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utterlyotterlyx · 1 year ago

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The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part One

Summary - As the ways of the world shift, you find yourself torn between those who have always cared for you and the life you feel like you were made to live.

Warnings - none right now really, some angst, harmless flirting, tension, slight fluff, mention of wing loss

Hauntingly beautiful was one of the few ways to describe the High Lord Eris Vanserra.

There was a rake-ish look about him, like he belonged in one of Nesta's regency era romance novels that had her eyes widened and bottom lip caught between her teeth. It was rather infuriating.

Tension continued to linger, one of doubtful trust. Rhys wanted to trust Eris, he wanted to trust that the new High Lord of Autumn knew what he was doing, but something was stopping your brother from investing into the change fully and you weren't quite sure what.

Eris sat opposite you in the meeting chamber, eyes trailing down your figure approvingly, a crown of golden leaves dipping to his brow and accentuating those russet eyes that always sought to burn you with their intense glare. It had been strictly forbidden for you to leave Velaris on your own after what had happened to your elder sister at the hands of Tamlin, you understood it of course, Rhys wouldn't survive if he lost you too, his youngest sibling but by far the fiercest creature in all of Prythian's history.

War was scoured into your bones, hellfire raged in your soul, and you were very well known for your tactical prowess and outspoken nature, from your quick wit to your dry humour. Some said that you were the reason that Prythian still stood, you had worked very hard to undermine Amarantha right under her nose, feigning innocence and naivety that she drank from like a fountain of youth, you had been instrumental in the war against Hybern too, and Eris had watched in stoic awe as you wielded your sword like it was an extension of yourself, gracefully cutting down your victims and using your power to decimate hoards of males into ash.

Eris wouldn't admit it, certainly not in front of Rhysand and Cassian who made it his mission to keep Eris as far away from you as possible, but he thought that you were the most incredible thing he had ever witnessed. And as you sat before him, draped in a sheer black dress adorned with white crystals that allowed him to relish at the picture of your full breasts, it was taking him a lot of will power to not fling you on that table and take you right there and then, even if your brother was watching, he didn't care.

The meeting was simple, Rhys wanted to know how the politics between the courts were to improve with Eris now at the helm and steering the Autumn Court ship. Feyre sat to the left of your brother, dressed in her usual ethereal pale blue, another garment made by your mother, but less impressive than the items you owned. You sat to his right with Azriel to your side, Mor, Cassian and Nesta occupied the seats to Feyre's left in that order, and Lucien lingered somewhere between, still on the side of the Night Court, put just an arms length away from his brother.

Eris was stoic and cruel, power radiated from him, but you seemed the be the only one who saw what lingered beneath that façade. The occasional split second glance he would direct to Lucien when he thought no one was watching, one full of regret and sadness. It seemed that there were many more layers to Eris Vanserra than any of you realised.

"How do we know that you won't rule like your father did?" Rhys had craned forward in his seat, his jet black crown glistening in the darkening sunlight that poured down through the domed windows.

Eris' jaw ticked, a clearly sensitive subject for him, your chin dipped in examination and for a moment, he glanced to you, fire in his eyes that mirrored the very faint sphere of orange that curled around pupils, "Would I have bothered to overthrow him to only rule like him?" Eris replied with his own question and you felt Mor scoff from where you sat, your older cousin not enjoying the sentiment one bit.

"Who knows what you males strive for," Mor bit, more like growled, at him, you face remained distant and cold, you didn't remove your gaze from him, everyone knew that they couldn't hide from you, you were too observant.

Guilt had swirled in your gut at the sight of him, under examination by a group of people he longed to be somewhat friendly with, to work with to better the lives of his people, and Velaris was rich in knowledge and power, it was a court that you would want on your side if you walked a second in his shoes.

It wasn't often, if at all, that you would speak at meetings, it was an unspoken rule for you to be seen and not heard, your presence was powerful enough, and you did have the knack for making things worse with your jabbing words, "Raise your hand if your father is a piece of shit," the room fell silent, and Azriel had his head dipped low to conceal his smirk, his knee nudging yours gently in warning.

Slowly you raised your hand and looked to Rhys who rolled his eyes, but didn't raise his own, he didn't want to indulge you. In turn, Cassian raised his hand, Azriel lifted a finger as did Mor, Lucien's hand raised with his elbow still firmly plastered on the arm of his chair, and Eris didn't dare partake, but you all knew his answer already. Counting under your breath at the souls that had answered your call, you relaxed into your seat, "I don't know about you Rhys but I don't think you're anything like our dear old dad. Mor is nothing like hers, nor is Cassian or Azriel or Lucien. If we were all held accountable for the actions of our fathers then we surely would live in the most tyrannical world possible, no?"

Rhys raked down the iron clad walls of your mind and you gave him a pointed look, refusing him entry and smirking at the twitch that pulled at the corner of his lip, "There is no evidence that Eris will be like Beron, and refusing him alliance only makes such possibilities more likely," you picked at an invisible thread of your sheer black garment and feathered your fingers down the bargain tattoo that curled around your upper arm, one that matched the mark Azriel bore in the same place from a stupid bargain you had made what felt like eons ago.

"In simple terms, brother," you fluttered your eyelashes at him, ignoring his clear fury, "Get over yourself and give it a chance. Prythian can't be a land of harmony when males with big egos can't see the opportunity before them."

Feyre had confined herself to looking at the wall, shifting uncomfortably at the colliding forces of power between you and her mate. It was never something she had the courage to stand between, she'd perish if she even tried. Nesta was smirking at you, the only one who would hold Rhys accountable and live to see another day, relishing in the fury of the High Lord.

Another nudge prodded into your thigh and you snapped your gaze to Azriel, "Will you stop nudging me?" You swatted at his thigh, "This world has been through enough already, Amarantha, Hybern, Koschei... It's time that we made a world to be proud of and we can only do that if we work together."

"Who knew that the fawn had a voice?" Eris spoke and you sent him a satisfied grin, Rhys looked to the High Lord and snarled at the name he had dared to direct to you, but quickly composed himself with a warning glace to you that meant he would deal with you later.

Matching is tone, you teased, "Thank you. My campaign for High Lady is imminent," Cassian let out an audible low chuckle, his shoulders shaking next to Nesta who was doing her best to contain the amused smile that fought its way onto her lips.

Typical y/n.

Looking to Rhys, you smiled and waiting expectantly, he seethed out his answer, "Fine," he moved his attention to Eris who was still smirking at you, eyes blazing with curiosity, "We will work with you, Eris. Let's call this the start of a long lasting alliance between our courts," Rhys rose to his feet, "Please feel free to stay the evening and join us for dinner. I will have a room prepared for you."

An olive branch, one that made you avert your gaze to Eris to see him nod in shocked agreement.

Rhys lowered himself so that his head lingered by your ear, his fingers curled around the back of your chair, and he growled, "My office. Now."

A chill slithered down your spine and you smiled thinly at no one in particular before rising from your seat and following Rhys from the room. The pair of you didn't utter a single word as he led you through the halls of the House of Wind, walls that seemed to shrink away from your pulsating energies as he led you to his office and shut the door behind your entrance.

"What in the name of the Mother do you think you're doing?" Rhys seethed as he rounded your smaller figure, towering over you to the point that he shrouded you in the shadow of his figure and flexing wings.

With a raised brow, you spoke calmly, "I highly suggest you take a step back and stop trying to intimidate me," his gaze softened slightly and he obeyed you, stuttering back a couple of feet and tucking his wings out of sight.

"Eris is not someone that we should have an alliance with," he leaned against his desk and watched as you turned around, lifting the heavy glass lid to his whisky decanter and pouring two glasses of the amber liquid before extending one out to him which he took without question.

You waited until he had taken a sip before talking, "Regardless of what you think, you know I'm right," you took the seat opposite the desk and nestled into the deep brown cushions, leaving him standing before you, "Rhys, you wear a mask to the rest of the world, in everywhere other than Velaris. Cauldron, you even make us follow suit. Has it ever entered your limited mind that Eris may do the same, that he too is hiding behind the mask he has created for himself?"

Rhys frowned, "Did you just call me stupid?"

Scoffing, you sipped the amber liquid and enjoyed the delicious burn that sank down your throat, "All you're doing is proving my point."

Rhys threw his head back and inhaled deeply, clenching his eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose, "You know that I love you," he lowered his gaze to wash over you, but you didn't falter, you had never faltered under Rhys' glare, you were perhaps the only one who wasn't impacted by it, "You have to understand that I will always do what is right to protect our home, to protect you."

"And you have to understand that I will always do what is right to better the continent, not just our people."

The relationship between you and Rhys was a complicated one. There was a lot of love and respect between you, but his fear of losing you often clouded his mind. His word was law, but your word was the final judgement. The reckoning. There was nothing even he could do to change that.

Many males had attempted to get close to you, but none were good enough to appease the expectations of the High Lord of the Night Court. It wasn't as if you cared. You required an equal, someone who wouldn't diminish your power, and males had the tendency to attempt to control you.

Rhys had even refused your hand to Helion, much to your disappointment, and before the acts that led to the demise of your sister, he had refused to extend a thought to Tamlin who had clearly been besotted with you. Thank the cauldron for that at least.

"You have a strong will, y/n," a backhanded compliment if you had ever heard one, you rose from your seat and placed your empty glass on the bare surface to his left, "It will get you in trouble."

"Good. I can't wait."

Leaving Rhys alone in his office had filled you with far too much smugness and serenity.

The golden tainted pink hue from the sunset poured through the large windows, trickling up the walls and coating your skin in its soft shimmer as you paced before them.

Black fabric chased after your steps from your dress sweeping in the breeze you had created in your movements, you could feel the comfort of your chambers, you could almost taste it as you rounded the corner and entered the room without a second thought.

The familiar skitter of cool kisses swirled around your ankles and you didn't need to look up to see who was splayed across your cream comforter, "I know what you're going to say," you disappeared behind the thin clouded dressing screen and peeled your dress from your body, rifling through the railing full of ornate pieces whilst Azriel examined your silhouette from his place on your bed.

"Then I don't need to tell you how stupid you are," you looked over your shoulder at his words, like he could see your expression which was one of confusion and annoyance, "I swear you get more defiant each day."

Peeking your head around the corner of the screen, displaying your face and shoulder to him, you spoke, "It's the only exciting thing I have to do around here."

Azriel quirked a brow to you, his shadows dancing around his shoulders at the sound of your voice, "That's not true," you scoffed at his words and disappeared back behind the screen, continuing on your quest to find a dress for dinner, "There are plenty of things to keep you entertained in Velaris."

"Azriel," you deadpanned, not stopping your movements in plucking dressed from the railing and holding them up to your body, "Rhys doesn't let me do anything other than train and sit and look pretty and intimidating. I'm Velaris' glorified trophy."

A particular garment caught your eye and you smirked, taking it from its hanger and pulling it up your form. It was a stunning piece, one you rarely wore. An ornate solid gold bodice of blooming roses and ivy that connected to a red wine skirt that possessed a high slit, cream lace poked from the highest point of the slit and kissed your thigh.

"That's not true. He let you fight against Hybern," Azriel told you pointedly, seemingly becoming lost for words when you stepped from the screen and soothed down the skirt of the dress before bending down to secure golden heeled sandals to your feet.

"I fought against Hybern because there was no choice to do anything but that," you hadn't spared the Shadowsinger a glance but smiled softly at the shadows that curled lovingly around your ankles, you held two sets of earrings up to your ears and tilted your head in the mirror, "I'm sure if there was an option to stay home then Rhys would have gladly assigned the position to me."

Azriel rose from the bed, moving behind you and resting his hands on your hips, his hazel eyes boring into your reflection, "He worries about losing you. He couldn't stop what happened to your mother and sister, I think he just wants to be able to stop anything from happening to you," Azriel smiled at you and your orange ringed violet eyes softened at him, "Wear the red ones, they match the skirt."

"Thanks, Az," he hummed in response and took a step back, the place where his hands once lay turning cold and begging for more, "Shall we go to dinner then? What an exciting evening we have ahead of us," Azriel chuckled and offered his arm to you which you gladly took, allowing him to pull you from the room.

There was an unspoken attachment between you and Azriel, like it could be something more if you were both willing to risk your already perfect relationship on the notion of it. You both knew that feelings lingered, but if Rhys ever found out it would surely cause a civil war within your family, and you'd hate to think where everyone would stand in that battle.

The dining room had been beautifully dressed, a black tablecloth and tall golden candles, gold plates and coated silverware, ornate but expensive goblets and an array of blood red and orange flowers, no doubt a nod from Feyre of respect toward Eris.

Azriel left you at your usual seat with a subtle squeeze of the hand before rounding the table and taking his spot opposite you, scuffing the chair against the stone and sitting in it as you did in yours. Family members trailed in one by one, Nesta took her seat beside you and Cassian sat to her left, Mor took the spot beside Azriel and Elain took the other, then Amren entered, then Rhys and Feyre, the former of which nestled into his spot at the head of the table.

Then Lucien and Eris entered, and the High Lord eyed the last two remaining spaces, the one at the head of the table opposite Rhys or the one next to you, and Eris strode beyond his brother to steal that option. He teetered at the edge of it and peered down on you questioningly, "May I?"

Feeling Rhys' eye on you that you didn't dare to acknowledge, you nodded gently, "Of course," he took your answer in the palm of his hand and used it to pull the chair out, his scent of mulled wine, candied orange and pine filling your lungs as he sat.

Eris was dressed well, a red waistcoat adorned with golden swirls, a cream shirt that was tucked into the waistband of his black pants, like he knew to match your own attire, something that not only you noticed.

Idly, decanters of wine floated about the space, pouring themselves into the empty goblets placed at every seat, and food began to appear, dish by dish, on the long table. Platters of roasted vegetables, silver dishes piled with meats, bowls of fresh salads, boats of sauces, and most importantly, towers of desserts that made your eyes glisten, wanting to skip the main course entirely and help yourself to a slice of cake.

Clearing his throat, Rhys raised his goblet, tearing you from your salivating thoughts, "A toast," he smiled thinly at Feyre whose gaze shifted to you and then to the male at your side, "To new alliances."

The room repeated the sentiment before digging in, doing their best to ignore the swirling tension caused by Eris choosing to spend the evening sat beside you. Though, that soon vanished when Cassian started telling his many tales of his escapades throughout the years with the intermittent corrections from Rhys and Azriel.

"I should thank you," a low voice spoke from your right and you craned your head toward Eris, his hypnotising russet orbs were fixated on you, dark and full of wonder as they raked over your face, "For what you said at the meeting. I hope you weren't scolded for helping my cause."

Eris' voice was low, only loud enough for you to hear and you alone, his eyes were soft and stare void of that stoic cold that usually possessed it. He looked like a completely different person, there was actually kindness bubbling within him, genuine sincerity in his words.

"Rhys can scold me all he wants, it'll never change anything," you replied in the same tone, the orange ring in your eyes burning like wildfire, "Anyhow, it's a cause worth supporting."

From the corner of your eye, you caught Lucien watching you with intrigue, his fingers encased with Elain's atop the table with a knowing glitter lingering in his expression, he grinned as his brother spoke and leaned toward Elain to whisper something beyond your realm of hearing, "I can't remember the last time I saw you before Hybern."

Smirking, you asked, "Have you been thinking about me, High Lord?"

"It's not hard to," he replied honestly, watching the faint blush creep up your cheeks, "When was the last time?"

Humming, you thought about it, it wasn't often you actually left the confinements of Velaris thanks to your brother's protective antics, your eyes glazed over slightly, "It was Under The Mountain, at the beginning, after she," you rolled you shoulders, coiling them in the memory of that night.

That's right, the last time he had seen you before the war had been the night after Amarantha had stripped your wings from your body, carving them off with her talons to punish Rhys' reluctance. It had taken everything within Eris to not set her alight on the spot, if he could have, after he had seen your shaking pale form wandering the halls like a ghost.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up."

"It's fine," you insisted, sighing deeply, "It's a fading memory now, I've adjusted well."

"I'm glad to hear it," the genuine tone to him was confusing, but you always knew there more to him than what met the eye, and part of you was proud to have been correct about it.

Eris had grown up listening to the stories about you and Rhys, two formidable winged warriors that exuded darkness and power, who held the capacity in their fingers to shatter kingdoms if they so wished it.

It didn't scare him. You had never scared him actually.

"Make the most of this alliance, Eris. It's very rare that I speak up on such matters," you told him, sipping from the wine in your cup and placing it back onto the tabletop under Rhys' watchful gaze.

There was an elegance about you, Eris noticed, the poised shoulders and perfectly slender pointed ears, the violet eyes with the speckles of Autumn orange, the grace laced in your words. It was a spectacular thing to witness up close.

"Then why did you?"

There was a moment of contemplation and you furrowed your brow in thought, "I can't sit by and be part of the reason why people suffer," very unlike Rhys, "Other than that," you trailed off, looking deep into his eyes like your violet pools were drowning in his soul, "I'm not quite sure."

Author's Note

Part one to the series I've been planning for awhile.

Prepare yourselves for a pining, needy slow burn with a hint of forbidden love x

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tossawary · 10 days ago

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A family member managed to score some free tickets to a theatre adaptation of Austen's "Sense and Sensibility" (by Kate Hamill) and it was a lot of fun! There was a lot to like about it, such as delightful acting performances, but here are some of the creative highlights for me personally...

Firstly: They created a "gossip chorus" of five actors, dressed as regency gentry, who delivered a lot of information by gossiping with each other (and the audience).

Austen does a lot of "telling" in her novels through witty narration; a lot of important events may actually happen "off-screen" in her work, so film and theatre adaptations often have to invent new(ish) scenes in which the summarized events are shown directly or characters deliver news in conversation. The play did show many events directly, inventing some new conversations to depict character and relationship and all that, but they also used their "gossip chorus" very effectively to quickly communicate events and ideas to the audience in a very entertaining fashion. The gossip chorus could tell the audience directly what had happened off-stage and also what this reputation-obssessed "polite" society thought about the situation.

Many scenes happened with the gossip chorus hungrily leaning over balconies or shamelessly sprawled like picnickers at the front of the stage, watching the story unfold and reacting gleefully to any juicy events. Like a peanut gallery of very nosy, very loud, very fashionable, very judgey ghosts.

Secondly: The gossip chorus often acted as the stagehands, but also as the servants announcing guests, additional party guests at a ball, dogs and horses, trees passing by on walks, and so on. They ran on and off stage as the play needed them. There were a lot of brief but hilarious interactions between them and the character actors, as they all moved about on stage together, in the way that theatre often likes to play with the "walls" of the story.

Like, the gossip chorus are obviously not always "real" people in every scene, but these ghostly characters might still speak to and physically interact with the character actors to encourage them to keep talking about something scandalous. At one point, Fanny Dashwood borrowed a teacup from an eavesdropping gossip chorus member as an example when talking about fine china. At another point, the fawning gossip chorus was rubbing John Dashwood's shoulders and feet as he talked, while the other Dashwoods sat in miserable silence, and John Dashwood comes off as deeply, hilariously self-centered and oblivious.

Thirdly: I liked the generally farcical tone. They had some very serious and sober moments, when appropriate, but otherwise, it was very much a comedy and it knew it. They had a lot of exaggeration and a lot of physical comedy, sometimes bordering on slapstick, which seems to work well when compressing and translating Austen novels for live theatre. They also set their chosen tone very, VERY quickly and effectively.

SPOILERS for the first minute of the play: In the middle of the stage is a dining table with a white tablecloth and five teacups. A man wearing an enormous hat comes out on the balcony above and starts loudly gossiping about something irrelevant, quickly followed by the other gossip chorus members popping out from all the other stage entrances, also gossiping, and their near-shouting at the audience overlaps into nonsense. The gossip chorus come together at the dining table in the center and serve each other tea, each taking a teacup and saucer, still talking loudly.

And then the dead body of Mr. Dashwood (a fairly realistic mannequin) drops from the theatre ceiling and lands heavily on the emptied dining table, already dressed and posed for a funeral.

#jane austen #tossawary reading #tossawary watching #long post #tossawary musicals #not a musical this time but I don't have a theatre tag yet #sense and sensibility #character death

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 25 days ago

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The Sticking Point 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Your eyes rove over the lords and ladies as they dance. You teeter in your shoes and glance over at the figure next to you, watching just as patiently. There is no hint of longing in him. He is enviably content with all around him, and himself.

"Saw, fawgive me, I faw I've taken much of yaw time," you lower your chin. "I should depawt and seek my... escawt."

"Mm, but it seems he seeks you," Lord Heimdall rebuffs and lifts his brows. You follow the tilt of his chin.

You see a head of dark hair just above those around it. By his gait alone, stiff and uptight, you recognise your betrothed. He slips past the dancers on either side of him, his eyes narrowed as he focuses on his goal. It isn't you, but the man at your side.

"Ah, Lord Laufeyson, come to find what you've lost?" Lord Heimdall greets.

"Lost? Hm, no, I'm afraid it isn't what I lost," Laufeyson returns and sends you a sharp glance. He returns his focus to the man before him. "It's been some time since I met you at one of these affairs. I thought you didn't have the stomach for joy."

Heimdall chuckles, "oh? Well, I think the one thing we share is our disillusionment for these events. Oh, but I err. That and this lovely lady. How wonderful a spirit she is. She's kept me much amused. She has great charm. You are a fortunate man."

"Hm, she does have... her peculiarities," Laufeyson slithers. "Is not the purpose to socialize? Beyond my betrothed?"

"Perhaps you might give me some good advice on how to do so. You seem to have found your stride this night. How is Lady Sif, as it were?" Lord Heimdall asks. Laufeyson fidgets.

"Well enough."

"And her husband?"

"He is kept by business. Unfortunately." Laufeyson sets his shoulders rigidly. "Perhaps you might ask her yourself of these matters?"

"Well, I did not wish to interrupt but now I see you've detached, I shall heed your advice and... socialize." Heimdall turns to you. "My lady, it has been the utmost pleasure."

He bows his head and you do the same, "thank you, saw. It has."

He turns sharply and raises his chin high. He steps around Laufeyson who watches him with derision until he is amidst the guests. Your betrothed returns his attention to you.

"Proud of yourself?"

"Pwoud?"

His brow twitches. "Don't presume it is you who concerns me. Rather, I must mind my reputation. As you should, as well. I am contracted to marry a lady of high repute."

You bristle. "I was polite. It is etiq-wet."

He rolls his eyes. He puffs in irritation, his nostrils flaring as he peers around once more.

"You needn't mind me. You awe only both-awed that any might be kind to me. You huwwied away from me. I cannot be blamed faw that." You turn your head and stare at the sparkle of champagne glasses along the table.

He snorts. "Aren't you becoming a little upstart? Well, darling," he leans in, looming over you. "If you are to be avowed to me, you better start preparing. There is that certain part about obedience. Well, I tell you now, you will be mindful of that mouth."

Your eyes flick to him hotly. You swallow. Edith was never cruel. Not to any. But she could be fierce. You must be like her. She always stood up for you.

"My lawd, I have been in constant dwead of that inevitable day," you sniff. "I will keep my vows and nothing maw than that."

He hisses and turns sharply. To your surprise, he stands next to you, perusing the room with a sigh. He clasps his hands behind him and stands as tall as he can.

"Don't expect more than that from me, my lady," he growls.

You don't react. It's better to leave it at that. This will be a marriage of convenience for your families, not yourselves.

🦢

The night ends much as it began. Tension radiates between you and your future husband as his parents sit unaffected on the carriage bench across from you. Either they cannot sense it or refuse to show that they do. You suppose for them, it hardly matters if you have any sort of affection. They only need the marriage sworn at the altar.

You retire to your rooms. You undress and sit at the vanity. You hold Edith's brooch in your hands and bow your head. You close your eyes, exhausted, yet you know you will not sleep peacefully.

"Edith," you whisper as if she might hear you. You rub the embroidered face of the pin. "Tonight was... well... I met a man. I met many people but... he was nice. Kind. He helped me." You exhale and is rattles your nerves. "Lord Heimdall. That's him. You would like him. I think he'd like you too."

You put your hands together around the brooch and lean them on the table. You bend forward as if in prayer.

"Not him though. Not... I'm happy you won't marry him. You don't desawve that. You don't desawve... to be gone." You hold back a sob. "And the west of them... they do as evewyone else does. They pity me. They make fun."

You nod and sit up, pushing down your grief. You'll miss that the most. The way she listened without judging. She clung to each word as if they were honey and she was a glutton. You dab your nose gently with your knuckles.

You look around the chamber. Only a single lamp lights the space. You rise and drift through like a wraith. You blow out the flame and shuffle to bed. You'll miss most the nights Edith would hop into bed and keep you up with her little japes and her singing.

🦢

The morning comes and with it, obligation. You cannot hide from the sun or your circumstance. You must persist. If only because it is what Edith would like you to do.

You break your fast with Lord Odin and Lady Frigga. The lord of the manor sends his groom to declare his absence on the basis of business. You are not disheartened by the news, though his parents share a look of disappointment.

You excuse yourself. You're not of the mind to be around others. You're still trying to figure out how you'll live this life. With Laufeyson. Without Edith.

You find a place in the garden where the birds peck at the ground. You watch them scrabble over twigs and seeds. You listen to those in the tree whistling. It's painfully serene. It will end. It will have to.

The sun rises to apex. It burns down on you. She liked sunny days. You liked spending them with her. Those were when you got in the most trouble. Your father would yell about muddy skirts and faces and your mother would echo him a moment later.

As the sweat seeps into your bodice, you get to your feet. A pair of doves flutter away at your movement. You clutch your skirts and drag the hems toward the house.

You enter the house to a sonourous echo of silence. Your footsteps tap like a clock as you make your advance across the wooden parquet. You climb the stairs, listening to the eerie still of the space. You don't think that will change. You will forever be alone in this place.

You reach the top and peer down toward your rooms. You notice the door open on its hinges. You frown. Did it not catch that morning when you departed?

You proceed to it and peek around the closed door that mirrors the open one. Your chest pits and your spine goes straight. You step into the doorway and watch Lord Laufeyson's shoulders as he sifts around your vanity.

He examines the top of it, then the mirror, and he reaches to take the brooch you left pinned to the scarf hung from one side of the frame. He unhooks it as you take a step inside. You clear your throat.

"My lawd," you say as sternly as you can muster.

His cheeks dimple and he clucks. He closes his fist around the pin. He turns his head but keeps his body aimed at the vanity.

"My lawd," you approach him. "That is my pin."

"It is old and fading," he muses as he keeps his hand closed. "It is not fitting one of your status."

"It is mine." You insist.

He snorts and turns his body. He raises himself up to his full height. His dark lashes flick over his green irises. He tilts his chin.

"By rights, everything that is yours is mine," he sneers. "And so, no, it isn't."

You bite your cheeks.

"We awe not mawwied yet--"

"But we shall be. No matter what I say or do. I must suffer you," he snaps. "So you will suffer me."

"It is only a pin," you insist.

"Oh, is it?" He opens his hand and you wince. "Then it should be purged out with the rubbish."

"No," you try to snatch it and he curls his fingers around it. He snickers.

"Seems more than only a pin."

"Please," you let your concern break through. "Please, Lawd Laufeyson, it was my sista's. It is daw to me. Please, I beg of you."

"Oh, do beg. It would be a good start to our union." He taunts and tucks the pin into his pocket, tapping his jacket as his grin grows. "How about I will think on its value and come to a decision?"

He sidesteps you but you move with him. You block him and put your hands on his jacket. He quickly swats you away. You recoil.

"Do not touch me," he grits.

"No, that is mine. You cannot take it fwom me--" A swell surges from your stomach into your chest.

"You will not tell me what to do. Now clear my path--"

"Give it back!" You demand.

"You!" He grabs you by your sleeves and jerks you. "Hear me now. You will not touch me unless I say and you certainly will not speak to me so churlishly." He sneers down at you. "And you will heed my every order." He shakes you again so you bite your tongue. "I see more and more how much of a tragedy it is that your sister left this world. It did curse me with the lesser of the two."

He shoves you aside and you stagger. You hit the wall and turn to press your back to it. You turn to watch him go. He stops as a servant appears in the doorway.

"My lord. For the lady." she nearly stumbles back. She holds out a folded sheet of paper. He sniffs and snatches it from her.

"Go," he demands. She abides. He turns and breaks the seal. You stand straight.

"My lawd, that is for me--"

"You persist," he flicks his fingers at you and focuses on the page. His head tilts as he reads and scoffs. He lets the paper folds and tosses it at your feet. "Oh, boo, how sad."

He spins and strides out of the room. You rush after him and stop at the threshold. He has the pin. He has your soul in his pocket. You snarl and shake your head.

You back up and look down at the letter. You lift it and see your family's seal. Shakily, you unfold it to read your mother's scrawl.

'Daughter,

We regret to inform you that we will not be fit to travel for your nuptials. These halls are shadowed in grief as are our hearts. Your father and I send our good tidings for you and your husband. You dowry will be delivered as agreed.

Your Mother'

You stare at the message. The letters are slanted. The lines are short and quickly scribbled. That's all the care they have for you. You're certain they mourn for Edith but what of you? Are they not bidding farewell to both daughters?

You crumple it up. What do you care? They would not make the day any better? Nor your fate any lighter. Would that your father had the whim to do so, he might be proud to see you take his advice at last. You will do what needs done and you will not gripe as you do.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #regency au #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers #the sticking point

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vxnuslogy · 1 year ago

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— broken toys. ft sunday

— warnings: slight angst

— author's note: my entry to the sunday brainrot, aka me manifesting for playable sunday.

sunday was the most desired man in all of penacony, and for a good reason too.

head of the oak family; the most handsome bachelor on the planet; a preacher of harmony that wanted the best for his home; what was there to not like about him? you were no stranger to the way he stared at gatherings hosted by the family, his gaze lingered too much on you; happened too many times to count as a mere coincidence. it sent your heart into a blazing beat, one that made your cheeks flush whenever he stood anywhere near you. just hearing his voice – the awkward laugh that rang like wedding bells when mr. gopher wood joked about the two of you being a match made in heaven – it became your favorite thing in the world.

the idea of marrying sunday has always been on the table ever since you were children. one playdate after the other – most of which were spent on the beach – where you, sunday, and his darling little sister robin would create sandcastles for miles. role playing as the kingdom’s regency while robin sang you songs until she fell asleep. such fond memories manifested itself to a lightcone that now sat in your bedroom. mr. wood was not blind with the way sunday looked at you – neither were you – and ever since then, he’d consistently bug you to marry his adoptive son who hid behind his wings to save his face.

and so you did. you married the man of your dreams and relished in being loved like a saint.

every waking hour with sunday was spent with him worshiping the very ground you set foot on. slipping his hand under the table in meetings to fit yours because you were his rock, making sure he never strayed too far from you because to him, being away from you was the deadliest sin of them all. he loved you like the sun; burning brightly and warming your coldest days with only a whisper of sweet nothings in your ear as you let his touch scorch your skin in a way that made you wince but love him all the same. basking in the way his lips carved his name in your own with such passion you would close your eyes to everything else - he was the only view you would ever look at.

sunday burned brightly, but he burnt too quickly. just like how the sun could never stay in the sky forever, his revelry in you also faded like the waking night when the moon and stars started to replace him. sunday became too consumed in his goals of harmony, so much so that he lost his way that not even you, his darling, couldn’t save him from.

even if his hands still gravitated towards yours, they no longer had the same warmth that you savored in his presence. he confessed his deadliest sins – the sin of being away from you – every night under the night sky’s judgment, only to commit them again the following morning.

such was the cycle of sunday’s habit when he obtained his favorite toy.

he drowned himself in the great pleasures of finally having his hands on the toy he’s been pining over for years. indulging himself in the adoration he had for you even if sometimes, it flickered with something more sinister, something much darker than the adoration he bathed and convinced you in. you let him suffocate in this false devotion until he started to pull back in boredom. until his favorite toy - you - was no longer his favorite.

you would pull away, starting to realize how this was not right, only for him to come sweep you of your feet – the same awkward laughter that once rang like wedding bells now sounded like red sirens, warning you of the danger you’d always ignore – and your falling back into the same maze that was your husband.

#hsr x you #hsr x reader #hsr angst #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail angst #hsr sunday #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday angst #honkai imagines #star rail x reader #( 🂡 ) – royal flush of stories .ᐟ

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brunchable · 8 months ago

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Winter King, Chapter 6 : Tolerate it. [18+]

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place Queen Reader Words: 13.5K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity. Warning: LOVE SCENE [18+]. Big size difference, Outdoor Sex, Sex. . .in a thunder storm ;D Summary: Y/N wrestles with her decision to make Wanda Bucky's consort, while political tensions escalate in the Kingdom. The council questions Bucky's absences, and Isaac continues to test him especially regarding Y/N. Bucky struggles with guilt and growing distance between him and Y/N. A/N: I have seen your votes and I am listening. Whoever wanted to dive deeper between Steve and Y/N, here you go lol. I am about to go to work asdfghjkl, will fix this later.

You sat at the head of the table, Bucky’s absence growing more noticeable. Prime Minister Fury, along with Lords Stark, Maximoff, Laufeyson, Odinson, and others, filled the seats, their gazes occasionally flicking toward the empty one usually occupied by the king.

Lord Stark leaned forward. “Your Majesty, we’ve received word that His Majesty has traveled to Annecy once more. This marks the third visit this month.”

You nodded, composed. “Yes, the king is attending to personal matters.”

Lord Maximoff exchanged a glance with Stark. “Of course, Your Majesty. Though His Majesty’s absences have not gone unnoticed.”

There was a murmur of agreement before Lord Laufeyson added smoothly, “The court speaks, Your Majesty. Questions have arisen—might there be more to His Majesty’s visits than we are aware of?”

Your eyes flickered slightly, but you kept your tone steady. “His visits are personal, Lord Laufeyson. The kingdom remains secure.”

Lord Carter leaned forward, his tone careful. “Naturally, Your Majesty. However, the council seeks clarity. His Majesty’s frequent absences—”

“The king’s affairs are his own,” you interrupted, your voice cool. “He has my trust, and the kingdom’s needs are being met.”

Lord Pierce, joining Carter’s line of inquiry, spoke mildly. “No one doubts that, Your Majesty. But the council must be informed, should any issues arise.”

The tension thickened, your patience thinning as you responded sharply, “The king’s reasons are not for debate. Focus on matters within your purview.”

Before the lords could press further, Isaac leaned forward, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Her Majesty has made herself clear. The king’s business is not for idle curiosity.”

Carter shifted uncomfortably, silenced by Isaac’s cold gaze. Laufeyson’s usual smirk faltered. “No disrespect, Your Majesty, but when the court whispers, it is our duty to listen.”

Isaac’s gaze turned to Laufeyson, his smile cold. “The council’s duty is to ensure the kingdom runs smoothly, not pry into matters the queen has deemed private.”

Stark nodded in agreement. “The prince is right. Let’s not overstep.”

Lord Maximoff bowed his head respectfully. “Our loyalty to the crown remains unwavering, Your Majesty. We trust your judgment.”

You glanced at Isaac, catching his sharp, protective gaze. His intensity spoke volumes in that brief, silent exchange, a warning the lords could not miss.

Prime Minister Fury seized the moment. “Very well. Let’s move on to the next matter.”

With that, the conversation shifted, but the underlying curiosity about Bucky’s frequent trips lingered in the room, a silent thread that would continue to pull at the minds of the council.

× × × ×

The subtle fragrance of lavender drifting in from the garden outside made the day peaceful, but beneath the calm exterior, your mind raced with the gravity of what you were about to ask a close friend.

Sitting at the head of the table, you clasped your hands tightly around the delicate porcelain teacup before you. Though everything around you seemed serene, the weight of your decision pressed heavily on your shoulders. You can’t afford to question yourself now, but you were. The thought of—the thought of James bedding another woman—

A soft knock echoed through the room, and Scott stepped aside to reveal Lady Wanda Maximoff, with her older twin brother, Lord Pietro, following behind her. Wanda carried herself with her usual poise, her warm presence immediately comforting, while Pietro’s charming smile and easy nature always seemed to brighten the room.

“Your Majesty,” Wanda greeted with a graceful bow, and Pietro mirrored her gesture. "Thank you for inviting me."

You smiled, rising from your seat to greet them. “Wanda, Lord Pietro, it’s good to see you both. Please, come in.”

Pietro inclined his head, a touch of humor in his voice as he glanced at his sister. “I hope I’m not intruding, Your Majesty. I haven’t had much time with Wanda lately with all the work piling up.” He gestured to the scrolls under his arm, evidence of his duties to the kingdom.

“Not at all,” you replied with a soft laugh. “In fact, I’m glad you both came. There’s no need for formalities today.”

You gestured toward the plush chairs arranged around the table, and the twins took their seats. Wanda settled in gracefully, though you noticed curiosity in your friend’s eyes. Pietro, ever the lighthearted one, leaned back comfortably in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips as Scott began to pour the tea.

As the tea was served, you took a deep breath, your hands resting in your lap as you prepared yourself for what was to come. The conversation that had been playing in your mind was about to become reality.

“Wanda,” you began, “I’ve asked you here today because there is something I need to discuss with you.” Your gaze flickered briefly to Pietro before returning to Wanda. “It concerns the future of the kingdom… and James.”

Wanda’s expression shifted to one of concern, her brows knitting together slightly. “Of course, Your Majesty. You know I will do anything I can to help.”

You offered a small smile of gratitude before lowering your gaze to your teacup. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and after much consideration… I’ve decided to choose you as James’s consort.”

The room seemed to freeze, silence falling over you all. Wanda’s eyes widened in shock, her mouth parting slightly as she stared at you in disbelief. Pietro, who had been sipping his tea with a relaxed air, almost choked, lowering his cup abruptly as he blinked at the sudden shift in the conversation.

“Your Majesty—Y/N,” Wanda began, shaking her head slowly, her voice soft as a whisper, “I can’t… I can’t do that.”

You looked at your friend with pleading eyes. “Wanda, I’m asking you as a friend, not just as your queen. You would be doing me a great favor.”

Wanda cast a glance at her brother, who remained silent but watchful, his eyes reflecting concern. Pietro had told her about the council’s last meeting, but none of them was expecting Wanda to be chosen. It should feel like a privilege since it shows how much you trusted her, but to Wanda, it felt more like a betrayal if she accepted.

“But why me?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Why would you ask this of me? I’m not… I can’t be his consort. You are my friend—James is your husband—asking me to bear his heir feels wrong—utterly wrong.”

You leaned forward, your hands trembling as you clasped them together. “Wanda, you’re strong, compassionate, and loyal. You’ve always been kind to me from the start. And more than anything, I trust you. This kingdom needs someone like you—someone who is loyal to James and for the future of the throne.”

Wanda shook her head again, her eyes filled with both disbelief and a deep reluctance. “But, Your Majesty—”

“Please, Wanda,” You interrupted, your voice soft but carrying the weight of desperation. “The council is pressing from all sides. I… I’ve failed to give what this kingdom needs—security. If I don’t choose someone, they’ll force another woman on him—someone we can’t trust.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, and Wanda’s face softened, though her inner turmoil was evident. “Y/N, I can only imagine the pressure you’re under. I do. But this… this is so much more than just a favor. It’s a lifetime commitment.”

Pietro, who had been quiet until now, cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. “Your Majesty, you know my sister has always stood by you,” he said gently. “But what you’re asking of her… it’s monumental. It’s not just a title; it’s her life.”

You met his gaze with steady eyes, your voice unwavering. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice. But I trust Wanda. I’d trust her with my life. And with the future of this kingdom.”

Wanda’s gaze shifted to her brother, who nodded in silent support, though the weight of the decision was evident in his eyes. She let out a slow breath, her heart torn between loyalty to her friend and the enormity of what was being asked of her.

After a long silence, Wanda finally spoke, her voice trembling but resolute. “Your Majesty… Y/N, I understand the gravity of this, and I promise you I’ll help in any way I can.”

Her voice broke slightly as she continued, “I won’t let anyone else take this role, not if it means protecting you, the kingdom, and James. I will be his consort.”

A wave of relief washed over you, though it was bittersweet. “Thank you, Wanda,” you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes.

Wanda’s hand reached out to gently squeeze your hand, her warmth and understanding flowing through the touch. “I will do it—for you.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, though the weight of your request still hung in the air like a dense fog. As the conversation moved to lighter topics, the gravity of the decision lingered, each word spoken wrapped in the knowledge that the future of the kingdom—and your friendship—was on the line.

× × × ×

It had been Steve’s idea to take you into the town square for a change of pace. When he offered, his tone casual but warm, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. The thought of escaping the palace, even for a few hours, was too tempting to resist. And now, as you stepped into the bustling square, you felt an unexpected sense of freedom.

The town center buzzed with life, a vibrant contrast to the quiet, heavy halls of the palace. It was filled with market stalls, vendors shouting their wares, and the scent of freshly baked bread filling the air.

Beside you, Steve adjusted the simple cloak he wore, his usual stoic presence somehow softened by the commoner's garb. It felt strange to see him like this, blending in with the people. The usual lines of authority and formality blurred here.

“This is more peaceful than I expected,” you mused, your gaze following a group of children chasing one another around a fountain, their laughter light and carefree.

Steve offered a small smile as he glanced around the square—noticing the other palace guards in their disguise following from a distance. “It’s nice to step away from everything for a bit. You don’t get many chances to see the kingdom like this.”

You nodded, your eyes sweeping over the bustling scene. There was a warmth here that you hadn’t realized you missed—a connection to the people you rarely felt while locked inside the palace walls. The air was filled with the hum of everyday life, and for a moment, you felt like part of it.

As you strolled along, a vendor’s booth caught your eye, its table lined with small, delicate flowers arranged in neat bouquets. Steve noticed your lingering gaze and, without a word, he picked up a small violet bloom and handed it to you with a smile.

The gesture was so simple, but the warmth of his hand as your fingers brushed could make any woman’s heart skip.

“For you, my Queen,” he whispered discreetly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected flutter in your chest. “Thank you, Captain.” you whispered back, your fingers closing around the stem.

Steve smiled again, a little wider this time, and you continued walking through the square, the easy silence between you punctuated by the liveliness around. Every so often, you felt his gaze on you, lingering a second longer than it should.

You paused by a stall selling woven scarves, your hand brushing over the soft fabric as Steve stepped up beside you.

“Do you miss it?” Steve asked suddenly, his voice gentle. “Being able to walk among the people without being noticed?”

You let out a soft laugh, though there was a bittersweet edge to it. “I think I miss the simplicity of it all—the freedom to just be without expectations.”

Steve’s gaze softened. “Hm. Well, if her majesty will allow, perhaps I can take you here every once in a while. I’m sure Bucky would like that.”

Before you could reply, a sudden shout caught your attention. One of the vendors was struggling to move a cart, its heavy wheels stuck in the dirt. Without hesitation, Steve stepped forward, pushing up his sleeves until his elbows as he approached the man.

“Need a hand?” he asked, his voice kind but firm.

The vendor looked up, surprised but grateful. “I’d appreciate it, Sir.”

You watched as Steve bent down, gripping the cart’s handle with both hands. The muscles in his arms flexed as he heaved the cart forward, the wheels finally shifting free from the dirt. A small crowd of onlookers cheered as the cart rolled smoothly once more, and Steve, being humble, gave a small nod before stepping back to your side.

“Very impressive, Captain,” you said, your voice teasing, though you couldn’t deny the admiration in your tone.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “Just helping out.”

You nodded, allowing a soft chuckle tone escape you before you continued strolling down the busy street.

The sound of lively music drifted toward you as you approached the center of the square, where a small group of villagers had begun dancing in a wide circle. You smiled at the scene—children twirling with their parents, couples laughing as they spun each other around. The joy was infectious.

Your gaze was drawn to a group of children playing nearby, their laughter echoing through the air. One of them tripped and fell, and second thought, you stepped forward, helping the little girl to her feet who began to whimper.

“Oh darling, are you alright?” you asked gently, kneeling down to brush the dirt off her knees.

The girl nodded, sniffling a bit but clearly comforted by your presence. The other children quickly surrounded the two of you, their curiosity piqued by the tall, kind stranger and the mysterious woman in the hooded cloak. One of the children, a boy with a messy head of hair, approached you shyly, holding up a delicate flower crown made of wildflowers and small ribbons.

“Here, miss,” he said, offering it to you with wide eyes, his small hands shaking slightly.

You knelt down to his level, offering a warm smile as you gently took the flower crown from him.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your heart warming at the innocent gesture. The other children gathered closer, watching in awe as you carefully placed the crown on your head.

Steve, standing nearby, watched the scene unfold with a soft expression, his usual seriousness melting away. “It suits you,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

“Do you think so?” you asked, adjusting the crown slightly, a playful glint in your eyes.

Steve nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I do. You look...” He paused, his gaze lingering on you. “Beautiful.”

——

The sun was beginning its descent by the time Steve escorted you back to the palace. The energy of the town square still lingered within you, filling you with a warmth and joy you had not felt in some time.

As soon as you crossed the threshold of the palace, the atmosphere changed. Waiting in the grand entrance hall, pacing with obvious anxiety, was Scott. The moment he caught sight of you, he rushed forward, nearly stumbling in his haste.

“Your Highness! Where have you been?” Scott’s voice was pitched high with panic, his eyes scanning over you as though searching for signs of harm. “I’ve looked everywhere—no one could tell me where you were! I feared the worst.”

You blinked, slightly taken aback by his fervent concern. “Scott, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Fine?” Scott gasped, his hands finding his hips as he stared at you in disbelief. “Fine? You vanished without a word! Where in the world have you been?”

“I went to the town square,” you explained calmly, offering an apologetic smile. “Steve accompanied me. I simply needed some air.”

Scott’s eyes widened in shock, darting between you and Steve. “The town square? Among the commoners?” His voice carried a note of disbelief before he rounded on Steve, panic still evident in his expression. “What were you thinking Captain, taking her there? She is the queen! If something had happened—”

Steve, composed and resolute, crossed his arms as he met Scott’s gaze. “It was for her well-being, Scott,” he said, his voice steady. “She cannot be confined to the palace at all times. She needed space—an opportunity to see the kingdom beyond these walls.”

Scott spluttered, momentarily caught off guard by Steve’s calm defense. “But—there are risks! The security—what if someone had recognized her?”

“We were not careless,” Steve replied, his tone unflinching. “Guards were stationed in disguise, monitoring the surroundings. She was never in any danger.”

Scott huffed, searching for a retort but finding none. “Still, what if—”

“She is not a prisoner, Scott,” Steve interjected, his voice quiet but firm. “She needed a reprieve. It was crucial for her to reconnect with the people. You cannot shield her from the world indefinitely.”

Scott’s mouth opened as though to argue further, but he quickly closed it, recognizing the futility of his protest. His shoulders slumped slightly as he let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I understand, truly. But in the future, could we at least be informed? For peace of mind, if nothing else.”

You stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Scott’s arm, your smile gentle. “I apologize for causing you undue concern. You are right, of course. Next time, I shall ensure you are aware of my whereabouts. But I must say, it was a refreshing change. I needed that.”

Scott’s expression softened, his worry easing into relief. “Very well. Just… no more disappearing without notice, alright? I nearly summoned the entire palace guard.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “I promise.”

Steve offered you a slight nod, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “She was safe, Scott. And happier.”

Scott shook his head with a wry smile, exhaling deeply. “Alright, alright. But please, no more impromptu trips without informing someone.”

You nodded, feeling lighter now that the tension had passed. “Agreed.”

As Scott walked away, still muttering about protocols and safety measures, you and Steve exchanged a brief glance. There was something in his eyes—perhaps pride, or maybe simple relief—that remained unspoken as he gave you a final nod before turning and heading down the corridor.

Standing there, back within the grand and imposing walls of the palace, the wildflower crown still resting lightly upon your head, you found yourself smiling softly.

× × × ×

The grand ballroom had been meticulously prepared, every detail perfected, every corner gleaming under the soft glow of candlelight. It should have felt triumphant, a moment of quiet pride in the flawless execution of the evening’s preparations, but instead, the room’s silence only seemed to amplify the tension winding through Steve’s chest.

Natasha was nearby, adjusting the final touches on an arrangement of roses. Steve had always admired her composure, the way she managed to balance so much with such grace. But today, as he watched her, something felt different—his thoughts were scattered, a feeling pulling at him that he hadn’t quite acknowledged yet.

Taking a steadying breath, Steve stepped forward, clearing his throat softly. “Lady Romanoff,” he greeted, his voice formal, though he immediately felt how stiff it sounded.

Natasha turned, a flicker of surprise in her eyes before her familiar teasing smile appeared.

“Captain Rogers,” she replied, her voice like smooth velvet. “Shouldn’t you be taking it easy after all that heavy lifting? I wouldn’t want you injuring yourself before the ball.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Steve said with a faint smile, though his heart felt heavy in his chest. His fingers fidgeted at his sides as he gathered the courage for the conversation he’d been meaning to have. “I was hoping we could talk for a moment. If you have time.”

Natasha arched a playful brow. “You sound so formal, Captain. Of course, I have time.” She turned to face him fully, folding her arms lightly in front of her. “What’s on your mind?”

Steve hesitated, the words he’d rehearsed so many times refusing to form. He had planned to speak to Natasha about the rumors circulating regarding him and the queen, to assure her there was no truth to them. Yet now, standing in front of her, the urgency of that confession seemed to dissipate.

He opened his mouth, ready to tell her the rumors were false, but something inside him made him stop. He swallowed, unsure why the words felt so wrong now.

“I… I wanted to ask you,” he began, his voice faltering slightly before he forced it to remain steady, “about the dance at the Queen Dowager’s ball.”

Natasha blinked, clearly taken aback by the shift in topic. “The dance?”

“Yes.” Steve nodded, though the tension in his chest hadn’t eased. “I realized I never asked you to dance at the royal wedding, and… I regretted it.”

Natasha’s eyes softened, though a trace of amusement lingered in her gaze. “You regretted not asking me to dance?”

Steve’s jaw tightened briefly before he replied. “Yes. I kept telling myself it wasn’t the right time, and then… the moment passed. I’ve thought about it more than I should.”

For a fleeting moment, Natasha seemed genuinely surprised, her usual calm exterior slipping ever so slightly.

“Well,” she said softly, her voice gentle, “you have another opportunity now, don’t you?”

Steve frowned, feeling the unspoken weight of her words, but unsure how to respond. “What do you mean?”

“The ball, Steve.” Natasha’s lips quirked into a small smile, “If you still wish to, you can ask me to dance.”

Her words settled over him like a revelation, but instead of the satisfaction he’d expected, there was only a strange disquiet stirring within him. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Natasha—he did, deeply—but something had shifted.

He exhaled slowly, trying to push aside the conflicting emotions swirling inside him. “Yes,” he replied, though the words felt heavier than they should. “I’d like that.”

Natasha’s smile softened, though there was a flicker of something in her eyes—understanding, perhaps, or something more knowing. She stepped a little closer, her voice quieter.

“Steve, I appreciate the gesture, but… I sense there’s something else weighing on you.”

Steve’s heart gave a slight stutter. He opened his mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Natasha always seemed to see more than most, and he couldn’t hide the shift in his own feelings from her—not entirely.

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to explain the strange conflict inside him. He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just been… a lot as of late.”

Natasha studied him for a moment longer before offering a quiet nod. “We all carry our own burdens, Steve,” she said softly, her tone understanding. “But I’ll accept your offer for the dance. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Her kindness cut deeper than he expected, and for a moment, Steve felt a pang of guilt that twisted uncomfortably in his chest. But for now, he would do what felt familiar—maintain the normalcy that had been part of his life for so long.

“I’ll see you at the ball,” he promised, his voice softer than before.

Natasha gave him a gentle smile, but there was a knowing glimmer in her eyes that told him she sensed more than she let on. “I look forward to it, Captain.”

With one last glance, Natasha turned and made her way toward the door, her footsteps light against the marble floor. Steve watched her go, his chest tight with a confusion he hadn’t been prepared for. As the door closed softly behind her, he stood alone in the grand ballroom, his thoughts drifting back to you despite his best efforts.

× × × ×

Bucky sat in a wooden chair by the fireplace, his brow furrowed as he stared down at the letter in his hands.

The seal had been unmistakable—yours. His heart had leapt at the sight of it, though it had been weighed down immediately by the crushing guilt that had plagued him since he’d left the palace.

With a heavy sigh, he broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read.

——

My Dearest James,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear you are not. I know how you are—how you retreat within yourself when guilt wraps its cold fingers around your heart. And I know you will carry that burden far longer than you should.

But you must stop.

The last time we spoke… I know it ended on a bitter note. But I need you to hear me now, if you couldn’t hear me then.

I am not afraid. Not of you. Not of what happened. I know you blame yourself—your heart is too full of love not to. But you must understand, I do not hold you accountable for what you couldn’t control.

You think I am scared, but I am not. I’ve always known the man you are—the man who has stood beside me, who has fought for this kingdom, and for me, with more strength than you give yourself credit for.

I do not fear the Winter Soldier.

I fear for you, James. I fear the way you punish yourself for something you could never have prevented.

I forgive you. I forgave you the moment it happened. You must forgive yourself now, James.

Yours, Y/N.

——

Bucky’s fingers tightened around the edges of the letter, his eyes scanning the words again and again. His heart twisted painfully as he read the part where you had written, I am not afraid of you. It was the one thing he couldn’t accept—how could you not fear him after what he had done? After the way the Winter Soldier had surfaced, unchecked, almost hurting you beyond repair?

He had left to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe from the monster lurking inside him.

But your words clawed at the guilt he had buried so deep, tearing it open again. You didn’t blame him. You were asking him to return—to stand beside your as he always had.

Bucky swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to ease. He glanced at the fire, the flames casting a warm glow, but all he felt was the chill of self-loathing that had gripped him since that fateful night.

But beneath the weight of guilt, something stirred—a glimmer of hope. You still wanted him. You weren't scared. You were asking him to come back.

Bucky crumpled the letter slightly in his hands, his eyes closing as he leaned back in the chair, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. How could you forgive him so easily?

But you had.

And you were waiting.

Slowly, Bucky rose from his chair, his eyes still fixed on the letter in his hand. The firelight flickered over his face as he stood, staring at the words coming back as though they were a lifeline.

With a final glance at the flickering flames, Bucky folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his coat. His decision was made.

× × × ×

Flashback

The night was cold, the moon barely visible through the thick, looming clouds. Isaac pulled his hood low as he made his way through the filthy streets of the capital. Beside him, Bucky moved in silence, his face obscured by a mask and hooded cloak. This part of the city—dark alleys, hidden corners, and rotting taverns—was a far cry from the opulence of the palace, but it was where the true nature of power showed its teeth. Here, loyalty was cheap, and secrets were traded like coin.

Bucky’s presence at Isaac’s side was a necessity, though he moved with the quiet menace of someone accustomed to shadowy work. His metal arm, though hidden beneath the cloak, gave him an edge in this world of underhanded dealings.

Isaac and Bucky approached the door of a small, decrepit tavern. No banners hung here, no signs to mark its presence—just a door swollen with age and damp, creaking on rusty hinges. This wasn’t the place for princes or kings, but neither Isaac nor Bucky minded getting their hands dirty.

They slipped inside, the rank stench of sweat and ale assaulting them as they moved toward the back of the tavern. A few patrons glanced up, indifferent, except for one man sitting in the far corner—a man Isaac had been chasing for weeks. He was a smuggler, an informant, and more importantly, the one holding the key to the web of intrigue brewing outside the palace walls.

Isaac’s eyes narrowed as they approached the table. The smuggler’s sly grin faltered when he caught sight of Bucky, whose presence was more foreboding than Isaac’s ever was. The man took a long gulp of his ale, trying to mask his uneasiness.

“Prince Isaac,” the man drawled, leaning back in his chair. “And… a guest. How delightful.” His eyes flicked warily to Bucky, whose silence was more menacing than any threat. “Thought you’d prefer more… respectable company.”

“I’m not here for your jests,” Isaac replied coldly, sliding into the seat opposite him. Bucky remained standing, the hood of his cloak casting his face in shadow, the gleam of the mask only just visible. Isaac kept his voice low, his tone sharp. “You know why I’m here.”

The man chuckled, swirling his ale lazily, though his gaze kept flickering toward Bucky. “Of course, Your Highness. You’re lookin’ for answers. But answers, they come at a price.”

Isaac slammed a small bag of coin onto the table, the gold clinking loudly enough to draw a few stares. The smuggler eyed it greedily, but his hand remained still.

“I didn’t mean coin,” he said, leaning forward, his grin turning into something darker. “You want the kind of information that gets a man killed for knowing it. I want somethin’ in return.”

Bucky’s fist clenched beneath his cloak, the metal making a faint sound, causing the smuggler’s grin to falter further. Isaac noticed the shift, his own expression hardening. “What do you want?”

The smuggler glanced at the tavern’s patrons, then back to Isaac, lowering his voice. “There’s men—guards at the docks. They’ve been a thorn in my side for months, keeping my shipments from flowing as freely as they should. You take care of them… and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Bucky shifted, his presence radiating danger, but Isaac raised a hand to stop him. They didn’t have the luxury of refusing. Lives, including yours, were at stake, and time was running short.

Isaac nodded once, signaling his agreement. Without another word, he and Bucky left the tavern.

———

The docks were eerily quiet, the only sounds coming from the gentle lapping of the water and the occasional distant shout from further down the wharf. Isaac crouched in the shadows, his eyes scanning the area. Beside him, Bucky stood tall and silent, his hood pulled low, mask concealing his features.

But they weren’t alone this time. Five guards patrolled the area, unaware that death was already circling them.

Isaac’s hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger as he eyed the guards, his pulse quickening with dark anticipation. These weren’t simple dockhands—no, they moved with too much precision. Whoever had sent them knew exactly what they were doing. But so did Isaac. He wasn’t here to simply observe anymore. He wanted blood.

Bucky shifted beside him, his eyes locked on the nearest guard, the metal of his arm barely visible under his cloak. The two brothers shared a brief glance, a silent understanding passing between them. There was no need for words. This would be quick and brutal.

Isaac moved first.

With deadly grace, he stepped out from the shadows, his dagger flashing in the moonlight as he approached the first guard. Before the man could even react, Isaac’s arm was around his neck, pulling him into the darkness. A quick, precise slice across the throat, and the guard crumpled to the ground without a sound. Isaac wiped the blood from his blade, his eyes cold and calculating as he surveyed the other guards.

But Bucky was already in motion.

Like a predator, he descended on the second guard, his metal arm gleaming in the faint light. The guard barely had time to shout before Bucky grabbed him by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The man’s hands clawed at Bucky’s grip, his face turning red as he struggled for air, but it was useless. With a swift motion, Bucky hurled him into the nearest crate, the wood splintering with the force of the impact. The guard’s body slumped, lifeless.

Another guard, hearing the commotion, turned to draw his sword, but Bucky was faster. He darted forward, his cloak billowing behind him as he closed the distance in seconds. His fist collided with the guard’s chest with a sickening crack, the force sending the man crashing into the water below. Bucky didn’t even glance as the guard sank beneath the surface.

Isaac, meanwhile, had already set his sights on the remaining two guards. His heart pounded with dark satisfaction as he drew his second dagger, moving like a shadow toward them. The guards turned just in time to see him, but it was too late.

Isaac dodged a clumsy sword swing, slipping under the blade with ease, and in one fluid motion, plunged his dagger into the guard’s ribs. The man gasped, his eyes wide with shock as Isaac twisted the blade for good measure. The guard dropped to the ground, his blood pooling beneath him.

The last guard turned to flee, his terror evident, but Bucky was already there. With lightning speed, Bucky grabbed the fleeing man by the shoulder, yanking him back with such force that he stumbled and fell to his knees.

Isaac strode over, his dagger dripping with blood as he crouched beside the terrified guard.

“Who sent you?” His voice was calm, but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The guard shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. “I—I don’t know! I swear!”

Bucky, crouched on the other side, his masked face making the guard visibly shiver, growled low and menacingly. “That’s not the answer we’re looking for.”

The guard swallowed hard, glancing between the two brothers. “It’s… it's a few noblemen! That’s all I know! They sent us to monitor the docks, to make sure no shipments went out without their approval!”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “Noblemen?”

The guard nodded frantically, his fear palpable. “I swear it’s true! They’re moving in the shadows, controlling shipments, manipulating trade routes—anything to build their influence, to gain control over the kingdom’s economy. They’re preparing for something. But I don’t know who exactly is behind it. Please, let me go!”

Bucky exchanged a look with Isaac, his jaw tight. Whoever these noblemen were, they were building power, controlling the very lifeblood of the kingdom’s trade in order to position themselves for something far more dangerous.

Isaac glanced at Bucky, then back at the guard. He stood slowly, wiping his blade on the guard’s tunic. “You should’ve picked a better employer.”

Isaac stood slowly, his expression hardening. Without a word, he raised his blade, his intent clear. The guard’s eyes widened in terror, hyperventilating, bracing for his demise as Isaac stepped forward.

Just as Isaac moved to strike, Bucky’s hand shot out, grabbing Isaac’s wrist, stopping the blade mid-air. “Not yet,” Bucky growled, his voice firm. “We might need him later.”

Isaac’s cold eyes flicked to Bucky, causing tension between them. For a moment, Isaac seemed ready to argue, his lips curling into a dangerous smile. “And what good is he now? He’s just said he told us all he knows.”

Bucky’s grip on Isaac’s wrist tightened. “We don’t know how deep this goes, he might be able to recognise faces,” Bucky said, his voice low but steady. “If it’s any of our men in the council, we’ll need leverage. Alive, he’s useful. Dead, he’s nothing.”

Isaac’s eyes lingered on Bucky for a long moment before he slowly lowered his blade, his smile fading into a smirk. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping back. “But if he’s lying, I won’t hesitate next time.”

Bucky released Isaac’s wrist and turned back to the guard, who was shaking in fear, eyes darting between the brothers. Without a word, Bucky pulled back his fist and delivered a swift, calculated blow to the guard’s temple. The man slumped instantly, unconscious but still alive.

Isaac sighed, straightening himself before bringing two fingers to his lips and whistling sharply. From the shadows, a few of his trusted men appeared, their steps silent and measured, as if they’d been waiting for the signal.

Isaac turned to them, his tone commanding but quiet. “Take him back to the palace dungeon. Make sure you’re not seen.”

The men nodded, quickly moving to lift the unconscious guard. As they hauled him away into the shadows, Isaac glanced at Bucky, an eyebrow raised.

Bucky scoffed softly, crossing his arms. “I thought this was our mission.”

Isaac smirked, folding his arms in return. “It is,” he replied smoothly. “I’m just ensuring our hard work doesn’t go to waste. You know, for someone who likes control, you seem oddly protective of this man.”

Bucky shook his head, turning toward the alley that led back to their horses. “I just don’t like loose ends.”

Isaac chuckled darkly, falling into step beside him. “Neither do I, brother. Neither do I.”

Without another word, the two brothers disappeared into the shadows once more, leaving the carnage behind them. This was only the start, and Isaac intended to get to the bottom of it, no matter how much blood he had to spill.

———

Back in the tavern, the smuggler was waiting, though his grin had vanished when he saw the cold, expressionless mask Bucky still wore. Isaac slid into his seat once again, his eyes locking onto the smuggler’s.

“It’s done,” Isaac said, his voice a quiet warning.

The smuggler nodded quickly, pulling out a worn piece of parchment and sliding it across the table. “Here’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

Isaac snatched it up, his eyes scanning the faded ink. His breath hitched as he read the details—plans for a campaign. Meetings were being held in secret locations outside the city, and there were rumors of certain council members working to increase their influence. But nothing too specific, just enough to suggest the wheels of a larger plot were in motion.

“They’re on the move,” the smuggler whispered, his voice low. “But there’s a lot of money and promises changin’ hands. They’re layin’ groundwork, buildin’ influence. If enough doubt is stirred, starting with the queen’s inability to produce an heir—the crown weakens…”

Isaac’s grip on the parchment tightened, but the smuggler wasn’t finished.

“They want to keep the queen under pressure. Some are pushin’ for an heir—others for more drastic changes. It’s a game of patience, see? Slow moves, whispers in the right ears. The goal’s not to strike all at once, but to erode confidence in her.”

Isaac’s jaw tightened as he thought about the council meetings. But the smuggler gave no names, just the vague idea that influence was being traded, setting the stage for something bigger.

Isaac leaned in, his voice cold and precise. “What’s the end result?”

The smuggler smirked, but his eyes were cautious. “They want control—no different from any power game. But they’re not lookin’ to overthrow the queen outright. They want her weakened, agreeable to the council, so they can rule through her. If she slips too far, they’ll push for changes that make them indispensable.”

Isaac stood, the parchment slipping into his cloak as his gaze bore into the smuggler. “If you’re lying—”

“I’m not,” the smuggler said quickly, his fear palpable. “But you’d better act fast. Things are already in motion.”

Isaac nodded once, his mind already calculating their next move. Without a word, he and Bucky left the tavern, the night swallowing them as they headed back toward the palace. Their hands were bloodied, but the path ahead was clear.

End of Flashback

× × × ×

Next evening.

You stand in the queen’s private garden, sheltered within the gazebo, your heart heavy with the decisions you made—the favor you asked of Wanda. She agreed to be Bucky’s consort. It wasn’t unexpected, but that doesn’t soften the sting. You grip the wooden railing of the gazebo, trying to steady your thoughts, your mind racing as you imagine how you’ll face him when the time comes. The weight of the decision hangs in the air like a storm about to break.

He’s been gone so much lately, you think bitterly. His absences have started to feel like an extension of the growing distance between you. Annecy. The word alone churns something uneasy within you. What was he doing there? What could he not tell you? And now, Wanda…

Wanda, your closest friend, someone you trust. The idea of her stepping into that role—bearing an heir for Bucky—feels like a deep betrayal, even though you know it’s the council pressing the issue. It’s not Wanda’s fault, you remind yourself, but the weight doesn’t lift. Can you really face her now? Can you look Bucky in the eyes knowing what you’ve asked of her?

You exhale shakily, forcing your thoughts to still. This is for the kingdom. This is what needs to be done. It doesn’t matter what I feel.

But the truth is, it does matter. It gnaws at you, refusing to be ignored. The doubts, the questions, the longing for things to go back to the way they were before the weight of the crown came between you.

Before you can gather your composure, a pair of familiar hands slide gently over your eyes, warm and solid. You tense for a heartbeat, then instantly relax, recognizing the touch you know better than your own. His scent—the hint of leather, metal, and something uniquely James—washes over you, pulling you from the storm raging in your thoughts.

“Guess who,” comes the deep murmur, his voice laced with playful warmth. Your heart begins racing for an entirely different reason now.

“Bucky…” you whisper, feeling your body react to the surprise of his return. His hands slide away, and you spin around, eyes wide with disbelief. He stands before you, looking slightly worn but still very much the man you love. His expression is soft, eyes gleaming with affection as he drinks you in.

Your hands reach for him, clutching the fabric of his coat as though needing to confirm he’s truly there. The questions about Annecy, about Wanda—they all evaporate in that moment. You can’t bring yourself to ask, not yet. Instead, you act on instinct.

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into a tight embrace. The relief of having him here, safe and in your arms, makes your chest ache.

You tip up onto your toes, your breath warm against his lips as you whisper, “I missed you.”

Bucky’s arms circle your waist, pulling you flush against him, his touch both firm and tender. He lowers his head, and you rise on your toes, meeting him halfway. The moment your lips touch, it feels as though they lock together perfectly, fitting like two pieces meant to be whole. The kiss begins soft, almost tentative, but the warmth quickly spreads, drawing you deeper into the moment.

The kiss deepens naturally, as though you’re trying to reclaim the time you’ve lost, and every moment pulls you closer, his lips parting slightly to capture yours again and again, coaxing you into the heat of it.

Your heart pounds as the intensity builds, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, anchoring you to him, while his other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you even closer. The world outside fades, leaving only the sensation of his lips moving against yours, perfectly aligned, as if this is where you’ve always belonged.

But even as you kiss him, the questions gnaw at the back of your mind. What is happening in Annecy?

Bucky smiles against your lips, his rough voice betraying just how much he’s missed you too.

“I missed you too, my queen,” he murmurs between soft, lingering kisses, his hands tightening around your waist as if he never wants to let you go.

For a moment, the world outside vanishes. Annecy, the council, Wanda—it all dissolves, and there is only Bucky and you, wrapped in each other’s arms. Your fingers weave into his hair, and you kiss him again, this time slower, savoring every second of his return. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this—how much you needed him.

But how long will he stay? The thought slips in, uninvited, and for a moment, your body tenses in his arms.

When you finally pull away, breathless, you keep your hands on his chest, looking up at him with a soft smile.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back,” you say, your tone teasing, though your eyes betray the flood of emotion you’re holding back.

Bucky chuckles, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“You did,” you whisper, still gazing up at him, the weight of your earlier thoughts pressing at the back of your mind. You can’t stop thinking about him being in Annecy and now Wanda. Would he be mad that Wanda agreed to the council’s demands? Would he—

No, you stop yourself. Not now.

Bucky’s arms tighten around you again as if sensing your unease.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you back into his embrace. His voice is low, comforting. You rest your head against his chest, closing your eyes as you listen to the steady rhythm of his heart. For now, that’s enough.

For now, the rest of the world can wait. But deep down, you know the questions won’t stay buried for long.

× × × ×

Bucky backed you up against one of the wooden beams, shoved your dress up around your hips, and parted your thighs with his knee. He reached between your legs and hummed in approval when he found you slick and bare for him.

“Already wet, my queen?” Bucky purred. “I has been a while since…” he nipped your bottom lip and thrust a finger into your tight, wet heat, smiling when he heard you gasp. “I missed this.”

Your hips bucked up when he pushed another finger inside you. Bucky worked them in and out, slowly at first, then speeding up until he was knuckles deep inside you and the filthy sounds of his fingers fucking in and out of you mingled with your moans.

Your eyes were half-closed, your mouth half-open. Your head fell back against the beam, exposing the slender length of your throat, and your entire body trembled as you neared orgasm. Bucky slowed his pace at the last minute, earning himself a frustrated groan.

“Please.” You clutched at his arms, your nails digging tiny crescents into his skin.

“Please what?” Bucky thrust his fingers into you again, hard, until your body bowed and you let out a tiny yelp.

“Please what?” Bucky repeated. Sweat beaded his skin, and his cock strained at his pants, so hard it could pound nails. He was fucking dying, desperate to get inside you, but he could also watch you like this all night. No pressures, no inhibitions, just pleasure and wild abandonment as your cunt convulsed around his fingers and coated them with your juices. So fucking beautiful. So fucking his.

“Fuck me,” you gasped. Your nails dug harder into his bicep until a tiny bead of blood welled on his skin. “Please fuck me.”

“Such a dirty mouth for a Queen.” Bucky worked his cock out of his pants before he yanked his fingers out, lifted you up, and hooked your legs around his waist. “You know I’m yours right?”

“I know.” Your eyes were wide and trusting and glazed with lust. His chest clenched. Bucky positioned the tip of his cock at your entrance and waited for a heartbeat before he slammed into you with one forceful thrust. You were so wet he slid in almost frictionlessly, but he could still feel your pussy stretching and struggling to accommodate his size. You cried out, your walls clamping around him like a vise, and Bucky let out a string of curses. Hot. Wet. Tight. So tight.

“You’re killing me,” Bucky groaned. He dropped his forehead to yours and closed his eyes, picturing the unsexiest things he could think of—Lord Carter, horseshit—until he mustered enough control to continue. Bucky slid his cock out until just the tip remained, then slammed forward again. And again. And again.

He set up a fast, deep, brutal rhythm, making you take every inch of him until his balls slapped against your skin and your moans became screams.

“Shh. They’ll hear us.” Bucky pushed the neckline of your dress down. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your nipples pebbled with arousal, and the sight almost set me off.

Bucky gritted his teeth. Not yet.

Bucky lowered his head and licked and sucked on your nipples while he savagely fucked in and out of your tight, clenching pussy. By that point, he was more animal than man, driven by nothing more than a primal need to bury himself into you as deep as he could and claim you so completely you would never get each other out from under your skin.

Thunder boomed in the distance, muffling the sounds of his groans and your squeals. Dimly, Bucky realized it was about to rain and there was no umbrella or anything to cover you both once you left the gazebo, but he’d worry about that later. Right now, the only thing that mattered to him was you and him.

“James. Oh, God,” you sobbed. “I can’t…I need—”

“What do you need?” Bucky grazed his teeth over your nipple. “You need to come? Hmm?”

“Y-yes.”

It came out as a half plea, half moan. You were wrecked. Your hair a mess, your face streaked with tears, your skin slick with sweat and hot with arousal. Bucky lifted his head and dragged his mouth up your neck until he reached your ear, where he whispered,

“Come for me, my queen.” Bucky pinched your nipple and fucked into you with the hardest thrust yet, and you exploded, your mouth falling open in a soundless scream while your cunt strangled his cock.

Thunder boomed again, closer this time.

Bucky held your limp, shaking body up against the beam until you caught your breath. Once you did, Bucky set you on the floor, turned you around, and bent you over. He hadn’t come yet—the old trick of reciting royal decrees still worked—and his body vibrated with barely controlled tension.

“Again?” you panted as Bucky slid his cock along your slick folds.

“Darling, I wouldn’t be a good husband if you didn’t come on my cock at least three times tonight.”

The storm broke right as he pushed into yoy, and rain lashed sideways at you both as he fucked you against the wooden beam. Lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating the curve of your shoulder as you clung to the railing for dear life. You’d turned your head sideways so your cheek pressed against the wood, and buck could see your mouth fall open as you struggled to catch your breath between his thrusts.

Bucky wrapped your hair around his fist and used it as leverage to make you take him deeper. You moaned, feeling your wetness drip down your legs as he pistoned into you without losing his rhythm

“This is for all the times you didn’t listen.” Bucky squeezed your ass before delivering a sharp slap that made you yelp.

Slap. “That is for giving me away.”

Slap. “And this is for being too good for me.”

His pent-up frustration bloomed across your skin in red, and a dark chuckle rose in his throat when you bucked harder against him with each slap.

“You like that?” Bucky pulled your head back by your hair until you were looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “You like getting your ass slapped while I pound that tight royal cunt with my hard cock?”

“Yes.” The word broke into a moan, and your knees buckled.

Bucky hissed out a breath. God, you were perfect. In every way. Bucky wrapped one arm below your waist, holding you up, and bent over you until his chest pressed against your back. Bucky covered most of your smaller build with his, shielding you from the splashes of rain as he buried penetrated so deep inside you he didn’t think he would ever get out. He didn’t want to. This right here, this was all he wanted. You. Just you.

“Oh, holy—James!” The sound of his name on your lips as you shattered around him again finally did him in.

Bucky came right after you with a loud groan, your orgasm tearing through him like a hurricane. He swore he lost his hearing for a moment, but when his senses returned, everything felt amplified—the smell of rain and earth mixed with the lingering scent of sex and sweat, the rhythmic patter of rain against wood, and the cool droplets on his overheated skin.

You trembled beneath him, and he gently moved you further into the gazebo, away from the rain.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his breathing finally easing as he slid the straps of your dress back onto your shoulders, smoothing your hair from your face before placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You nodded, though your body still shook slightly. He kept his arm around you, holding you close as you pressed your face into his chest, seeking comfort. A fierce protectiveness welled up in him, his mind racing.

God, this woman... she has no idea the things I would do for her.

The two of you sat quietly in the gazebo, listening to the rain. You sighed heavily, breaking the silence. Bucky seemed lost in thought too, his brow furrowed.

You were thinking of only one thing—Bucky would have to do this with someone else.

"Care to share what's on your mind?" he asked softly, his gaze searching your face.

You shook your head, the weight of your thoughts too much to say aloud.

Another heavy sigh escaped you, and Bucky pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours, eyes looking deeply into yours

“We don’t have to go through this—”he whispered, though you both knew the truth. You spoke of duty, of sacrifice, and of the inevitability of what was coming. You reminded him of the council’s pressures, the way they were closing in on you both with relentless demands.

Bucky had resisted fiercely, a storm brewing behind his eyes every time the subject of a consort was mentioned. But you knew, deep down, he had agreed—not because he wanted to, but because duty demanded it.

“I’ll do it,” he had said reluctantly, his voice tight with emotion, his eyes heavy with sadness as he stared into the dark courtyard. “But not because I want to.”

You nodded, your heart sinking, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. It felt like an unwinnable war—a chess game where you were being cornered at every turn.

Then, suddenly, Bucky’s hands cupped your face, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that took your breath away. “But know this,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion, his words trembling but certain. “I love you.”

Your breath hitched. It was the first time he had said those words. Your heart stilled in your chest, and you felt the air shift between you. His gaze never wavered, his grip on you firm as if grounding you in that moment.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice quieter but no less determined. “No council, no consort, no crown can ever change that.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and for a moment, the world outside—the rain, the duty, the pressure—all faded away. All that remained was the man before you, his love for you laid bare.

“I love you too.”

A cloud drifted over the moon, casting a shadow across the gazebo, as if the world itself was holding its breath in response to the words exchanged. You reached up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as his breath mingled with yours, the rain now a distant hum.

× × × ×

The grand ballroom of the palace is a vision of opulence. Glittering chandeliers hang from the high, vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, golden glow over the crowd of nobles dressed in their finest. The sound of soft music fills the room, mingling with the gentle hum of conversation and laughter as lords and ladies dance beneath the grandeur of the palace.

Tonight is a celebration like no other—the Queen Dowager’s 60th birthday. The entire kingdom has gathered to honor her, and the air is thick with anticipation, though not just for the festivities. For weeks, rumors have swirled, and everyone knows tonight is not only a celebration of the Dowager Queen’s life but also the announcement of the king’s consort.

At the head of the room, seated on a raised dais, is the Queen Dowager herself. Her regal figure is draped in rich velvet and adorned with jewels that sparkle in the candlelight. Despite her age, her posture is straight, her eyes sharp as she observes the party unfolding before her.

You stand beside her, dressed in a resplendent gown of deep sapphire, your face composed, but the weight of the night presses heavily on your shoulders. Bucky has not yet arrived, and though you wear a serene mask, your heart races with the knowledge of what is to come. Wanda has agreed to be the consort—a decision made only days ago. And tonight, it will be made public.

The room is alive with elegance and grace, but there is an undercurrent of tension. Lords Stark, Laufeyson, Odinson, and Maximoff mingle among the crowd, their keen eyes taking in the atmosphere, speaking in hushed tones, yet there is an air of respect and duty in their mannerisms. Across the room, Lord Carter, Pierce, and Haynesworth huddle near the columns, their conversations much quieter, their eyes darting toward the dais now and again, as if waiting for something to happen.

Your gaze moves over the crowd, catching glimpses of familiar faces—friends, allies, and those who seek to challenge you at every turn. Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your glass as the Dowager Queen leans over, her voice soft but firm.

“You’ve done well tonight, my dear,” the Dowager Queen says, her eyes sweeping over the ballroom. “But I know there’s more on your mind than just the celebration.”

You force a smile, your gaze dropping briefly. “There is… much to consider, Your Grace.”

Before the Dowager can respond, the music quiets, and a soft murmur ripples through the crowd. A herald, dressed in the royal colors, steps forward to the center of the room, his voice booming over the murmurs.

“My lords and ladies, may I present His Majesty, King James Barnes!”

The grand doors at the far end of the ballroom swing open, and Bucky enters, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He is dressed in his royal attire, his dark coat adorned with gold embroidery, his posture regal, though his eyes scan the room with a certain intensity. His gaze locks onto yours for the briefest moment, and your heart skips a beat, a familiar ache stirring deep inside you.

The memory of your last conversation flickers in your mind like a candle flame.

It had been the first time he’d said the words, and they had pierced your heart like an arrow. Even now, with the ballroom filled with nobles and the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, those words echo in your mind. I love you. Only you.

Bucky strides through the ballroom, his movements carrying confidence, as the crowd parts for him. There is a ripple of whispers, everyone knowing that tonight will mark more than just the Dowager’s birthday.

He makes his way to the dais, offering a deep bow to his mother, the Queen Dowager, before turning to the crowd. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, move over the assembled nobles, the weight of the announcement pressing down on him as much as it does on you.

“Tonight, we gather to celebrate the life and legacy of my mother, the Dowager Queen,” Bucky begins, his voice carrying across the ballroom. “But we also mark a new chapter for the kingdom.”

The crowd shifts, all eyes on him as he continues.

“For the good of the realm, and to secure the future of the kingdom, I have made my choice,” Bucky announces, his tone steady and authoritative. “It is my duty, as your king, to take a consort—a partner to stand beside me, to ensure the strength and continuity of our royal house.”

Your heart clenches, your breath catching in your throat. You knew this moment was coming, had prepared yourself for it, but nothing could dull the sharp pain that cuts through you. As the words leave his mouth, they feel like a blow—one that was expected but no less devastating.

Your lips twitch into a smile—forced, brittle—just as Wanda Maximoff begins to move toward Bucky. The ballroom feels stifling, the air too thick, and the weight of your crown feels heavier than ever.

Across the room, Steve’s sharp eyes catch the subtle shift in your expression. He knows you too well to miss it. The forced smile, the brief flicker of something raw behind your eyes before you mask it once more. His jaw tightens as he watches you, his heart aching with a protectiveness he cannot act on.

Bucky turns his gaze toward the other side of the ballroom, where Wanda stands, regal in a deep crimson gown. Her face is composed, but her eyes flicker with a mixture of emotions—duty, reluctance, and loyalty. She approaches with graceful steps, but you can see the strain in her posture, the weight of what is about to happen pulling on you both.

“I have chosen Lady Wanda Maximoff to be my consort,” Bucky declares, his voice unwavering. “Her loyalty to the crown and her strength in service make her the perfect choice to stand beside me as we move forward.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, the nobles exchanging glances, their whispers carrying the weight of speculation. But you hear nothing but the dull roar of your own thoughts. You feel a part of yourself fracturing, the reality of the moment hitting you like a tidal wave. Bucky had agreed to this out of obligation, and the announcement had always been inevitable—but it still hurts.

Wanda approaches Bucky, her head held high, though you can see the tension in her eyes. As the two stand together before the court, you force yourself to breathe, to hold your composure, but your mind drifts back to Bucky’s whispered confession.

I love you. Only you.

It is a truth you cling to now, even as the world around you shifts. The court sees duty, tradition, and the securing of a future, but all you can feel is the silent pull between yourself and the man who has just pledged his future to another—yet belongs entirely to you.

Steve watches from the side, his eyes narrowing as he notices the tight grip you have on the stem of your glass. He knows you too well. His fingers flex at his side, resisting the urge to cross the room to you, to pull you away from the spectacle and tell you that you don’t need to bear with it. But he remains still, knowing it isn’t his place.

At the center of the room, Bucky turns to Wanda, offering his hand. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes—so brief it might have been missed by others—but not by you. You see it, the reluctance in your friend, but she masks it with the same grace and resolve you’ve come to admire.

“My lady,” Bucky says quietly, his voice low but carrying through the room. It is a formal address, one that makes the moment feel even more distant, as though he is a stranger to the woman standing before him. "Would you honor me with this dance?"

Wanda, ever poised, places her hand in his, her face calm though her eyes flicker with the same unspoken tension that fills the air.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she replies, her voice soft but steady. Together, they step toward the center of the ballroom, the eyes of the court following their every move.

The music swells, a soft, elegant waltz that seems to glide through the room, and Bucky and Wanda begin to dance. Their movements are flawless, graceful—two figures moving in perfect time to the music, their steps measured and practiced.

You stand watching, your heart a storm of emotions. You know this dance is expected, part of the performance the court demands. But it doesn’t make it any easier to witness. Bucky’s hand rests lightly on Wanda’s waist, their hands joined as they spin elegantly around the room. The candlelight flickers across their faces, casting a warm glow over the scene, making them appear every bit the royal couple.

But you know better. You know the truth behind Bucky’s unreadable expression. You know the reluctance in his steps, the way his eyes had flicked to you just moments before.

As the music plays on, Bucky’s gaze briefly lifts, scanning the room as he twirls Wanda gracefully. His eyes find yours once more, just for a heartbeat, and in that fleeting second, the distance between you feels like an abyss. Yet within that glance, you see it—the promise he had made to you. I love you. Only you.

As the dance continues, you feel Steve’s presence now beside you. His voice is low when he finally speaks, so quiet that only you can hear. “Are you all right?”

You force your smile to remain in place, though the edges of it feel fragile. “Of course, Steve,” you reply softly, your gaze never leaving the dance floor. “It’s what we planned.”

Steve’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t press you. He can see the cracks beneath the surface, but you aren’t ready to break.

———

You now stood at the edge of the room, watching, your heart heavy beneath the layers of decorum. The forced smile on your lips hadn’t wavered, but inside, you felt the slow ache of each moment as Bucky and Wanda danced together, the image of unity on display for all.

Beside you, Steve shifted, clearly contemplating his next move. He had been watching you carefully, the subtle cracks in your facade not lost on him. His hand twitched at his side, ready to offer a comforting word, or perhaps—though he hadn’t quite decided yet—an invitation to take your mind off what was unfolding before you.

But before Steve could act, a sudden, movement appeared in your periphery. Isaac, with his signature confident swagger, swept in like a shadow, already reaching for your hand.

“Your Majesty,” Isaac said, his voice a smooth purr as he bent low, bringing your hand to his lips. His gaze, piercing and unapologetic, met yours as his lips barely brushed your knuckles. “Would you grant me the honor of this dance?”

As Isaac straightened, his hand gently guiding you, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder, locking eyes with Steve. With a subtle smirk, Isaac winked—quick, teasing. The gesture was playful, almost like saying, Too slow, old friend.

Steve, who had been moments away from offering his own hand, caught the wink and let out a quiet scoff. “Touché,” he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms with a resigned shake of his head.

Isaac’s grip was firm but careful as he guided you toward the dance floor, his presence impossible to ignore. He moved with a confidence that was entirely his own, and in that moment, you felt the eyes of the court shifting from Bucky and Wanda to you and Isaac. The atmosphere changed, and suddenly, you were no longer just an observer.

As Isaac led you into the dance, Bucky’s gaze, still locked on you from across the room. He had been searching for you, for that silent connection he had relied on, but now, he found you in the arms of his brother, your movements graceful as you both glided across the floor.

Bucky’s steps faltered, but it was so short that only those close enough to him might have noticed. He quickly regained his composure, though the tightening of his jaw betrayed his inner turmoil.

Isaac, the perceptive one, seemed to sense it all, but instead of commenting, he kept his attention focused solely on you, his dark gaze holding yours with an intensity that could set anyone on edge.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Isaac murmured as you moved, his voice low and private, meant only for your ears. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours, his hand resting firmly at your waist.

You forced a small smile, your voice steady despite the chaos in your heart. “Thank you, Prince Isaac.”

His lips quirked into a knowing smile, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. “But there’s something heavy in those eyes of yours. Careful, or you’ll let the court see behind the mask.”

Your heart raced, but you held your composure. Isaac’s words, though teasing, carried a truth to them—a reminder that nothing in this room went unnoticed, especially by him. He had always been sharp, his mind working faster than most, and he knew exactly how to play the game of court politics.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s gaze hadn’t left you and Isaac. Though he continued the steps of the dance with Wanda, his focus had shifted entirely. His hands were still gentle at Wanda’s waist, but the tension in his body betrayed his facade. Seeing his brother with you—his queen—ignited something fierce in him, he felt territorial. But there was nothing he could do.

Isaac, of course, was fully aware of Bucky’s burning gaze. He thrived under it, moving with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his smirk deepening as he twirled you effortlessly around the dance floor. His hand lingered a little too long at your waist, his grip a little too firm, but you knew Isaac’s game. He wasn’t flirting—at least not in any traditional sense. He was sending a message, one only Bucky would understand.

As the dance continued, Isaac leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “You really shouldn’t let them push you so hard,” he murmured, his tone both a warning and a tease. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, an understanding passed between you. Isaac had a force of nature that couldn’t be easily contained. But in this moment, he was on your side, playing the court games you both knew all too well.

“And what would you suggest?” you asked, your voice just as low, though there was a trace of amusement in your tone.

Isaac’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Perhaps we should discuss that in private.”

Before you could respond, the music began to fade, signaling the end of the dance. Isaac spun you one last time, his grip firm as he brought you back to him, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He bowed low, his smile never faltering, as the nobles began to applaud the dancers.

Isaac straightened, casting a glance over your shoulder where Steve stood, watching intently. A smirk played at Isaac’s lips, an eyebrow quirking in playful challenge.

“I believe you, Captain, is next in line?” Isaac teased and released your hand, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, before turning toward Steve.

Steve met Isaac’s gaze with a knowing look and not entirely amused by Isaac’s antics, but he stepped forward, offering his hand to you. Isaac winked at Steve, ever the provocateur, before stepping back into the crowd, his presence still looming even as he disappeared.

“Until next time, Your Majesty,” Isaac said smoothly over his shoulder, his voice carrying across the space.

Steve’s hand was firm yet gentle as he guided you onto the dance floor. His posture, ever respectful, gave you the space to breathe after the charged interaction with Isaac. As the soft strains of a new song filled the air, you settled into the rhythm of the dance, your thoughts still swirling. Steve remained silent for a moment, his gaze focused on you with that quiet, watchful intensity he always carried.

After a few graceful steps, you looked up at him, your curiosity piqued by the complexity of the night’s events. You kept your tone light, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity beneath your words.

"Steve," you began softly.

“Hm?” Steve tilted his head, looking like you had just pulled him out of a daze.

"What exactly is the relationship between Bucky and Isaac?" you continued, curiosity evident in your tone.

Steve’s brow furrowed slightly, though not in surprise. He had known this question would come eventually. His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly as he considered his response.

“It’s… complicated,” Steve said, his voice low, almost careful. “They’re twins, but they couldn’t be more different. Isaac, he’s…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Unpredictable, free in ways Bucky cannot be. Bucky carries the weight of the crown, the burden of duty. Isaac? He has always had more… flexibility, more freedom.”

You nodded slowly, following his lead through the steps of the dance, but your mind lingered on the tension you had seen earlier. “They appear to work well enough together. Yet, at times, it seems Isaac is testing him… challenging him.”

Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line, his blue eyes momentarily flashing with something close to concern. “Isaac does push boundaries, especially with Bucky. He’s always been that way—testing limits, even when they were younger. It’s his way of… reminding Bucky that not everything needs to be done by the book. But it’s not malice—it’s just who he is.”

You tilted your head, studying Steve’s face as you moved in time with the music. “Do you think Isaac means to undermine him?”

Steve hesitated, his gaze flickering to the side before returning to yours. “Isaac isn’t the type to want the throne. But he does like reminding everyone—including Bucky—that he could disrupt things if he wanted to. He thrives on keeping people on edge, especially when it comes to Bucky.”

You considered that for a moment, your thoughts swirling as the image of Isaac’s smirk flashed in your mind. There was a familiarity between Bucky and Isaac, but also a tension that ran deeper than just sibling rivalry. It was a complicated dynamic, one where power and loyalty seemed to shift with every passing moment.

“Do you think Bucky trusts him?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steve’s jaw tightened slightly. “Bucky trusts Isaac, but he’s careful. Isaac’s not predictable—he doesn’t follow the rules the way Bucky does. But there’s no ill will between them. Bucky understands Isaac better than anyone, and they know where they stand with each other.”

As the music slowed, Steve’s eyes softened as he looked down at you. “Isaac might be the way he is, but he cares for his family. And Bucky? He will always have your back, no matter the cost.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on your face, and this time, he didn’t look away. His eyes swept over your features with an intensity that caught you off guard, as though he was truly seeing you for the first time. The scent of your perfume—something light and floral—wafted between you, more noticeable now than ever, soothing but also stirring something unfamiliar in him.

He hadn’t realized before how the corners of your eyes crinkled when you smiled, or the way your nose scrunched up just a little when you teased him. It made his chest tighten, that simple gesture now suddenly feeling like something he wanted to see more of. He noticed the way you would lightly tap your fingers against your arm when you were deep in thought, the subtle shift of your lips when you were holding back a laugh.

And your laughter…he had always liked it, but now, it seemed to break through the weight of everything, softening even the hardest moments. The way you tilted your head ever so slightly when you listened to him, how your eyes sparked with curiosity or quiet amusement—these were things he had never paid close enough attention to, until now.

“Did you finally get to dance with Natasha?” you asked, your tone playful, accompanied by that teasing smile that made his heart flip unexpectedly. His hand tightened at your waist, steadying you both.

“Yeah,” he replied quickly, though his voice sounded distant, his mind still caught up in the whirlwind of noticing all these little things about you that now felt so significant.

“And?” You gave him that look—the one where your eyes gleamed and your nose crinkled just a little—completely unaware of the effect you were having on him.

Steve hesitated, his gaze not shifting from you. "It was fine,” he said softly, though it didn’t carry the usual ease, his voice heavy with something else entirely.

“Steve?” you asked again, your voice pulling him back.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his focus still wholly on you. “I guess I just didn’t realize…”

“Didn’t realize what?” you asked, your brows lifting as you gave him that smile that always made something stir inside him, something that had always been there but now felt stronger, unavoidable.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. He just shook his head, letting out a breath, his expression softening but not easing the tension. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said, his voice warm but distant, as though he wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself—or to you—what he was feeling.

But it was there, clear in the way he looked at you, in the way he held you. His feelings had shifted, and whether he acknowledged it or not, everything is changing for him.

× × × ×

Winnifred sat regally at her place, observing the dance floor with practiced calm. Her keen eyes had seen much over the years, and though tonight was meant to be one of celebration, something caught her attention.

Her lips pressed together, brow furrowing ever so slightly as her gaze locked onto Captain Rogers, who was dancing with you with a big smile on his face.

"W-What..." she began softly, her voice carrying a trace of unease. "Do you see what I’m seeing, Scott?"

Scott, your loyal attendant, turned his head, following her line of sight. "Your Majesty?" he asked, a touch of confusion in his voice.

Winnifred's eyes didn't waver as she nodded toward Steve, her voice barely above a whisper. "Captain Rogers... look at him."

Scott blinked, glancing from the queen to Steve. His brow furrowed for a moment, before he finally saw it—the way Steve’s gaze lingered on you, the softness in his eyes that could be mistaken for nothing else.

"Ah... yes," Scott began, trying to choose his words carefully. "Captain is... looking at Her Majesty like she hung up the stars."

He said it almost absentmindedly, his voice casual—until the weight of what he’d just said hit him. His mouth snapped shut as realization dawned, and he quickly turned back to Winnifred, eyes wide with alarm.

The Queen Dowager’s eyes narrowed, her lips thinning as she took in the scene before her. She remained silent for a long moment, watching the way Steve’s expression betrayed him, how he seemed oblivious to the others around him, lost in the sight of you.

Winnifred finally sighed, her voice laced with quiet concern. "That... is precisely what worries me."

Scott stiffened slightly, knowing the gravity of her words. Steve's obvious affection for you, Bucky's wife, was not just a matter of unspoken feelings. It carried the potential for deep complications—for both the crown and her son.

Winnifred turned her gaze away, her regal composure never faltering, though the tension in her eyes lingered.

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zaynessbeloved · 29 days ago

Text

A Duke's Silence

Co-author: @astarry-moon

Synopsis: They called him cold. Distant. Impossibly composed. The kind of man you should never try to love because he would never love you back.

You believed that, too. Until you didn’t.

You weren’t the type to be tamed. You were too bold, too curious, too free-spirited for the quiet fate society carved for you. But when your path crossed with the enigmatic Duke of Ashbourne, everything began to unravel—your expectations, your composure, and eventually, your heart.

He was a man no one understood—not even you, not at first. But behind the silence was something raw and aching, something that burned just for you. And once you saw it, once you touched it, there was no turning back.

Together, you didn’t just defy society and its expectations—you rewrote them. One stolen glance at a time.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Slow Burn, Emotional Repression, Misunderstood Male Lead, Strong-Willed MC, Tender Domestic Moments, Protective Family Bonds, Healing from Generational Judgment, Mutual Pining, Late Realizations of Love, Deep Yearning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Courting to Marriage Progression, First Time in a Semi-Public Setting, Love Confessions, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Established Relationship Intimacy, Tender & Rough Sex, Spicy Domesticity, Semi-Public Intimacy, Marking, Praise Kink, Possessive Touches, Desperate Kissing, Soft Dom Energy, Manhandling, Obsessive Affection, Gentle Restraint, Insatiable Zayne Energy, Bath Sex, Mirror Sex, Against a Piano Sex, Aftercare, Soft Epilogue, Pregnancy Reveal, Happy Ending.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 8.5k words

Chapter 8

You woke with a start, heart pounding. For one, blessed moment you thought perhaps it had all been a dream. A fevered fantasy conjured by your traitorous mind. But then the memory of marble, of velvet, of calloused hands on your thighs, of his mouth, worshiping you as if you were something holy, it all came crashing down.

You groaned and buried your face into your pillow, the shame and disbelief flooding back all at once. God above. You did that. At the opera, no less. Where anyone could have seen. You barely managed to pull yourself together before breakfast, choosing the simplest gown you could find in an attempt to feel ordinary, be ordinary. It didn’t work.

Seated at the long dining table, the warm clatter of breakfast all around you, you stirred your tea aimlessly, heart hammering when Jace finally asked, “So, cousin. How was the opera?”

You nearly choked on your tea.

“It—it was wonderful,” you stammered, staring very intently at your plate. “Absolutely splendid.”

Seraphina glanced at you over the rim of her cup with narrowed, knowing eyes. You avoided her gaze as if your life depended on it.

After breakfast, when Jace excused himself to meet one of his political acquaintances, Seraphina wasted no time. She caught your arm as you tried to escape down the corridor.

“Come with me,” she said sweetly, far too sweetly, leading you into the nearest drawing room.

You sighed heavily, knowing what was coming. Seraphina perched elegantly on the sofa, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She gave you a deceptively casual smile.

“So,” she began, “how about that ending?”

You blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“The opera,” she said, feigning a wistful sigh. “I cannot believe the main character dies in the end. Tragic, don’t you think?”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Yes…very tragic,” you blurted.

Seraphina's lips twitched. She leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Alright, spill your secret. Because clearly, you did not watch the opera.”

You gaped at her, scrambling for a lie, a half-truth, anything.

“I—no, I—I did watch—!”

She cut you off with a raised brow. “The main character doesn’t die, darling. It’s a drama.”

You sagged back into the armchair with a groan, covering your face with both hands.

“Damn it,” you muttered behind your fingers.

Seraphina grinned, victorious, and scooted closer. “So. What did happen?”

You let your hands fall into your lap, sighing so deeply you felt like your lungs deflated. You told her. In quiet, halting words…words that felt too scandalous to say out loud. You told her everything. From the box, to the retiring room, to the way you let him destroy you and how you had wanted it, desperately, shamefully.

Seraphina stared at you, wide-eyed, hands clasped in front of her mouth. When you finished, she said the only thing she could. “I don’t understand. I thought you hated the man?”

“I do!” you started, then stopped, exhaling sharply. “I did. At least…I thought I did.”

You buried your face in your hands again. “I do not know anymore. Everything is confusing, and I do not know what he is going to do now.”

Seraphina reached across the space between you and took your hand, squeezing gently. “Well, what do you want?”

You blinked at her. “What?”

She squeezed your hand again, warm and certain. “It does not matter what he wants. What matters is what you want.”

Your breath caught. You searched her face, finding only kindness and fierce loyalty there.

“I…I do not know,” you admitted. “I have not had time to process anything. I feel that everywhere I turn, he is there.”

“Then perhaps,” Seraphina said softly, “it is best for you to take your time and figure out your own feelings…and not let anyone cloud that judgment. No matter what you decide, you know we are here for you and love you.”

Tears stung the corners of your eyes, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming, grounding force of her love.

“This stays between us two,” Seraphina added fiercely. “No scandal shall touch you. I promise.”

You squeezed Seraphina’s hand tightly, heart swelling with too many emotions to name.

“I do not know what I would do without you,” you whispered, voice raw. “You are the sister I never had.”

Seraphina’s eyes shimmered slightly before she masked it with a mischievous smile. She tugged you into a fierce hug, laughing softly against your shoulder.

“And I am deeply offended,” she said dramatically as she pulled back, mock outrage shining in her gaze, “that you would even think you could steal my spotlight.”

You blinked at her in confusion, lips parting.

She waved a hand with a grin. “Jace has been positively insufferable since he learned of the child. I could announce that I plan to run away with a pirate, and he would still be chasing after me with extra pillows and complaints about drafty windows. No one can steal my thunder with him around.”

A small, but genuine laugh escaped you before you could stop it. She smiled, softer now, pressing her forehead gently to yours like you had done as children.

“Just promise me,” she whispered. “No more secrets. No matter who you tell. You do not have to face these things alone.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to answer properly. You hugged her again, fiercely, sealing the vow between you without another word.

————

The next two weeks passed in a haze of self-inflicted exile. You avoided him like he was the plague itself. You hadn't planned to. Hadn't sat down and said, Today, I will flee at the sight of the Duke of Ashbourne. But it was exactly what you did every single time without exception.

A glimpse of his dark hair at the end of a corridor? You ducked into a room. The sight of him dismounting his horse in the square? You turned on your heel so fast you nearly tripped over your own gown. Worse yet, the times you felt his gaze, you knew he saw you. And still you turned, walked faster, even fled, heart hammering, cheeks burning with remembered shame and the raw, terrifying ache that hadn’t faded one bit.

And he…he made no scene. No calls to the house. No scandal. But what you didn’t know, what you couldn’t see, was that the Duke was unraveling. Each time you turned away from him, each time your figure vanished from his reach, it cut deeper than the last.

He kept his silence, kept his distance, but barely. And you continued to run. Not because you hated him. But because you didn’t know what terrified you more. That he would chase you. Or that he wouldn’t.

Another two weeks passed. Two weeks of tension so thick you could have sliced it with a blade. And finally, the Duke snapped.

The ball that night was nothing special, another swirling mass of silk gowns, forced laughter, and too much champagne. You had been doing what you did best these days, staying close to Seraphina or Isabella, moving through the crowds, smiling politely while quietly searching for escape routes at every turn.

And then you saw him. Your heart stuttered painfully when you caught the Duke’s gaze across the ballroom, his hazel eyes locked onto you like a hunter spotting wounded prey.

You did the only thing you knew how to do, you turned and walked away. Faster than you should have. Faster than was polite. Through the archways, down polished corridors lined with grand paintings, past rooms where only a few lingering guests whispered over glasses of sherry.

You thought you had escaped. You thought wrong.

"Miss Everthorne."

You nearly screamed, jumping a full step back at the sudden voice behind you.

"Your Grace," you gasped, trying to laugh it off, your nerves fraying like a brittle string. "You really need to stop sneaking up on me."

He didn’t smile.

“You are avoiding me,” he said, not as a question but a fact laid bare between you.

You lifted your chin slightly, desperate to cling to any composure. "I am not sure of what you speak of, Your Grace."

His jaw tightened. "Ever since the opera, you have evaded me at every possible encounter."

"Have I? I have been busy, that is all," you lied badly, the words tumbling out with forced lightness.

"Busy?" he repeated, voice dipping lower, a hint of something dangerous flickering at the edge. He took a slow, deliberate step closer. "That is all you have to say?"

"That is all there is to it," you whispered, but the crack in your voice betrayed you.

He took another step, only a few feet separated you now. You could feel the heat rolling off him, could smell the faint scent of leather and spice clinging to his coat.

"Very well," he said, voice so low it felt like it scraped across your skin. His gaze pinned you in place, burning, unrelenting. "Look me in the eye and tell me one more time you have not been avoiding me."

You tried. You really tried. But your gaze faltered, dropped to the floor, shame heating your cheeks.

He didn’t let you escape. His hand came up, slow and gentle, and he caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face back up to meet his eyes.

"Admit it," he murmured. "And I will leave you be and the matter shall be dropped."

His gaze flickered down to your lips for a split second, and your breath hitched audibly.

"I... have not—I... can’t..." you stammered, exhaling heavily, your composure crumbling.

Again, his fingers tightened, coaxing you back to him, forcing you to look at him.

"Have I done something to hurt you?" he whispered, so quietly you barely caught it. His voice cracked slightly at the edges. "Do you regret what happened?"

"No," you said too quickly, too loudly. The word rang between you like a bell. You saw the flash of something in his eyes…hope, despair, something wounded and wild.

"I just do not know," you continued, voice trembling. "How was I supposed to face you after that night?"

He inhaled sharply, shoulders tense. "Happy? Angry? Disgusted? With love?" he faltered on the last word, the sound barely above a breath. "I do not care which emotion you choose, all I care is that you choose me to feel it for."

Your eyes widened, heart pounding so violently you thought it might split your chest open. The Duke dropped his gaze at last, looking down in clear, aching defeat.

You couldn’t bear it. You reached out, your hand finding his jaw, fingers trembling as you guided his face back up to you.

"...Zayne," you whispered, voice barely audible, full of everything you couldn’t yet say.

He shuddered under your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, head bowing slightly as if in surrender.

"Please," he whispered, so raw, so broken it felt like a dagger to the heart.

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to, because at that moment, you understood. He was begging for you. Not for forgiveness. Not even for love. Just you.

Your heart thundered in your ears, drowning out everything but the man standing before you, this man who had chased you without ever moving a step, who had broken and rebuilt you without ever touching you.

And this time it was you who moved first. Your hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. You pulled him down to you, closing the final, unbearable distance between you. You kissed him fiercely and desperately, as if you could pour all your confusion and ache into the press of your lips against his.

The second you did, he responded, grabbing your waist with both hands, almost too roughly, almost bruisingly, as though terrified that if he didn’t hold you, you would vanish again. Your other hand slipped up, arms winding around his neck, pulling him even closer.

His mouth moved against yours with a desperate, devouring intensity, as though he had been starving for you, aching for you. His kisses stole the breath straight from your lungs, leaving you dizzy, weightless, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world. You tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss, and his grip on your waist tightened.

You moaned into him, unable to help yourself. Your fingers, restless, climbed higher, threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, your nails scraping lightly over his scalp. The sound he made then, a broken, whimpering sound vibrated straight through you.

He shuddered against you, kissing you harder, almost frantically, his hands sliding up and down your waist like he couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t memorize the feeling fast enough. And then it was you who whined against his mouth, needing more, needing everything, lost in the heat of him, the weight of him, the overwhelming rightness of him.

He broke the kiss with a gasp, pulling away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving. He closed his eyes tightly, as if warring with himself, as if dragging himself back from the edge by sheer force of will.

“We must stop,” he whispered, voice strained. “We are still at a ball.”

You nodded against him, still dazed, still drunk on him, your hands fisting the fabric of his coat as if you didn’t quite trust yourself to let go yet. Neither of you moved. Neither of you could.

You simply stood there, wrapped around each other, hearts thundering in synchrony, as if the rest of the world had fallen away.

You returned to the party together after a while, trying your best to look composed, but you were certain you failed spectacularly. Your lips still tingled. Your heart still pounded.

You barely heard the music, barely saw the swirling gowns and flickering candlelight. All you could feel was the heavy, electric weight of the Duke beside you, his hand brushing yours ever so slightly, as if even the smallest touch would undo both of you again.

You found Jace and Seraphina near one of the refreshment tables, laughing over some absurd story you could barely comprehend. Jace’s smile faltered immediately when he saw you.

“You look pale,” he said, frowning. “Are you feeling ill?”

"I am a little tired," you said, grasping for any excuse, your voice thinner than you would have liked. “I think…I would like to return home.”

Jace immediately straightened, all brotherly concern. “We’ll leave at once.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, Seraphina’s sharp gaze cut across to you. She saw it, the flush high in your cheeks, the slightly swollen lips, the lingering, breathless air about you. She glanced between you and the Duke, and you knew without question that she knew. She smiled sweetly, too sweetly.

"No, truly," you said quickly, voice stumbling. "I do not wish to ruin your evening. Please stay. I would feel terrible dragging you away."

Jace looked torn, glancing helplessly at Seraphina. Before he could insist again, the Duke stepped forward, voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “If I may be so bold, I have my carriage waiting. I can escort Miss Everthorne home safely.”

Jace still looked reluctant, but Seraphina—traitorous, wonderful Seraphina—smiled at her husband and said lightly, "That would be so kind of him, Jace. I did want to stay a bit longer."

Jace hesitated, but finally nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Rest well, alright? Send word if you need anything."

You nodded quickly, heart thundering. Within minutes, you found yourself bundled into the Duke’s dark, luxurious carriage, the soft creak of wheels and the distant hum of night outside cocooning you in a tense, unbearable silence.

You sat stiffly at first, hands clutching your skirt, determined to behave. To pretend nothing had happened. But then he shifted beside you. His hand found yours in the dimness, fingers threading through yours with a certainty that shattered your fragile composure.

You turned toward him, the words dying in your throat. And then he was there, so close, and his mouth crashed into yours, no hesitation this time. You melted into him with a soft gasp, your hand flying to the back of his neck once more, tangling in his hair as he pulled you flush against him.

The carriage rocked slightly over the cobbled streets, but neither of you cared. He kissed you with the same desperate hunger he had shown in the shadows of the mansion, devouring you as if the last month had been agony. As if the mere taste of you now was not enough, would never be enough.

His hands roamed carefully, still a gentleman, always a gentleman, but you felt the barely leashed tension in every trembling breath, every low sound he swallowed against your mouth. Your own hands weren't much better, roaming his shoulders, his chest, desperate to feel the reality of him.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, he pressed his forehead to yours, his voice raw and low.

"I will not survive much longer if you keep looking at me like that," he whispered.

You smiled breathlessly, your hands still tangled in the lapels of his coat. Neither of you said it aloud, but it hung between you. Neither of you wanted to survive it, either.

The carriage rumbled to a stop outside the Everthorne home. For a moment, neither of you moved. The Duke hesitated, his hand on the door, as if some invisible line had been drawn between the world outside and the world you were inviting him into. You broke the silence first, voice soft but sure.

"Would you...care to come in for some tea, Your Grace?" you asked, heart hammering so loudly you feared he must hear it. "As appreciation for the ride."

He hesitated only a heartbeat longer before nodding once, sharply, and stepping out.

You led him up the familiar steps, the night air cool against your flushed skin, and entered the house quietly. The staff greeted you immediately, but you smiled warmly and waved them off.

"Thank you. You need not stay up for me. Seraphina and Jace will be late, and they will not require anything further tonight."

With soft bows and murmured goodnights, the staff disappeared down the shadowed halls, leaving the house hushed and warm around you.

You opened the door wider for the Duke. He stepped inside, his eyes dark and gleaming in the low candlelight. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand and pulled him—quickly, quietly—up the stairs toward your room. When you reached your door, you heard him chuckle low behind you.

"I was not expecting to be snuck into the Everthorne home," he teased, a wicked grin tugging at his mouth.

You smirked over your shoulder, heart still racing. "Would you rather I announce to the entirety of London that the Duke is alone with an unchaperoned lady?"

He followed you in, the door clicking shut behind him, his voice dropping lower. "If that is what it takes for you to finally be with me...then yes."

You froze for a moment, his words striking harder than you expected. The sincerity. The honesty. You turned toward him slowly, finding him closer than you realized, his hand already lifting to cup your cheek. You blushed under the weight of his touch, your fingers twitching at your sides.

"Surely you jest, Your Grace," you said lightly, desperately trying to claw back some semblance of control, but he only stared at you, unmoving and unwavering.

"Do I?" he murmured, voice low, almost rough. There was no jesting in his eyes, only you.

You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Your mind emptied, body electric, thoughts too tangled to find speech. So instead…you lunged. You grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and yanked him down to you, crushing your mouth against his in a kiss so violent, so desperate, it knocked the breath out of both of you.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands flying to your waist, pulling you so tightly against him it was a wonder either of you could breathe at all. You kissed him harder, poured every ounce of fear, longing, confusion, love into the way your mouth moved against his. Your fingers tangled roughly in his hair, tugging, anchoring, needing.

And he let you. He let you take what you needed, let you break him open with your touch. And gods, how he kissed you back…wild, hungry, shaking with how much he wanted you. You knew, in that moment, there would be no more running.

You crashed into him again, kissing him with all the desperation you had buried for weeks, leading him backward, step by step, toward your bed. He followed without resistance, his hands roaming your waist, your back, anywhere he could touch without giving in fully yet, without claiming you completely.

Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, swallowing the low groan that vibrated from deep within his chest. He kissed you like a starving man, but then he broke the kiss off, gasping for air, his forehead pressing against yours as though he physically couldn’t pull farther away.

His hands cupped your face, steadying you, steadying himself.

“Are you certain of this?” he asked, voice rough, strained, almost breaking with the force of his restraint. "I do not wish to take you in haste.”

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, gentle, reverent.

“Because once I do…” he swallowed hard, his whole body trembling under your hands, “...not even the gods will be able to stop me.”

Your mouth fell open slightly, your brain struggling to process anything past the pounding of your heart, the molten pull between your thighs.

“I would hardly call it haste, Your Grace,” you whispered, your voice thick with need.

Your eyes flickered down to his mouth, to those sinful, perfect lips and then back into his burning eyes. “Not when every night since the opera, I have tried to find release. I have tried to ease this ache you’ve left in me."

Your breath hitched sharply, the words torn from you with raw, unfiltered shame and heat.

"But I could not," you confessed, voice cracking on the edge of a whimper. "I could not make myself fall over. Not without you."

The words shattered the last pieces of restraint in him. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the color whole, and you felt the way his entire body tensed beneath your hands, as if one wrong move would have him tearing the rest of the world apart just to get to you.

"My Lady," he rasped, voice so broken, so ruined you thought it might destroy you. "Do you know what you do to me when you say such things?"

You did. You wanted to. With a desperate hunger snapping every fragile thread of restraint you had left, you reached for him again, tangling your fingers into the thick, dark strands of his hair.

You pulled hard enough to make him growl low in his chest, hard enough to break whatever prayer he had been whispering against your skin. You guided his mouth back to yours, urgent, reckless, yours, and this time when he kissed you, it was a promise written in fire across every inch of your body.

You let yourself fall back against the bed, your hand still tangled in the Duke’ hair, pulling him with you. He followed without hesitation, pressing himself over you, his mouth immediately claiming yours again, hungry, devastating, endless.

His hands were everywhere. Tracing the curves of your waist, your ribs, the swell of your hips. Exploring you like he had no right to, but every intention of learning every inch of you.

You let out a desperate, broken sound when your fingers found the knot of his cravat. You yanked it loose, pulling it from around his throat with a growl of frustration. He broke the kiss just barely, long enough to sit back on his knees.

You watched, breathless, as he tore off his suit jacket, tossing it somewhere to the floor without a care, before his body dipped back over yours, reclaiming your mouth like he had been starving during the seconds apart.

His lips left yours only to trail down, kissing along your jaw, then lower to your neck, savoring every inch of exposed skin, drawing whimper after whimper from your lips. He kissed lower still, tracing the edge of your gown where it left the top of your chest bare, burning a path downward that left your whole body trembling.

While his mouth worked its slow, maddening way down, his free hand began to roam, slow, sure, down your waist, across the plane of your hips, until he found the hem of your gown. He pushed it up inch by devastating inch, baring your thigh to the cool air.

You gasped softly when his hand slipped beneath the fabric, curling around the back of your thigh. He hooked his hand there, gently lifting your leg, bending your knee so your foot rested against the mattress, your leg tilted toward the ceiling.

The dress pooled obscenely at your hips now, and your heart hammered wildly in your chest as he shifted again, this time lowering himself, knees braced on the mattress at the edge of the bed. He placed a steadying hand on your bent leg, and slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he lifted it over his shoulder.

The position was scandalous, shameful, perfect. While holding your gaze with searing intensity, he reached up and deftly unfastened the delicate shoe from your foot, slipping it off with reverent care. Then, without breaking eye contact he began to kiss his way up your leg.

It was maddening. Featherlight kisses pressed against your ankle, then higher, tracing the silk of your stocking with a devotion that made your entire body tremble. When he reached the hem of your stocking just above your knee, he hooked a finger beneath it, tugging it slowly, deliberately down.

You swallowed hard, eyes never leaving his. He peeled it away from your skin, exposing inch after inch of bare, sensitive flesh. Once the stocking was gone, he set it aside carefully, as if it were something precious, and his hands returned to your leg immediately, caressing and worshipping.

He planted one last kiss to your bare ankle, still resting on his shoulder, before shifting to repeat the same ritual with your other leg. He kissed slowly, languidly, up the second leg, removing your shoe with the same reverence, dragging his lips up your stockinged calf, your knee, your thigh, until he reached the hem once more.

This time, when he hooked his fingers beneath the second stocking and pulled it away, his hands lingered longer.

By the time both your legs were bare, trembling slightly from the sheer weight of his attention, you could barely think, barely breathe. And he was still on his knees before you, still looking at you like you were something sacred he had no business touching, but every intention of worshiping until you shattered.

He settled between your legs, his knees sinking into the mattress as he looked up at you like he was a man staring at salvation. Both your knees were bent, parted for him without shame, inviting him closer, and he took you in with a gaze so dark, so heavy with reverence, it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

His hands found your knees first, calloused palms warm against your flushed skin, and then, so slowly you thought you might scream, he traced them down the length of your thighs, to your hips, his thumbs dragging featherlight over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

You whimpered at the touch, unable to help it, the sound escaping you soft and helpless. And he just watched you, drank you in like he had been dying of thirst.

When his hand finally brushed between your legs, over the thin barrier of your soaked underwear, he shuddered. Almost lost it completely. You bucked your hips without meaning to, chasing the pressure, and he groaned low in his throat, barely holding himself together.

He lifted his gaze to yours again silently, asking for another form of consent, needing you to see what he was about to do. You nodded eagerly, almost desperately.

Without wasting another second, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear and tugged them down your legs, leaving you bare for him once again, exposed, trembling, aching. At the sight of you sprawled out on the bed, waiting, wanting, he looked completely undone. Delirious. He spread your thighs wider with both hands, and lowered his mouth to you, worshiping you as though you were the only thing in existence.

"Zayne," you moaned, his name a helpless cry from your lips, as he worked you with slow, devastating precision.

He did not rush. No, he savored you. He licked you slowly, thoroughly, as though he had all the time in the world to pull you apart, as though he wanted to prolong your torment, to make you feel every flick of his tongue, every press of his mouth.

Your fingers fisted tighter in his hair, your breath ragged and wild as you arched into him, your body straining toward release. He held you steady beneath him, his hands firm on your thighs, his mouth relentless in its worship.

You felt the tension crest inside you, sharp and unbearable, felt the fire lick higher with every stroke of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth, every growled sound of need he pressed into you. You were burning. You were breaking. And you loved it.

His mouth did not leave you. If anything, he grew more relentless, more purposeful, as though your confession, your helpless plea, had stripped away every last thread of restraint inside him. His tongue moved with devastating precision, stroking over the aching pulse of your need, coaxing the fire higher, higher, until it was almost unbearable.

Your thighs trembled beneath his grip, your breath shattering in your chest, your fingers tangled tight in his hair as you fought to hold on to something, anything. But you were slipping. Falling. Breaking apart under the slow, worshipful ruin of his mouth.

"Z-Zayne," you gasped, his name your only anchor, your only prayer, as he devoured you.

He groaned low against your skin, as if the sound of his name on your lips undid him just as surely as he undid you. His hands held you firm, guiding you against his mouth as he worked you, his tongue flicking and circling, teasing the very edge of your madness. You felt it crest inside you sharp and desperate, a storm you could not hold back. And when it broke, when he pulled you over the edge at last, you shattered.

Your cry tore free, raw and helpless, as your body convulsed beneath him, as pleasure crashed over you in waves so fierce you thought you might drown. But he did not let you go. No, he held you there, working you through every quaking tremor, every aftershock of bliss that rippled through your trembling body. He worshiped you with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until you were nothing but breathless, boneless ruin beneath him.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening with the proof of your pleasure, his eyes dark with satisfaction and something deeper and reverent. And when the last tremor of your climax finally eased, you felt the flush high on your cheeks, burning into your very bones.

He rose slowly, his hands sliding reverently up your trembling thighs, your hips, your waist, until he was braced over you again, his breath ragged, his pupils swallowing nearly all the green in his gaze.

You barely gave him time to look at you before you grabbed him by the collar and dragged his mouth down to yours. You kissed him hard, deep, tasting yourself on his lips, on his tongue, and moaning into his mouth because it only made you want him more.

One of his hands slipped behind your back, strong and steady, pulling you up against him in a fluid, effortless movement. You barely had time to gasp before you felt him tugging at your gown, dragging the sleeves down your arms with deliberate, reverent slowness.

You shifted and helped him, the gown pooling at your waist before he worked it down your hips, down your legs, tossing it aside with a grunt of frustration.

Now you sat before him flushed, dazed, clothed only in your delicate corset bra. He made quick work of the corset, undoing the bindings with surprising deftness, pulling it free until you were fully bare for him at last. And he froze, just for a moment.

He stared at you like you had stolen the breath straight from his lungs, his chest rising and falling with uneven, desperate movements. He reached out, trailing a hand from your cheek down to your throat, your breast, your waist, almost as if making sure you were real.

"You are..." His voice broke, raw and rough. He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. "You are the only thing that has ever made me question if heaven could exist on earth."

The words shattered through you, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly. Before you could respond, he eased you back onto the mattress, settling between your thighs again.

His mouth found yours, tender at first, almost reverent, but the kiss quickly deepened, darkened, as his body ground into yours, letting you feel the maddening friction of him through the last remaining barriers of fabric.

Your hands scraped down his back, desperate for more, your hips arching up to meet him without thought, without shame. You moaned into his mouth at the sensation, the rough press of his body against your bare, sensitive skin, the delicious torment of being so close and still not close enough.

But even that friction wasn’t enough, not anymore. And the Duke seemed to realize it at the same time you did. He pulled back just enough to sit up, his body heaving with the effort it took to control himself.

You watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as he reached down and unfastened his trousers. And when he pushed them down, along with the underthings, you couldn’t stop the sharp gasp that escaped you.

Your eyes widened. Gods. Your mouth practically watered at the sight of him, thick, hard, heavy between his thighs, and you knew exactly where it was meant to go. You swallowed hard, your legs instinctively pressing together with a mix of anticipation and fear and unbearable, aching need.

He saw it all, the way your thighs squeezed, the way your lips parted helplessly, and his mouth curved into something dark, reverent, and so heartbreakingly tender.

He climbed back onto the bed slowly, carefully, settling between your legs once more, his hand trailing up your thigh as he kissed the inside of your knee, your hip, your stomach, easing the tension from your trembling body with every searing touch.

"Will you let me touch you now?" you asked, your voice soft, laced with the heat of everything that had just passed between you. "Because last time… you did not."

His gaze darkened, hunger flaring once more as his eyes swept over you, flushed and breathless beneath him, your lips still swollen from his kiss, your chest rising and falling with the aftermath of your pleasure.

A slow, dangerous smile curled at the corners of his mouth. "I will," he rasped, rough with need, "if you desire."

Your heart raced wildly as you shifted your weight, coaxing him back against the mattress with a gentle, insistent push. He allowed it, allowed you, his body falling back against the bed with a heavy exhale, dark eyes pinned to you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth. And you straddled him, bare and unashamed, trembling with a hunger that had no place in proper society, but had every place here, in this room, between you and him.

You leaned over him, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, your palms braced against the warm, firm expanse of his chest. You could feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch, matching your own.

"You know," you whispered, voice trembling from both nerves and a rising, giddy thrill, "I am inexperienced..."

His gaze softened immediately, though the hunger in it remained.

"Of course," he rasped, voice catching slightly, full of understanding, of patience he barely seemed able to hold.

"But," you continued, a smile tugging at your lips, wicked and brave, "I have read things."

His breath hitched, the faintest tremor running through his powerful frame. You dragged your fingertip down the hard line of his sternum, savoring the way his skin tightened under your touch. You dragged it lower and lower until you brushed just above where he strained so desperately for you.

"Books," you breathed against his ear. "Books that no proper lady should read."

A muscle leapt in his jaw. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, battling for control…and losing.

"Gods help me," he muttered, his voice a low, wrecked sound that vibrated against your skin. His eyes opened again, and you nearly gasped at the sight, pupils blown wide, a wildfire burning in the green remnants of his gaze. "You will ruin me entirely."

You smiled at that, slowly and wickedly and full of a power you had never tasted until now. And you wanted to ruin him. You wanted to know what it felt like to bring a Duke, a man of power and untouchable prestige, to his knees for you alone.

Your hands wandered lower, tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen, drinking in every inch of him like the forbidden feast he was. His breath stuttered out of him, his fingers curling tight in the sheets at his sides, letting you. Letting you explore, letting you learn him, letting you take control even as every muscle in his body vibrated with the need to flip you over and devour you whole.

But he didn’t. He let you have him. And gods, how it thrilled you. Your lips followed the trail you made with your fingertip, your tongue flicking out to taste him, the heat of his skin, the salt of him. He shuddered. You felt it beneath your mouth, the way his muscles tightened under your slow, deliberate licks.

Your pulse thundered. Heat pooled low in your belly, and you wanted more, wanted to see him undone as he had undone you. Your gaze lifted to his, seeking permission one final time. His eyes were wild, dark with desire so fierce it felt like worship.

"Yes," he said, rough and raw. "Touch me."

And you did. Your lips parted at the sight of him, thick and hard, desire straining for you. Your pulse stuttered, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks. But you did not falter. No. You wanted this. You wanted him.

Your fingers curled around him, feeling the hot, heavy weight of him in your hand. A harsh breath escaped him, his head tipping back, the muscles in his neck taut as a bowstring.

"Gods," he groaned, as though the feeling of you was too much to bear.

And with your hand wrapped around him, your lips tasting the salt on his skin, you knew that you would love every moment of it. Your fingers, trembling at first, grew surer as you explored the weight of him in your hand. The heat of him, the pulse that throbbed beneath your palm, the way his breath turned ragged, wild, just from your touch alone.

You had wondered what it would be like. You had read about this, in quiet candlelit hours, in pages you were never meant to turn. But no book had prepared you for this. For the way he felt beneath your fingers. For the way he watched you…dark, breathless, undone.

His hand threaded into your hair, roughened from the years, yet gentle as he guided your movements. He groaned, a sound low and wrecked, fraying at the edges, and the rawness of it made your pulse stumble, heat tightening between your thighs until you ached anew. You wanted more. You needed more.

You felt yourself grow slicker with want, your own desire tightening painfully as you worked him, your strokes growing bolder, surer, as his breath turned ragged. His breath grew jagged, his body tight with the strain of holding himself back. You felt it in the way his hips flexed into your lips and hand, the way his chest rose and fell beneath the trail of your mouth.

He was close. So close. So you tightened your grip, your strokes bold and sure, looking up at him and watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes darkened with each movement. A broken sound tore from him, half curse, half prayer, as he shuddered beneath your lips.

"My love," he groaned, voice wrecked and shaking. "Wait."

His hand threaded deeper into your hair, but instead of pulling you closer, he gently guided you away from him, trembling with restraint. You blinked up at him, dazed, your lips swollen, your body molten with want.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours as he fought for breath, fought for sanity. Then his lips captured yours in a deep, slow, starved kiss, a kiss that spoke of all the things he could not yet say.

He shifted your bodies carefully, rolling you onto your back with a reverence that made your heart ache. He hovered over you now, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding along the bare skin of your waist, your hip, claiming you with touch alone.

You whimpered when you felt him heavy and hard, pressing against your entrance. Your thighs instinctively parted wider for him, trembling beneath the weight of your desire, and he groaned low against your mouth, a sound of pure, wrecked hunger.

He stilled, breathless, looking at you…no, searching you with eyes so dark they were nearly black.

“I must ask again,” he rasped, voice raw and breaking. His thumb traced your cheek tenderly. “Are you certain of this?”

Your heart was thundering, your body shaking, but not from fear. You nodded, voice trembling, yet sure. "I trust you."

At that, he closed his eyes briefly, as if the weight of your words shattered whatever restraint he had left, and when he opened them again, it was like the whole world had narrowed down to just you.

“Hold on to me, my love,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. And then slowly, achingly, he pressed into you.

The initial stretch made you gasp, your hands flying up to clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as your body tried to accommodate him. He was big, so much bigger than you had ever imagined. The overwhelming sensation burned and bloomed at once, a sharp, searing ache that stole your breath and sent a tear slipping free from the corner of your eye.

He saw it and immediately stilled, kissing the tear away with heartbreaking tenderness.

"You are doing so well," he murmured against your skin. "So perfect…so strong."

You whimpered again, burying your face into his neck, breathing him in.

"You take me so beautifully," he breathed, voice shaking. "Gods, you are perfect. You are... you are everything."

He kissed your temple, your cheek, your throat, every trembling part of you he could reach, whispering praises into your skin while he gave you time to adjust. And still, he was barely halfway inside you. His entire body trembled with the force of his restraint, muscles taut as he fought the desperate need to move, to claim you fully.

"You are so tight, my love," he groaned into your ear, his voice breaking. "You are driving me mad... I do not wish to hurt you."

"You are not," you whispered, still clinging to him, legs trembling around his waist. "Please... do not stop, Zayne..."

At your plea, a broken sound tore from his chest. He kissed you again slow and deep, and with agonizing, reverent care, he pushed deeper, inch by inch, each movement deliberate, each thrust pulling a soft, gasping whimper from your lips. Until finally he was fully sheathed inside you.

His forehead pressed against yours as both of you gasped for breath, locked together in a way that felt irreversible, a brand that neither time nor fate could undo. You felt full, overwhelmed. Alive. And beneath it all, you felt his body shaking against yours, his heart hammering like a war drum, the utter reverence in every trembling breath he exhaled.

You stayed like that for a long moment, your bodies pressed together, breaths shallow, hearts thundering against each other's skin. He did not move. He would not move until you asked him to. Every muscle in his body was taut with restraint, every breath a trembling prayer against your throat.

And then your hands slid up his back, your fingers threading through the damp hair at his nape, and you whispered against his ear, "You can move now."

The permission broke something loose inside him. He exhaled sharply, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before he began to move with slow, deep, measured thrusts. The sensation was overwhelming. Each deliberate thrust dragged against the sensitive places inside you, making you keen softly against his mouth, your nails digging into his back to anchor yourself.

He moved as if savoring you, as if memorizing every shiver, every breathless moan, every flutter of your walls around him.

"You feel..." His voice cracked, wrecked against your throat, "You feel like heaven, my love."

Your bodies found a slow, steady, devastating rhythm, the sound of your breaths, the creak of the bed, the soft wet slap of your bodies filling the dim room. He kissed you everywhere he could reach, your mouth, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, as if he could never get enough of you, as if he needed your taste to survive the night.

You moved with him, meeting each thrust, letting the pleasure build again, the slow coil tightening deep in your belly until you thought you might snap from it. You whimpered his name and he groaned low against your ear, the sound rough and desperate, thrusting harder now, deeper, but never losing the reverence in his touch.

When he felt himself nearing the edge, when the tightness in his body became unbearable, his hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive, aching place, and he worked you with the same slow, devastating precision as before.

"You first," he breathed, voice hoarse with need. "Let go for me, my love…let me feel you."

The command, the tenderness, the desperate hunger behind it…it unraveled you completely. You broke with a cry, your whole body seizing around him as pleasure tore through you in violent, crashing waves.

He felt it, felt you clench and convulse around him, and with a shattered groan of your name against your skin, he followed you over the edge. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and deep, his whole body trembling as he quickly pulled out with a loud groan, spilling on your stomach, grounding himself by pressing his forehead to yours.

Both of you gasped for breath, hearts hammering wildly, sweat slicking your skin together. And then in the quiet aftermath, you both let out soft, breathless, exhausted laughter, little shaky giggles that felt like the purest form of joy.

He lifted his head just enough to kiss you slowly, tenderly, worshipfully, before he collapsed beside you, dragging you immediately into his arms, your bodies still humming from the aftershocks. He kissed the crown of your head, pulling you close until you were tucked perfectly against his chest.

Neither of you spoke because you didn’t have to. Your bodies said it all, the messy tangle of limbs, the soft, shared breaths, the unspoken truth heavy in the air between you. You were his. He was yours. And nothing would ever be the same again after what just happened.

Time slipped by unnoticed in the warm tangle of your bodies. You rested against him, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart under your cheek, your fingers lazily tracing shapes over the bare skin of his chest. His hand caressed your spine in slow, absentminded strokes, as if he could not bear to stop touching you, even for a moment.

Neither of you spoke for a long while. Words felt unnecessary, too heavy for the delicate hush that had settled over the room. But as the minutes stretched you felt him shift slightly beneath you.

You tilted your head up to look at him, and your heart squeezed at the conflict written so clearly across his face. He didn’t want to leave. He hated the idea of leaving you now after what had passed between you, after what you had given to him so fully.

You reached up, cupping his cheek with your hand, brushing your thumb tenderly along the sharp line of his jaw.

"I am alright," you said softly, reading the war inside him. "Truly."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes briefly as if committing the feeling to memory.

"I do not want to leave you," he admitted, voice rough with reluctance. "Not now. Not after..." his words trailed off into the hush, heavy with meaning.

"I know," you whispered. "I do not want you to go, either."

You kissed him slow, lingering, tasting the ache and the promise lingering between you.

"But you must," you said against his mouth, your voice steady even as your heart rebelled. "Before Jace and Seraphina return."

The reminder of your family, of Seraphina, now carrying a new life, tugged at both of your consciences. He sighed, pressing one last kiss to your forehead, then to the corner of your mouth, lingering as if he might change his mind.

"If they find us like this," you added with a soft, teasing smile, "you might be forced into a wedding by morning."

He let out a low, reluctant chuckle at that, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Perhaps I would not mind," he murmured, almost to himself.

You pretended not to hear it, not because you didn’t want to, but because your heart could not withstand it just yet.

With a final brush of his knuckles against your cheek, he rose from the bed, moving slowly, reluctantly, gathering his discarded clothes. You watched him dress, every movement a silent act of devotion, as if parting from you was a wound he didn’t know how to bear.

When he was fully clothed again, he came to you once more, kneeling by the bedside. He kissed you deep and reverent one last time. Then he whispered against your lips, "Until I see you again, my love."

And with that, he left. You stayed there in bed, the sheets tangled around your bare skin, listening to the soft click of the door closing behind him. And though your body ached, though your heart ached more…you smiled.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

side note: credits for two pictures used for the banner go to their original creators.

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @destinysrequiem, @biblioth-que

next part

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stuckygeekevents · 2 months ago

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Stucky Historical Fiction: Mini Bang 2025

I’m so excited to finally share the schedule for Stucky Historical Fiction’s very first bang! 🏛️✨

A huge thank you to everyone who filled out the interest form—it was incredibly helpful in shaping the event. While we’re still not 100% sure we’ll be able to pull off a full bang (depending on artist participation), we’re going to do our absolute best!

And no matter what happens, everyone who signs up will still receive a custom fanfiction cover, just like in previous years.

Also! Since we’re drawing a bit of inspiration from Thunderbolts (and older, possibly grumpier Bucky), we’re opening the door to time travel for the first time ever in this event! ⏳

That means you can bring modern or post-canon characters into historical settings or pull historical versions forward in time—whatever suits your story. Just make sure history still plays a big role in the fic!

DATES TO KNOW

Sign-Ups Open: May 2

Sign-Ups Close: May 16

Join Our Discord (required to participate): by May 17

Prompt Suggestions Open: May 2–May 20

Brainstorming & First Writer Check-In (idea summary or WIP snippets): May 20–June 10

Claims Open (for artists to claim summaries): June 15

Claims Close: June 19 (optional, gives you a day to finalize)

Teams Announced: June 20

Artist First Check-In (basic idea, vibe, or rough concept): June 30 (alongside writers)

Custom Fanfic Cover Collaboration (Writers will be contacted by a mod to create a fanfic cover based on their summary!): July 1–July 31

Final Art Due: July 31

Posting Begins: August 15

You can check out our previous runs here. And join our Discord!

RULES

❌ DON’Ts

To keep this event respectful, fun, and inclusive for everyone, please do not:

Include incest or explicit underage content in your story or artwork.

Set your story/art in a fantasy kingdom or world that isn’t based on actual history or mythology (historical fantasy based on real time periods is okay!).

✅ This Year Only Exceptions:

Time travel is allowed!

Modern-day settings are also permitted—as long as they include a historical connection (e.g., time travel, flashbacks, or historical research as a plot element).

✅ DOs

Your work should:

Be complete by the final draft deadline.

Be beta read before posting (we'll help you find one if you need!).

Be informed by historical context, events, or figures—some research is encouraged, but remember, it’s fanfiction, not a thesis. Do your best and have fun!

Be respectful of the cultures, histories, and mythologies you’re engaging with.

Meet the minimum word count of 5,000 words. You’re more than welcome to write beyond the 5,000-word minimum if you’re feeling inspired—we’ve always loved long fics! But please don’t stress. Whether it’s 5k or 50k, do what’s realistic and fun for you.

For artists: submit at least one complete piece tied to a story or the event.

🏺 Acceptable Time Periods:

We welcome stories and art set in any of the following timeframes:

Prehistoric

Ancient Civilizations (Egypt, Greece, Rome, etc.)

Viking Age

Medieval Era

English History (Tudor, Regency, Victorian, etc.)

American History (Revolutionary War, Civil War, etc.)

World Wars I & II

1920s – 1990s

Cold War

Modern Day (only for this event!)

💬 Community Expectations

Hey @everyone — we know you're here because you love history and stories just as much as we do. We encourage thoughtful discussion and debate—but let’s keep it respectful.

History and mythology often carry deep personal and cultural significance. Everyone brings their own perspective and background, and that’s something we want to honor.

It’s okay to share your opinion.

It’s okay to disagree respectfully.

It’s okay to interpret history or myth differently.

Please remember: we’re here to tell stories and have fun doing it. Keep conversations kind, inclusive, and open-minded. There’s room for everyone at this table.

💙 With love, —The @mods

#stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky event #marvel event #event #stuckygeekevents #historical fiction #marvel events #stucky events #summer event #thunderbolts

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cutiecusp · 1 year ago

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Edelweiss

König x Royal! Reader

(Part two of the Regency AU!)

A Royal visitor from Austria looms over the Ton, and you were the reluctant head of the welcoming committee.

TW/ Regency inaccuracies, soft!König. a kiss (or two)

"Why me?" You ask, as your mother informs you of the evenings plans.

"Because, dearest, you are newly presented to the ton, your sisters are either married off or unavailable." Your mother, the Queen, replies.

You roll your eyes, you had planned on attended the ball, but making a quick escape while you could. You always felt overdressed and stifled in your role, and loved nothing more than to be outdoors in the garden.

"Besides, i hear the King of Austria is looking for a wife," She adds, making you grimace.

Looking for a husband was never expected of you. You were a princess, and it was deemed for you to marry a King when the time was right, but that didn't stop your mother trying to encourage a love match.

Your parents were fortunate, an arranged marriage, but also a love match, if you and your five siblings were to be believed.

You look up from your vanity, eyebrows raised.

"Surely not, Mother. I'm not even sure we speak the same language." You respond, rather crudely.

She just smiles and busies herself with your hair, brushing and pinning it away from your face.

"I hear he is over 6 feet tall, and is an excellent shot." She continues, weaving a braid along the crown of your head.

"What would we have in common?" You ask, picturing a tall behemoth.

"Love works in mysterious ways." Was all she replied.

A few hours later, you find yourself in the ballroom, dressed up like a Christmas tree, opals in your hair and around your neck specifically for your guest. Standing with a glass of lemonade, you hear the excitement as the King is announced.

You had heard he was tall, but you hadn't expected just how tall.

Striding across the ballroom, his eyes were on yours only, pale grey eyes boring into yours.

He greets you with a nod.

"Prinzessin."

"H-hello, Your majesty." You choke out, putting down your glass on the table, before offering your hand. He takes it, and proffers a brief kiss on your gloved hand.

"Forgive me, but i am not the dancing type." He says, a rough accent to his words.

"May we be chaperoned to somewhere quieter, ja?" He asks, his head bent over your smaller frame, looking at you, deeply.

You smile and nod, and urge your maid, Mary to chaperone you both outside. You lead him along the gravel path, the only sound is your footsteps in the cool breeze of the night, leaving the partygoers behind. You stumble and you feel a strong hand grip your upper arm, preventing you from falling, His body close enough to yours to cause whispers in society.

"Are you alright, Prinzessin?" He asks, concern written over his features, the heat of his hand sizzling over your cool skin. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Your voice trapped as his gaze holds yours captive.

You simply nod, and right yourself again, pulling your gaze away from his, and softly moving away, maintaining a space worthy of all those etiquette books you grew up reading.

You definitely weren't thinking about how his touch sent a lick of heat to your lower belly, or how you wondered how his lips would feel against yours... Or why you suddenly were a shy thing, unable to talk.

You walk into the gardens, along the rose bushes, and floral centerpieces you were so proud of, the scent of flowers permeated the air.

"We have beautiful flowers in my homeland." You hear him say.

"Edelweiss is what we are known for the most. Had i known there was a garden like this here, i may have brought some for you." His gruff voice almost the opposite of the rumours you had heard.

"Maybe i shall visit one day." You reply, plucking a few straggly flowers from the path.

"You would be welcome, When your Mutter had written to me, inviting me here to court you... I had-" You cut him off.

"My mother? What has she-" realisation struck.

"Shes matchmaking, isn't she." You realise, understanding blossoming through you.

König has the grace to blush, and avert his gaze.

"When i had heard of the Prinzessin who loved flowers and was rumoured to be extremely intelligent, and beautiful, i had to see for myself. no?" He continued, his eyes flashing dark.

"And the rumours were true, my little wildflower. You are radiant."

Your breath catches in your throat, unable to look away, you stand there, holding the flowers to your body.

"W-well, thank you, your majesty. But i must say-"

"Permit me to kiss you, Prinzessin." He asks, not letting you finish the sentence.

"If its our duty to marry, then we must see if we are compatible in other ways. no?" He takes a step further to you, hidden by the garden wall, your gaze flicks to your maid, who quickly turns around, but not before you can see a smile on her face.

You nod, cheeks aflame.

"Liebling, i need words, please."

"Y-yes, kiss me, please." You whisper, your voice low enough for only him to hear."

He cups your face, cradling your cheeks in his rough hands, his eyes searching your soul as he lowers his lips to yours, brushing over them softly.

You make a small whimper in the back of your throat, body singing with passion, as he explores your lips, opening you up to him like a flower on a sunny day.

Steadying your hands on his hips, you wait until he pulls away slowly.

Regaining your senses, you open your eyes, your cheeks pink, and your eyes wild with lust.

You feel his hands enclose around yours.

"Very compatible indeed."

a/n. i liked that this one was a little bit longer than a drabble. i didn't want to follow too similarly to Daisy But i wanted a little cutesy/ soft vibe. I hope you like it! and a mega thank you to you beauts liking an commenting, it makes my day!

@xoxunhinged @misshugs @soraya-daydreams @shadowdark00 @rynbeerose @enjisbf @frudoo @muneca-lemon-steppa @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx

#call of duty #call of duty mw2 #konig headcanons #konig cod #konig x you #konig #konig call of duty #konig fluff #regency au call of duty

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regency-monster-love · 4 months ago

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Gargoyle arranged marriage, chapter 2: the wedding night, part 1

Read chapter 1 of the fic here | Master list for this fic

Male gargoyle x female human | Regency era | arranged marriage | SFW but suggestive: kissing, vague references to sex

~ 😈🎩 ~

The silent dining room yawned open and empty, emphasizing Winifred’s growing loneliness as her soup went cold waiting for Sir Hugo at supper time.

Their wedding breakfast that morning had been short, so that the nocturnal gargoyle lord could return home to sleep. He was apologetic to his newlywed human lady for not being able to show her around her new home, but she assured him it was all right, and sent him off to bed while the housekeeper took on the responsibility of orienting her new mistress to the house.

Winifred did not expect to mind being apart from her husband all day. After all, it was an arranged marriage, not a marriage of love, and she still barely knew Sir Hugo. But surprisingly, she found that she rather missed him. She had quite enjoyed speaking with him during their wedding flight and the breakfast afterwards. He was kind and intelligent, and she wanted to get to know him better.

As she sat alone in the cavernous dining room, she began to wonder if she had made a mistake in marrying a gargoyle. How would they ever spend any time together? Would she be spending every day alone while he slept? Even most of the servants were nocturnal too, goblins, so that they could work at night and not disturb their master’s daytime slumber. It was melancholy being in such a quiet, empty, vast house all day. At least in her parents’ house, even though they had largely ignored her, there had always been plenty of servants and visitors to give the place noise and life.

She sat up straighter and tried to shake off the gloomy mood. It wasn’t like her, and it was silly. The excitement of the wedding, not to mention the thrilling flight and those kisses afterwards—oh those kisses!—it all seemed to have put romantic notions in her head where normally it stayed more level.

She needed to remain sensible about her situation and expectations. There would be more kisses, because there would be sex, of course—that’s what husbands and wives did, Sir Hugo needed an heir, and she desired children for her own sake as well. But she must remember not to get too attached to him, because they would always have to be leading somewhat separate lives, as today had proved.

She had always known this. She should be accepting of this.

Yet, a tendril of disappointment and loneliness remained.

Hugo suddenly strode into the dining room, walking quickly straight toward her. His dark gray hair was damp and a bit disheveled, like he had splashed water upon his face and head and then rushed off without cleaning himself up any further. “My apologies! I did not mean to keep you waiting so long. I do not normally sleep so late. I must have been overtired from staying up for so many hours longer than normal this morning.”

She gave him a tight smile. “It’s all right. You needed your rest.”

He gave her a curious look, but said no more, and sat down at the table.

She began to eat, but noticed he had no food before him. “Will you not eat, Sir Hugo?”

“Just Hugo, if you please, and no. I rarely eat when I first awake. I will have something later, when you are asleep.”

“Ah. I see.” She ducked her head and ate her soup quietly. They could not even have meals together, their biological needs were so different and incompatible. It was fresh proof that she should protect her feelings from getting entangled and keep things friendly but detached between them.

Hugo could sense that something was wrong. Winifred had been so at ease with him that morning, but now she was withdrawn and tense. Did something happen while he was asleep? Did she dislike the house? “How was your tour of the house with Mrs. Walter?”

“It was very pleasant. The house is beautiful.”

He frowned slightly at her civil but cool response. “If anything is not to your liking, you may change it. You are mistress here. Anything you wish for will be done.”

“Thank you,” she said politely.

He continued to frown, uncomfortable with how distant she seemed now. Was it something about himself she disapproved of? “I apologize again for leaving you alone for so long today. It will not be like this every day.”

Her expression lightened a bit at that as she gave him a curious and hopeful look. “It won’t?”

“Unless you wish it to be so.” He did not want to push her; this was a marriage of convenience, not esteem, and perhaps that’s what she wanted it to remain. But the warm way she had responded to his kisses during their mating flight gave him hope that it was not the case, and prompted him to add, “I do not wish it to be like this every day. I would like…more.”

She hesitated before replying. “I must admit, I felt a bit lonely today.” Empathy squeezed in his chest; he knew too well what it was to feel lonely in this house. “But I will soon grow used to it, I am sure.”

There was a strain to her tone that made Hugo believe she was not actually sure, prompting him to push further. “There is no need to ‘grow used to it’ if you would like my company.”

“But…how can that be when you are nocturnal and I am not?”

He leaned forward. “I have been thinking on this. There are already a few hours in the evening when both of us are naturally awake. And if you are willing to go to bed a bit later than you’re accustomed, and myself a bit earlier, or vice versa, then we could add more hours onto that span of time we share.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “That could work.”

The weight on Hugo’s shoulders eased, and he gave his bride a tentative smile. Winifred, too, could not help but feel cautiously hopeful, despite telling herself not to expect much. This would allow her to be less lonely, but it would not lead to more romance. That was still not for her to realistically expect. Still, the prospect of greater companionship with someone so pleasant as her husband cheered her, and for the rest of the supper they fell into easy conversation like they had enjoyed together at their wedding breakfast.

When she was finished eating, he asked what she wished to do next. She hesitated, but then asked to see his bedroom, as it was the only room she had missed on her tour. His stomach swooped at the idea of her being in his bedroom, but he readily agreed, and showed her the way.

In his room, she silently marveled at how massive his bed was. It made sense, of course, given how large he was, but it was still hard to look away from, with how its bulk dominated the room.

He watched her staring at his bed and felt his stomach churn again. He needed to calm himself, and cleared his throat. “Would you like to sit together in here for a bit?” He gestured to a sofa near the fireplace.

She agreed, and they both sat down together. It was built for someone of his size, making her look almost comically small as she sunk into the large cushions. She laughed, and it was the first time he had ever heard it from her; the sound delighted him.

“I feel like I've been shrunk back down to childhood again,” she laughed, her feet dangling off the seat well above the floor.

“I will furnish the rooms with more things in your size,” he told her.

“It's all right, in this case, at least. It feels cozy.” She snuggled further into the cushions and thought that the only thing that might make this better was to have a blanket wrapped around her. Her eyes flicked up to her husband, and the wings folded behind his back. She wondered if his wings could fold around her like a blanket. It sounded intimate.

The thought of that made her remember how beautiful his wings had looked at their wedding, adorned in gold chains. It really had been a lovely wedding, even with the groom yawning beside her. “I'm sorry, again, that we had to wed in the daytime.”

“Don't be. Not only was it not your fault, but I enjoyed it.”

“Did you? I would have thought gargoyles dislike sunlight.”

He smiled, a bit amused at how little she knew about his kind, but also glad that she was not embarrassed to ask him such questions. “Not precisely. Humans find the moon beautiful, do you not? It is the same with gargoyles and the sun. It's only that it is hard on our eyes sometimes.”

Understanding brightened her face, and the prettiness of her expression made him want to be bold. “And, I enjoyed seeing you in the full light of day,” he told her. A surprised but shy smile curved her lips as she ducked her head. “When we were in the sky together, the sun made your hair so bright, it was as though it was on fire.” He reached out and gently brushed a claw through the red curls at her forehead. “Like your hair was a second sun, burning with its own fierce light. It was beautiful.”

Her cheeks were flushed now and her eyes wide as she lifted her head up to stare into his eyes. He let his hand linger at her face, enjoying the softness of her sunshine hair and the smoothness of her cheek. He hadn't been able to touch her face when they'd kissed before, as he'd needed both arms to hold her while they flew. “Winifred—may I call you that?”

She felt a little tremor to hear him speak her Christian name for the first time. “Yes.”

“May I kiss you, Winifred?”

Her lips were parted, but she said nothing, only nodded. He slowly raised his other hand to softly cup her cheek; she was so small and looked so delicate compared to him, and he did not want to frighten or hurt her. And then he leaned down to bring their mouths together.

The kiss was gentle and sweet, just like the one they'd shared while flying, but this time his wife's lips were slightly parted, so after a few heartbeats, he eased his tongue between them. She made a pretty little sound of surprised pleasure, and immediately he felt himself stirring between his legs.

Oh, this was dangerous. He had meant to ease her into physical intimacy, not consummate all at once, and not right away, but already he was beginning to question that resolution. His tongue pushed deeper into her mouth, and hers met it, sweeping over his without hesitation. They were married, and she was responding well to him already, so why delay any further?

But no—she was a human, soft and small, and an untouched one at that. He must be patient and move slowly.

Still, that did not mean they could not do anything together already.

Without breaking their kiss, he pulled her into his lap, causing her to squeak and throw her hands up to clasp onto his waistcoat. “Is this all right? I only mean to kiss you while I hold you, nothing more,” he murmured to her.

Her eyebrows furrowed together. “Aren't we meant to do more? As husband and wife.”

Tension twisted in his belly at her openness to “more.” His fearless, trusting wife. It tempted him, but he clamped down his lust, and merely stroked a hand down her arm. “We will, but not yet. You need time to…adjust to me.”

She wasn't sure in what ways he meant for her to “adjust,” but she had some ideas, and they made her blush furiously. But no matter what he meant, she was not afraid. She knew her duty as a wife, and was prepared for this. Perhaps even a bit curious herself.

He kissed her again, dancing his tongue with hers, and she melted into his chest. His kisses made her feel almost drunk, dizzy in her mind and warm in her belly. His hands stroked over her body, gentle, careful of his claws on her dress and skin. One made its way up to her head to stroke over her hair.

“May I take down your hair?” he whispered into her ear.

“Yes,” she breathed.

He continued to kiss her as his claws slowly worked their way into her hair to find the pins and pull them free, one by one. She had no idea how he could do this without looking, especially with such huge hands, but they had a thoughtful tenderness to them. Rather like Hugo himself, she suspected.

When all the pins were free, he leaned back to look at her hair cascading over her shoulders, all the way to her waist. “Beautiful,” he said with a sort of reverence to the deep pitch of his voice.

That was the third time he’d called her that, and even though she knew she was plain, it felt so good to be praised, and she smiled in gratitude and lifted her face for another kiss.

That fluttery feeling in her belly from their kisses this morning was back again, and stronger. Every drag of his tongue against hers and stroke of his hands over her skin made something hot and tight curl inside her and sent her heart beating faster. When he began to kiss her throat, she moaned.

“Remember,” the gargoyle murmured between kisses, “I said you may touch me anywhere you like, wife.”

“Where do you like to be touched?”

“By you, anywhere.”

She shivered at the dark timbre of his voice and the thrill of exploring a body that was so different from hers, and completely forbidden to her until today.

And then she began to touch her husband.

~ 😈🎩 ~

End of chapter 2 | Read next chapter | Master list for this fic

Sorry for the teasing chapter! It was getting way too long for me to include all the action, so I’ve cut it in two. Part 2 of their wedding night will be coming soon!

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

Taglist: @apuddleonthelivingroomfloor (comment if you want to be added to the list)

#hugo and winifred fic #gargoyle lord #my writing #fic #arranged marriage #regency romance #regency monster #regency #monster #monster romance #monster love #monster husband #monster x human #gargoyle x human #gargoyle #oc #kissing

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thakefurniture · 1 year ago

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Work Table, Games Table - Beautiful Regency mahogany octagonal work table. Figured top with inlaid ebony fleur de lis at each corner over two ebony strung drawers fitted with small wooden knobs within an inlaid frieze. Raised on finely executed reeded legs joined by a concave &#39;X&#39; stretcher and inlaid under tier.

#Regency Work Table #side table #occasional table #antique game tables #antique work tables #mahogany work tables #antique tables #Thakeham Furniture #Horsham #UK #Antique Tables #Work Table #Games Table

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harpval · 2 months ago

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❈Blue Blood❈

Kaiser and F!Reader, Regency/Bridgerton AU.

synopsis: With the death of the late marquess, Kaiser finds himself falling into his father's role. Kaiser is many things, but responsible is not one of them. He must take on this season alone. He needs an escape, a sate haven, something to tide him over so he survives the season. That would be you, unfortunately.

disclaimer/content(overall): Abuse, alcohol consumption, semi-violent, PTSD, flashbacks, suggestive, slow burn.

prev: pilot next: Important Matters

A Moment of Weakness.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚₊

Dearest reader,

It has been but only a few days since the season began, and there is already a swarm of young ladies in pursuit of the new Marquess. It has become increasingly apparent that he has his pick of the litter, leaving the other gentlemen of the ton to hope he secures a match soon to leave some for the rest of them.

However, for the most eligible bachelor of the season, he appears to be all but satisfied. His endless selection of debutantes does not compare to the supply of liquor from the bar he frequents quite so often. It truly leaves us to wonder if the source of his cold demeanor and lack of speech is related to the contents of a bottle, perhaps. Or is he simply infuriated that he is receiving the same treatment the ladies of the ton have endured for years?

Poor sweet Marquess, do not crumble under the pressure. You shall find your bride.

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

“I do not believe I can read another word of this.” Laurence wrinkles his nose at the gossip column. He’s leaned against the table in the entryway to your home, his sleeves rolled up. Beside him stands Victor, partially amused as he holds up the scandal sheet.

“It is because you sympathize with a fellow drunkard.”

“That was unnecessary.” The younger of the two quips. You watch the interaction as you silently descend the stairs. It is a fair morning, and the windows open wide to allow in the sweet spring air. Sunlight filtered in and illuminated the room in a natural glow.

“What was it you said just the other day, Victor?” your words cause his eyes to flicker up towards you, eyes wide. “About the scandal sheets withering our brains away?” You cross the room, hoping to get a glimpse of the sheet. Laurence stifles a laugh and Victor sighs, shaking his head.

“We simply feel empathy for the Marquess Kaiser, this woman has shown him no mercy.” Victor smacks the sheet with the back of his hand before passing it off to you. Your eyes flit over the words, skimming over the important parts while ignoring the rest.

“So he is a brute, a drunkard, and miserable? He is a man of many talents,” You muse as your voice borders a laugh. You feel a pang of sympathy though nothing more, he is not your business so why should you dwell on such meaningless things? Laurence follows you to the drawing room. Lainie and Lucia playing some game with marbles on the floor, and your father’s lanky figure rests on the sofa. His gaze turns to you, work weary and aged.

“Father,” you greet him. The scandal sheet rested behind your back. He’s never been fond of things of that nature. He gives you a small nod, regarding you and Laurence before you join him on the sofa adjacent. The couch is positioned against the wall, the light from the window beaming down against you. A warm flutter coursing through you.

“You have a vacancy in your schedule?” Laurence chirps beside you. Your father nods.

“For the races, I have never missed a race, not since I was a boy.” He sighs, flicking through a paper as opposed to the gossip column placed beneath your rear on the couch.

“I forgot that was today.” Lucia chimes in from her spot on the floor beside Lainie. Every year the race is one of your family's biggest events, and since your father makes a big deal out of it you all do as well. Although you’re not quite so outgoing as the rest of them. Neither is Lucia, ever since she became serious about being perceived as more ladylike she stopped her loud cheering and throwing her fist in the air. No one remembers her as an outgoing girl, just a prim and proper lady. Only you have the luxury of your sister scolding you for the most ridiculous of things, or watching her boss around the staff and then thanking them with grand gestures later on.

“We should get ready soon, then. It’s another appearance as women, no longer just an outing for us.” You meet Lucia’s gaze. She composes herself with a nod and rises to her feet, Lenore moving in to clean the marbles off the floor as Lainie follows her around.

“Oh, I got us hats.” Lucia leans over the armrest to throw her arms around you.

“Hats?”

“Yes, I was out with Mama and I got us the prettiest of hats. I promise they’re much more tame than the rest of the ones we see sported at the races.” She beams excitedly, your father sighing and slumping on the couch. You pat your sister’s arm with a sigh.

“So you mean I won’t get to look like a peacock?” You quip sarcastically. She pinches your arm, earning a wince.

“Don’t be smart.” She orders you before heading out of the room. From your peripheral Laurence is mocking her, moving his lips and cocking his head to each side. You sigh in response.

–

You turn the hat over in your hands, standing alone in your room as Lenore adds the last touches to your dress for the races. More fitted than those you’d wear to a ball or soiree. The color was rich and fitted for spring, once again pumping up your bosom just enough to where it was appropriate for a Lady of your standing.

“May I,” Lenore gestures for the hat. A dainty hand reaching for it. If she had been so lucky she would’ve made the most proper of ladies. You nod, passing it off to her with a smile.

“Thank you, Lenore.” She smiles at the praise and begins to adjust the hat to your head. A simple design, cream colored with a sash across the center that matched the fabric of your dress and a flower made of tulle to the right. It was perfect for keeping the sun out of your eyes. Of unique fashion, but simple and elegant.

“I’ve never been one for hats,” You admit as you watch her secure the hat atop your head. Her lips quirked into a smile as she studied you in the mirror, carefully adjusting the flower on the hat to appear more pronounced.

“It flatters you, Miss.” She speaks softly before kneeling, smoothing out the bottom of your dress. You watch, a small smile creeping onto your lips.

“Thank you, Lenore.” She gives a nod of gratitude before sending you on your way.

You join your family downstairs, waiting on your father as you’re all gathered in the foyer. Victor and Laurence talking in front of the door, your mother fanning yourself. Lainie approaches you, giddy, Lucia trailing behind her.

“We all have hats!” Lainie beams up at you, a soft pink-colored hat on her head. It’s not functional, small, and clipped into her hair as it rests to the side of her head partially, tulle dangling off the side.

“And to think you didn’t like tulle,” You say as you kneel, her hands finding yours. She giggles and glances up to Lucia.

“Made an exception. But just this once.” Lainie says matter-of-factly. Lucia’s lip quirks, amused. Lucia’s hat is of a similar fashion to the one she gave you, though white with a patterned sash around the top. From what you can see the colors are a blend of teal, white and pink.

A crescendo of footsteps from behind you catches your attention. You rise to your feet as you see your father’s form emerge from his office. His hands smooth down his stiff black pants as he looks at your mother.

At that you all make your way to the carriage, managing to cram into the smaller space. You’re smooshed between your brothers, Victor holding Lainie in his lap as she babbles about something you can’t hear over the sound of the horse pulling the carriage along the clicky cobblestone road. Lucia sitting between your parents, tapping her foot against yours every so often to snag your attention away from the outside.

–

Upon arrival Lainie is glued to your side, walking beside you as you’re escorted by Laurence. Your mother and Lucia are escorted by your father and Victor. Everyone is dressed similarly, dawning the colors of spring and floral detailing. Lucia glances at you as you pass by a woman with a hat with extravagant feathers on it. Butter yellow with accents of daisies. You stifle a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek and lowering your gaze.

Around you, various Lords and Ladies of the ton intermingle in a sea of spring colors and delicate parasols. Your brother observes, grinning before leaning down into your ear.

“Porsha Certainly makes her presence known,” You wrinkle your nose as his booze-tainted breath tickles your ear, though fail to resist the urge to follow his gaze, Her hair is done up elaborately, a strange hat with a ribbon tied into it. However, your attention is snagged by an extraneous force, the man she’s conversing with. Two other young ladies are encircling him–Oh, the Marquess. You stifle a laugh, a gloved hand hovering above your freshly glossed lips.

“Ah, so she’s found her prey.” Laurence’s voice comes through quiet and woven with mockery. You smirk, watching the girl fan herself, casting a calculating gaze onto the man she is attempting to woo.

“Her eyes look threatening,” You mutter to your brother as the two of you slow your paces like the gossip-engrossed siblings you are. Lainie stands beside you, blissfully unaware. He snickers at your comment and looks ahead. He says something but his words turn to a blur as you’re met with a set of cold blue eyes.

Across the field where Porsha is putting herself on display, the man before her is looking directly at you. You urge yourself to look away, feeling the sweat accumulate in your hairline. The soft breeze futile to cool your nerves. His gaze narrows slightly. By some chance, your brother does not notice the sudden war of eyes between you and him, the Marquess seeming to challenge you silently. His hair was drawn back into a small ponytail at the base of his neck, blonde still framing his face, strands too short to reach the hairstyle.

He is dressed once again in blue and black, light blues as opposed to the royal blue he dawned the night of the first ball. The black collar was high, if not for his long neck he would’ve looked a fool. And a pair of black gloves once again. Most gentlemen of the ton did not wear gloves if they did not need them, and once again–it was most common to adorn white gloves.

You avert your gaze, your heart racing as you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, blushing indefinitely. You’ve never been stared at in that way, fighting the crease forming in your brow. Lainie tugs your dress, and you snap your attention to her. She is pointing outward, and you follow her little finger.

“The weather is quite lovely,” a voice emerges from your side. Lainie’s hand falls at her side as the man approaches the three of you. You feel your brother’s shoulders square, his arm still hooked through yours.

“Lord Luna! Pleasant to see you,” Laurence whirls the two of you around to face the blonde approaching. He was the first to have approached you at that first ball, you hadn’t seen him after that–a rather slow start to this season if you may. He greets your little sister and then you, gaze lingering on you before flickering back to your brother with that friendly smile. His smile was almost coy.

“I was hoping to be properly introduced today,” He states sweetly “To your sister?” he proposes as he slowly glances back at you. Your heart involuntarily races at the sudden attention. However, it is what you are trained for. Laurence seems to grin, patting your arm gently.

“Ah, yes! My younger sister.” He chirps before chuckling “You two met at the Duke’s ball, correct?” Your brother thankfully has the respect to turn his gaze to you. You nod, regarding Lord Luna.

“We did, I did not expect you to be quite the dancer, My lord.” You humor him, earning a small chuckle. Truth is, he’s one of the suspects who stepped on your foot.

“I did what I could to keep up with you, Miss,” he says. Your brother releases your arm from his before you hook your free hand through Luna’s. Your gaze goes to Lainie who’s now hooked to your brother’s pant leg–gazing up at you starry-eyed. You give a small wave to her before turning around and accompanying Lord Luna. A small, pleasant smile on his face.

“Are you a fan of the races?” You speak first as the two of you walk and bask in the sunlight and stares you receive from the nosy mamas of the ton.

“It is newer to me,” he admits as you feel his eyes wander to you. “This wasn’t common in Madrid, or at least I wasn’t aware of it. I spent most of my time abroad.” His voice is soft, his accent thick and oddly friendly. You nod as he speaks, a smile on your lips as you gaze at the ton.

“What about you? Now I don’t mean to pry, but it is rare to see the Baron out at such events.” He lowers his voice and turns to you. A smirk crosses your lips as you look back over to him.

“My family has attended these races for years now. My father will attend only the important events–and then this. This is Lainie’s first year too.” He nods as you speak, a good listener, perhaps? He is a good prospect–but you must explore your options, as you’re sure he has done.

“Your family must be close then, yes?”

“Very,” you say, amused by memories of your family only you will get to cherish. He laughs softly.

People slowly began to make their way to the stands to secure their spots, the two of you silently following the crowd. He gently guides you through, leading you to a spot towards the center. A spot that grants you a view of the race track, a smile on your face as you see the horse's heads from their stations, each wearing a sheet of cloth over their faces, colored in the fashion of their racers with holes for their eyes.

“We got lucky,” He leans over to you, chuckling as the rest of the seats fill in quickly. You look around, meeting Lucia’s gaze. Your father secured a spot to the far right as always to oversee the start and end of the race. She gives you a smirk before looking back out at the track.

“We did,” you reply, hands folded in front of your skirt as you squint your eyes out at the track as some man starts to make incoherent announcements, earning some giggles from you and Lord Luna.

You find yourself searching the crowd. So far, you’ve spotted the Duke and Duchess. To no surprise, all who accompanied them was their youngest, Nora. You spot Porsha, who seems to have noticed you too. Despite sitting in a lower section, she seems to stare down at you before whipping her head around. Maybe she’s in a foul mood because she failed to secure the Marquess? You ought to be delusional to believe you can secure a man like that, and so early on? You find yourself looking for the blonde man, curious as to where he chose to sit.

You'd spot him, his sharp side profile overlooking the race track. His gaze however exuded distaste. His posture was stiff as some girl beside him made her advances, gently fanning herself. You watch the curls on the back of her head bounce as she turns from him to the track.

“The Marquess makes his appearance once again,” Lord Luna seems to detect your attention. You swiftly look back at him, heat rising to your cheeks.

“My apologies,” You mutter, fearful you may have offended him. He merely chuckles.

“Are not necessary.” He completes your sentence for you. “He is a peculiar one. Has he called upon you?” He inquires with genuine curiosity. Your lips set into a line and you shake your head.

“No, we were introduced at the ball. I’m the daughter of the Baron so, I was naturally a victim–” You joke. He fails to stifle a laugh, a pleasant sound from a pleasant man.

“He is the talk of the ton, so it seems.” He remarked. A hum escapes you, your attentions wandering back to the Marquess for a moment.

“It seems so.” your eyes are drawn back to the green ones beside you, a gentle smile on your lips.

There is the pop of a gun and a crescendo of stampeding hooves against dry earth. Around you, gentlemen and ladies cheer. For you thankfully, Lord Luna is not as boisterous as your father and brother’s, sparing you from another year of temporary deafness. From where you sat, you hear the baron’s deep voice cheer on whatever horse he chooses to root for until the very end. You hear your brothers carry on that same deep tone they inherited from your father.

“Look at them go,” Luna claps his hands, a proud grin encompassing his expression. He looks at you, and you smile at that, nodding before clapping your own hands as the first lap comes to a close. A large gap between the two horses in the lead and the other three leading behind.

“It’s almost unfair to the other three.” You note, snickering. You’re well aware your father is cheering for the one behind the lead as his voice carries even further than before.

“Goodness, is that the Baron?” Luna snickers as he looks in the direction of your father. You avert your gaze, cheeks hot with embarrassment as you nod.

“Yes, that is. And he will only get louder.” You lean into his ear, a warning. This earns another laugh from him.

“His energy is remarkable!” He beams back at you. You look away again with a small sigh, eyes slowly roaming over the crowd. Your eyes suddenly lock on the Marquess. The girl he’s with clinging to him as he attempts to pull away. His hand swats her off, though thanks to the energy of the crowd they go mostly unnoticed. Irritation bubbles in your chest as you watch him storm off, hands clamped tightly over his ears as his shoulders hunched.

And that’s when you recognize her, Anastasia Baker. She is a friend of your sister’s, the girl leaves sobbing. Her shoulders shaking and her hands cupped over her face as she disappeared in another direction.

“That vile man!–” You mumble under your breath. Oh, how you sound like your father. No, worse–victor!

“Excuse me, I just need a moment of fresh air,” You excuse yourself. Lord Luna’s brow rose slightly.

“Would you like my company?” He offers and you shake your head no, declining as politely as possible.

“I shall be but a moment; I wouldn’t want us to lose our seats, " you say, giving a gentle smile. He shrugs and nods. With that, you weave through the stands swiftly, greeting those who recognize you with a fleeting smile and bow of your head before you hurry off to find Ana.

She was a close friend of Lucia’s, a sweet and impressionable girl you adored as if she were a little sister. She’s not of noble standing, and her family is not quite so known either so to find prospects is hard, it is a miracle she even spoke to the Marquess, much less attended the races with him. You were fuming, face so hot steam may as well have puffed out of your ears.

The field behind the stands is more vacant, with only a few lords and ladies disinterested in the races mingling over a floral lemonade. You compose yourself, avoiding any further attention on you as you begin to look around, a smile on your face as you maintain a composed facade, no matter how hard that may be with the frustration that threatened to wrinkle your brow.

Your search is futile, wandering around aimlessly with a strained smile on your face every time you’re pulled into aimless conversation.

Across from you is a small plot of woods, a cluster of trees surrounded by meticulously trimmed bushes, the perfect ratio of shade and sunlight. You approach the shade, though stop in your tracks as you stand before one of the bushes, behind the bush in the soft green grass is a figure sitting–hunched over and rocking side to side. The Marquess. Black gloves digging into blonde locks of hair. Your eyes narrow to slits.

“My Lord, fancy seeing you out here.” You sneer, watching his head spin around as if knocked off its axis.

“You–” He stammers. Was he drunk? He seems it. His hair was disheveled, sweat glistening on his skin, and a twitch in his brow. His breathing was erratic. “You shouldn’t be here. Go, be gone with you–” He swishes you off with his hand before turning away. You feel the heat rise to your face at the gesture, one of disrespect. Could he truly be this discourteous?

“Have you no manners?” You quip. He hisses through clenched teeth, rocking back and forth and shaking his head.

“I said go,” His voice trails off into a wheeze and he draws in a sharp breath “Leave me-” His voice remains strained. Your shoulders relax as you finally evaluate his state. He’s sweating, rocking back and forth like a madman with gloved hands clinging to blonde hair. He breathes as if someone has knocked the wind from his lungs.

“It is but- but a moment of weakness!”

“My Lord,” You begin softly

“Leave.” He demands. Something was wrong, very wrong. You look around, thankfully shielded by vendors and scattered trees. You squeeze your way between the bushes, mumbling under your breath as you tug the fabric of your dress through the bushes.to your luck, there were no holes, only a few blades of grass and pricks of the bush that clung to the fabric.

“You’re sweating. Please, take this at least?” You offer him your lemonade, a flower petal circling the top. You leave him no room for refusal. A gruff sound escapes him as he accepts the lemonade, taking a slow sip of it. His gaze is low, but you can see the sweat that drips from his chin. “Should I go find someone, My Lord?” You ask and kneel on the grass, smoothing out the fabric of your dress as you watch him. He shakes his head.

“No, Please, anything but that.” His voice trembles, as if he is going to burst into laughter. You watch the muscles in his jaw tense and relax like a reflex. There’s a long silence between the two of you. The occasional shaky breath slips past his quivering lips after he takes a sip of the lemonade.

“Are you injured?” To this he scoffs, laughing as he finally lifts his head to meet your gaze, eyes bloodshot but there are no tears, sweat cascading down his cheek before beading off of his chin.

“I said go.” His nostrils flared and he shot a hostile glare in your direction. His body language conveys a message akin to an abused street dog. His voice a deep rumble, he had given you an order. Your brows draw together and you step back. Did Anastasia say something to him? Was it the races? Alcohol? You’re not familiar with this, seeing such a proud man crumbling like this. A Noble no less.

Before you can speak another word there is a rustling in the bushes. A footman dressed in blue parting the bushes with his hands.

“My Lady,” He stammers as if shocked to see you. You feel your temperature rise at the realization of your isolation with the marquess. Unchaperoned.

“He needs medical attention–” You exhale and the Footman approaches the man on the floor, receiving a few swats from a gloved hand. The footman then looks back at you.

“It is quite alright, Please, My lady–return to the races.” He ushes you, quickly beginning to undo the collar of the Marquess’s shirt. You hold your tongue, pivoting on your heel and hoisting the fabric of your gown up so it does not snag on the bushes as you shift between the plants. The faint mumble and argument fade away behind you as you reappear in the open, smoothing out any wrinkles in your gown and brushing off stray blades of grass. The distant sound of cheers and roars of the crowd flooding your senses as you rejoin the festivities.

“My Lady,” A call comes from your right. Lord Luna. You compose yourself, a soft smile finding its way to your lips as you bow your head regarding the man.

“My Lord.” He eyes you skeptically, a crease in his brow in minor confusion. He simply sighs.

“I was starting to worry, wondering if I should send out a search party.” Humor laced in his tone. You return a soft laugh, shaking your head.

“Ah, that won’t be necessary. I apologize, I found myself sidetracked with the vendors.” Your lips set into a line as your gaze drops to the floor for a moment. “I did see the most enticing stand of lemonade, infused with flower teas. I would like to try it.” You meet his gaze again, similarly fluttering your lashes to your sister, Lucia. It seems to work, a smile on his face as he slowly hooks his arm through yours.

“That sounds delightful, lead the way.” The charming tune returns to his voice, and you can’t help but mirror his smile. Your gaze slowly drifts to the wooded area you once were as the two of you promenade about the greenery, greeting people as you walk by.

Your mind begins to wander. Your heart racing at the thought of being caught alone with the Marquess. Footmen hold little apparent social power, but if you know anything from your lady’s maids or Lenore–That the sort of power those who work for you have is slow processing.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚₊

A/N courses getting serious 🙂‍↕️ so I do apologize if parts come out slower/sloppy.

I always forget the tags

Taglist

@noomimi @syleepy

#bllk #bllk x reader #Leonardo Luna mentioned!?!#blue lock #bllk au #bllk x you #bridgerton au #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #leonardo luna

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elysianightsss · 1 year ago

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Regency Price thot🌹🤍

I am working on Limerence and Part two of both mountain man and the pen pal au by popular demand. But while you wait for me to write those please enjoy this lovely Viscount John Price and his Viscountess.

Price sat waiting patiently, newspaper in hands reading the latest gossip of the ton. “Aristocrats.” He scoffed low under his breath. Being one of the wealthiest, best-connected members of the middle class came with privileges but too much gossip as far a Price was concerned. Unless it directly affected him he couldn’t care less.

The doors to the dining room opened and in walked a butler, white curly wig on top of his head, his hands wringing together in nervousness as he looked at his master. “Well?” Price asked without looking away from his newspaper, an interesting snippet about a whistle or a lady down or something or other caught his eye.

“My Lord she..” the lack of answer was beginning to agitate him, he rolled up the paper and slammed it on the table, finally making eye contact with the butler.

“What?” Price snapped.

“She doesn’t seem to be here My Lord.” He said, gulping with unease clear in his voice.

“One of the horses is gone too.” A maid had said a little too loudly as she rushed into the room with the important information. Everyone in the room cringed, each and every servent, perhaps at this point even the entire ton, knows if the Viscountess and one of the horses are missing, someone will either be fired or end up in the hospital.

A wave a darkness crashed through the room as John growled out “Find me who by the time I’m back from retrieving my wife.” His orders were clear as crystal as he rushed from the room, Simon, his number two following swiftly after him.

“My horse Simon.” John grunted pulling out his pocket watch from his jacket. After years of being married to you, he always knew exactly where to find you based on the time of day it was or day of the week.

You thrived in order and schedules, one of the many things that he loved about you. Loved knowing he didn’t have to worry where you’d be at eleven in the morning. Always the drawing room catching up the on stitching you’ve been putting off, frustrated when the cross stitch didn’t form the absolute way you wanted it to.

Simon, ever the loyal to a fault number two replied quickly and lowly, “Yes Viscount.” He began to rush ahead of John making it to the stables before him and barking orders at the stable boys to fetch the masters horse and saddle. Price didn’t bother with riding clothes or shoes, simply latching his everyday boot into the stirrup and hoisting himself up into his horse.

“Shall I follow My Lord?” Simon asked head bowed as usual.

“If you wish.” John didn’t stick around after that, whipping his reigns and taking off on the beautiful brown stallion. “Come on boy, we’ve not got long before it rains!” John shouted to his horse as if the creature actually understood him, though in his fear he did not care.

The looks of the sky had him worried, the last time you went riding in the rain you caught pneumonia. He remembers how you shivered, how you were covered in sweat yet cold and how you burned to the touch. He never wishes to see you that way again. These thoughts had him pushing his horse harder to get to you faster. By the cherry tree you should be, and oh does he hope you are.

You however had just become done with your rage fit and were about to leave. Stupid Miss Carmichael, one of the bitchiest women in the ton. Not even married and yet she had the gall to mock you about not getting around to giving John a child yet. Joking about possible infertility, the words made you sick as did her audacity.

You had been married to your husband two years now and yes you were yet to bore him a child. Though the first year of your marriage, due to it being a simple arrangement, you spent it away from him. Always avoiding him, even on your wedding night you locked yourself in your room.

Though finally he managed to get you to open up to him, taught you many things, you began to love him. He had loved you however since the first moment he saw you. More so when you had advertently put him in his place after he was rude to a servant.

You had spent the second year, still getting to know each other and becoming one as husband and wife didn’t happen until three months ago. It had been essentially two years of little innocent hand touches here and there, longing looks and John standing too close to you at balls and events just so he could feel your warmth and smell your scent for longer. You were both still making up for lost time, having children was not at the forefront of your minds. Well not yours anyway.

You sighed glancing at the horse you’d rode here on, you’d best get back to join John for breakfast was your first thought. Even though it would take barely a minute for him to see you were upset and demand who had made you that way. You didn’t need to put your burden on him as much as he always insisted that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do as his wife.

Blinking up at the sky, you saw rain clouds rolling in and started to feel the drizzle of water falling down from above. Then a clap of thunder and you instantly regretted your decision to ride out here after your awful interaction with Miss Carmichael earlier. “Wonderful.” You sighed annoyed as you pulled your cloak hood over your head and made your way back to the black horse waiting patiently for you. One last look at the cherry tree and you set off into the eye of the storm.

“That’s it girl yah!” You whipped your reigns, both feet tight in the stirrups. You never rode side saddle like most women do, preferring to ride properly. Just as the cherry tree was almost out of a view, the most spectacular sight came bounding toward you. Your husband Viscount John Price gallantly riding his brown steed toward you.

“Darling!” His yell was so quiet in the midst of the rain and thunder, though it was enough to have you stopping your horse and remaining stationary as he began to slow down the closer to you he got.

Pulling on the reigns John came to a halt, horses next to one another legs touching. “Before you say anything,” you began blinking up at your handsome husband who was staring down at you heatedly, he nods encouraging you to go on. “It wasn’t raining when I started riding.”

You give him a smile, and despite the fact that you’re wet through, chilled to the bone, and as far as John is concerned in desperate need of a hot bath, he thinks you’re the most beautiful sight to behold. He smiles back leaning in close to you until his nose brushes against yours, his strong hand coming up to cup your jaw as he whispers into your mouth, looking you dead in the eyes.

“I’m not mad my love, but make no mistake, once you’re warm and dry I plan to bend you over my desk and fuck you from behind. Keep you stuffed with my cum all day, then you can tell me the reason for your riding today and who I need to talk to.”

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insert-witty-user-name-here · 1 month ago

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Fic Rec Friday

(Pretending it's Friday) No rules or theme, just fics you've read recently (or ages ago) that you want to share with the world.

Following up with more fic recs from last week! There are simply too many wonderful fics in this fandom for one post. (And there are even more on my to-read list)

Shatter by @mirilyawrites

Each time Loki allows his focus to slip, he finds himself dreaming. At least, he’s fairly certain these are dreams.

Absolute poetry that captured me from the first line (and then each line after). Just. Stunning.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave by @lgwilt

Loki spared a moment to wonder at the unlikeliness of it all: Mobius, a man of no circumstance, no wealth, no social rank, whose courteousness and easy charm made him welcome everywhere he went; and he, the son of an Earl, who had graced the finest tables in the land, yet belonged nowhere.

Unless, perhaps, it was at Mobius’ side.

Or, Lokius: the Regency AU.

An absolute HONOR to beta-read this last fall. I remain obsessed with this fic.

beats per minute by burlesquecomposer (with art by @wolfpup026)

Don, freshly divorced single dad, starts going to the gym to regain some confidence, where he meets personal trainer Loki—who regularly works with people yet has a hard time getting close to anyone.

Confession time, I don't generally like modern AUs but I was TAKEN by this fic! It was beyond sweet. This is another one of those fics where I was shocked it was under 20K words because in my memory it was an entire novel. A beautifully built story.

The chair by Love_is_Green

Mobius is almost ready to go to the timeline and leave the TVA, he talks with B-15.

One of those fics that's less than 1,000 words and still wrecked me emotionally. Centered on Mobius reflecting on en empty chair at the TVA. Angst but with a hopeful ending 💚 (also recommend The Veins and the Branches)

happier than ever by @dreamycloud

Loki was Mobius’s everything. His beginning and end. His glorious purpose. So when he’s forever parted from Loki, Mobius realizes that the next best thing is to move to New Asgard and try to connect with the family Loki had been forced to leave behind.

Or, the one where Mobius can’t sense Loki, but Love can, and she may just be what they need to bring them together across time and space.

I am an absolute sucker for a Thor & Loki reunion story. Combine that with a Lokius reunion story too and from such an incredible writer as @dreamycloud, you've got yourself a FIC! Heartwarming story from beginning to end.

A Desperate Play for Control by @in-my-loki-feels (with more art by @wolfpup026!)

What If... Mobius worked at S.H.I.E.L.D. when Loki invaded New York?

When Loki arrives to take the Tesseract, he conscripts an additional ally to his cause, one perplexingly determined to look after his well-being. It isn’t just the scepter compelling Mobius; it’s the hollowed out, hunted look his new boss has. As the war approaches, they inevitably grow closer, but what happens when the fighting is done and there are no more orders to follow?

An instant Lokius classic- I mean Avengers Lokius AU!? How could it not be. Absolutely loved the characterization of Mobius here as a SHIELD agent. 100% could be a What If episode.

Paper trail. Or, traces of you by @doomed-spectacles (explicit)

Loki and Mobius sneak around. Despite having many nooks and crannies for intimate encounters, the TVA is not an easy place to sneak around. Set nebulously in season two.

PWF my beloved. Loved the balance between flirty banter and soft tenderness. (plus shoutout to the tag 'Mobius M Mobius is a little shit' because he IS and you should say it. I say with all the love in my heart. Little shit Mobius is my favorite).

personal space by a_cry_in_the_wilderness (mature)

“Asgardians are known for handling their liquor,” Mobius says, taking a wobbling step forward as he barely handles his. When he trips over his feet, Loki is there, holding tight onto his arm.

“I’m not even Asgardian,” Loki says, his voice soft. “What’s your excuse, Mobius?”

“It doesn’t take much for me.” Mobius admits.

The Lokius vibes here are perfection AND special shoutout to the fascinating look at Mobius and Ravonna's relationship- a relationship I will never tire of exploring!

feel the time pass by icebats (mature)

Truth is, Mobius doesn't remember how many times he's met Loki.

Gorgeous fic that was recommended to me recently. The character study here is truly top-notch.

Still need to leave comments on some of these fics and my to-read list is still miles long. This is an incredibly talented fandom. Tagging anyone tagged here to share their face fics if they want. Happy reading!

Oh another shameless plug for my previous fic recs

Past Fic Rec Friday | Platonic fics | Multi-Chapter Fics | Post S2 Fics | Post S1 Fics

One more- A TLOU fic (spoilers for S2, episode 2)

...

....

The Soles of Your Shoes Are All Worn Down by ermengarde

Joel is so fucking proud of her.

500 words of canon-compliant comfort that I desperately needed post S2, ep 2.

#lokius #loki series #lokius fic #fic rec

45 notes · View notes

footballfanficwriter · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!!!! I love ur work!!!! So watching bridgerton has inspired me a lot!! So imagine Jude and reader in regency era!! Like them maybe meeting at a ball at first, then they slowly start to court each other, fall in love etc! u can add ur own twist and spice and work ur magic!!!!!

Love's Redemption

A/n: I wanted to release this the day after of Season 3 pt2 and It's quite long, longer than my others but I hope you enjoy, pls comment at the end

The grand ballroom of Hartfield Hall sparkled with opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembled guests, their jewels glittering in the soft light. Ladies in resplendent gowns of silk and satin whispered behind their fans, and gentlemen in finely tailored tailcoats stood in small clusters, discussing the latest gossip or political intrigue.

Among these elite, Jude Bellingham, a young and dashing duke, stood out with his broad shoulders and an air of confidence that turned heads wherever he went. Despite his high status, his demeanor was approachable, his smile disarming, and his dark eyes keenly observant.

On the opposite side of the ballroom, I stood with my family, feeling slightly out of place amidst the grandeur. My dress, though beautiful, was simpler than most, a testament to my family's modest means compared to the aristocracy surrounding us. However, I held myself with a quiet dignity that I hoped would draw admiration from those who took the time to observe.

As the evening progressed, the time came for the first dance, and the Master of Ceremonies called for partners. The Duke of Ross's eyes scanned the room, finally settling on me. There was a spark of curiosity and recognition in his gaze but I quickly averted my eyes.

With a determined stride, The Duke made his way across the room, bowing slightly as he reached me t'was not until he was right in front that I noticed his presence as I was conversing with my Brother "May I have the honor of this dance?" he asked, his voice smooth and inviting.

I felt a flutter in my chest but managed a composed smile as I accepted his hand. "It would be my pleasure, Your Grace."

The two of us moved gracefully onto the dance floor, and as the music swelled, we began to waltz. The world seemed to fade away, and for those few minutes, it felt as though the duke and I were the only two people in the room. His touch was gentle, his movements confident, and I found myself drawn to him in a way I couldn't quite explain.

After the dance, he led me to the refreshment table, where we engaged in conversation. We spoke of our interests, our families, and our dreams, and he listened intently. The evening passed in a whirlwind of dances and conversations, and by the end of the night, I knew I wanted to see him again.

The next day I break my fast in the drawing room with a copy of Lady Wistledown

"Ladies and gentlemen of the ton it seems as though we have a new arrival in town the young Duke of Ross Jude Victor William Bellingham has come to take over his estate and claim his inheritance, he made his first appearance last night at Lady Danbury's first ball of the season, which was exquisite to say the least

The young Duke immediately caught the eyes of the Young ladies and their Mammas as they fought over his attention but it seemed he already had his eye on another, young Lady Y/n Berth, who was conversing with her brother at the time, did not seem to notice the Duke when he approached

As he asked for a dance she gracefully accepted and they took to the dance floor staring intently into each other's eyes as if they had been longing to find one another for a long time

The whole Ton had their eyes on them as they danced and Waltz on the dance floor so elegantly

Could this be the couple of the season or is it far to early to tell, one things is definitely for certain, they make a beautiful couple"

I smile at the paper remember and thinking about the events of the previous night how he held me, how softly he spoke when adressing me, when he refused to let my hand go after I tried to pull away, his grip gently tightening on my hand, as a silent plead to not let go, how he was so polite and kind towards me, the way we spoke about many things that we related to and how easy it was for the both of us to converse about many things

"Good morning My Darling, are you well?"

"Oh mamma, I am far from well I am splendid" I say smiling

"Am I correct to assume that you feel this way because of a certain Handsome Duke"

"Well mother your assumptions are quite correct, I cannot get him out of my mind, he is all I think about"

"Be careful now dear, you have only just met the Duke, get to know the person he is first before making any confessions"

"Of course Mamma"

Over the following weeks, Jude made every effort to court me. He sent me flowers, invited me for walks in the gardens of his estate, and attended every social event where he knew I would be present. With each meeting, I found myself falling for him a little more, charmed by his sincerity and kindness.

One sunny afternoon, as we strolled through the blooming rose garden at Hartfield Hall, Jude paused and turned to me, taking my hands in his. "I know we have not known each other for long, but I feel as though I have known you forever," he said, his voice filled with earnest emotion and got down on one knee. "You have captured my heart completely, and I cannot imagine my life without you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

I nodded, unable to find the words to express my happiness. "Yes, Jude. Yes, I will."

Lady whistledown

Dearest reader as it seems that as of this Afternoon the Duke of Ross has taken a bride, During the early hours of the Afternoon The Duke of Ross proposed to Miss Y/n Berth and she has accepted, the two were having an afternoon stroll when the Duke suddenly stopped walking and got down on one knee I would assume that he spoke a heart felt of words as it was a happy moment for the two, we congratulate the happy couple and wish them all the best

The wedding was a grand affair, attended by all of high society, hosted by Lady Danbury as she insisted that she wanted to be the one to host it, and who were we to decline such a gift, Jude and I were happy throughout the day and we could not take our eyes of each other amidst the splendor and celebration, the most important thing was the love between Jude and I.

The first few months of our marriage were blissful. We traveled, hosted dinners, and enjoyed the admiration of our peers. However, as time passed, whispers began to reach my ears. Gossip of Jude's past indiscretions and rumors of a former lover began to circulate.

One evening, at a particularly opulent ball, I noticed a strikingly beautiful woman across the room. Her eyes were fixed on Jude, and there was a familiarity in her gaze that sent a shiver down my spine. I approached Jude, intending to ask him about her, but before I could speak, she made her way over to us.

"Jude," she said, her voice dripping with confidence and a hint of malice. "It has been too long."

Jude's eyes grew bigger , and he took a step back. "Lady Laura" he said, his voice strained. "What are you doing here?"

Lady Laura smiled, a predator's smile. "I simply had to see the woman who captured your heart so completely."

I stood there, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. "Jude, who is she?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jude hesitated, his eyes filled with guilt. "She is... an old acquaintance," he said, but I could tell there was more to the story.

As the weeks went by, the tension between Jude and I grew. The whispers of scandal became louder, and I felt the weight of society's judgment. I confronted Jude one evening in the privacy of our home.

"Jude, you must tell me the truth about Lady Laura," I demanded, my voice trembling with frustration.

He sighed, rubbing his face with both his hands. "She was... she was my lover before I met you," he admitted. "I ended things with her when I realized I loved you, but she has not taken it well."

I felt a pang of betrayal. "Why did you not tell me?"

"I wanted to protect you from the scandal," he said, his eyes pleading. "I did not want our love to be tainted by my past mistakes."

Despite his words, the doubt lingered in my heart. The rumors continued to swirl, and Lady Laura's presence became a constant reminder of Jude's past. It was not long before a particularly vicious piece of gossip reached my ears: a letter, supposedly from Jude to Laura professing his undying love and regret over their separation.

I confronted Jude with the letter, my heart aching. Walking to our shared chambers and enter the room

"Jude is this tru-"

Rather then seeing my husband reading in bed like he usually is I find him on my vanity with Laura, shirtless and Laura half dressed in nothing but her under garments

They quickly jump and let go of eachother

"I should have listened to mother" I say and walk out and pack my things in a haste

"Darling, please listen"

"Leave me"

"Just listen"

"I cannot stand the sight of you right now"

I leave in the carriage and go to my mother's house

When I arrive I tell my mother everything that happened, Laura's arrival, the letter and what I saw them doing and her face hardens and she tells me that I can stay for as long as I wish

3 days later

I'm sitting in my room reading a copy of Lady whistledown

"I am here to see my wife" I hear just outside the window

It's him, I slightly peak my head just enough to see him

His hair is a mess, he's in nothing but an untied shirt that slightly shows his chest and trousers

"Apologies your grace but we have been given strict orders not to let you through" I hear one of the guards say

"By who?"

"Miss Y/n Berth"

"That is not her name, her name is y/n Bellingham the Duchess of Ross and she is my wife"

He fights his way past the guards and makes it through into the house

"Where is she"

"Where is my wife"

I slightly walk down the stairs just to see the encounter but making sure I am not seen

"What is the meaning of this" my mother asks as she approaches Jude

"I need to see her"

"She needs time" she replies firmly

"I have given her time, I have given her 3 days"

"Give her more then"

"Please I need to see her"

My mother pulls out a portrait of me from her pocket and shows it to Jude

"There you have seen her, now take your leave"

"I refuse to leave without seeing her, I want her to tell me as she looks at me that she does not wish to see me, then and only then will I take my leave" he says with tears in his eyes

"My goodness"mother says

I walk further down the stairs

"Tis alright mother I shall converse with him" I say

"Very well but I will still be in the room as a chaperone"

"She is my wife, I do not need a chaperone when I am with her"

mother is about to protest when I reasure her

"Mamma I will handle this"

She leaves the room and for a moment I feel sorry for Jude

"My love, oh how I have missed you" he says walking towards me but I step back and that stops him from walking

As Jude's silent plea echoed through the room, I stood there, my heart torn between love and betrayal. His disheveled appearance, the anguish in his eyes—it was almost enough to make me reconsider. But then I remembered the letter, the damning evidence of his infidelity, and my resolve hardened once more.

"What is it that you want?" I asked, my voice cold and distant, betraying none of the turmoil raging within me.

Jude took a step towards me, his expression pleading. "I want to explain, to make things right between the both of us," he said, his voice trembling with emotion.

I held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Explain what, Jude?" I demanded, my voice tinged with bitterness. "That you were caught with Laura in our chambers, half-dressed and shameless? That you wrote her a letter professing your undying love, while your own wife lay in bed, oblivious to your deceit?"

Jude's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he searched for words. But before he could respond, I continued, my voice growing stronger with each passing moment.

"I trusted you, Jude," I said, my voice trembling with anger. "I believed in our love, in the promises we made to each other. But you betrayed that trust, in the most hurtful way possible."

Tears welled up in Jude's eyes, his hands reaching out to me, but I stepped back, out of his reach. "I cannot forgive you, Jude," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Not now, not ever."

As Jude's tear-filled eyes pleaded with me for understanding, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. But sympathy could not erase the hurt, the betrayal that had cut me to the core.

"What of the both of us?" Jude whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "What of our life together?"

I met his gaze with a steely resolve, my heart hardening against the pain. "There is no 'both of us" anylonger" I replied, my voice cold and distant. "Not after what you have done."

Jude's shoulders slumped, his heart breaking before my eyes. "But where will you go?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice. "What will people say if they are to find that my wife is living with her mother?"

I sighed, knowing that there was no easy answer to his question. "I will return home in two days time," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "And when I arrive, you will not refer to me as your wife. The only time we will play the role of husband and wife is when we are in public. Behind closed doors, we are merely people who stay together, nothing more you shall not disturb my peace and I shall do the same, you are free to seek solace in anyone in the ton, you have already been unfaithful, you might as well continue the streak."

Jude's eyes widened in shock, his heart breaking all over again. "But what about children?" he asked, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "Who will bear the children, make the heir?"

I met his gaze head-on, my resolve unwavering. "Take a second wife" I said, my voice cold and distant. "Someone who is willing to bear your children, to fulfill the duties of a wife. I have no desire to bear your children, to be tied to you in such a way."

Jude's face fell, his dreams of a family shattered beyond repair. "But what about your dream?" he asked, his voice filled with desperation. "To be a mother, to care for our children, to love them wholeheartedly?"

I shook my head, a bitter smile playing on my lips. "That dream will never be fulfilled" I said, my voice hollow with grief. "I have come to terms with that fact."

Jude's eyes filled with tears, his heart breaking at my words. "But would you treat my children badly, with hatred?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I met his gaze with a steely resolve. "No, Jude," I replied, my voice cold and distant. "I cannot punish innocent children for the decisions their parents made."

With that, Jude wiped his red eyes and turned away, his heart heavy with regret. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible as he made his way to the door.

The minute he closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with my shattered dreams and broken heart, my facade crumbled, and I collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down my cheeks as I mourned the loss of the life I had once known.

2 days later

Two days later, as I returned home, the air was thick with tension, the weight of our fractured relationship hanging heavy in the air. Jude awaited me in the grand foyer, his posture stiff and formal as he greeted me with a curt nod.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice cold and distant, the warmth that had once filled his words replaced by an icy reserve.

"Your Grace," I replied, my own voice tinged with bitterness as I returned his greeting with equal formality.

For a moment, we stood there, two strangers in the grand expanse of our once-happy home, the silence stretching between us like a chasm too vast to bridge. I could see the longing in Jude's eyes, the desire to reach out to me, to hold me close and make everything right again. But he held himself back, the weight of our past mistakes too heavy to bear.

With a sigh, I turned away, making my way up the grand staircase and down the hallway towards my chambers. But before I could disappear behind closed doors, Jude's voice cut through the silence like a knife.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice filled with uncertainty.

I paused, turning to face him with a cold stare. "To my chambers," I replied, my voice laced with bitterness.

Jude frowned, confusion clouding his features. "But your chambers are this way," he said, gesturing towards the hallway that led to our shared bedroom.

I shook my head, a bitter smile playing on my lips. "No, Jude," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Your chambers are that way. Mine are this way."

Jude's eyes widened in realization, the truth of my words hitting him like a blow to the chest. "You did not think I would go back there," I continued, my voice filled with venom, "after the events that took place in those chambers."

With that, I turned and walked away, leaving Jude standing there in the hallway, his heart heavy with regret. And though I knew that our relationship was beyond repair, a part of me couldn't help but wonder what might have been if things had been different. But as I disappeared behind closed doors, the weight of my decision settling over me like a shroud, I knew that there was no going back, no undoing the damage that had been done.

The following day I received an invitation from Lady Laura for tea, after receiving the invitation from Laura, I hesitated for a moment, feeling a knot of unease tighten in my stomach. The thought of facing her again, of enduring her taunts and jibes, filled me with dread. But curiosity, and perhaps a hint of defiance, won out in the end, and I found myself making the journey to her estate.

As the carriage got in front fo the grand mansion, my apprehension grew. The imposing gates swung open with a creak, and I stepped out of the carriage, steeling myself for what lay ahead. The servants greeted me with forced smiles as they ushered me inside, but their eyes betrayed a sense of apprehension, as though they knew what awaited me within those walls.

Laura was waiting for me in the drawing-room, a triumphant smile playing on her lips as she greeted me with false warmth. "Ah, Duchess, how lovely of you to join me," she purred, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do come in and make yourself comfortable."

I forced a polite smile, though every fiber of my being longed to turn and flee. "Thank you, Lady Laura," I replied, my tone carefully neutral as I took a seat opposite her.

As the servants brought in tea and refreshments, Laura wasted no time in getting to the point. "I'm sure you're wondering why I invited you here today," she began, her eyes glittering with malice.

I arched an eyebrow, though inwardly I braced myself for whatever barb she was about to unleash. "I must admit, the thought had crossed my mind," I replied coolly.

Laura's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "You see, Duchess, I believe in honesty above all else," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "So I will not mince words. I invited you here today to gloat, to revel in the knowledge that I have won."

I felt a surge of anger rise within me, but I forced myself to remain composed. "Won what, exactly?" I asked, though I already had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Laura leaned forward, her eyes locked on mine with a chilling intensity. "I heard your footsteps approaching the chambers that day, Duchess," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I had known you were coming, and I saw an opportunity to secure my place by Jude's side once and for all."

I felt my eyes grow bigger as her words sank in. "You... you threw yourself at him?" I whispered, unable to conceal the horror in my voice.

Laura's smile turned into a smirk, devoid of any remorse. "Oh, please, Duchess, spare me your shock and indignation," she said dismissively. "You may have had his heart once, but now it belongs to me. And there's nothing you can do to change that."

Her words were like a dagger to my heart, each one twisting deeper than the last. But amidst the pain and betrayal, a fire ignited within me—a determination to fight for the man I loved, no matter the cost. With a steely resolve, I met Laura's gaze head-on, refusing to let her see the depth of my pain.

"Is that so, Lady Laura?" I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside me. "Well, forgive me if I refuse to accept defeat so easily. Love is not a game to be won or lost—it is a bond that transcends time and circumstance. And mark my words, I will fight for Jude with every breath in my body, until the day I draw my last."

With that, I rose from my seat, every inch the proud Duchess, and made my exit, leaving Laura to stew in her own malice. Though the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and heartache, I knew one thing for certain: I would not rest until Jude was mine once again, body and soul.

As I raced home to find Jude, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling of uncertainty gnawing at my soul. Every step felt like an eternity as I hurried through the grand halls of our estate, my mind consumed with thoughts of what awaited me at the end of my journey.

"Where is my husband?" I demanded, my voice tinged with panic, as I interrogated servants and guards alike in search of any sign of Jude's whereabouts.

But no one had seen him, and my anxiety only grew with each passing moment. It wasn't until a guard reluctantly approached me, his expression grim, that I finally received the news I had been dreading.

"Your Grace," he began, his voice hesitant, "Lord Bellingham has left the estate. He... he said he would return in a week's time."

My heart sank like a stone, the weight of his absence crushing me with its finality. But amidst the despair, a flicker of determination burned within me—a resolve to find Jude and make things right, no matter the cost.

With a steadying breath, I turned on my heel and made my way to my chambers, my mind racing with thoughts of how to reach him, how to let him know that I forgave him, that I still loved him despite everything that had transpired between us.

As I sank into a chair, my hands trembling with emotion, I couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency coursing through my veins. I needed to find Jude, to make him understand that I was willing to start anew, to rebuild what we had lost.

But as the days stretched on without any sign of his return, the weight of his absence bore down on me like a heavy burden. And though I longed to reach out to him, to let him know that I forgave him, that I wanted to begin again, I knew that time was running out.

With a heavy heart, I penned a letter to Jude, pouring out my thoughts and feelings in words that I hoped would reach him wherever he was. I begged him to come back to me, to give our love a second chance, to believe in the power of redemption.

But as the days went , and still there was no sign of him, I couldn't help but wonder if our love was truly strong enough to withstand the trials that fate had thrown our way. And though a part of me clung to the hope that Jude would return to me, I couldn't shake the nagging fear that our love had been lost to the winds of time.

A week later, the anticipation of Jude's return had me on edge. I had rehearsed my words countless times, determined to convey my forgiveness and my willingness to start anew. When the door to the drawing room opened, and Jude walked in, my heart leaped with a mix of hope and trepidation.

"Jude!" I exclaimed, standing up quickly, a genuine smile spreading across my face. "I have something to tell you—"

But his demeanor was somber, his eyes avoiding mine. His lack of enthusiasm made my heart sink.

"Your Grace," he interrupted quietly, his voice laden with resignation, "I have something to tell you as well."

I paused, my smile faltering as I searched his face for any sign of the man I had fallen in love with, the man I hoped to rekindle a life with.

"I will be taking Lady Laura as my second wife," he continued, each word like a dagger to my heart. "She will be the mother of my children."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis as his words sank in. I felt a cold wave of shock wash over me, my smile fading into an expression of disbelief.

At that moment, Laura entered the room, her smug smile widening as she took in the scene. The sight of her, with her triumphant air, made my blood boil, but I forced myself to remain composed.

"Oh, how lovely that will be for the both of you," I said, my voice strained but controlled. I managed a brittle smile, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

With that, I returned to my seat and picked up my sketchbook, my fingers trembling slightly as I resumed my drawing. The lines I had been so carefully crafting now seemed meaningless, the vibrant colors now dull and lifeless.

As I focused on my work, I felt Jude's eyes on me, but I refused to meet his gaze. The silence between us was heavy, fraught with unspoken words and lingering regrets. Laura's presence only intensified the tension, her smug smile a constant reminder of the betrayal that had shattered my world.

Yet, despite the turmoil raging within me, I forced myself to maintain my composure. I would not let Laura see the depth of my pain, nor would I let Jude see the cracks in my facade. In this new reality, I had to find strength in my resolve, even if it meant burying my true feelings deep within.

The weight of the silence in the drawing room was oppressive, the air thick with unresolved tension and unspoken words. Just as I resumed my drawing, the quiet was broken by the arrival of a servant, holding a fresh edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers. He handed it to me with a respectful bow before quickly retreating from the room.

Curiosity piqued, I unfolded the paper, my eyes scanning the familiar, elegantly penned words:

Lady whistledown

"Dearest Readers, it appears that the Duke of Ross has been seen entering his estate with Lady Laura, raising many an eyebrow among the ton. This unexpected development has left society abuzz with speculation. Is the once enviable union between the Duke and Duchess of Ross in jeopardy? Lady Laura’s presence at the Duke’s side has led to whispers of a potential shift in the household’s dynamics. What could this mean for the Duchess, a woman known for her grace and poise amidst adversity?

Rumors suggest that Lady Laura has been remarkably bold in her pursuits, capitalizing on the Duchess’s recent absence. Could it be that the Duke, faced with mounting pressures to secure his lineage, has found solace in Lady Laura’s calculated charms? Or is this simply a ploy to stir the pot

One thing is certain: this scandal will be the talk of every salon and drawing-room from here to Grosvenor Square. And, as always, I shall be here to document every delicious detail for your reading pleasure. Stay tuned, dear readers, for the drama is only just beginning."

The words stung, each sentence a bitter reminder of my current predicament. I glanced up to see Jude’s reaction, but his face was inscrutable, a mask of controlled emotion. Laura, however, seemed to relish the attention, her smile growing even more smug.

"Well, it appears Lady Whistledown has taken quite an interest in our affairs," Laura said, her tone dripping with mock concern. "It must be difficult, Duchess, to see your private matters aired so publicly."

I met her gaze evenly, refusing to be baited. "It is indeed unfortunate, Lady Laura. But I have always believed that one’s actions speak louder than any words written on a page."

Laura's eyes flashed with irritation, but she quickly composed herself, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. "Of course, Duchess. And I’m sure your actions will be watched very closely by everyone in the ton."

I forced a smile in return. "As will yours, Lady Laura."

With that, I turned back to my sketchbook, determined to ignore her presence. Yet, I couldn't help but notice Jude watching me, a mixture of regret and longing in his eyes. His gaze lingered, but I refused to acknowledge it, focusing instead on the lines and colors before me.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. Finally, Laura stood, her voice cutting through the tension. "If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall take a tour of the gardens."

She left the room, her exit as dramatic as her entrance. I remained seated, my heart heavy with the weight of our fractured relationship. The reality of our situation had never felt more painfully clear.

"Your Grace," Jude said quietly, breaking the silence. "I—"

"There's nothing more to say, Jude," I interrupted, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "You've made your decision, and I must live with it."

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but I turned my attention back to my drawing, signaling the end of our conversation. The silence returned, thicker and more oppressive than before.

As the afternoon light waned, casting long shadows across the room, I knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and heartache. But I also knew that I would face it with dignity and strength, determined to reclaim my happiness, even if it meant forging a new path alone.

As the days passed, Laura's presence in the house became increasingly unbearable. Her taunts and jabs seemed endless, each one more cutting than the last. One afternoon, as I sat in the drawing room, trying to lose myself in a book, Laura sauntered in, her smug smile firmly in place.

"Ah, Duchess," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Still lost in your books, I see. How quaint."

I didn't look up, determined not to let her get under my skin. "Yes, Lady Laura, I find solace in literature. Something you might consider."

She ignored my comment, seating herself on a nearby chaise lounge, her eyes never leaving me. "You know," she began, her tone casual, "I've been thinking a lot about the future. About the Bellingham legacy."

I stiffened but refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.

"It's quite exciting, really," she continued, undeterred. "Jude and I have talked at length about it. The children we will have, the heirs to the Ross estate. I can already picture myself with a little one in my arms, the next Duke or Duchess of Ross."

Her words were a knife to my heart, but I kept my expression neutral, my eyes fixed on the pages of my book. "How lovely for you," I said flatly, turning a page with deliberate slowness.

Laura's smile widened, sensing my discomfort. "Indeed. It’s a great honor to bear the next Bellingham heir. I imagine it must be difficult for you, knowing that your own dreams of motherhood will never come to fruition."

I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening on the book. "My dreams are none of your concern, Lady Laura."

"Oh, but they are," she said, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "You see, I will be fulfilling the role you failed to. Jude deserves an heir, and I am more than capable of giving him one. It’s only a matter of time before the entire ton knows of our joyous news."

She placed a hand on her stomach, as if already envisioning herself with child. "Can you imagine? The entire town celebrating the announcement of our firstborn. Such a wonderful occasion it will be."

I forced myself to remain calm, though my heart was pounding in my chest. "Congratulations, Lady Laura. I wish you all the best."

Laura's smile faltered for a moment, as if my lack of visible reaction had disappointed her. "You’re very gracious, Duchess. But I can’t help but wonder how you truly feel, knowing that another woman will bear your husband’s children."

I finally looked up, meeting her gaze with cold detachment. "I feel nothing, Lady Laura. Your provocations are wasted on me."

She laughed, a brittle sound that echoed through the room. "We shall see, Duchess. We shall see."

Unable to endure any more of her taunts, I rose from my seat and made my way to the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

As I walked down the hallway, the weight of Laura’s words pressed heavily on my heart. I didn't notice Jude until I nearly collided with him, his strong arms catching me just in time to prevent a fall. The proximity was startling; I could feel his breath against my skin, his eyes searching mine with a mixture of concern and longing.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice soft and earnest.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, and the anger and hurt between us faded into the background. It would have been so easy to close the distance, to let myself fall into his arms and forget everything else. But the reality of our situation came crashing back, and I stepped away, breaking the spell.

"I’m fine," I said, my voice colder than I intended. "Please excuse me, Your Grace."

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but I turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the hallway, a silent witness to our fractured relationship.

A few days later:

In the bustling halls of Ross House, tensions simmered beneath the surface as Lady Laura's shrill voice echoed down the corridor. I followed the sound, my curiosity piqued, only to find her berating one of the maids for a trivial mishap.

"You imbecile!" Laura screeched, her face contorted with rage as she loomed over the trembling maid. "How dare you break my favorite vase? Do you have any idea how much it cost?"

Before I could intervene, the dutiful maid stammered out an apology, her eyes brimming with tears. "I-I'm sorry, my lady. It was an accident, I swear!"

But Laura was relentless, her tirade growing more vicious by the second. "You're nothing but a clumsy oaf! If it were up to me, I'd have you thrown out on the streets where you belong!"

Unable to stand by any longer, I stepped forward, my voice calm but firm. "That's enough, Lady Laura. It was just a vase. There's no need for such cruelty."

Laura's eyes flashed with fury as she turned her venomous gaze on me. "And who are you to speak to me like that? You're nothing but a lowly duchess, barely fit to lick the dirt from my shoes!"

Her words stung, but I refused to back down. "I may be a duchess, but I will not stand idly by while you mistreat those beneath you. Everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, regardless of their station."

Before Laura could launch into another tirade, Jude's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his brow furrowed with concern as he entered the room.

The dutiful maid seized the opportunity to explain, her voice trembling as she recounted the events leading up to Laura's outburst. Jude listened intently, his expression darkening with each passing moment.

When the maid had finished, Jude turned to me, his eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. "Is this true, Y/N? Did Lady Laura really behave in such a manner?"

I nodded, my heart heavy with sadness. "Yes, Jude. I'm afraid so. She was shouting at the maid for accidentally breaking her vase, and when I tried to intervene, she insulted me."

Jude's jaw clenched with barely contained fury, and he turned to Laura, his voice cold and unyielding. "Lady Laura, this behavior is unacceptable. You owe the maid an apology, and you will show the duchess the respect she deserves."

But Laura's face twisted into a mask of defiance, her eyes blazing with rage. "I owe them nothing!" she spat, her voice filled with contempt. "They're both beneath me, just like everyone else in this wretched house!"

Jude's expression darkened at my words, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. "That's enough, Laura," he admonished, his voice firm and commanding. "You will not mistreat our servants, and you will certainly not speak to my wife in such a manner."

Lady Laura's eyes narrowed, her defiance evident as she retorted, "She is not your wife, I am. She is merely a woman who resides in our house."

Jude's jaw clenched at her words, his resolve unyielding. "She is not just a woman, Laura. She is my wife," he asserted firmly.

With a huff of indignation, Lady Laura stormed out of the room, leaving Jude and me in an awkward silence. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over our exchange.

Before Jude could break the silence, I turned on my heel and left the room, the tension too thick to bear. As I made my escape, I could feel Jude's eyes on me, a silent plea lingering in the air.

But I couldn't face him, not now. Not when the wounds inflicted by Lady Laura's taunts were still raw and stinging. So I retreated to the solace of my chambers, seeking refuge from the storm that raged within me.

After the tense encounter with Lady Laura and the incident with the maid, an awkward silence settled between Jude and me. I found myself unable to look him in the eye, the weight of his betrayal heavy on my heart.

In the days that followed, I made a conscious effort to avoid him at all costs. I broke my fast outside in the tranquility of nature, seeking solace in the gentle rustle of leaves and the soothing chirp of birdsong. But when Jude approached, his footsteps echoing softly on the path, I couldn't bear to stay.

Certainly! Here's the extended scene with more excuses:

"I... I forgot something in the house," I stammered, hastily rising from my seat and fleeing before he could utter a word.

In the halls of Ross House, I found myself turning the other way whenever I caught sight of him, my steps quickening as I tried to put as much distance between us as possible. I knew he wanted to talk, to explain, but I couldn't bring myself to listen, not when the wounds were still so fresh.

At mealtimes, I either took my food outside, where the open sky provided a welcome distraction, or retreated to the solitude of my room. I couldn't bear the thought of sitting across from him, the weight of his betrayal hanging heavy in the air.

And when Jude dared to approach me in the library or the drawing room, I made excuse after excuse to escape his company.

"I just remembered an urgent letter I need to write," I would say, hastily gathering my belongings and making a hasty exit.

Or, "I left my favorite book upstairs. I must retrieve it at once."

Each excuse felt flimsier than the last, but I clung to them desperately, unwilling to confront the truth of our fractured relationship.

"I... I must check on the flowers in the garden," I would mumble, casting a quick glance towards the nearest window before hurrying away.

Or, "I think I left the kettle on in the kitchen. It wouldn't do to let it boil dry."

"I'm feeling quite fatigued. I believe I shall retire early tonight," I would murmur, pretending to yawn and covering my mouth with my hand.

Or, "Oh, look, I seem to have dropped my handkerchief. I must go back and retrieve it."

But no matter how hard I tried to avoid him, Jude was always there, a constant presence in my thoughts and my heart. And as much as I tried to push him away, a part of me still longed for the day when we could mend the rift between us and find our way back to each other once more.

The soft rustle of pages turning and the faint scent of aged parchment enveloped me as I lost myself in the world of my book. The Library provided a sanctuary of solitude, a refuge from the tumultuous emotions that swirled within me.

Lost in the narrative, I didn't hear Jude's quiet footsteps as he entered the room. It was only when he stood before me, his presence demanding attention, that I reluctantly tore my gaze away from the page.

"Y/N," Jude's voice cut through the silence, his tone firm yet tinged with a hint of desperation. "I require a moment of your time."

I blinked, taken aback by the sudden interruption. "Jude, I... I was just..."

But he didn't let me finish. With a determined stride, he reached out and gently closed the book in my hands, his eyes locking onto mine with unwavering intensity.

"Y/N, I implore you," he said, his voice softening slightly. "You've been avoiding me at every turn, and I cannot endure it any longer. We must converse."

I opened my mouth to protest, to make another feeble excuse and flee the room, but before I could utter a word, Jude's hand closed around my wrist, holding me in place.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and steady. "I shan't release you until you have heard my words."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest as I reluctantly met his gaze. There was a raw vulnerability in his eyes, a silent plea for understanding that tugged at my heartstrings.

With a resigned sigh, I allowed myself to be led to a nearby chair, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions. But as Jude began to speak, his words filled with sincerity and remorse, I found myself slowly letting down my guard.

He sat in front of me and taking my hands in his. His touch was warm and firm, yet trembling with emotion. "I simply cannot stand Laura, nor the distance that has grown between us. It's tearing me apart," he began, his voice filled with raw honesty.

I met his gaze, my heart aching at the vulnerability in his eyes. "Jude..."

"Every morning, I wake up hoping to see your face, to see your smile." he continued, his voice trembling. "But all I find is an empty space beside me, a reminder of what I have lost. I miss you, Y/N, more than words can express. I miss the way you know exactly what I need, sometimes even before I do. The way you would bring me a cup of tea just the way I like it when I'm buried in work, or the way you'd remind me to take a break when I'm pushing myself too hard and you taking over my work even though you had your own duties that needed to be taken care of

I listened to his heartfelt confession. His words cut through the wall I had built around my heart, each one resonating deeply within me.

"Do you know how much I hope every day that you will change your mind, that you will forgive me and come back to me?" Jude's voice broke, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. "I sometimes stare at you when you're not looking, hoping that one day you'll see the love in my eyes and decide to give us another chance."

He paused, his eyes searching mine for any sign of forgiveness. "I want you to be the mother of my children, Y/N. Not Laura. I want our children to grow up in a home filled with love and warmth, not the coldness and spite that Laura brings. She is not the kind of person I want raising my children. I want you. I needed you and I grew desperate to get you back on my side, Laura was simply a ploy of attempt to have you be my wife again,I had thought if you saw what Laura was taking from you, you would wake up and fight for our love."

His grip on my hands tightened, his eyes filled with tears. "Y/N, you are the light of my life, the reason I wake up every morning. Without you, I am nothing. I am lost. I know I have made mistakes, that I have hurt you in ways I can never take back, but I swear to you, with every fiber of my being, that I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, proving to you how much you mean to me. Please, Y/N, give me another chance. I cannot bear the thought of losing you forever."

His words hung in the air, filled with a raw, desperate sincerity that took my breath away. For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, the tension between us crackling like electricity.

Gathering my courage, I looked up and met his eyes. "Jude, I found out something... something that changes everything. Laura threw herself on you because she heard my footsteps approaching that day in our chambers making it the perfect set up to make it look like the both of you were in a compromising position."

His eyes widened in shock and anger. "What? She... she planned it?"

I nodded, my voice trembling. "Yes. She had told me when she invited me for tea the day I arrived. She practically gloated about it."

Jude's hands clenched into fists, "I was oblivious to her game," he said through gritted teeth. "I thought I was doing what was right, protecting our honor... but all the while, she was manipulating me, us."

I reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Jude, I wanted to tell you the day I had come to realise, to let you know I forgave you and that I wanted to fix our relationship. But you had been gone for a week, and when you returned, you brought Laura, presenting her as your second wife. I thought you had fallen for her."

He shook his head vehemently, tears forming in his eyes. "No, Y/N. I have never loved her. It was always you. I was blind and foolish, but my heart has only ever belonged to you and will always belong to you."

the weight of our misunderstandings and lost time pressing heavily upon me. "Jude, you must understand how much it hurt, seeing you with her, thinking you had chosen her over me."

Jude's expression softened, his voice breaking with emotion. "I am so sorry, my love. I know I can't undo the past, but I swear I will make it right. Laura will be gone, and I will spend every day proving my love to you."

The atmosphere in Ross House was tense as Jude and I waited in the drawing room for Laura's arrival. The soft glow of candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls, adding to the solemnity of the moment. I stood by Jude's side, my hands clasped tightly together, feeling a mixture of apprehension and determination.

When Laura entered the room, her expression was one of smug confidence, as if she believed she held all the cards. But the steely resolve in Jude's eyes made it clear that he was not to be trifled with.

"Jude, darling, what is this about?" Laura asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

Jude's jaw clenched, his patience wearing thin. "Laura, we need to talk," he said, his voice firm and authoritative.

Laura's facade of innocence faltered for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. "Of course, darling. What is it?" she asked, her eyes darting between Jude and me.

Jude took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Laura's. "I know the truth about what happened that day in the chambers," he began, his voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. "I know you threw yourself at me because you heard Y/N's footsteps approaching."

Laura's eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly masked it with a scoff. "Oh, Jude, whatever are you talking about? I would never—"

Jude cut her off, his patience wearing thin. "Enough, Laura. I know what you did, and I will not tolerate it any longer. You have caused nothing but pain and suffering in this house, and I will not allow it to continue."

Laura's mask of indifference cracked, her eyes narrowing with anger. "You can't just throw me out. I am your wife."

Jude's expression hardened, his resolve unwavering. "No, Laura, you are not my wife. You never were, and you never will be.You are nothing but a liar and a manipulator. I want you out of this house. Now."

Laura's face contorted with rage, but before she could protest further, Jude spoke again, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

"You have caused nothing but pain and suffering to my one and true wife, the woman who will bear my children," he declared, his words laced with a raw intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

Laura's eyes widened in shock at the harshness of his words, but Jude was not finished.

"Every moment you've spent in this house has been a torment for her, a relentless onslaught of manipulation and deceit. You have tried to tear us apart, to poison the love we share, but you will not succeed. Not anymore."

As Laura stood before us, her arrogance slowly giving way to defiance, Jude's patience wore thin. He stood tall, his eyes ablaze with a fierce determination to rid our home of her toxic presence once and for all.

Jude's voice was like steel, cutting through the tense silence of the room. "You have caused enough damage. It's time for you to leave."

Laura's expression hardened, her eyes narrowing as she squared her shoulders in defiance. "And if I refuse?" she retorted, her tone dripping with contempt.

Jude's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You have no choice," he growled, his voice low and menacing.

For a moment, Laura hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. But then, with a defiant sneer, she straightened her spine and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not going anywhere," she spat, her voice laced with venom.

The air in the room grew thick with tension as Jude's anger simmered just beneath the surface. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitching with restraint, his eyes darkening with a dangerous intensity.

"Leave, Laura," Jude's voice was a low rumble, barely contained rage simmering beneath the surface. "Before I make you leave."

But Laura remained unmoved, her gaze defiant as she stood her ground. "You wouldn't dare, leave m for such a thing,?" she taunted, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Jude's temper flared, his control slipping away like sand through his fingers. In that moment, his anger was palpable, a living, breathing force that seemed to fill the room with its sheer intensity. Even I, standing by his side, felt a chill run down my spine at the raw power emanating from him.

"You have no right to speak to her like that," Jude's voice was a thunderous roar, echoing through the room like a gunshot. "She is my wife, and you will show her the respect she deserves."

Laura's smirk faltered, her confidence wavering in the face of Jude's unrelenting fury. But before she could respond, Jude continued, his words dripping with contempt.

"You are nothing but a manipulative, conniving woman who has brought nothing but pain and suffering to both of us, especially to my wife," he spat, his voice filled with venom. "You treated her as if she was nothing, as if her feelings didn't matter. You used her, Laura, and I will not stand for it any longer."

The room seemed to tremble with the force of Jude's rage, the air thick with the weight of his words. For a moment, Laura looked as though she might argue, but then, with a defeated sigh, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

As the door slammed shut behind her, Jude's shoulders heaved with the effort to control his temper, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. I reached out to him, my hand trembling as I gently touched his arm.

"Jude," I whispered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Are you okay?"

As the echoes of Laura's departure faded into the distance, leaving behind an eerie silence, Jude stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving with the remnants of his anger. I approached him cautiously, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his arm, a silent gesture of support.

"Jude," I murmured softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Are you alright?"

His shoulders tensed at my touch, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to relax. He turned to me, his eyes still burning with the fire of his fury, but there was a hint of something else there too - a vulnerability, a rawness that made my heart ache.

"I'm fine, Y/N," he replied, his voice tight with emotion. "But she had no right to speak to you like that. No right at all."

I nodded, my heart swelling with gratitude for his unwavering protectiveness. "I know, Jude. But she's gone now. We do not have to worry about her anymore."

Jude's expression softened slightly at my words, and he reached out to gently cup my face in his hands. "I'm sorry my love" he murmured, his voice filled with regret. "I did not mean to scare you."

I placed my hand over his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "tis alright, Jude," I whispered, my voice filled with tenderness. "I know you were only just attempting to defend me. And I appreciate it more than you know."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Jude's lips, and he pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest. "I love you, Y/N," he murmured, his voice filled with warmth and affection.

I nestled into his embrace, feeling the tension slowly melting away as the warmth of his love surrounded me. In that moment, as we stood there, united in our victory over Laura's tyranny, I knew that together, we could face whatever challenges lay ahead. And as Jude pressed a tender kiss to my forehead, I felt a sense of peace and safety wash over me, knowing that he would always be there to protect me, no matter what.

Months passed, and as the seasons changed, so too did our lives. The echoes of Laura's departure faded into distant memory, replaced by the joyful anticipation of a new life entering the world.

In the quiet stillness of our home, Jude and I eagerly awaited the arrival of our little one. The nursery had been lovingly prepared, filled with soft blankets and tiny clothes, each piece a testament to the love that had blossomed between us.

And then, one crisp autumn morning, our prayers were answered as our baby made their grand entrance into the world. The sound of their first cry filled the room, a symphony of new life and boundless joy.

Jude's eyes brimmed with tears as he cradled our precious bundle in his arms, his heart overflowing with love and wonder. I watched him, my own eyes misting over with emotion, as he pressed a tender kiss to our baby's forehead, his voice trembling with awe.

"Welcome to the world, little one," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. "You are the most precious gift we could ever ask for."

And as I nestled into Jude's embrace, our baby nestled snugly between us, I knew that our journey was only just beginning. Together, we would navigate the ups and downs of parenthood, cherishing each moment as if it were our last.

In that moment, as the soft glow of dawn bathed our little family in its warm embrace, I felt a sense of peace wash over me, knowing that no matter what trials lay ahead, we would face them together, bound by a love that was stronger than any storm.

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