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dizzydaisychains · 15 days ago

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𝐻𝒾𝒹𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝒜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ pairing: sylus x reader

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ summary: in the humble town of asterville, the duke yearns for the attention of only one woman. if only she knew. (or alternatively: sylus falls in love and attempts to find the courage to act upon it.)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ word count: 6.8k

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ao3: read on ao3 here if you so wish :)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ notes: this fic contains mature content, so please read with discretion :)

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

Although geographically a small, provincial town, Asterville has become renowned for many things over the centuries despite its humble origins. A bustling spot for merchants to dock their ships weekly to trade goods and news, the town has flourished under the watchful eye of the rather infamous Duke, who is popular among his fellow monarchical acquaintances for giving fruitful advice over a plate of desserts.

If one has not heard of Asterville through conversations of wealth and trading, then it is likely they would have heard of it through snippets of tales from the legendary balls that are held by the Duke for each quarter of the year. Always an event of lavish luxury, each season brings a new frenzy to the residents of Asterville as the Duke insists that everyone is welcome to Fumbally Estate for a night of firework displays and dancing that often begins at midnight and ends at dawn.

Moreover, the Duke’s generosity goes even further than hosting parties for the entire town, because if you are fortunate enough to pass him in the streets during one of his weekly promenades, he’ll spare even the poorest man or woman a good portion of his time. Always polite, he talks to you like he’s interested in what you have to say, even though everyone knows he’s often occupied with his daily affairs. If he’s feeling particularly generous, he might even offer for you to come for tea in Fumbally, but if he’s short for time, a quick pastry from the local bakery might have to suffice.

There are many rumours that the mothers of Asterville have formed a sixth sense for forecasting his visits to town. The Duke is coming! Quick! Run to the seamstress and fetch the dress you had ordered in preparation (the Duke often asks to be referred to just as Sylus, or Mr. R. if he is feeling formal). Ribbons! It is said that he is fond of silk ribbons in curled hair, his favourite flavour of cake is vanilla sponge with raspberry jam, and he always drinks his coffee with a dash of liqueur. The mothers pride themselves for knowing such prized information regarding the Duke, and they always make sure to have their daughters fluffed up like peacocks upon his arrival, because if you manage to catch his eye, he may gift your daughter with trinkets and a charming smile.

But if there is one location where you really must visit if you seek the company of the Duke, you are more than likely to find him examining the window of Madame Amelia’s boutique; a tailors and modiste where only the prettiest dresses and smartest-looking suits are sewn and stitched with the finest materials that have been imported from all around the globe.

Pretty things. It is also said that the Duke adores pretty things. That’s why he’s always visiting the boutique. It is the only logical reasoning for a man of such calibre to be interested in such mundane things. Or else, of course, he frequents the boutique because he is in search of a wife. Either way, the Duke present or not, one would find it hard to get an appointment at Madame Amelia’s, particularly during ball season, for the fantasy of the Duke searching for a wife only sparks pandemonium across the town as the ladies of Asterville scramble to prepare for the upcoming festivities with haste, false smiles hiding true intentions as each girl hopes to outshine the other for the Duke's hand in marriage.

But of course, all follies and rumours aside, the only person who knows the truth regarding the Duke’s romantic affairs is Sylus himself. A truth that he likes to keep locked away in fear of what might happen if it were to escape his lips.

Because in the Madame Amelia’s boutique, a young seamstress with gentle hands and a calm demeanour works behind a velvet curtain, every stitch sewn with love as she hums sweet melodies under her breath, her hair always loosely tied up in a bandana to match the colours of the season. Yes, Sylus visits the shop every week in hopes of catching a glimpse of you, the only woman who has managed to enrapture his heart and soul in ways he cannot fathom at times.

He comes into the boutique with the Summer breeze. The familiar tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival as the workers of the shop straighten their posture, and the daughters getting their measurements taken tilt their chins upwards, hoping to catch the Duke’s attention.

Madame Amelia herself curtseys as she greets him. Still pretty in old age, her silver bun is always neatly slicked back in a professional manner. Sylus knows she runs a tight ship, hence why the results are immaculate. This is mainly because instead of instilling fear into her workers, she nurtures them. Nurtures their talent, for it is only the talented that may be allowed to work in her boutique. She does not merely hire any seamstress off the street.

Sylus nods in greeting, but his ruby eyes are already searching behind the curtain for a glimpse of you. The flower blooming in the dim backroom despite the lack of sunlight.

“I’m afraid you just missed her, Mr. R.” Madame Amelia gives him a soft smile.

“I sent her out to fetch the latest shipment from the Docks.”

“Materials for the upcoming ball in Fumbally, I assume?” He waves at a girl getting fitted. The action only makes her giggle and blush in response.

Madame Amelia tuts as she takes out her fan and waves it briskly towards her face.

“I admire your generosity for inviting all of Asterville and beyond to your estate for an evening of grandeur, but the orders for gowns and suits are nearly impossible to keep up with. If it wasn’t for her, not a single dress or waistcoat would be ready in time for your extravagant parties.”

“Has she made any inclination that she’ll attend this time?” Sylus dusts off his jacket, feigning nonchalance.

“She has been her usual clandestine self,” Madame Amelia sighs. “It’s rather pitiful. All she does is scratch away with her quill late into the night, and then once the sun rises, she’s back to stitching hems and lace.”

Madame Amelia raises an eyebrow as she notices the dainty little box of macaroons in his arms.

“As always, you have not come empty handed.”

“It is rude to come to a place of such excellence without a gift of thanks.”

“Your business is more than enough, Mister R. In fact, I do believe most of Asterville’s wealth is all due to your capabilities of turning stones into diamonds, thus, it should be us thanking you.”

“It is not often that your workers get to indulge in decadent treats.”

“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with macaroons being her favourite, no?”

Sylus chokes out a cough as Madame Amelia looks at him with the eyes of a stern mother. Although she is not your mother by birth, her fierce protection of you has often deterred him from seeking information about you. It would appear that with age, she has acquired a wisdom that allows her to see right through his poker face that often fools many.

Clearing his throat, he straightens his posture while trying his best to remain nonchalant.

“Perhaps I could see her before–”

“Mr. R!”

Sylus blinks as three young women suddenly appear in front of him, rosy cheeks and sparkly eyes. The Patterfields. Sylus would recognise the blonde ringlets and citrus-coloured bonnets anywhere.

“Hello ladies,” he says as they giggle, pushing and shoving each other, fighting like cats in order to gain the spotlight under his–seemingly–fleeting attention.

“Mr. R, what brings you to town?”

“Mr. R, is it true that the ball will include a full roasted pig?”

“Mr. R, will you please buy us some ribbons for the ball?”

“Girls! Leave the Duke be!”

A woman with sharp features and a severe stare seizes the girls, giving him an apologetic bow.

“I do apologise for the lack of manners my girls seem to possess. They know better than to act so boisterously in front of the Duke–”

“No need for apologies, Mrs.Patterfield. I do enjoy the confidence of your daughters. Young ladies ought to be taught to have faith in their words, as there might be a time where their voices will need to be heard.”

Mrs.Patterfield chokes as the girls squeal in delight.

Sylus gives them a warm smile. “Ladies, do feel free to browse the ribbons. It would be my pleasure to purchase a ribbon for each of you.”

More shrill squeals fill the little boutique as the girls scamper off, their curtsies forgotten as Mrs.Patterfield chases after them, mumbling embarrassed apologies to Sylus as she attempts to round the girls up once again, like a shepherd attempting to farm wild cattle.

“My oh my, the Duke certainly is as generous as the handsome rumours paint him to be.”

A teasing voice that calls to him like a childhood friend; but who would dare treat him as an old acquaintance in Asterville? A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. There’s only one woman who would dare. Only one woman that has him wrapped around her little finger; and she doesn’t care. Never vies for his attention, nor grovels for his affection. Yet she knows his waist and chest measurements. Knows how to make every pair of trousers hug his hips, and waistcoats button perfectly around his figure without squeezing the air out of his lungs.

He turns around, only to be met with your teasing smile, a wooden chest full of new fabrics resting against your hips as you lean your body against a shelf.

“Mr. R,” she says with slight jest. It sends a shiver down his spine.

With your hands full, you can only manage the formality of tilting your head downwards, which only causes one of your ringlets to fall out of your baby blue bandana. It lands just above your collarbone, and Sylus can’t take his eyes off of it. Can’t seem to stop his heart racing in his chest as his hand twitches to reach out and touch it.

Despite having luncheon before leaving, he suddenly feels starved.

“Miss,” he replies, the formality rolling off his tongue. “Allow me.”

He takes the wooden chest in his arms without hesitation, not seeming to care that the conversations within the boutique have suddenly become nothing more than hushed whispers as curious eyes watch the brash seamstress interact with the gentle Duke. Their encounters often make great entertainment in club rooms and around dinner tables, should you be so lucky as to wrangle the gossip out of the mouths of jealous mothers.

“What brings you back so soon? If you’re curious about how your suit for the ball is coming along, I’m afraid that it is not quite ready yet. I must apologise, but the gowns that have been requested to catch your eye this season are even more flamboyant than usual.”

Avoiding your quizzical gaze, he holds out the box of macaroons, gesturing for you to take it.

“I was just passing by and thought you and the other seamstresses would enjoy something sweet.” He keeps his gaze on the decorative string tied around your waist. It appears no one has bought you a ribbon since his last visit. He wonders if he bought you one, would you wear it?

“Always so kind, Mr. R. I do hope we aren’t bankrupting you,” you joke, leaning in to take the sweets, your sudden close proximity making him clumsy as he tries to keep the wooden chest from slipping from underneath his arm.

“I heard you had a preference for them.” The sentence slips out of his mouth before he can stop it.

You raise a brow in response.

“Did Madame Amelia but you up to this? She’s been trying to stop me from leaving Asterville recently. Apparently I’m much more suited to work as a seamstress as opposed to gaining a proper education.”

“You plan to leave Asterville?” The idea of a life without you hits him sharp and sudden, like an arrow that has been aimed and fired right into the centre of his heart. The wound bleeds. Without you, Asterville would be miserable.

You shake your head. “A silly dream, I know. What could possibly be out there for a woman like me? No family, no chance of marriage, and very little to my name….” you trail off, a wistful look in your eyes as you stare off into the distance to a place where Sylus cannot reach you.

“It is not a sin for a lady to have ambition,” Sylus says, voice stern. “In fact, I…find it…admirable.”

Seeming to snap out of your woeful daze, Sylus can only stand there and look at you longingly as you give him a delicate curtsey.

“I do apologise for speaking so liberally in front of you, Mr. R. I doubt a seamstress’s desires are of any interest to a man, let alone a Duke.”

Please don’t go, Sylus wants to say. For I have waited all day for this interaction, and if you are to leave now, I’ll have to wait through another week of sunsets and sunrises before I can see you again.

“I’ll have Madame Amelia write to you immediately when your suit is ready for collection. Or perhaps we can just send it directly to Fumbally if you find yourself occupied with more important matters.”

“Thank you,” Sylus says, disappointment flooding his body as you slowly back away from him.

“I do enjoy our encounters, Mr. R, no matter how brief they may be. But sadly, I must say farewell for now, or else Asterville will be home to many unhappy ladies without gowns for the Fumbally soirée.”

Like cherry blossoms in the wind, he barely has time to fully register your beauty before you disappear, leaving him standing with nothing but an aching heart and a wooden chest in his arms.

And as he sits back into the velvet seats of his carriage on the journey home, he cannot help but let his face fall into his hands as he curses himself for yet another failed attempt of earning your affection.

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

One week later, Sylus finds himself holding his breath as he stands in front of the familiar velvet curtain of the boutique, another box of macaroons in his hands as the ladies of the shop watch him like a hawk.

“How wonderful! Mr. R has graced us with his presence again!”

“Mama, may we please have Father write to Mr. R. and ask him over for tea one day?”

“Do you think Mr. R. is here to see that seamstress again? I heard he only allows her to take his measurements.”

“Shhh! He might hear you and think of us as rather impolite!”

Taking a deep breath, Sylus pushes down his swirling emotions and enters into the dim lighting of the store room.

“You’re late.”

Standing on a ladder, you continue to root through the shelves, barely sparing him a second glance. Your bandana is maroon today. The colour of romance and desire. Or perhaps Sylus is just hoping you’re trying to send him a subtle message.

“I didn’t think you would come today. The ladies who visited he shop said they did not see your carriage enter town today.”

“I was travelling on a different route from a neighbouring town. An old friend needed advice.”

He holds out his hand as you begin to descend from the ladder. You take it in your own, and Sylus forgets how to breathe. This is the first time he has touched you. The first time he has felt the weight of your hand in his. It is more calloused than he had imagined, but this does not make it any less lovely.

“I assume you're here to be re-measured, despite me only measuring your impressive proportions last month. Madame Amelia mentioned you were fretting over your suit not fitting you. Did you know she thinks that your chest rivals Hercules? If you believe what the ancient poets wrote, that is. But I find that men like to exaggerate their stories, particularly when it comes to the details of their bodies.”

You let go of his hand as you arrive safely to the ground, and suddenly Sylus is aware of the lack of space between your chests. It may be the closest he has ever been to you.

Red eyes boring into yours. If a single gaze could reveal a man’s feelings, Sylus wonders if he would make the entire Earth shake with his desire for you. When did you get so close? He can see the faint remnants of ink stains on your fingertips, can smell the scent of roses from the soap you must use. He aches for you. Surely you must know by now? That every trip to town is only an excuse to visit you, and if chance encounters are not in the stars, then Sylus sees to it that he bends the constellations to his will in order to bribe the Heavens into letting him catch even a single glimpse of you.

“Perhaps those men could take a few lessons on the art of poetic language from you,” Sylus says eventually. Unable to hold back any longer, he tucks the loose ringlet of hair back into your bandana.

You inhale sharply as his hand accidentally brushes your cheek; or is he simply imagining it?

“I was afraid I missed your visit today. Madame Amelia had me fetch another delivery from the Docks. It was quite busy today. Lots of royalty sailing in for the ball. I could barely squeeze by the gaggles of girls.”

Sylus nods, but he’s not quite sure if he fully understood anything you said, because his desire to reach out and hold you is burning him alive from the inside-out.

“Most ladies wear the most brilliant of bonnets when they visit the Docks. It is a known spot for stumbling across royalty. The Princes of the neighbouring countries often sail to Asterville to marvel at its ancient beauty.” He says this while looking at your collarbones. So thin. He wonders if you would ever dine with him in Fumbally.

You let out a deep, dramatic sigh. “I do not find joy in the superficial affection of anyone, let alone a Prince. Mr. R, have our weekly conversations revealed anything about my personality at all?”

“I find you rather difficult to read, Miss seamstress.”

“How amusing. I find you rather inscrutable too, Mr. R.”

“Shall we?” He gestures towards the connecting dressing room that is used for measuring important customers in private.

“I suppose we shall.”

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

A dozen candles burning, emitting a soft hazy glow as you kneel before him, eyebrows knitted together in concentration as you tighten the measuring tape around his hips. It’s becoming unbearable for Sylus to remain still. Your skin looks ever so soft in the amber hues, and the scent of roses is making his head spin. Not even an entire garden of roses would smell this strong. If he does not convince you to attend the ball in Fumbally today, he might simply wither like a tree in Winter and die.

You both haven’t spoken a word since stepping inside the dressing room, but Sylus doesn’t dare disturb you while you’re working. So instead, he waits patiently for you to invite him into conversation, even though the silence that is enveloping the two of you feels like a form of torture.

Still not breathing a word, he watches as you move up towards his chest, humming tunes under your breath as you squint in the light, a small laugh escaping your lips as you shake your head in what looks like disbelief.

“Perhaps your visit has not been in vain after all. I do believe your chest has grown slightly larger since our last appointment.” You pause, looking up at him through long lashes.

“The ladies of Asterville won’t know how to behave if this news were to be spread into the streets.”

“You’re willing to sell other peoples’ information just like that?” Sylus gives you an amused smile.

“For a price, yes.” You look at him, your features arranged in a serious manner. “But there are some secrets that I like to keep for myself.”

Getting to your feet, you take a step back before taking a mock bow with such dramatic grandeur, it actually makes him burst into a fit of laughter.

You smile at him, your eyes twinkling like little stars.

“You are free to go, Mr. R. As I have said before, I do enjoy our time together. It’s always such a shame that you can only stay for such a short while, but I suppose a Duke must fulfil his duties.”

I can stay forever, if only you so much as utter the word, Sylus wants to say. If you were to even show a sliver of interest in me, then I would ride out to the mines and pluck a diamond from the dark depths myself, and then I would carve it into whatever shape you desire, placing it on your finger in the Asterville Chapel for all to marvel at. It would be a grand occasion, no expense spared. So please, just say you want me as much as I want you. Or if you want, I can throw away my title if it means you will allow yourself to find safety in my arms.

“Mr. R? I do pray you say what ails you. Your face looks rather troubled.”

Sylus exhales, suddenly feeling exhausted. Had he forgotten to breathe for a second? Or perhaps his travels have worn him out. He never sleeps well in the carriage.

Stepping down from the footstool, he bows graciously before you.

“I apologise for taking up your precious time. I assume the orders for the ball have not quite dwindled down,” he says, shrugging on his jacket.

“No matter how busy we are, everyone must make time for the Duke. It is Madame Amelia’s policy.”

Sylus nods, but he is only half-listening, because inside, he’s at war with himself. Should he ask? He would never forgive himself if he came across as pressuring you into doing something you did not want to do. No, he won’t ask. He’ll simply take his leave as usual. But then again–”

“Mr. R?”

“T-The ball.”

How embarrassing. It comes out in a stutter, far from his usual eloquence. Thank God for the dim lighting, for he can feel a faint blush rising from his neck to his cheeks.

“The ball in Fumbally next week. I do hope you attend. It will be the best one yet. The firework show will be even bigger than last season’s.”

Avoiding his eyes, you stare down at your hands.

“There is no room for a seamstress in a place as wonderful as Fumbally.”

Sylus shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How could you say such nonsense? The ball is for you. They always are. So you must attend. I beg you.”

“The ball…is…for me?”

Silence.

And suddenly Sylus’s world crumbles, for what has he just said? Too much. And now that the truth is out, it is too late to take it back.

You step away from him in shock, hands wrapping defensively around your arms as your eyes look at him with…with what? Terror? Disgust? Had he raised his voice? He must have, otherwise you wouldn’t have reacted in such a visceral manner. He can feel his calm composure slipping away from him as the room begins to spin. Perhaps he should have taken his leave when you had so clearly wanted him to go.

Giving you an apologetic bow, he reigns in his spiralling emotions and puts on the most formal tone of a respectable Duke that he can muster up.

“I deeply apologise for raising my voice in your company. I hope you know that it was not on purpose, nor was it done with any ill intentions.”

Unable to look at you any longer in fear of seeing something that will give him sleepless nights, he bows once more, eyes downcast on the floor as he takes strong strides towards the curtain, pausing briefly as he hesitates to say one final sentence.

“In regards to what I said…I meant every word. However, it would pain me to think that you would force yourself to attend the ball just because the Duke asked you to. Your agency is a gift, and I have made a fool of myself in front of you by letting my emotions get the better of me. Forgive me.”

Silence. Sylus gets the message.

“Good day, Miss seamstress.”

Not daring to look back, he exits the boutique at a brisk pace, bowing to Madame Amelia as he tears open the door and steps out into—to his dismay—the pouring rain.

Thunder claps above in the grey clouds as his men jump to alert upon his sudden arrival, quickly preparing the carriage as the rain soaks through his clothes. Who knew his life would become a pathetic fallacy that the poets will probably write about in their pitiful sonnets? All his hard work of earning your trust has been ruined by his lack of self-preservation. He might as well never step into society again. What is the point, if you will no longer wish to see him?

He’s about to step into the carriage when he hears the tinkling of a bell as the boutique door swings open, and you come tumbling out, the rain soaking you instantly, but you do not seem to care in the slightest.

“Wait!”

A hand reaches out to catch his wrist, stopping him abruptly in his tracks.

Another clap of thunder. He dares not to turn around. Dares not to hope, for it would destroy him if this glimmer of hope were to be extinguished as quickly as it had been lit.

Frozen in place, time slows as Sylus finds his fate suspended in the air.

“Just…wait.”

The words can barely be heard over the sound of the rain, but Sylus has always had an ear for your voice.

“What more can be said?” he asks, to himself or to you, that is a question that he cannot seem to answer in his current state.

“If I were to tell you how I truly feel right now…they would throw me into the deepest dungeons of Asterville and toss the key into the ocean.”

Sylus holds his breath once more as the grip on his wrist tightens.

“No one is here but me,” Sylus says, voice low. “And I swear, whether you wish tell me or not, your feelings that you fear will not cause any harm to you if you were to speak them aloud, for they shall not be repeated. I promise to take them to my grave."

“Oh, Sylus.”

He whips around as you drop his wrist, shocked that you used his name. But instead of meeting your eyes, he finds you with your face in your hands, heavy sobs causing your shoulders to shake as the ran drenches your trembling shoulders.

“Don’t cry, my darling. Please—”

“You deserve someone with prospects. A title. Someone who can play the role of a proper lady in Fumbally. But I cannot live with myself, knowing that you are the man I have fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with. A Duke. How pathetic of me to even dream of such nonsense. It is why I refused those pretty invitations to your balls, despite the wretched pain it brought me every time. Crying myself to sleep like a little girl, sewing a gown for every single season, only to toss it into the fire in fear that I wouldn’t be able to see you dance with another girl if I even dared to show my face in your humble abode…”

Removing your face from your hands, you wipe away your tears as he stares at you in disbelief. He wonders if he heard you correctly—no—he prays to the Heavens that he heard you correctly. Has all his suffering in silence been simply caused by a misunderstanding? That perhaps, you had been suffering too, afraid of your lack of proprietary and low title? Afraid of him turning you down in disgust?

The rain continues to pour down on the forbidden lovers, but neither seem to pay the weather any heed. Instead it serves as a reminder that although fierce, storms can allow for outbursts of emotions, hiding the noise in order to shield secrets from the prying ears of the Universe.

“Say it isn’t true,” Sylus breathes, rain dripping down his face.

“What?”

“Say that you never shed a tear because of me. That you never felt ashamed in front of me.”

“Sylus...”

He reaches out, hands trembling as he takes your face between his palms, his thumbs brushing away the stray tears that continue to pour from your eyes. It breaks his heart, seeing you like this.

“I thought you knew,” Sylus whispers. His eyes flicker down to your lips. So pink and plump. Begging him to just lean in and press them against his own. Heart hammering against his chest, he waits for you to say something. Anything.

“Knew what?” You say after a long pause.

Sylus cannot take it any longer. If not now, when will he ever find the courage to tell you the truth that you deserve to know?

“That my love for you burns brighter than any star in the Universe. It is so heavy, that I have been living like Atlas who was doomed to carry the sky, but instead of the sky, I hold my love for you above my head, hoping that one day, you would wish to carry it with me.”

Like flowers blooming after a particularly harsh winter, the two of you stand in the rain, holding your breaths as a realisation slowly dawns between two lonely souls.

“Why me?” You say it with such sorrow that it makes Sylus want to tear the Earth in two for making you feel like you are woman that is not worth loving.

“You could have anyone, but I only have you.” Your lower lip trembles as you speak.

“Excuse my bluntness, but you are sorely mistaken,” Sylus says, ruby eyes blazing. “For I may have the choice of anyone, but my only wish is to have you, if you will allow it.”

You choke out a laugh. “Was it my sharp tongue or my ragged clothes?”

“It was simply you,” Sylus replies. “From the moment I saw you hiding behind the curtain, I knew it would only ever be you that would be able to make me feel anything at all.”

Another soft laugh of incredulity escapes your lips.

“My room is above the shop. It’s…well, to be quite frank, there is nothing worthwhile up there for you to see, but I…I want to take you up there just to keep you near me for a little longer.”

“My afternoon is yours,” Sylus says, pressing his forehead against yours. “And so is every moment you seek my company from this day forward. From now on, my time shall only be dedicated to you. I will have one of my men always situated in town so he can fetch me whenever you desire to see me.”

Catching your hand as he pulls away from your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Now show me this room of yours, and I will decide for myself whether it is worth my time or not.”

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

Patience is a virtue, unless of course, patience lacks control, and in the unfortunate incident where both seem to be absent in a situation, one can only be left helpless, which is what Sylus feels as he presses his thigh between your legs, half your corset undone as you sink your teeth into his neck, licking over the bruise as he desperately tries to cling to his sanity, because this feels like a dream.

Both of you are still drenched from the rain, yet it does not seem to bother either of you. In fact, it only adds another excuse for the shedding of clothes, for leaving them on would only be an inconvenience. God forbid, Sylus would never want you to catch a cold in the middle of Summer.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs as you detach your mouth from his neck, panting as you watch his eyes rake over your exposed skin and the fullness of your hair now that he’s ripped off your bandana, your full beauty spilling from its restraints.

His large hands suddenly lift you up as he squeezes your thighs through the cotton material of your stockings, a soft moan escaping your lips as he carries you over to the bed, gently placing you down on the rumpled sheets as he finishes untying the strings of your corset.

Clawing at his shirt, you rip his blouse free from his trousers, your hands quickly becoming acquainted with the buttons as you undo them with all the skill of a seamstress. A lady that knows her way around clothes, he aids you by shrugging off the blouse as he leans over you, fingers sliding across the buckle of his belt.

A soft sigh escapes his lips as his cock is freed from the tight fabric all at once. Without a warning, your hand reaches out to palm his hardness through his briefs, your eyes full of lust as he shuts his own and lets the pleasure course through his body. Finally. All those nights of finding a release by rubbing himself to an orgasm with the fantasies of his fingers on your bare skin, all the cold showers he had to take in order to rid himself of his sexual desires that always seemed to involve you; it has finally come to a conclusion. A conclusion that involves fucking you with all the heat that has been building up inside of him for what feels like centuries.

Now, as he sheds you of all your layers, he cannot help but take his time, despite the fact that you’re begging him to just insert himself already.

“I did not know ladies even understood the true, obscene, meaning of intercourse,” Sylus hums, kissing a trail down your thighs as he pulls down your underwear with his long fingers, tossing them aside as he observes the wetness leaking from your folds.

“Any lady with a brain knows that the greatest of pleasures comes from intercourse,” you sigh, catching his wrist and pulling it towards your throbbing clit, a whimper escaping your lips as he begins to massage circles into the little bud.

“You cannot fathom how many times I’ve thought about this,” Sylus growls, leaning down to kiss your bare breasts as you squirm against the mattress.

“How humorous. I often found myself thinking of you when I would touch myself,” you reply with an air of tongue-and-cheek.

Sylus moans, his head falling against your chest as you curl your fingers into his silver hair.

“I wish we had of declared our true feelings of affection sooner. We would have saved so much time.”

“Perhaps we can make up for it now.”

In one swift movement, Sylus finds his position being shifted as you launch yourself into his bare chest, knocking him onto his back as you climb on top of him, pulling down his briefs, your eyes widening at his size.

“It is not just a big estate you possess, I see,” you say, a smirk on your lips as you crawl towards him, lifting your hips before sinking down on his thick cock with one swift movement.

Sylus curses as you take him in his entirety. His hips buck up involuntarily, but you seem to be on the same page, and you grind your hips to meet his repeating thrusts as his hands squeeze your waist, not wanting this feeling to ever end.

As the bed shakes and the room fills with wet noises of skin slapping against skin, two souls intertwine and become whole, an eclipse that only happens once in a lifetime. Your moans only make his cock throb with desire even more, while his thrusts cause your wetness to increase by the second. Far from delicate, it’s a rough dance the two of you find yourselves in. But there is also a tenderness present in the way he runs his fingers over the soft skin of your thighs every few minutes, or the way you look down at him to check if he’s still enjoying your movements.

It lasts longer than a dozen waltzes. Sylus takes you in any way he can. Against the wall, on the floor, every position he can think of, he tries, and you are right there with him, bending your body to his will, greed making your pupils widen with want and need. Please take me again, Sylus. I can handle it. My pussy will always long for the feeling of your cock forevermore.

The rainy afternoon bleeds into a misty twilight as Sylus comes all over your breasts for his third orgasm of the day, painting you with every last drop he has. It’s bliss.

“Sylus…”

You tug on his hand, forcing his fingers into your wet heat as you rub your clit, your legs spread wide.

“So greedy,” Sylus pants, but he continues to move his fingers in the way he has learnt that you like.

“Will you come on my fingers, my darling?”

“Y-Yes,” you sigh, eyes shutting as Sylus feels your walls tightening around him.

“How many more times will you come undone for me like this?” Sylus asks, curling his fingers, taking pride in himself as he finds the spot that sends you into a paradise that only he can take you to.

It doesn’t take you long to reach your climax after that. A few more strategic movements of his fingertips, and you’re coming once more. Sylus makes sure to guide you through it, eventually removing his hand as you whine from the loss. He kisses your forehead as he wipes you down with a handkerchief, assuring you that there will be plenty more time to fill you once more before the day is over.

Laboured breathing and the musky smell of sex. Sylus has lost count of the hours you both have spent lost in pleasure. The ladies of the town will be wondering how he managed to disappear from their sight. Or perhaps someone will have already put two and two together. But as Sylus looks at your naked figure through the dwindling daylight, he simply couldn't care less.

Pulling you into his arms, he rests his chin on the crown of your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, legs tangling together as you both bask in the post-sex haze.

“So will you come to Fumbally for the ball?”

A burst of giggles that sounds akin to the bells of an orchestra. Sylus did not know that you could make such a sound, did not know he was capable of making anyone feel happiness that is so pure and genuine.

So lovely. So free. Perhaps this is the true-self that you had been hiding from him in fear that he would not accept you for who you are.

“I do not own a fancy gown that would be suitable for such an event,” you say, once your giggles have died down.

“Then let me commission one for you. You can use whatever material you want. I will see to it that you won’t have to use a penny of your wages.”

“And a ribbon?”

Sylus kisses your head. “From now on, I will only buy ribbons for one woman in Asterville.”

“Oh? The ladies of the town will be terribly unhappy about that.”

“Let them be unhappy, for I am now spoken for.”

Brash as his words may be, he means every single one, for this is only the beginning of his quest to earn, not only the full depths of your heart, but your hand in marriage. But there will be plenty of time to do so, now that he has laid his intentions out for you to bear witness to.

Kissing your head once more, he shut his eyes, slowly falling into a deep sleep.

And for the first time in his life, the Duke dares to dream of a future with the seamstress who has entrapped him in her eternal embrace.

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ a/n: thank you to everyone who encouraged me to post this; it has been living in my head rent free. and yes! i did rewatch pride and prejudice 3 times in the past 24 hours in hopes to capture even a fraction of the beautiful essence of jane austen and the power of yearning !!!! as always, much love to all who take the time to read my silly little fics. as always, i dedicate my work to you.

love always, daisy ❀

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ taglist: @peascribbles @dyeinsomniadontwake @blessdunrest @sylusgirlie7 @madam8 @glassandhoney @ash-dreamer220 @sleepykittyenergy

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thewintersoldierdisaster · 1 year ago

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a/n: remember that poll you guys voted in on what fic i should work on? this is the fic that one 😂 i’ve been wanting to write this one for a minute and had so much fun doing it!! i love the soft vibes and i hope you guys do too 🥰 lots of fun stuff coming up 🤍

word count: 4.9k

tw: a little dirty talk, a little horny making out, nothing crazy

summary: sunrise on the beach with mat becomes your favorite memory

Sleep fades away slowly, a warm hand working its way gently into your hair, fingertips rubbing against your scalp. You hum and press your face into the pillow bunched up under your head.

A familiar chuckle pierces the veil of sleep, fingers continuing their gentle rub. “Hey, come on Sleeping Beauty,” Mat’s voice is low and amused in your ear. “Time for that sunrise.”

You whine and roll over, sleep still clinging stubbornly to your brain. In your hazy half-awake state, you remember that you’d told Mat you wanted to see the sunrise on the beach, but you honestly didn’t think he’d be able to manage to get up this early. “Time’s it?” you mumble around a yawn, eyes still shut and hand groping for Mat’s. He laces his fingers with yours, taking pity on your floundering hand. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, his palm dry and warm in your own.

“Four ten,” he says, laughing at the outraged noise you make. “Babe, sunrise is at 5:20, had to get you up early.”

One eye cracks open and Mat comes into view, sitting on the edge of the mattress, hair looking a little crazy. He’s got a soft smile on his face even as his lips are tilted up with amusement. “This is cruel and unusual,” you mumble, stretching your legs out under the pile of blankets. Your calf cramps slightly and you flex your foot to relieve the twinge.

Mat’s fingers twitch in yours and he shrugs a little. “You said you wanted to see the sunrise,” he reminds you, tugging at your hand and pulling you into a sitting position. “Not too many more days left on the Island for that to happen.”

He’s not wrong - after the six-game playoff loss to the Canes, you’d hung around the Island so you could spend your birthday with your friends, but you’re leaving in a couple of days to visit Mat’s family before the Bear wedding and then hopping over to Europe for a couple of weeks of vacation. The summer is jam-packed full of fun plans that you’re looking forward to.

“I hate that you’re right,” you sigh, more awake now. Mat leans in and kisses you quickly. He jumps up before you can really kiss him back, making your forehead crease in confusion.

“I’m always right,” he teases, rummaging through your drawers to find you some clothes. You stretch your arms over your head, t-shirt riding up and exposing your stomach to the cool air of your bedroom. You shiver a bit, that full-body shake that’s the result of a really good stretch.

With a scoff, you swing your legs out of bed and mutter, “you weren’t right when you missed the exit and drove us into Staten Island last week, making us very late for dinner.”

Mat blows a raspberry at you. “I thought we weren’t going to bring that up again?” He whines, pouting like a toddler.

You shoot him a cheeky grin over your shoulder and pad to the bathroom to clean up. “I’m bringing that up until the end of time, Mr. I Don’t Need Directions Babe I Know Where I’m Going,” you laugh to yourself before knocking the door shut with your foot so you can have a minute of privacy.

Mat’s got the bedside lamps on when you leave the bathroom, casting your bedroom in soft light that doesn’t hurt your tired eyes. You smile gratefully and flop back down on the bed. “Are you sure we have to do this?” You yawn again. “What about staying in bed and fucking like bunnies? That could be fun.”

Your boyfriend laughs and comes to straddle your legs, knees on the outside of your own, leaning down over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “I think we can do that later,” he mutters against your skin. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Get dressed.”

Looking at him, you notice for the first time that Mat’s already dressed in a navy quarter zip and jeans and you wonder exactly how early he got up. It doesn’t really matter at the end of the day and you change into a comfortably oversized royal blue cashmere sweater and a pair of leggings, ignoring the jeans Mat had pulled out of your drawer. He’s staring blatantly at you as you dress, grinning when he notices that you don’t bother with a bra. You wink at him, teasing, “I know that backseat of yours is very spacious.”

Mat’s laugh is contagious and you giggle along with him. “Babe, I’ll let you do whatever you want in the backseat of my car,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, catching your foot when you kick it up at him to put on your socks. He tickles the arch of your foot gently as he pulls a pair of his own thick Nike socks on your feet and lets them bunch up over your leggings.

You wiggle your toes in the warm socks, squirming when Mat captures your ankle and tugs gently to drag you down the bed. “Whatever I want?” You ask on a breathless giggle, letting him pull you to your feet and crash against his chest.

“Anything but eating Goldfish back there,” Mat shakes his head at you, both of you remembering the time you’d been babysitting the Martin girls and Winnie had asked for her snack sized bag of Goldfish to be squished into crumbs since they “taste better” that way and then had dumped the entire bag out on your lap when she was trying to share.

“That was an accident!” You protest, distracted by Mat’s warm hands snaking under the hem of your sweater and dancing over the soft skin of your lower back. “She was sharing. We’re supposed to be encouraging sharing, Mat!”

Mat snorts. “Only because you asked for a Goldfish,” he kisses your cheek, “now come on. We’re going to miss the sunrise.” He taps against your lower back and you wiggle against him.

You’re awake now, but you still try and convince him to get back in bed, “sure you don’t want to just undress me under the covers instead?”

“Later,” Mat promises, tugging at the waistband of your leggings and spurring you into following him down the stairs. You snag your phone off its charging pad on the way out and nearly fumble the tube of Summer Fridays lip balm when you lunge back at the last second for it too.

Downstairs, Mat grabs his keys out of the little bowl on the hall table and you shove your feet into a battered pair of Ugg Tasmans, going for maximum comfort. Mat pulls on a pair of Nikes and you follow him out the door, sighing when you see how dark it still is.

“Can I guarantee at least two orgasms for myself?” You ask, climbing into the passenger seat of Mat’s Defender. “It’s criminally early.”

You look over your shoulder and see that Mat’s already pushed down the second row of seats and the car is full of pillows and blankets to nest in while you watch the sunrise. A delighted smile curls your lips and Mat laughs at you when he gets behind the wheel.

“You literally begged me to take you to see the sunrise,” he reminds you, starting the car and pulling out of the driveway. He plays with the radio, finding your preset Taylor Swift Sirius station and you smile happily, kicking off your Uggs and pulling your feet up onto the seat.

“I forget it’s so early in the summer,” you laugh lightly, humming along to ‘Paper Rings.’ You reach your arm out and rest your hand on the nape of Mat’s neck, scratching your nails lightly into his hair, letting the silky strands curl around your fingers. He hasn’t cut it yet and you begged him to let it grow a little longer during the summer, just until Ethan’s wedding in July. Luckily for you, Mat agreed, mostly because he loves when you tangle your fingers in his hair and pull when he’s going down on you. Now, Mat’s shoulders drop and you can feel his body relax under your touch. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Robert Moses,” Mat replies, merging onto the Meadowbrook. Despite the early hour, a car nearly sideswipes you as you merge in and Mat lays on the horn, shouting through the closed window. You wince, fingers freezing in place on Mat’s neck.

“I hate the Meadowbrook,” you mutter. “Meanwhile, where was he going? It’s literally five in the morning.”

“It’s also Monday,” Mat reminds you, grinning when you resume scratching at his scalp. “People are going to work.”

You hum a little laugh, “right, the employed, upstanding citizens making the rest of us bums look bad.” The parkway opens up now though, the road clear in front of you and you zone out a bit while staring at the sky as it lightens. The music changes and you mumble-sing along, tapping your socked foot against the leather seat. Mat’s fingers alternate between tapping against the steering wheel and clenching it so hard his knuckles go white. You turn your head to look at him, studying the line of his jaw and the stubble that he’s letting grow in for a few days before he’ll decide to shave again. His hair curls around his ears and you run your fingers through it, brushing your fingertips over the hinge of his jaw.

His lips tilt up in a smile even as his eyes stay on the road. “Enjoying the view?” He teases and you giggle.

“Yeah, actually I am,” you murmur. “Call it sleep deprivation, but I can’t stop staring at you right now.” You angle your body towards Mat’s, still studying his face. “I love you,” you say on a little sigh, never tired of the way his ears go a little pink when you say those three words.

“Fuck yeah, same,” he replies, smirking a bit before laughing at the inside joke. You wrinkle your nose at him, thinking about that first confession - both of you drunk out of your minds, Mat holding you up while you danced on the beach, half of his teammates partying around you in the late July warmth. Influenced by High Noons and beers mixed with too much tequila, your hangover the next day had only been worsened when you remembered the way you slurred the three words into his ear and his response, three different words. But tangled together on the oversized couch in Matt and Sydney’s Hamptons home, with the sunlight nearly blinding you and the sounds of the waves breaking, Mat had pulled you close to his chest and buried his face in your hair and mumbled, “for the record, I love you too.”

From there it had been a wild year, so much fun and excitement, mingled with the heartbreak of missing the playoffs and the month-long break you’d taken after a blowup fight.

Before you can linger too much on the past, Mat pulls off the Meadowbrook and navigates the traffic circle to merge onto Ocean Parkway. You roll down the window to get the ocean breeze into the car, inhaling deeply. “God, I love the smell of the ocean,” you sigh, wiggling happily in your seat. “I miss the days they would prescribe going to the shore for your health.”

Mat’s laugh fills the car, “you already spend more time at the beach than any other person I know! Who takes four mile walks on the sand in the middle of January?”

“I’m a summer baby, Mathew,” you sniff haughtily, tugging gently on the piece of hair twirled around your fingers. “I need my designated beach time to thrive.”

“You’re crazy, that’s what you are,” Mat says, but his tone is laced with affection. “Hopefully this morning fills the quota for when we’re up in Vancouver.”

“We’ll see,” you laugh, the car bouncing slightly as Mat takes the turn off the road and navigates the Defender into the sand. The sky is lightening slowly and you’re still ten minutes away from actual sunrise, so it’s perfect timing. He situates the car so the front is facing west and turns it off, turning to grin at you.

“Ready for a show?” He asks, tossing the keys into the cup holder and reaching up to lace his fingers with yours.

You nod, wide awake now and excited to cross something off your summer bucket list. “Let’s get cozy,” you lean over the console and press your lips to his in a quick kiss before shifting onto your knees and climbing over the console into the back of the car, head first and nearly kicking Mat in the head with a stray foot. He’s laughing behind you, tugging at your ankles.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to get out of the car?” He’s opening his door, half out onto the sand as he talks.

You’re perched happily in the pile of blankets when May pulls open the hatch, exposing the full view of the beach and eastern horizon. He’s backlit by the rising sun and you reach for him, wiggling your fingers to encourage him to climb into the expanded backseat with you. “My way was more fun,” you chirp when he climbs in, kicking his sneakers off and leaving them in the sand.

“Crazy,” he mutters, scooting you to the side so he can wedge in behind you. His elbow bangs against something and makes a sort of thunking noise.

“What’s that?” You settle in between Mat’s legs, resting your back against his chest.

He leans a little to the side and tugs at one of the blankets, exposing the Yeti cooler that usually lives in your garage while it waits for summertime. “Breakfast,” he says and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Ohhh,” you grin, angling your head back so you can see Mat’s face, “you’re really gunning for boyfriend of the year, huh?”

“How’re my odds looking?” Mat flips open the lid of the cooler and pulls out a snack sized bottle of Tropicana, holding the bottle in front of you while he cracks the top. You take it from him with a quiet, ‘thanks’ and sip at it. His thighs are firm against the outside of yours, warmth radiating off his body.

“Holding onto a solid second place,” you tease, knocking your knee against his.

Mat cracks open his own bottle of orange juice and knocks back half off it before replying, “second? Jesus, what’s my competition like?”

You shift a little, angling so your shoulder is slightly pressed against his chest and Mat’s left arm is draped over your shoulder, one big hand inching closer to cupping your breast. “Well,” you hum, tapping the lid of your orange juice against your lower lip, “Andrew Price did save the last cherry BlowPop for me back in first grade. I thought that was very gentlemanly.”

“You’re a menace,” Mat grumbles against the top of your head, flicking at the side of your breast with his index finger. You jolt and giggle, bringing your hand up to play with his fingers.

“Yeah, and?” Mat’s foot hooks over yours and you lean to the side, resting your elbow against one of the pillows piled around your bodies. “You planned all this, so you must love me.”

“Against my better judgement,” Mat teases. You look up at him again, pouting and wrinkling your nose, making him smile and lean down to plant a quick kiss on your pout. Humming happily, you rest your cheek against his arm and go quiet, watching the sun slowly rise over the horizon, coloring the sky in gorgeous pastels. Mat’s chin rests on the top of your head and his other arm comes around to wrap around your stomach, keeping you held tightly against his chest.

The waves crash against the sand and you zone out a little watching them, breathing in the ocean air and feeling your entire body relax. Your stomach grumbles quietly, a little vibration that you hope Mat can’t hear. He chuckles and you roll your eyes. “You can move up the boyfriend rankings if you’ve got a cherry BlowPop in that cooler,” you murmur.

Mat shifts behind you, unwrapping his arm from a round your stomach and leaning to the side, taking your body with him. “Even better,” he says, the crinkling of a bag echoing in the small space. You look over just as he withdraws the cream and gold pastry bag from one of your favorite bakeries. “Almond croissant from French Workshop,” he continues, displaying the bag in front of your face with a flourish.

“Ooh!” You perk up, leaning forward to pluck the bag from Mat’s hand. You can smell the buttery pastry and your stomach grumbles again. “Okay, you’re officially in the number one boyfriend spot. I don’t think there’s anything better than almond croissants at sunrise on the beach.”

Mat pulls a second bag from the cooler and you sniff out the scent of Nutella, which only widens your grin. Mat doesn’t have too much of a sweet tooth, except when it comes to Nutella. You’re constantly buying the little snack packs for him to get a quick energy hit.

“Nothing at all?” Mat teases you while you shift in his lap, turning so your back is resting against the side of the car and your legs are draped over his thigh. He takes a bite of his croissant, flaky crumbs landing on your leggings before he brushes them off with a casual hand.

Around a bite of your own treat, you hum. “Nothing I can think of,” you retort cheekily after swallowing.

You shriek and wriggle around when Mat’s fingers tickle your side, your stomach hurting as you laugh loudly and wildly. Mat’s body is on top of yours, nearly flat against the floor of the trunk, croissant crumbs all around you. “Mat, no! Stooop,” you whine, laughing and trying to fight off the onslaught.

“Take it back,” he laughs, peppering your cheeks and neck with kisses. “Say I’m better than breakfast pastries.” He nips at the edge of your jaw.

You hook your legs around Mat’s waist and bump your hips up against his, trying to distract him but all it does is make you hotter for him, heat flushing up your chest. Mat grins against your neck, fingers slowing a little, but still pressing into all the spots that he knows are vulnerable.

“Mercy,” you choke out on a laugh, tugging at Mat’s hair, breathless.

He presses a final kiss to the pulse point on your neck and then his fingers are smoothing over your skin, fingertips gentle as they draw goosebumps in their wake. “I’m taking that as a win,” he informs you, leaning on his forearm so his full weight isn’t on top of you.

You lean up and capture his lower lip between your teeth, biting down a little sharply and tugging. Mat groans into your mouth and you shiver, the noise vibrating down your spine. “Only,” you pull away, your back resting on the floor of the trunk again, “because you play with dirty tactics.”

“Gotta take the wins where I can get them, Squeaks,” he laughs, rolling back onto his side and then sitting up, taking you with him so you’re straddling his lap, the top of your head grazing the roof of the car. You lean down and graze your lips over Mat’s, grinding down a little on his half-hard cock. He grunts in the back of his throat, gripping your hips to keep you in place.

“I’m missing the sunrise,” you chirp, pecking him quickly before wiggling off his lap and settling against his chest again. “You distracted me, back down to number two boyfriend.”

By now, the sun is mostly over the horizon, the sky bright and promising a gorgeous weather day ahead. You pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping an arm around your knees, while you watch the sky change colors. It’s so peaceful and your shoulders relax, the stress of the last few weeks of the regular season and the first round of playoffs dissipating. You’re looking forward to the summer, to getting to spend some real time with Mat. He shifts behind you - you sway to the side a little when he reaches for the cooler again and then back when he adjusts his position, his legs bending at the knee to bracket your body. A breeze off the ocean makes you shiver and press harder against Mat’s body, the hard ridge of his collarbone pressing against the back of your head.

He hums in your ear, breath kissing your cheek when he murmurs, “number two boyfriend, but how about number one fiancé?”

You blink, your brain processing the words, and he reaching around your body to rest his hand on your knee, a black velvet box held loosely in his fingers. You stare at the little box, barely comprehending what’s happening. Mat’s thumb taps carefully against the seam between the two halves of the box, his thumbnail wedged into the spot so he can flick it open at any second.

“What?” The syllable is barely a breath, your heart pounding in your chest. You can feel his cheeks rise with a smile against your temple. “Mat…” your voice is shaky, nervous excitement making your tone higher pitched than usual.

He taps the box against your knee and you immediately move, turning so you’re facing Mat, kneeling in between his legs. He’s got your favorite crooked smile on his face and when his features go a little blurry, you realize you’ve got tears in your eyes.

When he starts talking, Mat’s voice is a little wobbly too. He clears his throat twice before he manages to say, “you know I, uh, usually have a lot to say.”

A laugh slips out of your mouth and you cover your lips with a trembling hand. He grins at you even wider, showing off all his teeth.

“But,” he continues, fingers fidgeting with the box, “I thought about what I wanted to say, what I wanted to tell you, and I… couldn’t think of anything.”

Your heart pounds behind your ribs, tears falling freely down your cheeks.

“There was just too much I wanted to tell you,” he says, leaning up on his knees so you’re both kneeling in the trunk of the car. His hair rubs against the roof of the car and gets a little staticky, sticking up in all directions. “Every single time I tried to come up with a speech, all I could get down was how much I fucking love you. Every single day that you’ve been in my life, you’ve made it better. Even on my worst days, you’re the bright spot.”

“Mat,” you gasp his name softly, mouth still covered by your hands. “Oh my god!”

“I want to have a million more days with you,” he says softly, leaning forward and popping the lid open on the ring box. You were so focused on what he was saying, you barely realized that he hadn’t even shown you the ring. It’s gorgeous, a big oval diamond sparkling in the early morning light filtering in through the windows and open trunk. No smaller diamonds surrounding it on the band so the focus is just on how perfect the diamond is. You cry harder because it’s perfect, simple and stunning and everything that you’ve ever wanted in an engagement ring.

Mat cups your cheek with his free hand and you look up at him, nodding and laughing and babbling an answer to a question he technically hasn’t even asked yet.

Off of his own laughter, because he realizes that you’re giving him the answer he was expecting, Mat asks, “will you marry me? Give me all the best days and -“

He’s cut off when you shout a ‘yes!’ and throw yourself against his chest, arms around his neck and mouth covering his in fervent, excited kisses. In between peppering his face in kisses, you keep repeating “yes, yes, oh my god! Mat! I love you so much.”

Mat’s arms are tight around your back, keeping you held close to his chest, and he laughs against your mouth, entire face scrunched up with happiness while you kiss him. “Want your ring?” He mumbles the question, words muffled by your mouth on his.

You lean back in his arms, eyes wide and still glassy with tears, nodding eagerly. “Yes, please!” You hold out your left hand and Mat slides the ring home - a perfect fit. The sunlight glitters off the diamond as you twist your hand in the air, a stupid grin on your face. “Mat, god, it’s gorgeous. Holy shit, I love you.”

His laughter fills the air and he presses a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Aren’t you glad I woke you up this morning?” He teases, bracing an arm around your lower back so he can sit back on his ass and you can straddle his lap. No chance you’re letting go of him just yet.

“Oh yeah,” you nod like a bobble head, still looking at the ring on your finger. It’s surreal, you’re engaged to Mat, you’re going to be his wife! He’s going to be your husband! “Best reason for an early morning wake up.” A wild giggle bubbles up in your chest. “I can’t believe it, we’re engaged!”

You cup his cheeks with both of your hands and pull his face to yours for a kiss, your lips turned up in a permanent grin. Mat rests his forehead against yours when you break apart, your hands still holding his face.

“One more surprise,” he tells you.

“There’s a bottle of champagne in that cooler?” You joke, brushing the tip of your nose against his.

“Okay,” Mat chuckles, “two more surprises.”

“Lay it on me, you big romantic,” you wiggle happily on his lap, the fizzy excitement of Mat’s proposal making you feel a little lightheaded.

Mat’s hands trace a lazy path up and down your sides, slipping under your sweater and ghosting over your warm skin until his fingertips are brushing the undersides of your breasts, making you inhale sharply and arch into his touch. “Y’know how we’re going to visit my parents in a few days?” He asks, turning his head so he can kiss your palm.

It’s hard to concentrate with his hands on your body, but you manage a faint nod.

“We’re taking a little detour to Punta Cana first,” Mat says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your lips. “I wanted to make sure I got to see my gorgeous fiancée in a skimpy little white bikini as soon as possible after proposing.”

“Oh, do you?” You giggle, kissing his cheek. “When do we leave?”

Mat lifts his left wrist up so he can look at his watch. He squints at the face and you can see him doing the mental math before he says, “like thirteen hours?”

“Seriously?” You lean back, face scrunched up, shocked at the quick departure. “You must’ve been really convinced that I was going to say yes,” you tease.

“I know that you’re nuts for me,” Mat smirks, leaning forward to kiss the argument right out of your mouth, his fingers expertly twisting over your nipple and making you melt in his lap, pliant and horny. He licks into your mouth and you lean closer against his chest, pressing Mat back against the back of the passenger seat, the heat of his cock pressing against your core while you rock over his lap.

While you’re making out like horny teenagers, Mat’s phone vibrates incessantly in the cup holder in the center console. Mat laughs into your mouth and breaks away with a gasp, “that’ll be everyone waiting to see what you said.”

Licking at your swollen, chapped lips, you reach around Mat and grab his phone, the screen lit up with dozens of messages. “Did you tell everyone that you were proposing?” You ask, scanning the messages from the guys and spotting a few from Sydney too.

“Uh, yeah?” Mat plucks his phone from your hands. “I needed Syd and Holly to pack your bag for you and I liked the positive encouragement. You would not believe how many wife guys are in that locker room.”

“I believe it,” you assure him, beaming and holding your left hand up by your face when he turns the camera on you. “Selfie time, Mr. Barzal.”

You smush your cheek right next to his, matching cheesy grins on your faces when Mat snaps the picture, sending it off to the group chat. You tuck your face into Mat’s neck, breathing quietly and inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Hey,” you murmur against his skin, getting his attention, “I’m really excited to be your wife.”

Mat’s chin knocks gently against your forehead. “I’m really excited to be your husband,” he replies, hugging you to his chest. “Ready to start FaceTiming everyone?”

“Hmm,” you hum, brushing your nose against Mat’s neck, “can it just be us for a few more minutes?”

“Yeah, it can,” Mat agrees, tossing his phone back into the driver’s seat and tangling his legs with yours. He plays with the ring on your finger, running his thumb over the band. The diamond catches the sunlight and you watch it sparkle, casting rainbows on the roof of the car.

The waves keep crashing and now there are some seagulls making noise outside too.

Mat’s heart beats steadily at your back and it’s the perfect way to start the next chapter in your lives.

#mat barzal #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal x you #mat barzal fic #nhl fic

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everettswritings · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! I was wondering if you could do little!shadow milk cookie x cg!reader? Like imagine shadow milk cookie is regressed and being fussy and pouty, so reader decides to cheer him up my ticking him. Also you can choose what made him so fussy!

I absolutely can, that’s adorable! I’ve never really thought of little!Shadow Milk before, but that’s probably because all of the agere requests I’ve gotten of him are CG! requests. Is it just me, or do Little!Readers always get more fics? I’m not complaining, it’s just a pattern thing. (Kink/NSFW accounts DNI!)

“No, baby! You can keep playing later, right now it’s nap time.” You scolded lightly, trying to remove the toy from your little one’s grasp. He huffed and held it closer, pouting and puffing up his cheeks.

“No!” He shouted, kicking his feet at you when you tried to grab his toy again. You sighed, he was always so hard to deal with whenever he decided to throw a tantrum. You kneeled down to his level, “You’re getting tired and cranky, sweetheart. Come on, you’ll feel better after a nap. I’ll let you take Mr. Bunny with you.” You offered gently, trying to cool down the situation. He gave it some thought, then shook his head stubbornly “No, I don’t wanna take a nap!”. Honestly it wasn’t anything new for him to hate nap time, but today seemed like more of a struggle than usual. You couldn’t help but wonder if recent events had something to do with it. “Are you still pouting over that meanie that took your Soul Jam?” You asked, brushing some of his messy hair out of his face, and the big grumpy frown he gave you told you all you needed to know.

He wasn’t going to be letting it go anytime soon, was he? Frankly speaking, most people wouldn’t. You sighed, trying to think of some way to kill two birds with one stone: get his mind off said meanie, and tucker him out so he goes down for a nap. You then smiled to yourself, having the brilliant idea to fight fire with fire. You fully sat down beside him, crossing your legs out in front of you and propping yourself up casually.

“Alright, baby, you win. We can play a little more.” You said, already putting your plan into full motion. His face lit up “Okay!”, immediately accepting the offer he jumped into your lap, laughing as you let out a little “Oof!”. He really thought he won, didn’t he? Unlike what transpired a while ago. But now was not the time to dwell on that, the witches know bringing it up again would send you straight back to square one. No, no. Now was the time to take action and send his butt straight to bed! You chuckled and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer. “Comfy, sweetheart?” You asked, he nodded, “Good… because the tickle monster’s coming to get ya!” Without leaving any room to argue, you immediately started tickling his little tummy.

He immediately squealed and started giggling, kicking his legs again, “Nooo! Hehehehe! Hehehe! No tickle monster!” He protested. You knew he didn’t mean it, though. He always loved when the “tickle monster” came to get him. You leaned your head over and blew a raspberry on his neck, making him squeal with delight once more, “Hehehehehe! Hehehehe! Hehehe!” He couldn’t even say anything without thousands of giggles pouring out. You kissed his cheek, then started nomming on it like you were eating it, “Num num num! Ooh, I could just eat you up!”.

With each passing moment, the little one’s laughter was growing louder and louder. You didn’t stop, though. You kept tickling him, even as he wriggled and squirmed like a little jellyworm. Both of you knew he needed this, after all.

With one hand still on his tummy, you reached the other over and started pinching his knees, “Tickle tickle tickle! Tickle tickle tickle!” You grinned as he started kicking even more. However, you couldn’t help but notice that his giggles were getting softer and his eyes were growing heavy. Your plan was working flawlessly! You put your arm under his legs and scooped him up, carrying him while still tickling him- but the tickles were growing softer as well. You double-checked to make sure you had Mr. Bunny with you; after all, you promised you’d let him take the little toy to bed. When you were finally in his room, you set him down in the crib. It was white and it had a mobile of blue sheep and twinkling stars attached.

As much as he tried to fight it, he couldn’t stay awake longer. As soon as the little one’s head hit his soft pillow, his eyes instantly closed. You gave his tummy a couple more pokes, then set down his toy beside him and pulled his blue and white checkered quilt over him. You gave the mobile a little twirl, set a sippy full of water on the table close by, and kisses his forehead gently. “Sweet dreams, baby. I’ll be here when you get up.” You whispered. You then left the room, turning off the light as you went, and shut the door behind you.

The end.

Ahh! So cute!! Anywho, I hope you enjoyed. It does feel a little shorter than my normal fics and I do apologize for that.

#everetts writings #sfw agere #cookie run tickles #sfw tickling #cookie run tickle #sfw twords #sfw tickling community #little!shadow milk cookie #cg!reader #crk agere #crk tickles

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emmyrosee · 1 year ago

Text

A FEW OF YEW WANTED THIS-

——-

“Toji!” You giggle, squirming away from him as fast as you can, only for a beefy hand to wrap around your ankle and drag you back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He smirks, catching your other flailing ankle before lifting them in one hand, his now free one smacking your butt playfully. You whine at the playful little hits, but you shriek with laughter as his blunt nails drag down the back of your knees, his grip on your ankles tight as you yank. “This is personal now.”

“I’m sorry!” You manage between giggles.

You’re loud enough you don’t hear the door open and close, nor the footsteps slowly coming up the stairs, and through your teary eyes, you see two figures standing in the doorway.

“Help me!” You whine.

Toji moves his tickling from your knees to your hips, then turns to the two dark haired men in the doorframe. Rintaro merely smirks at him while Suguru crosses his arms. “‘Sup?”

“Nothing,” Rintaro chuckles. Then, he tips his head and gives you a fake pout, “and how did we poke the bear this time, troublemaker?”

“I dihihidnt!” You giggle, knowing full well you are more than deserving being punished.

“I call bullshit,” Suguru confesses.

“You should!” Toji shakes his head, “little fucker had the nerve to call me old after i did her oil change!”

“Annnd there it is,” Rintaro teases. “The truth comes out.”

“Make him stohohop!” You beg, using your weaker grip to try and dislodge his hands from your hips. “I-I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Alright, alright,” Suguru chuckles, making his way to the bed. He sits down next to you and kisses the giggles falling from your lips, and you let your mind appreciate the kiss and stop struggling in Toji’s wrath. He hums at Toji, “better call it. She’s all whiney now.”

“I would argue that’s when she’s at her best,” toji grumbles, but he ultimately does let you go, and you scramble away from him and into Suguru’s arms.

He snorts and holds you close, “it’s alright baby, I won’t let the bad man torture you anymore.”

“You’d better,” you huff. Your eyes shift to rintaro, who you also make a grabby hand for.

He pulls a face “ew, I don’t want to sit next to suguru, he’s gross.” He teases as he makes his way to the bed.

Suguru rolls his eyes, “you’re the one who just got out of practice.” Rintaro mimics him as he plops down on the other side of you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

Toji crosses his arms, “I hope you learned your lesson, brat,” he grumbles.

“I was just teasing you,” you huff. “You’re not old. Or not that old anyways.” When he furrows his brows, you snicker and curl into Suguru more.

“I can only protect you so much, babygirl,” he chuckles, letting his thumb smooth over your hip as he cradles you. “You know toji never strikes unprovoked.”

“Yuh-huh he does!” You grumble. “All the time! Like if you don’t love me, just say that.”

“Oh don’t give me any of that,” toji smirks. “As if I don’t fold for your shit constantly.”

“Lover boy,” rintaro snickers, ignoring Toji’s glare. Then, he turns back to you and rests his head on your shoulder, “he didn’t get you last night when you jammed your cold ass feet in his sweats.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me do it to you,” you giggle.

Suguru hums, “he also didn’t strike when you blew a raspberry at him when he asked for a bite of your ice cream.”

“I wouldn’t have given any of you a bite,” you hum. It earns you a poke from Suguru, and you yelp and skitter into Rintaro’s side now; he happily wraps his arm around you victoriously. “Rinnie, protect me.”

“Yeah, let me protect you against Mr body builder and Mr has the house under his name,” he snorts. “I have a death wish, but not by them.” He nuzzles at you with his nose, “but it’s okay. I still love you even though you fuck around and constantly find out.”

“Thanks, Rin.”

——

@throwmethroughawindow @reverie-starlight @lithielana LOOKIN AT YOU THREE-

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marchsfreakshow · 2 months ago

Note

Please write Trevor coming to visit his baby mama to see his kid and then ends up fucking her and making another baby

Somewhat Present

Smut

YEAH ANON UR BACK!! I WAS WAITING FOR YOUU!! HERE YOU GO BELOVED YEAAAHHH!!!

Trevor stood at the door, ansty as he heard Becca's voice squeal with delight. The small footsteps rushed to the front door and the door swung open quickly. "Hi! Hihi!!" The young girl grinned, holding her arms up towards Trevor.

He sighed with a small smile and picked Becca up, holding the little one against his hip. "Hey sugar. Ooh getting big aren't cha?"

Becca ignored that statement and wrapped her arms around Trevor's neck, hugging him close. "You came at bedtime." She huffed, slightly frustrated her dad came to visit at 9pm. More or less 9pm anyway. He just chuckled lightly and carried his daughter to her small room. It was all blues and purples, homemade dolls strewn over the floor. Just as messy as her dad's trailer. But, at least it was in an actual house where she could get an education.

"oh I know I did sugar bear, but your pops is a very very busy man..."

"big time busy CEO!" She grinned.

"exactly. Now c'mon, I'll make you some breakfast in the morning. Gonna go talk to your momma." He placed Becca down and she immediately got into bed. Cuddling up next to a teddy that looked like a proper, not used version of Mr. Raspberry Jam.

But it didn't take long for Trevor to immediately make his way to your room, locking the door behind him. Instantly, he pounced on you, shifting you easily to be bent over. "Trevor-!!" His hand went to your head, pushing your face down into the middle of your pillows. He'd pull away if you didn't want it, but you had been looking forward to seeing him for weeks. There was no way you could keep your hands off each other.

"It's been fucking ages, I missed you." He muttered, practically ripping your underwear off, his own quickly following suit. Your legs spread best they could, and a little growl escaped his lips as he didn't waste any time fucking into you hard and fast. Thank god your face was in the pillow, so the sleeping Becca couldn't hear your moans. "I want a boy.." Trevor groaned into your neck, only increasing the pace.

"a...a boy..?" You repeated with a gasp trying to get used to the quick of feeling of Trevor's cock pounding you with unexpected intensity. Your nails gripped and pawed at the sheets as you tried to ground yourself. But he just mumbled a 'yeah', trying to nod despite the positioning.

It didn't take long for Trevor to cum, but he kept going, riding out the overstimulation of pushing and keeping his orgasm in your womb trying to increase your chances of getting pregnant.

You just hoped it work. Becca always wanted a little brother.

#trevor philips #trevor philips x reader #trevor philips x you #trevor philips x y/n #Trevor philips smut #trevor gta #gta #gta 5 #gta v #grand theft auto #grand theft auto 5 #gta fic #grand theft 5 #smut #steven ogg

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redrose10 · 11 months ago

Text

Yoongi x Female Reader. Soulmate AU

Summary: There’s no one on this planet you hate more than your coworker/secret crush Min Yoongi. He’s an arrogant, rude, womanizer who gets under your skin every single shift and you can’t wait for your day to be over so you can get away from him. Unfortunately when Jimin, your caseworker from The Ministry of Adoration, shows up offering you both a raspberry jam filled cookie, things take a surprising turn for the worst and you can no longer get away.

Warnings: Swearing, hints of smut (nothing graphic or really detailed), a little angst, Yoongi gets around, small hint to homophobia, mentions a guy not taking no for an answer, almost sexual assault. Might get updated later

Tag list: @kam9404 @yoongisducky @farfromsugafanfic @welcometomyworld13 @viankiss @ktownshizzle @bear8585

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 5- Tacos and Tangerine Juice

Word Count: 3,208

After Jimin had sent over the location you and Yoongi were sitting in his car staring up at the tall skyscraper trying to work up the courage to go in.

“Do you think we can ask for more time? Like 10 seconds?”, you questioned.

Yoongi chuckled next to you, “I really don’t think that’s how this works. And I would need more than 10 seconds to properly kiss you anyways.”

You felt your heart thump extra hard in your chest at his words. He continued, “Let’s just go in there and see what they say.” You nodded exiting the car after him.

The lobby was extravagant with marble pillars and very expensive looking artwork on the wall. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling and just underneath sat the receptionist. She greeted you both with a smile,”Hello, how can I help you today?”

“Um I’m not really sure. We’re supposed to meet a Jimin Park here?”, Yoongi responded.

“Oh Jimin! Of course! Take the hallway behind me all the way to the end. Then make a left and take the elevator up to the 77th floor.”, she cheerily replied.

Yoongi grabbed your hand and started pulling you down the hall. The elevator slowly started ascending towards the top with your heart beating a little harder with each floor.

The doors opened and you were immediately greeted by a smiling Jimin.

“Hello you two. Ready for this?”

Almost instinctively you ran up to him grabbing onnto his arm and pulling him closer, “Please Jimin, we only need few more seconds. We were just about to kiss right before the time ran out.”

“I know and I’m sorry Y/N. That’s not up to me. You’ll have to talk to the judge about that one.”

You tried to blink away the tears that were already forming as you followed after him with Yoongi close behind.

Jimin walked up to a woman sitting behind a desk handing her a folder of papers, “Park Jimin representing Min Yoongi and L/N Y/N.”

The woman smiled, “Of course. Head to room 707. The judge is already waiting.”

He smiled before motioning for you both to follow.

“Ahh there he is. Jimin, how are you doing? It’s been a while.”, the judge greeted.

“Oh same old same old. How’s the wife?.”

They exchanged pleasantries back and for a little and you hoped you could one day be even half as charismatic as Jimin.

“So I’m guessing this is Yoongi and Y/N you have with you for case number 143?”

He nodded.

The judge continued, “Perfect. Let’s get this started as it shouldn’t take too long.”

The judge continued to flip through the folder that Jimin gave to the secretary earlier. He mumbled a word here or there as he read through everything, but the room was silent other wise. You snuck a glance at Yoongi who had his eye focused on the judge looking completely calm minus the subtle pulling of the hem of his shirt that you knew meant he was nervous.

The judge suddenly cleared his throat, “Well I think I’ve gotten everything I needed from Jimin’s report. Y/N or Yoongi, would either of you like to make a final statement?”

Yoongi quickly shook his head leaving it up to you to step in.

“You’re hon-, Sir, I mean Judge.”

He chuckled, “Mr. Kim is fine.”

You nodded, “Mr. Kim. Yoongi and I were just about to kiss right before time ran out. We realized how much we do love each other after we cleared the air on some things. We just need like 5 more seconds and we can kiss and then everyone can go about their day and this whole mess will be over with.”

The judge quickly put his hand up to stop you and you felt like you were going to cry.

“I understand that may have been the case, but the fact is that time ran out. If I awarded more time to you two then I’d have to do that for everyone. Why did it take so long for you two to realize your love for each other?”

Yoongi shrugged next to making you want to strangle him because once again it was on you, “I-I don’t know Mr. Kim. But I do know that we do love each other and can make this work. If given another chance that is.”

The judge motioned for Jimin to come forward which he quickly did. They whispered back and forth for a little before Jimin returned giving you a sad look.

The judge signed a few papers before reading out his decision, “Okay in the decision of Case 143 featuring Min Yoongi and L/N Y/N I have decided that Yoongi will move to the broken souls department and Y/N will be released.”

“What? Why?”, Yoongi finally spoke after all this time.

“Well based on Jimin’s report and what I have seen so far Y/N appears to be the only one in this partnership willing to put forth the effort into making this work. Therefor I feel that she deserves another chance at finding a new soul mate.”

Yoongi went to protest, but you cut him off, “So what does this all mean exactly.”

The judge continued, “Well Y/N, you will have a brief meeting with Jae in our soul cleanse department. He will help cleanse your soul of any trace of Yoongi which will also reset your memeory. You will have no recollection that any of this happened. Then you will return home and go back to normal while we work behind the scenes to find you a new soulmate. The bond won’t be as strong as the one you had with Yoongi, but it is better than the alternatives.”

Your mouth dropped open as the judge turned his attention to Yoongi, “And as for Yoongi, normally you would get sent down to the broken souls department, but I don’t think you are completely a lost cause just yet. You will also go through a soul cleanse to wipe away any trace of Y/N. Then you will go through an intensive three month course to learn how to properly bond with a soulmate after which we will slowly acclimate you back into society.”

All you could think about was how your memory was going to be wiped clean and you’d never remember Yoongi or anything that the two of you shared. You studied his face hoping that somehow maybe you could remember it you ever saw him again.

“Excuse me, but no fucking way.”, Yoongi shouted next to you breaking you out of your trance.

“Yoongi shut up!”, Jimin hissed.

“No I can’t be stuck here for three months. I have to go to LA to meet with a record label in a couple days. I can’t miss that. That could ruin my whole life.”, he angrily spat.

“And loosing your true soulmate forever doesn’t ruin your life?”, the judge questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“No, I mean yes, I guess, I don’t know! I just know that I need to be in LA. Can I come back in a few weeks and finish up this bullshit then?”

The judge shook his head, “No I’m sorry. I’m already breaking normal protocol by giving you a second chance. I can’t do any more.”

Yoongi appeared to want to argue back. You thought he’d storm off or even worse storm the judges table and punch him. But instead he looked to you and you saw the tears falling down his cheeks.

You thoughts about everything he sacrificed for his music. You thought about how hard he worked. You thought about how talented he was and how much potential he had. You took one more look at him watching as he stared at the floor trying to steady his breathing, his shirt showing the remains of his fallen tears.

“Alright well that is that. Jimin will get all of your paperwork together and go over it with both of you.”

You knew you couldn’t let Yoongi loose his opportunity. Maybe you could switch with him. Take his place. Sure you’d miss your niece being born in a month and you wouldn’t be able to check up on your father for a while. You’d also miss the start of the new semester at college. But hearing Yoongi’s sniffles next to you made up your mind before you could even think more about it.

“Wait!”, you shouted stepping forward. The judged turned to look at you and you took that as a sign to continue, “Let me take his place. Please. I’ll do anything. He needs to get to LA and I don’t want him to miss that opportunity.”

“Y/N what are you doing?”, Yoongi whispered next to you. He reached for you to get your attention, but was stopped by Jimin.

“Well you don’t need the kind of assistance that Yoongi does”, the judge said before turning his lips up into a smirk and continuing, “Buuuuuut I do like a good bargain and we do need a new secretary in the broken souls department. I‘ll make you a deal. If you stay here and take that position then I’ll release Yoongi.”

Jimin pulled closer to him, “Y/N, that’s a permanent position. You’ll be stuck here for ever. They’ll wipe your soul and your memory completely clean of everything you’ve ever known up until this point. Not just the Yoongi stuff. You’ll life will never be the same.”

You looked over at Yoongi who was staring at you with wide eyes. Leftover tears still glistening on his round cheeks.

You nodded, “That’s fine. I don’t want Yoongi to loose his big chance.”

Jimin stared on dumbfounded as you walked a little closer to the judge, “Okay I agree. I’ll take the position as long as Yoongi gets to leave today.”

The judge nodded as he handed over some papers, “Very well. Jimin take Yoongi for his soul cleanse and I’ll have Y/N brought down to her new location.”

Jimin nodded before motioning for Yoongi to follow him. He was hesitant as he looked between you and Jimin.

You hadn’t noticed that the judge had pressed a button calling for two guards to retrieve you. The men held onto your arms and started pulling you towards a set of double doors.

Just before you walked through them you looked back to see Yoongi staring at you somehow crying even harder than before as Jimin tried to console him.

The men pulled you through the door down a hallway and sat you in a brightly lit room that reminded you of your doctors office.

“Come on, the sooner we get you cleaned up the sooner you can be off to LA.”, Jimin smiled heading towards the door. Yoongi felt like he couldn’t move his feet.

“Come on mister big shot rapper.”, he tried again, but Yoongi remained still.

“She doesn’t deserve this. I was just too much of a coward again to stand up for her. I’d give up everything to just stay as her soulmate. It’s all my fault we’re here to begin with.”

Jimin put an arm around Yoongi’s shoulder before gently guiding him over to a window.

“Do you see that taco truck? I’m thinking about getting lunch from there. What do you think?”, Jimin asked pointing towards the truck. Yoongi looked at him confused and a little angry because why is he being asked about tacos right now when his life is falling apart.

“That one. Do you see it? I think it sounds good.”, Jimin said again while pointing and slyly holding up a sheet of paper in his hands. That’s how Yoongi saw the note, “Y/N moved to room 713 for debriefing and paperwork.”

He looked at Jimin with wide eyes and Jimin smiled before leaning over and whispering, “Go through those same double doors. Make a left and go all the way to the end of the hall and then make a right. It’s the third door on the left. Tell her how you really feel. You can thank me later…with tacos.”

Yoongi looked at him in shock as Jimin gave him a nonchalant shoulder shrug. With a sudden burst of energy Yoongi sprinted off following the directions as Jimin looked back giving the judge a smile who was hiding in the corner, “I knew he’d come around.”

When Yoongi finally reached room 713 he slammed the door open making you jump up out of the chair.

“Yoongi what the hell?”, you screamed.

“I’m sor-, I’m so sorr-fuck I need to work on my cardio.”, he said out of breath.

“I’m sorry Y/N. I love you so much and I can’t let you do this to yourself. I wasted so much time already because I couldn’t just tell you how I felt and I’m not going to be a coward again. You don’t deserve this.”

“Yoongi you need to get to LA. This is your big chance. This could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”, you said backing away.

But Yoongi shook his head and grabbed your arm to stop you, “I already have the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Gently he pulled you closer before kissing you so passionately you felt like the world was spinning around you. Grabbing the back of his neck you deepened the kiss and by the time the two of you separated you were both equally out of breath.

“So what happens now?”, you questioned.

“I’m not sure, but I do know that I have to go buy some tacos for Jimin.”, he chuckled.

Before you could ask for clarification a very grumpy looking elderly woman walked through the door, “Alright you two lovebirds. I’ve been told by the judge to release you both. Here are your papers. Now go on and get out of here.”

You looked at Yoongi who just shrugged before taking the papers and leading you back down the hallway his hand never leaving yours.

The rain outside was oddly refreshing, so much so that as everyone else hurried to get to their destinations the the two of you took your time walking to a taco truck down the block since Yoongi suddenly had a major craving for tacos.

You both stood near the street as you waited for your order to be ready. Yoongi behind you with his arms wrapped around you slightly swaying back and forth.

“I love you Y/N.”, he whispered in your ear.

Smiling you turned to return the gesture when a car drove by splashing gallons of water all over soaking you both from head to toe.

When you opened your eyes you weren’t standing on the curb with Yoongi’s arms around you any more. Instead you were laying on your back staring up at the ceiling of the cafe, a concerned Mina and Namjoon looking down at you. Mina holding a now empty cup that you assumed held the water which had splashed you. “See! I told you it wasn’t just a dumb thing they did in movies”., she exclaimed giving Namjoon side eye, who then put his hands up in defense.

“Uhgh what happened?”, you asked trying to sit up but feeling like the room was spinning.

“You passed out.”, Mina said from above you.

“Fuck…it was all a dream then?”, you whispered.

“Here babe drink this. It’ll help bring your sugar back up. I keep telling you not to skip meals, but you just won’t listen to me.”, a very familiar deep voice spoke. In a flash Yoongi was kneeling down next to you with a concerned look as he handed you a glass of the new tangerine juice the cafe was promoting as part of a new smoothie lineup. As you sipped on the drink you looked him over. “Your hair is mint green?”, you stated in awe. He chuckled, “Uh yeah you helped me dye it two weeks ago. Maybe we should call for help. You might’ve hit your head.”, he said reaching for his phone.

“No no I’m fine. What happened though?”, you questioned m.

“I came here to tell you the good news and then you just passed out. I think you let your blood sugar get too low again.”

You tried to get up, but Yoongi quickly told you to lay back down and rest some more which you happily obliged.

“I’m sorry, but what was your good news again?”, you asked taking another sip of juice.

Shyly he scratched at the back of his neck before flashing you his signature smile, “Well uh I just got a call from LA. I did it babe. I got the record deal.”

Like a rush of fresh air everything came back to you. From Yoongi starting work at the cafe and spilling coffee all over you causing you both to get off on the wrong foot to you having to cancel last minute on your first date and him showing up to the hospital with coffees for you and your mom while he waited with you anyways to him asking you to be his girlfriend on Christmas Eve while driving around looking at the lights and then the two of you moving in together and then Yoongi heading to LA two weeks ago to meet with a major record label.

“Oh my God! Congratulations. I’m so proud of you!”, you exclaimed wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Thank you Y/N.”, he smiled while helping you to your feet.

You felt an immediate sense of embarrassment thanks to the line of customers that were staring at you after your little incident.

“Oh boy, it’s going to be real awkward finishing up this shift.”, you chuckled.

“Uhh I think maybe you should go home. Go

Celebrate or something. We’ve got this.”, Namjoon said coming up behind you, “We’ve had enough excitement around here for one day.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice as you quickly went to hang up your apron and grabbed your bag from the back.

After clocking out you went to round the corner to go meet Yoongi who was waiting for you.

Mina greeted the next customer when you heard a very distinct familiar voice order, “Yes, I’ll have a large iced mocha please.”

Your head turned to side instantly as your mouth dropped open. Jimin, the same man from your dream and still dressed impeccably, was standing at the register ordering his usual drink.

“Come on Y/N. I really think we need to have you looked at. You’re starting to worry me.”, Yoongi said grabbing your hand and pulling you along with him after he’d been repeatedly calling your name. He looked at Jimin and gave a friendly nod, but as more of an acknowledgment and not that he actually knew him.

“Yeah, maybe we should make a stop at the hospital.”, you agreed after realizing that maybe you did hit your head really hard.

As you walked towards the door you took one final look back at Jimin. He looked back at you and winked before turning back to Mina with a smirk, “Oh and let me have one of those new cookies too. A Raspberry Romance, that sounds delightful.”

#bts #yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi #bts fanfic #yoongi x y/n #bts x reader #yoongi fic #park jimin #jimin #soulmate au #yoongi au #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #bts yoongi

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cigarette-cases · 1 month ago

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"Poker Night"

Mystrade Monday - May 26, 2025

You know you can't fool me.

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

WORD COUNT: 952

Biweekly, Greg and his mates had a poker night. Tonight was a rare event: Mycroft had some free time. He was convinced he could bluff his way to a solid win, and perhaps build his reputation with Greg’s colleagues in the process.

Greg tried to explain the stakes to him on the drive there. “We do a non-monetary betting system, starting with things we offer the pot. But as more people fold, and the stakes get higher, they start throwing in more demands for the last hand lost.”

“They do?” Mycroft questioned.

“Yeah,” Greg responded, then paused. “I tend to fold early.”

Mycroft smirked. “I didn’t take you for a quitter.”

Greg laughed. “Nothing I can do when the cards are shit.”

“If the last hand lost takes on the demands of the pot, then what’s the penalty for early folders like yourself?”

You can read the whole thing here, or on AO3.

—

Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!

Greg slammed his glass down on the counter by the table, nothing but some bubbles left behind. Sally Donovan, the only woman at the game, approached Greg with a paper crown. On it, written in a drunken sharpie scrawl, read Coward of the Cards. “Being the first to fold is a right of passage,” she laughed out.

“C’mon,” a man at the table, one of his fellow D.I.s, stated, “we all know Lestrade’s afraid of commitment.”

“Says you,” Greg retorts as he sits back down at the table. “You throw all your arrests on your Sergeant's lap because you don’t want to be responsible for arresting the wrong guy.” This garnered some oohs from the party. “Hey, who’s on for a secondary bet? I’ll bet a fiver that Lake folds next.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet.

D.I. Lake rolled his eyes and fished in for his own. “Tenner says it’ll be your boyfriend in the clean suit.”

“I call your tenner!” Greg waved his hand at the dealer. “Do the thing.”

The game went on. The fourth community card went out. D.I. Lake folded.

“HA!” Greg put his hand out. “25 quid, please!”

Lake rolled his eyes and swiped the cash back at him. The bet-ception intrigued Mycroft. The game went on. In the end, it was only Mycroft and Philip Anderson for an interesting twist of fate.

“Loser walks my brother’s dog, thrice daily,” Mycroft bet.

“Call and raise,” Anderson says, an eyebrow twitching upwards. “Your brother handwrites me a formal apology letter for years of emotional abuse.”

“Woah,” Greg spoke up, tilting his head. “Anderson, the stakes need to be reasonable.”

“I think it’s doable,” Anderson responded and continued to glare Mycroft down. “Fold?”

“Hardly, Mr. Anderson” Mycroft responded confidently, leaning forward at the table. “I never fold under diplomatic pressure. Call and raise: You complete a written statement on record, signed and notarized, admitting to the raspberry jam incident.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know the one I’m talking about. When you, in all your forensic expertise, mistook it for arterial gush and documented it.”

Anderson stared at Mycroft with his lips pressed tight. Greg observed. Everyone was silent.

“I believe the file conveniently went missing from Gregory’s office. The fall landed on my brother when it was found half-charred in his fireplace. All that remained was a little gold paperclip, the kind that only you buy.”

Anderson slammed his cards on the table. “I fold,” he said in defeat.

They each turned over their cards. Anderson had two 3s, making for a four of a kind with the other two 3s on the table. With a 7 on the table, and two more lucky 7s in Mycroft’s hand, he only made out with a full house. He would have lost, had he not pressured Anderson to fold.

“Holy shit,” D.I. Lake commented, astonished. Everyone showed how impressed they were by the pressure Mycroft was able to apply. He could have had a junk hand and just a community pair and still won. Greg was smiling, a real subtle corner-lipped smile.

“I’d like a carbon copy of that record statement framed to replace that horrid skull above my brother’s fireplace,” Mycroft then added.

“Loser deals,” Donovan said.

Anderson scooped up the cards and began shuffling. Greg cut the deck, and the next game began. Bets began rolling in. A round of beers at happy hour, donuts for the office, designated driver for the next poker night…

The first to fold was D.I. Lake, and the Coward of the Cards cap was passed to him. Then Harrison, Sergeant to another D.I. who couldn’t make it tonight. Then Anderson. He couldn’t risk being the last one out again. Each person to fold was drinks down the hatch. For the last card placed on the table, it was down to Donovan, Greg, and Mycroft.

“Dishes for a week,” Greg bet.

“I’m not getting in the middle of a domestic,” Donovan said, “I fold.”

“Winner gets to choose the movie for the next movie night. I raise,” Mycroft then added, “no veto.”

Greg squinted at Mycroft and shook his head. “You know you can’t fool me, no veto isn’t a bloody raise, s’already implied.”

“Fine,” Mycroft sighed out and sat back in his chair. “I called.”

Greg smirked. “I call, you come to the next pub trivia.” Mycroft scoffed and rolled his eyes at that.

Bets were over. Anderson said, “show your cards.”

They both turned over their cards. Greg had a straight flush, the second best hand in the game. Mycroft had a royal flush. He won again.

“There will be no trivia for me, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said with a proud smirk.

“Cheeky bastard,” Greg laughed as he began to scoop for the cards.

#mystrade monday #bbc sherlock #mystrade #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes #lav yaps

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regency-monster-love · 8 months ago

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Part 1 of Colin and Susannah | Next chapter | Master post

Male werewolf x female human | Regency era | SFW but slightly suggestive | autumn fluff

~ 🐺🎩 ~

“I do so love autumn leaves.” Susannah bent to pick one up, a crimson red brighter than fresh blood, and twirled the stem of it between her slender fingers. “I will never tire of their vibrant colors.”

“That’s fitting, for I believe you’re a painter, are you not?” Colin asked her.

Her face brightened with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “Indeed I am. But I don’t recall telling you so. How did you know?”

“More than once when we have met, I have smelt paint upon you.” She lifted her hands to peer at her fingers, as if the paint were still upon them, and he smiled. “I do not smell any now, but even if you had washed off all visible traces of it, I might still be able to detect that it was recently there. Werewolves have a very keen sense of smell.”

Ah yes. Sometimes it was easy for her to forget that Mr. Barrington was a werewolf. Her eyes roved over his face, so perfectly human and normal, save for his golden eyes that seemed almost to glow. She wondered what he looked like in his wolf form, but did not feel they were acquainted well enough to ask such a thing. “Even in your human form?”

“My senses are a bit dulled in this form, but very little. Even like this, I can smell that you used rosewater in your hair, and you ate raspberry preserves with your breakfast.”

Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink over her freckles, and she reached up to wipe at the corners of her mouth. The werewolf chuckled. “Don’t worry, Miss Oakden, there is no jam still on you; I simply can smell it.”

Her eyes widened. He was the first werewolf she had ever been personally acquainted with, and she found him endlessly fascinating. Thankfully, he was always patient with her questions, never acting offended by them or mocking her ignorance. “That’s remarkable! How can you smell it if it is gone?”

He shrugged. “I don’t pretend to understand the science behind it. It is simply an innate skill I possess. I can smell many things I cannot see.”

For instance, he could smell that she was his mate.

He did not mention this out loud. She would not understand; as a human, he knew she could not smell mating bonds, as his kind could, nor even feel the bond beyond the faintest vague sensation. He did not wish her to think he only cared for her due to the bond, when in reality, it was his admiration of her as a person that had caused the bond to form, not some higher power dictating his feelings. Even though she must feel at least some degree of affection for him as well, in order to enable the start of that bond, she might not realize her own feelings yet, and he did not want to distress, frighten, or confuse her.

He could smell her matehood even now, intangible yet so very real, thick and sweet in the space between them as they walked beside each other along the garden path of her parents’ estate. It urged him to stay close to her and protect her. It urged him to touch her, lick her, mount her, bite her—to make her his.

But he kept his hands clasped behind his back and a respectable distance between them as they slowly strolled the grounds, colorful leaves rustling under their feet. He could wait to have her, while he courted her in the manner of a gentleman, as she would expect. He would earn her love the way a human man would.

And once he had it, he would claim her the way a werewolf male would.

~ 🐺🎩 ~

End of part 1 of Colin and Susannah | Read next chapter

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing.

#colin and susannah fic #my writing #fic #regency monster #regency #monster #regency romance #monster romance #monster love #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster x human #werewolf x human #werewolf #werewolf boyfriend #oc

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barbiewritesstuff · 1 year ago

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Love is Patience, love is kind

---

AN: I'm back! And this time it's a Benedict Bridgerton fic! Don't know if it's good or how long it'll be but I'm hoping it's a slow burn. As always, this isn't proofread.

Also this is soooo long, I'm not sorry :)

The title is still a work in progress.

TW. None I don't think but shoot me a message if you think one applies.

The servants quarters at the Bridgerton house are never quiet in the morning. It’s a miracle it doesn’t wake the household, Kit thinks, serving tea to everyone crowded at the kitchen table.

Because there are so many servants and maids, they usually do the morning food service in two goes. The Lower servants get first service, because they’re up earlier than the rest, and an hour later, the upper servants come down for their breakfast. Dinner is the opposite, with the upper servants eating first, and the lower servants eating afterwards. It’s only at lunch that everyone eats together while the Bridgertons luncheon upstairs. It’s short and rushed, especially for the Footmen who have to eat between food courses but cook is practised at her art and makes meals the boys can scoff down as they run plates upstairs. Mr Graves, the steward, doesn’t mind, so long as the boys aren’t still chewing on their food when they’re within eyesight of the family.

It’s rare that the staff finds a moment to converse around the kitchen table as a group outside of their respective mealtimes, but everyone tries for birthdays, Christmas and Easter, and, like today, for employment anniversaries.

Despite being the one rushing around, serving tea, it’s Kit’s employment anniversary. She’s been employed by the Bridgertons for seven years today, and it’s gone by in a blur. She started off as a scullery maid and two years ago, moved to kitchen maid. She’ll likely stay there until Cook retires, which might be some years yet. Cook’s no spring chicken, but behind her facade of cute little old lady hides a strength and energy she only allows to be seen when something isn’t to her liking in her kitchen. The kitchen is Cook’s domain. Her kingdom. And she rules it with an iron fist and all the mercy of a dictator.

That being said, Cook really is a kind and caring woman. Which is why, unbeknownst to Kit, she’s been up for hours preparing a treat. She’s had to clear it with Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper, weeks in advance and then hide it before Kit could discover her surprise, but as she finishes pouring tea and passing around the milk, Cook pulls out the plate of hot scones, cream and raspberry jam. It’s still steaming when she sets it out on the table with a satisfied grin at Kit’s surprised face.

The staff cheers but waits patiently for Kit to have the first one, watching with hungry eyes as she smears the jam on first and then drops a measured dollop of clotted cream to finish it off. They even hold off long enough for her to take a bite. As if waiting for her approval, as soon as she smiles, they all throw themselves on the plate to grab their own scone. In the hubbub, the jam spoon flies off, hitting a wall by the staircase that leads upstairs but no one notices.

Then, in less than five minutes, everything has been eaten, and the lower servants down their boiling hot teas as fast as they can before the shift starts. Soon, the merry conversations of the kitchen tables turn into orders and task lists and only the upper servants remain seated. Next to Kit, Cook pulls out her notebook and begins planning the day, and meals.

“Isn’t the new scullery maid supposed to start today,” Mrs Wilson remarks, tapping Mr Graves’ arm in order to get his attention.

He looks at his watch, a present from Edmund Bridgerton some years before, “She should be here in time for the Lunch service,” he replies, turning back to his tea, drinking the last mouthful and then shaking his cup at Kit to signal for a refill.

“Patience, you’ll be showing her the ropes,” he tells Kit, who he simply refuses to call by her nickname, stating that “Your parents put such thought in your first name, I will not show such disrespect as you call you by anything else,” and ignoring her when she tries to tell him that even her parents call her Kit. Only her brother Michael calls her Patience, or Patsy, when he’s cross with her.

Kit nods, until two years ago she’d been a scullery maid herself, and since her promotion, she had been juggling both jobs herself. It was a relief that Mr Graves had finally hired someone else, she’d be able to sleep more, and it would give her skin and lungs some needed reprieve. The cleaning chemicals she used to scrub everything clean were effective, but they were quite harsh on her. Graves’ reluctance to fill the scullery position was a mystery to everyone else too, the Bridgertons’ were more than rich enough to pay another member of staff, and even Mrs Wilson, who usually followed Mr. Graves’ instruction to the letter, had been on his case about hiring someone else.

“You should have --” Mrs Wilson starts

“I will not hear of it,” Mr Graves says, cutting her off, “I have now, there’s no need to harp on about it.”

The housekeeper throws him a look. If Kit didn’t know them as well as she did, she might be tempted to say the two were secretly courting, but as it stood, Mrs Wilson made her opinion of Graves perfectly clear. He was her superior and therefore worthy of respect and blind obedience, but privately, she thought him a self-important little man.

Before Graves could reprimand the housekeeper for the glare, the bells began ringing. Lady’s maids and valet stand up from their chairs, climbing up the stairs to the main house to assist their family member, then, the footmen stand up, finishing their tea to set the table and bring breakfast. Eventually, Humboldt and Mrs Wilson leave their place at the tables too.

After another cup of tea and a specially made jam on toast, Mr Graves bids Cook and Kit goodbye and retreats to his office, a small room to the side of the kitchen.

“I do not wish to spoil the fun of your special day, Kit dear, but we must get on,�� Cook says. Springing to action, she tidies the kitchen table, neatly stacking plates, cups and cutlery by the kitchen sink and then, almost automatically, peeling vegetables.

For lunch, the Bridgertons will have asparagus soup, cold meat, cake and fruit. The soup is a special request of Violet Bridgerton herself and Cook wishes to make the Viscountess' soup of her own hands, while she busies herself with that, Kit moves on to the rest.

Then, as they finish up, the new scullery maid is announced by one of the Grooms as he walks in, traipsing mud and horse manure all over Kit’s perfectly polished floor.

Amused by the death glare she throws his way, the Groom introduces the girl, “This is Elaine,” he says, “And this is Cook,” he tells the girl, “And the Kitchen Maid,” he adds, winking at Kit, “Her name is Patience, everyone calls her Kit,” he adds.

“Except you,” Cook says, trying not to giggle

“That’s right,” The Groom smiles broadly, “My name is also Kit, short for Christopher,” he explains, “So to keep things clear, I call her ‘the lesser Kit’. So there’s no confusion,” he adds, winking at the girl. She giggles.

“I suggest you do not try to call me that,” Kit warns the girl.

“I’ll leave you lovely ladies to your work then,” Christopher says, “Happy anniversary. It’s been a pleasure to tease you for so long,” he adds over his shoulder as he walks out. Despite her best efforts, it does force a smile out of Kit.

“I’ll leave you to clean. I must go to market, and Mrs Wilson has asked me to inventory the pantry,” Cook says, taking off her apron and hanging it by the back door, she picks up her basket and then shakes the tea tin she keeps by her prized cookery books over the table and picks up the few coins that fell out. With a wave, she exits the kitchen, leaving the scullery maid and Kit by themselves.

Knowing that the dinner service needs to be prepared in less than two hours, and that the staff will descend upon the kitchen in roundabout an hour, Kit wastes no time showing Elaine where the cleaning supplies are kept and what must be done, how and when. The girl takes it in, asking any question she can think of as soon as she can. By the time Cook is back, Kit is suitably impressed by the girl.

The rest of the day goes by without a hitch, Elaine watching all she does very closely.

“I’ll do the end of day cleaning with you for a week,” Kit says, “And then you’re on your own. You managed the cleaning fine after lunch, so I don’t think you’ll need me much,” she sighs, “Right, let’s get on with it. We start with the counters, obviously, then dusting and we finish with the floor,” Kit says, handing Elaine a brush, nodding towards the chopping block where Cook butchered the pheasant the Bridgertons ate for dinner. As the scullery maid got to scrubbing, Kit worked at the other end of the kitchen, cleaning the remnants of the staff lunch. She then moved on to the fireplace, picking up the sand they had spread to catch the grease and spills of whatever Cook had boiling in her cauldron, and then spreading new sand.

Elaine worked valiantly at the stove, braving the leftover heat of the coals to get everything clean without a word of complaint. And then, right as Kit started the yawn, the two girls set about cleaning the floor. It was the least pleasant job, in Kit’s opinion, worse than cleaning bloody chopping blocks, or sticking your arm in the warm stove. Cook despised mops and insisted that a scrubbing cloth be worked around the floor with bare feet, and that the water must be ice cold, as she thought any temperature above simply wasn’t as effective. By the end of it, Kit and Elaine’s toes were numb, but the floor sparkled, and painful feet were worth avoiding Cook’s wrath.

“Tea before bed?” Kit offers. Elaine happily agreed, taking a seat at the table while Kit pulled out a teapot and two cups.

“If your name is Patience, why are you called Kit?” Elaine asks, halfway through her cup, “If it’s alright to ask.”

Kit grinned, “My mother named me Patience Katherine Byrd,” she says, “I don’t like being called Patsy, so Kit was the next best thing.”

Elaine nods. She’s about to say something else when the door opens and someone starts down the stairs. Kit expects it to be Hyacinth on her weekly trip to the kitchen to wrestle some leftover cake out of Kit with puppy eyes and pretty pleases, but the footsteps seem too heavy.

The person stumbles, missing a step, and catches themselves on the railing with a groan and a mumbled swear. A few steps later, shoes and trousers come into view.

It’s a man. It cannot be Colin Bridgerton, for he is out of town, and it cannot be the Viscount, as he left for his own bachelor house earlier in the evening, taking his valet with him. Sure enough, Benedict Bridgerton soon steps into view. He’s white as a sheet, and barely able to walk.

“I was hoping someone would still be awake,” he says, swaying as he stands two steps away from the bottom of the stairs. Kit and Elaine stand up, remembering themselves.

“Would it be possible to have some warm milk?” He asks.

Kit always liked Benedict best of all the male Bridgerton’s. They’ve crossed paths twice in seven years but he’s always been polite to her, despite her status and in spite of his.

“Please,” he adds

“Perhaps you would like to sit,” Kit offers, pulling out the chair closest to where he’s standing. He nods, holding his hand against the wall for dear life as he walks down the last two steps. He stumbled down onto the chair, crash landing haphazardly onto the seat with a pained moan.

“You can go,” Kit tells Elaine, “Go to bed, we wake at dawn tomorrow.”

She then turns towards the stove, lighting it under Benedict Bridgerton’s watchful gaze. She warms up a pitcher of milk and pours it into a cup for him. Unsure of what to do with herself, she stands by as he sips it.

Kit’s never heard the kitchen so quiet. She could hear a pin drop from miles away but despite the awkwardness, she struggles to keep a yawn from surfacing.

“I’m sorry,” Benedict eventually says, “I am keeping you up.”

“It’s alright, sir,”

“It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m sure you have plenty of work to be done tomorrow and I am keeping you from sleeping. I’m sorry I’ll be the cause of your tiredness,” he says, looking genuinely sorry, “I couldn’t sleep,” he eventually adds after finishing his milk, “I have such a headache, and Andrew couldn’t find the laudanum. I thought I would be okay but it’s too much.”

“If you wait here, I shall fetch you some of mine,” Kit offers, unsure of what the alternative could be. She knows just how painful headaches can get, and because she has no choice but to work through them, she keeps her side of the wardrobe well stocked with homemade laudanum.

Kit opens her bedroom door as quietly as she can so as not to wake Dorothy, one of the lower housemaids, with whom she shares the room. She steps around the bed and opens the wardrobe door, fumbling the keys and almost dropping it. She feels around for a glass flask until her fingers close around its neck. Once the medicine is in her possession, she leaves the room again. Walking to the opposite side of the corridor, passing through the door announcing the male servant’s rooms, Kit makes her way towards Andrew’s quarters. His room is all the way towards the end, as close to the main house as it can get, in case his gentleman were to have an emergency. Kit’s been here before, but never unchaperoned, and the distance between Andrew’s room and the safety of the communal corridor is a curse.

Eventually, she knocks on his door but he doesn’t respond. The Valets have been asleep for hours now, and she imagines Andrew is much the same. Wishing she didn’t have to, she pushes the door open and steps in. She walks closer to the bed, putting a hand on Andrew’s sleeping shoulder and gently shakes him. He wakes with a start.

“Say, Kit, I’ve always wanted you in my bed,” he mumbles groggily, grinning at her, “But I wasn’t expecting it to happen today.”

“Very funny, you incorrigible rake,” Kit grins back, “Your gentlemen is looking white as a sheet in my kitchen, you might want to come with in case we need to fetch a doctor,” she explains. Andrew sighs, picking his trousers off the end of his bed.

“I cannot be seen in my sleepwear, you go first, I’ll join you in a moment,” he adds, shooing her away with a wave of his hand.

Benedict Bridgerton seems to only have gotten worse by the time she is back. In the flickering light of the fireplace, his palour has turned to colouring his face a strange shade of green. Seeing this, and perhaps selfishly afraid for her clean floors, Kit hurriedly pours the second eldest Bridgerton a bit of laudanum. He downs it in one go and coughs.

“Christ, that’s strong!” he says, looking surprised.

“Well, it’s homemade,” Kit explains, “It’s alcohol and opium. The doses might be different to what you’re used to but I promise it will work.”

“Yes,” he coughs, “I daresay I needn’t more than a few sips for this to knock me right out.”

“Well, you did say you had trouble sleeping,” Kit mumbles to herself, not expecting Benedict to hear her but a laugh soon bubbles up from his mouth. It’s delightful but short lived, for merely a second later he coughs again, bends over, and spills the contents of his stomach all over the hardwood floor.

Kit’s fury is immediate, and Benedict knows it. He stands here, green and ill, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“I did not -- I’m awfully sorry --” he sputters.

Her anger doesn’t last, there’s something about Benedict that softens Kit’s heart, much to her dismay, and as much as she would have liked to send him away with a scolding and a glare -- as she would have done with anyone else -- she steps forward instead, placing a hand over his shoulder to place his back against the chair. As she would with her own brothers, she then places the back of her hand against his forehead.

“You have a temperature,” she states, just in time for Andrew to swing the door open, dressed but dishevelled, a cowlick lifting all but one tuft of hair on the left side of his head.

“I see I’m too late,” he comments, ignoring how close his gentleman and Kit are, “I’ll take you back up to bed, sir, and I’ll ask one of the footmen to fetch a doctor.”

“I’m awfully sorry for your floor,” Benedict apologises again, looking greener than ever and as though he might be sick again.

“It’s nothing Kit’s not seen before,” Andrew says, placing one of Benedict’s over his shoulders and lifting him up to a standing position. Gingerly, Andrew walks Benedict back up the stairs and into the main house, leaving Kit to clean the floor all over again.

By the time she’s finished, the sun is shining low on the horizon, the roosters in the courtyard are crowing and Cook opens the door to start her day. She stands on the threshold, surprised.

“Don’t ask,” Kit says, throwing her cloth in the kitchen’s laundry basket, “It’s been a night.”

“I can see that,” Cook says, “Has it been a fun night?” She asks, mischievously.

Aside from cooking, Cook’s only interests are gossip and matchmaking. She has been on Kit’s case about finding her a nice young man since the second month of her employment.

“Andrew’s been up all night too,” she adds with a wink, “He’s a handsome lad.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” Kit groans, “Master Benedict came down for hot milk last night. He was taken ill. I had to fetch Andrew.”

Cook sighs, disappointed, “Well, I was certainly hoping for something else.”

“That makes both of us,” Kit sighed

“Oh does it now?” Cook grins, turning Kit as red as her hair, unaware of how her words could have sounded.

---

Everyone else is already fast asleep by the time Elaine and Kit finish cleaning the kitchen and sit down for their last cup of tea. Swearing her young scullery maid to secrecy, Kit shaves off two thin slices of cake to have next to their drink. They eat it slowly, savouring every mouthful, but much like the day before, right as they finish, the door to the main house opens, and footsteps descend the stairs.

They’re steady today, and confident, but Kit recognises Benedict’s shoes before much of him comes into view.

“Pardon my interruption,” he says, “I merely wanted to apologise again for yesterday.”

Kit can feel Elaine looking to her for an answer. She throws her a look promising explanations later. As a maid, an apology like that can have a range of reasons, from the innocent to the rakish. With the reputation the Bridgerton boys have, it isn’t hard to imagine that Elaine is thinking more on the scandalous side of things.

“I hope you feel better,” Kit says, avoiding any words of forgiveness towards her soiled floor -- after all, she hasn’t forgiven him. She’s been up since the day before at dawn and the sheer exhaustion she has felt all day is nothing she has ever experienced -- and it seems Benedict has noticed. He grins at her.

The three of them stay quiet for a moment until the silence becomes more than Kit can bear, “Well, if it’s all, sir, I think we’ll go to bed.”

“Right,” he says, looking down at the floor, “Of course… Yes. Good night, Miss. Goodnight Kit,” he says.

“Miss Byrd,” Kit corrects him before she can stop the words from leaving her throat. While calling her by her first name is a disrespect, correcting her employer so rudely is a greater offence than anything he could have done. If word of this reacher Mr Graves, Kit is in for a telling off she has never experienced before.

“Pardon me, Miss Byrd. I meant no offence,” he says, “I seem to forget my manners.”

“Well, goodnight,” she says, hoping it will make him leave. Surprisingly, Benedict seems rather unwilling to leave her kitchen despite the awkwardness making her want to run away.

He takes the hint and with a nod in either direction, walks back up the stairs.

Kit stands there, unsure of what to say for a moment, “He vomited on our floor last night. I’m rather surprised he was brave enough to face me, I thought my glare had scared him off,” she eventually says.

Elaine stays quiet.

“You don’t believe me?” Kit sighs

“No, I do,” she eventually says, “It’s just…” Elaine hesitates, “You ought to be careful.”

“How so?” Kit asks, feeling herself blush at the situation. A sixteen year old scullery maid giving her lessons, Kit should like the floor to swallow her whole.

“I have heard things about the masters. Other maids think they’re rakes,” she says, then, casting her eyes on the floor, she adds, “At my last household, one of the Masters charmed a maid. He got her in the family way and it left her ruined.”

Kit remains there speechless.

“I don’t know what I have done to give you such a poor opinion of me, Elaine, but rest assured that I am not that kind of girl. I have no desire to run around with a master of the house and ruin myself,” Kit says, furious, “I think it’s best you go to bed. I’ll finish up here.”

“I did not mean --” she sputters, “It’s just --”

“Leave.”

Elaine nods, leaving her cup on the table. She vanishes through the service door seconds later.

Kit sits there for a while, stewing in her own anger. Partly at Elaine, and partly at Benedict. If anything were to come of this, be it rumour or inappropriate behaviour, she would be ruined and destitute. No household in London would ever employ her, and she could kiss the position of Cook, and its high salary, goodbye.

Still fuming, Kit stands up, washes the teapot and cups and climbs up to bed.

“You’re angry,” Dorothy says, sleepily, “You always stomp around when you’re angry.”

“I can’t believe the little --” Kit starts, “First that spoiled ass sicks up all over my pristine floor, then the new maid suggests he might try to ruin me!”

“Seems like a jump,”

“He came back to apologise,”

“Right,” Dorothy says, “She’s just looking out for you, I’m sure.”

“She’s sixteen!” Kit whispers back, “She’s a child!”

Dorothy sighs.

“Do you know what would happen to me if Graves hears what she said?”

“Kit, that’s enough,” Dorothy says firmly, “Nothing will happen because nothing untowards has happened. Now go to bed, I don’t want to deal with your moods in the morning.”

Kit glares at her.

“You can look at me like that all you want. It won’t change anything,” Dorothy says, tucking herself back into her duvet, “Sleep tight.”

Kit climbs into bed, huffing and puffing.

“I’ll vouch for you if Graves asks,” Dorothy eventually says, on the verge of sleep.

“Good night,” Kit replies, falling asleep as soon as her eyes close.

It seems like only a second has passed before the bell rings in the corridor and Kit must rise again. She shaked Dorothy awake and gets dressed, quickly brushing her hair and pinning it up in a tight bun. Downstairs, Cook had boiled water and made tea. She serves Kit a cup, and then Elaine when she appears a moment later. Wanting to avoid Elaine as much as she can, Kit throws herself in the day’s work, speaking as little as possible.

“Out with it,” Cook orders as soon as they step out to the courtyard after the lunch service. The scullery maid is inside, cleaning up.

“Something’s bothering you,” she adds, “I could taste it in your soup.”

“What?!” Kit asks, confused and wondering what kind of cookery witchcraft Cook knows of.

“You salt too much when you’re cross,” Cook shrugs.

“Oh,” Kit sighs, “It’s nothing. Elaine gave me advice yesterday, I didn’t appreciate it.”

Cook laughs but says nothing.

“Do you think Benedict Bridgerton is a rake?” Kit asks.

“I think he likes ladies, yes,” she responds, “I don’t think he likes maids.”

Kit sighs in relief, “Elaine seems to think --”

“Elaine was previously employed by Lord Berbrooke,” Cook cuts her off, “Give her some leeway, she’s only working off of her own experiences. The Bridgertons are different, they’re a good family with kind hearts. The Viscountess and her late husband raised them right.”

“They seem nice,” Kit replies, “I didn’t like that she was implying that I would be such a… Well, you know. That I would go above my station.”

“I don’t think that’s what she was implying, Kit dear,” Cook says, patting her arm. They stay quiet for a moment while Kit ruminates on what she said.

She’s not completely naive. She knows about these things. Maybe not everything, but she’s been working a while, and before the Bridgertons she worked with another family. She saw things she hadn’t been prepared for, then. But since working for the Bridgertons, she hadn’t thought back on it. She hadn’t felt unsafe, worried or scared that a moment alone or spent with a man might result in something she could never erase from her mind.

She’d taken Elaine’s advice so personally, like an attack on her own character. She hadn’t even thought it might have been a reflection of her own experiences. She hadn’t even thought it might be a warning on Benedict’s character. And strangely, she hadn’t thought, although it felt a little true, that the attack felt so offensive because Benedict had an effect on her Kit didn’t want him to have.

Benedict Bridgerton is undoubtedly a handsome man, but more than that, it was the boyish grin and big blue eyes that charmed her. She wasn’t in love, obviously, but he did have a certain effect on her.

“I think it’s time we go back,” Cook says, grabbing Kit by the arm and gently leading her back in to see Elaine finishing up the kitchen. Just as she throws the cloth into the laundry, they start messing up the kitchen, pulling out flour, vegetables, to start on dinner. As the sauces simmer and vegetables cook, Mr Kingman walks into the kitchen holding a couple of partridges and a hare.

“For dinner tonight,” he says, smacking the birds down on the table so violently it scares Elaine, who looks on dejected at the mess they so quickly created, “And for the family, I have a nice deer coming in. The boys are a little slow with it though,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Three voices argue loudly behind him, trying to wade through the muddy courtyard. Kit leans to see what the commotion is behind him. Carrying the biggest deer she has ever laid eyes upon, she can just about see Edmund, Francis and Frederic, the three gardener’s assistants Mr Kingman has borrowed to bring his prize.

Somehow, they negotiate the doorway and manage to fit the deer inside the kitchen. Elaine and Kit spring into action, removing chairs from the kitchen table so the boys can put it down.

Cook looks on, satisfied, “That’ll do nicely, I daresay,” she says. Then, she picks up one of her best knives and hands it to Kit, “We’ll need the bones for stock, and I’ll make a nice stew out of the organs, so be gentle with it.”

“If you keep the pelt in one piece, I’ll make a nice coat out of it,” Mr Kingman says.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kit braced herself. She’d only done this a handful of times, but it never got any more pleasant. Still, under the watchful eyes of the game warden, the three boys, Elaine and Cook, Kit begins to skin and quarter the animal.

Glancing back at her audience, she saw she had gathered a few more spectators. Mr Graves looked on from his office window, arms crossed over his chest with all the concentration of a man trying to keep his lunch inside while being entirely unable to look away.

Turning back to her work, she continues her cuts. She keeps going, asking the boys to roll the animal halfway through so she could replicate her butchering. Then, once she had finished cutting off the skin and quartering the animal, she and Cook moved all the meat to the cold room for safekeeping.

As much as Kit would have liked to take a shower to wash off the grime and blood, there was no time to waste. The leg would take a while to roast, even over the fire, and the kitchen needed to be cleaned, a job which, in light of the deer, Elaine could not complete by herself.

By the time it was time to return to her quarters, Kit could only think of a nice long bath. She drew the water and brought it upstairs, careful not to spill any on the stairs. Then, she undressed and gingerly lowered herself in the copper tub.

Kit closed her eyes, letting herself relax. She breathed deeply in and out a few times, then slipped under the water. Holding her breath, she opened her eyes. From underneath the water she could see almost nothing, just the flickering light of the candle at the side of the tub. She exhaled gently, watching the bubbles rise til they hit the surface, and then pop.

She resurfaced again a moment later, wiping her hair from her face. Water in her eyes having temporarily blinded her, Kit felt around the side of the tub for the little table she had put the soap and cloth on. After a minute, she felt the soft bar underneath her fingers.

One of the perks of working for the Bridgertons was without a doubt the soap. While other households often stocked soap for their servants, it was rarely of a good enough quality that it was worth using, but the Bridgertons’ or Mrs Wilson, anyway, regarded the staff’s overall appearance as highly important and hygiene most of all. They had therefore stocked each room with decent, scented soap. A treat Kit appreciated greatly.

She rubbed the soap over the cloth to make it bubble and then washed herself with it, breathing in the smell of jasmine on her skin. Then, with the same soapy cloth, Kit washed the top of her head til it bubbled up enough to clean the rest of her long hair. Once rinsed and ready, she stepped out of the bath and dried herself off and blew the candle out. Feeling more human than she had in days, she made her way back to her room.

To her surprise, Dorothy was still up, reading a long letter by candle light.

“From your Pa?” Kit asked, eliciting a humm of agreement from her friend, “How is the family?”

“My sister’s getting married in the spring,” she replied, “She’s marrying our vicar’s son. Ma says it’s a nice match but I get the feeling Pa’s not so happy about it. I don’t see why not though,” she says, “It’s not like she can do any better. He seems nice, and he’ll provide for her.”

“That’s nice!” Kit says, excited. She’s always loved weddings, and while she’s never hoped for a love match herself, finding someone willing to provide and care for her has always seemed just as good. In her books, Dotty’s sister isn’t doing half bad.

“Do you think if I ask Graves he’ll let me go for the wedding?” Dotty asks

“I don’t see why not,” Kit replies, “He’s a pain but not a monster, you know.”

“That’s only because he likes you, Patience,” she replies, emphasising her legal name.

Kit laughs, “Say, have you ever noticed how funny his name actually is?”

Dotty shakes her head.

“His name is Robert Graves. Rob Graves.”

Dorothy grins, “Leave it to you to find that out,” then, she sighs and without a word, goes back to reading. Suddenly exhausted, Kit climbs into bed and falls asleep almost immediately.

She wakes up late for the first time in seven years. By the time she makes it downstairs, Cook is already starting with breakfast. Without a word, but with a disapproving look, she hands Kit a bag of flour, some yeast and a little water.

---

Kit’s outside for a tea break when Michael, her ten year old brother, walks into the courtyard, newspaper in hand.

“Any good news?” Kit asks, pressing a coin in his hand.

Michael shrugs, “I dunno, I don’t read it, I just sell it.”

Kit grins. She takes off Michael’s cap and ruffles the hair underneath it. It’s almost as red as hers, only much shorter and curlier. It suits him, she thinks, and paired with the freckles covering his face, it makes him look younger than he is.

He leans against her in a not-quite-hug. Michael likes to pretend to be older than he is, and very much resists any of his sister’s babying, but occasionally, especially when he’s tired, he’ll still hug her. She holds him there for a moment, savouring it.

“Have you eaten anything?” She asks him

Michael shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say anything, Kit already knows. Their father’s out of work again, and despite all of the children working, money is stretched thin. Kit hates to speak badly of her father, but she hates that he’ll let his children go hungry if it means he never has to go thirsty. For every shilling that goes into food, three go into alcohol.

“Stay there,” Kit tells him. Michael watches her disappear inside, and then reappear a moment later, holding an apple and some bread. She watches him eat it all, and then fetches him some milk to wash it all down. Once she’s satisfied that he won’t drop from hunger, she lets him finish his route.

Once she steps back inside, it’s back to work. The staff having soup for dinner and the family is divided with the eldest going to a ball, and the younger ones staying behind.

Seeing as it’s only the children having dinner, Cook has been bribed by Hyacinth to make tea sandwiches and cakes, and so, Kit spends the better part of her afternoon making cakes and breads.

After dinner, it’s time to clean. The end of her evening clean with Elaine is upon them and after tonight Kit will be able to retire to bed alongside Dorothy. She’s been looking forward to it, she’s even asked Andrew to borrow a book from upstairs for her.

There’s been very little chatting since Elaine gave her advice, and as much as Kit wants to apologise for her reaction, she can’t really seem to find the right words, and by the time she thinks she might be brave enough to try, the cleaning is done and it’s time to go home.

Tonight, though, Kit is determined to do it. She’s been talking herself into it since she woke up this morning and her chance finally appears as they remove their shoes to work the scrubbing cloth around the floor.

“I wanted to apologise,” she says, staring firmly at the floor, “I misunderstood your intentions earlier in the week and I was awfully rude.”

Elaine seems surprised, “I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t my place, I’m sorry.”

“You were looking out for me,” Kit says, “I appreciate it. Thank you,” she smiles at the scullery maid, “I’ll be careful.”

Elaine smiles at her, moving as fast as she can on the cloth before her feet become numb. They’ve done most of it now and the end can’t come soon enough.

“Tea?” Elaine asks, already reaching for the teapot and mugs. Kit smiles and nods, turning around to rummage through the cupboards for jam and a few slices of fresh bread.

She spreads jam on the slices as Elaine pours the tea. They eat in comfortable silence, all awkwardness dissipated by their apologies. Right as they bite into their bread, the front door of the main house opens upstairs announcing the elder Bridgertons’ return home from the ball. They hear them climb up the main stairs, and minutes later, the bells ring for the valets and lady’s maids.

Quick as a flash, Kit hides the teapot, cups, bread and jam on one of the empty chairs. She shoves whatever toast she still had in her hand into her mouth, making sure Elaine does the same, before the upper servants enter the kitchen and file up the stairs to the main house.

As soon as they’re gone, the contraband is placed back up on the table and their chatting continues. By the time the upper servants come back down, the tea is finished, the food is eaten and Kit has washed away any evidence of their midnight snack. Elaine soon bids her goodnight and climbs up to her quarters while Kit stays to chat and gossip with the Lady’s maids.

“I say Master Colin will wed by the end of next season,” Rose says, “And I wager a shilling, he will marry Miss Featherington.”

Kit laughs, “I wager he will not. I hear Miss Featherington’s dowry has already been gambled away by her father. I doubt Master Colin would marry without a dowry.”

“Kit, you sadden me,” Andrew says, “True love will vanquish all. I say he will marry her regardless of the dowry,” he adds, earning oohs and aahs from an appreciative Rose, “But,” he says, raising his index finger in warning, “I say it takes him two more seasons.”

“And when do you plan to wed, Andrew?” Bernard, Colin’s Valet, asks with a grin

“As soon as Kit gives me the time of day,” Andrew replies, shooting her a wink. It earns him a laugh from Bernard and Nicholas, Anthony’s Valet, as they clap him on the back.

“A bachelor forever, then!” Nicholas guffaws

“I’m going back to bed,” Andrew announced, faking grumpiness, “Goodnight!”

Soon after his departure, the rest of them climb up, leaving Kit alone in a quiet kitchen. She’s about to go up when the door above the kitchen opens once more.

Hyacinth chats loudly as she comes down, leaving no wonder as to who is disturbing Kit now, but she’s not alone. Trailing not far behind is Benedict Bridgerton, wearing only sleepwear.

“Hello Miss Byrd,” he says, sheepishly smiling, “We were rather hoping --”

“Is there any cake left?” Hyacinth cuts him off.

Kit rolls her eyes at the girl, earning herself a toothy smile, “I made you three different cakes for dinner and you still haven’t had enough?”

“Please?” Hyacinth begs, putting on her best puppy eyes, knowing very well it’s Kit’s one weakness.

But she holds strong, largely because Benedict is standing right behind, and she feels that if she does not stay stern, he’d get ideas.

“Please Miss Byrd,” he eventually says, “We’re awfully hungry,” he adds, joining in on the relentless beating down.

Kit lasts only a minute longer before giving in with a sigh.

“This cannot happen again,” she says, as sternly as she can. Benedict smiles at her and much to her surprise, Kit’s knees go weak. She lets go of the plate she was holding, and it shatters all over the floor, sending bits of ceramic flying everywhere.

She immediately bends down, grabbing all the pieces she can see. Shuffling around on her knees, she doesn’t see where she’s going. Soon enough, she bumps her head against something hard and yelps in pain. Expecting to see a table leg, she raises her head only to come inches away from Benedict Bridgerton. She stands up as fast as she can, taking as many steps back as she can as he does the same. They look at each other across the room, both trying to catch their breath.

Trying to get a grip on herself, Kit slices two bits of cake and places them on two new plates. She hands them to each Bridgerton, expecting them to take it up to their rooms, but only Hyacinth does. As soon as the kitchen door closes, Benedict puts his plate down and reaches for the broom Kit had left leaning on the door.

Half expecting him to hand it to her, Kit is surprised when he starts sweeping.

“Oh you don’t -- I’ll --”

“Am I not doing it right?” he asks

“No, it’s -- Sir, I’ll take care of it,” she eventually says, “You may go up, you must be tired.”

“I am awake enough to sweep, Miss Byrd,” he smiles

“Perhaps, but you really oughtn’t,” she replies, gently taking the broom from his hands, “Go up, go to sleep. If Andrew finds out you missed out on sleep because of me, he’ll have my head.”

“Goodnight,” he says eventually, seeming unsure of what to do, before turning around and following his sister. His slice of cake forgotten.

“Goodnight, sir,” Kit replies.

---

The morning has been everything but calm from the moment Kit steps out of bed. All the late nights she’s been doing have started to take their toll and she’s starting to make mistakes, from burning the toast to cutting herself chopping vegetables, Kit is visibly perturbed, but Cook doesn’t ask and doesn’t comment. The servants live in close enough quarters that soon enough, she’ll know without needing to pry.

Kit doesn’t appreciate the looks though, and she’s grateful when tea break comes around. Cook’s made it for her, a rare treat, as she’s usually in charge of it. It’s piping hot and very sweet, the kind of cup of tea that fixes everything. They take it out in the courtyard, on a little rickety wooden table soaked through by the previous night’s rain, instead of standing by the back door like they usually do.

Cook takes out her pipe and lights it, alternating blowing big puffs of smoke and sipping her tea. The women stay silent, looking around at the Bridgerton’s garden through a small gap in the gate while a duck and two chickens circle them for crumbs.

Mr Colpher and his boys have done a wonderful job. The grass, the trees, the flowers all look as beautiful as they could be in the autumn colours.

Kit cranes her neck to see more, attracted by voices out in the garden. It’s the Viscount and Daphne, running around with their younger siblings, playing a game Kit doesn’t know. She looks on for a few more minutes until she’s rudely interrupted by the duck. Kit catches him, beak in her pocket, pulling out her handkerchief which she had wrapped around a leftover piece of bread.

“Oh go on, leave me be!” She tells him, “I'll turn you into a roast if you don’t mind your manners!”

Cook chuckles but Kit, unamused, bends down to pick her handkerchief out of a muddy puddle. She picks up the bread too, but throws it away as far as she can to spite the duck.

A few minutes later, Cook stands up, signalling that the break is over and they must return to work. Kit follows suit, energised by the tea and sugar.

When they walk in, Andrew is waiting for them.

“Ladies,” he says, with a dashing smile, sitting back on a chair, his boots on the dinner table, “Looking wonderful, as always.”

“Are you pestering the scullery maid, Mr Fitzwilliam?” Kit asks with a grin, “Feet off, I don’t want to eat whatever you traipsed on here.”

Andrew puts on a look of shock, ignoring her remark about his boots but sitting properly all the same, “Now Kit darling, you know my heart only beats for you,” he says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, “Say, Cook, mind if I borrow your kitchen maid for just a flash?”

“Only for a flash, Andrew,” Cook says, sternly shaking a finger at him. Andrew stands, knowing that Cook’s soft spot for him means he’ll face absolutely no repercussions for not keeping his word.

Andrew leads Kit back outside and leans against the wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his coat jacket. He lights one, then offers it to Kit, who refuses.

“Bridgerton asked about you,” he says, meaning Benedict, “Asked if I knew you. If you had a special someone,” he continues with a grin, “If you were always so stern.”

“And what did you say?” Kit asks, stomach in a knot for reasons she can’t quite place a finger on.

“I said you had a fiancé,” Andrew shrugs.

“Whyever would you say that?”

“What? Wanted me to tell him you were single?” Andrew laughs, “I thought you’d appreciate me shutting the questioning down.”

Kit sighs, “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Kit,” Andrew says, pushing himself off the wall, “He’s charming and he’s nice, I’ll give you that. But he’s looking to marry well so he can sustain the art career he desperately wants. I don’t want to see you hurt,” he says, putting both hands on her shoulders, “Besides, if Graves finds out, he’ll let you go and I don’t need to warn you of the trouble you’ll have finding somewhere else to work.”

Kit shakes him off, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and dropping it on the floor. She stomps on it with her foot until it’s thoroughly covered in mud and animal waste.

Andrew grins, “I don’t want to lose my best girl,” he says, “No one makes a cake quite like she does.”

Kit smiles, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Will it get me a date?”

“Sure,” Kit grinned, “Why not, since you asked so sweetly. Where are you taking me?”

Andrew stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, “I thought you would refuse me. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

She laughs, and he smiles, a blush spreading over his cheeks, “You better take me somewhere nice, Mr Fitzwilliam. After all, you are competing with a Bridgerton. Apparently…”

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