Her alto was still hoarse and rasping, and he wondered if she was still in pain. “I’m fine. Are you? Did I heal you enough?”

At his question, she smiled, and something in his chest slipped sideways when he saw it.

How could a woman who’d just been through the torment she had experienced still find the grace to smile like that? And at an orc of all creatures.

“Yes,” she said, and, now that she was dressed, she stood slowly; cautiously.

She wasn’t very tall for a human, perhaps five foot five at most, and her body seemed somehow even smaller in her loose-fitting, practical clothes. He could clearly see the swell of her hips though, and the definite curve of her breasts, and her dark eyes looked very large as she regarded him. In an attempt to tidy herself up, she had tied her lank, black hair back off her face in a low ponytail, but she still looked like she’d taken one hell of a battering, despite the healing magic.

And yet, there she was on her own two feet, and her resilience was suddenly as devastatingly attractive to him as were her natural good looks. Rhuarc swallowed thickly, utterly floored by what he was feeling for the first time in decades.

“You’re hurt,” she said, eyeing the wound in his stomach.

He felt her open herself up to start channelling magicka, and his own mismatching eyes went wide. “No, don’t!” he gasped, taking an involuntary step towards her and holding out both hands in a kind of warding gesture. “Please, you need to conserve your energy. I’ll heal myself in a moment. I was just waiting for the poison to work its way out first.” No point sealing up the cut with all the vileness still inside, after all.

Syl walked slowly towards him, moving like a black cat along a wall, with her gaze focused on his bare paunch.

Rhuarc’s breath caught and he froze. He couldn’t have moved so much as a muscle then, even if an army of hagravens had descended on him.

When Syl came to a halt in front of him, she brought her fingertips up to touch the fevered flesh around the wound. Very carefully, she let a tiny thread of golden magic seep into him, and he honestly did not mean to let out the noise that left his lips. He hadn’t even known he was still capable of making a sound like that.

Pleasure curled deep and visceral in his gut, both from the whisper-light contact of her fingertips against the trail of hair on his stomach, and from the way her magic coiled and twisted inside him, stitching him up from the inside out and cleansing the last of the poison’s putrefaction in the same deft stroke. She wasn’t just some hedge witch with a little magic: Syl had to be a master of the school of restoration with a healing that skilled.

“There,” she breathed. “Just looks a bit of a mess now,” she added, eyeing the blood that still covered him in a series of spatters and smears.

He couldn’t catch his breath for a moment, but he cleared his throat and stepped back. “Not much different from usual then,” he said a beat too late and painfully aware that his gruff bass sounded far more winded than when he had fought his way through the entire complex to reach her. “Thank you.”

With a long inhale, she let her hand fall back against her side and turned her big, dark eyes up to regard him. “So… what happens now?”

I hope you enjoyed this one? I'm fairly certain most people aren't going to read down to this point, so if you did, please consider reblogging it to help it find more of an audience, and give Rhuarc and Syl some love?

And if you want to learn more about how they fall in love on their journey away from Hag's End, be sure to leave me an ask or a comment! Otherwise I'll assume there's no interest and won't keep sharing it. :)

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#rhuarc the orc #orc #orc x human #male orc x female human #single dad orc #fantasy orc #exophilia #orc boyfriend #monster boyfriend #monster dad

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