#hush duchess

[electricaquarius]

Midnight fanfiction time strikes again, this is my first Gale x reader! Completely gender neutral, only thing described is that the reader is prone to migraines. Short and fluffy. (Also it seems like some of my fics are missing? I'll repost them sometime soon)

As you slowly opened your eyes you felt the morning light like two daggers directly to your skull. You rolled over and groaned, using your arm to try to block it out but it was no use, you officially had a migraine. As if the tadpole wasn't enough your head was now trying to implode on itself. The sound of Lae’zel sharpening her blade was nearly enough to make you cry. Hands over your ears you stumbled out, still dressed in night clothes, needing to explain you cannot possibly adventure out today. As the unofficial leader you felt a certain sense of guilt taking a day off but the world feels so spacey and dreamlike it's impossible to concentrate on much other than the pain. You believe Wyll had ordered you back to bed at some point but honestly it could have been any of your friends. You're just happy to be able to rest once more.

You woke up later, but you're not sure how much time had passed. Hours, certainly, since it was dark outside. Although, there was a slight tinge of weave in the air that made you question that, alongside the soft sound of waves even though you were miles from the nearest coastline. You sat up and scanned your tent to find Gale sitting in one corner, book on his lap. ‘Gale…?’ You croaked out, throat dry from sleep.

His voice was a low whisper. ‘Ah, good morning. Or evening, as it might be.’ He chuckled. ‘I thought a darkness spell might help, I understand you were quite light sensitive this morning. Please, let me know if you want me to stop.’ He reached over and poured a cup of water for you. ‘Drink. Dehydration will only make your headache worse.’

You took the cup from him gratefully and took several small sips. ‘How long was I out? Have you been concentrating for all that time?’ Added to the guilt of a wasted day, you now have the shame of taking up Gale's time when he could have been doing one of the thousand little chores you were unaware of before you started camping with your be-tadpoled friends.

‘Most of the day, I'm afraid. I do hope you're feeling better. Although you needn't worry, darkness is hardly a demanding spell even to maintain it for several hours.’ There was that pride coming through again. At times it infuriated you but right now it was quite endearing.

You sat up properly and brought your knees to your chest. ‘Still, to sit with me like this for the whole time I was asleep… you're very nice to me. I'm not quite sure why.’ You shrugged. It was true enough, you couldn't quite see Gale doing something *this* nice for your other companions. There had been something between you ever since your little magic lesson but nothing that either of you could name.

‘I could say the same about you, after having not only accepted my condition but helping to treat it. Let's say it's an equal exchange.’ He tucked away the book and brought a hand to your forehead. ‘No fever. Good. I'm afraid treating that would be a mite more complicated.’

You rolled your eyes and flopped back down onto the bedroll. ‘Must you be so mercenary? That was the perfect time to tell me how much you like me.’ You took another sip of water to avoid Gale's gaze for a moment.

‘I won't argue, considering you're still recovering, but I will say you were the first to bring it up. And I won't waste time telling you what you already know. You mean a great deal to me, and if I may be so bold, I do to you.’ He leant down and kissed your forehead before rising. ‘I'll call you when dinner is ready, you should eat.’

Stunned into silence, you can't respond until Gale is across the camp and preparing dinner. If this is how he reacted, you make a mental note to play sick more often.

[electricaquarius]

BG3 Romance Picrew Game

Rules: Show me your Tav/Durge and their BG3 romance, then give me their song. Tag some friends to share too!

Thank you for the tag @redroomroaving!

Of course, it's my self insert Joanna and Gale. I tried my best with the picrew lmao.

Their song: https://open.spotify.com/track/5O2PYoZ698iEsq0Xw4kGVO?si=dee675e6221a4984

(Okay so this isn't really 'their' song but I have a super intense fanfic scenario where Mystra talks directly to Joanna and manipulates the fuck out of her that will probably never get written and yeah)

tagging @autistichalsin @letters-from-dekarios @tadpoleatemybrain @graysparrowao3 and you, if you're reading this :3

BG3 Romance Picrew Game

Rules: Show me your Tav/Durge and their BG3 romance, then give me their song. Tag some friends to share too!

Thanks for the tag lovely @coreene <3!

Lethe & Halsin

I wrote alll about this disaster wild magic sorceror durge and his giant druid in 'On nights without much sleep'

(Made using this picrew)

AND THEIR SONG:

no pressure tags for @lizziemajestic @electricaquarius @russica @benicemurphy and anyone else who wants to do this really <3

[angelic-petty]

can't wait for bunny by mona awad to get its theatrical adaption so i can write the words "god forbid women have hobbies" on letterboxd and get 2K likes

[beloveds-embrace]

Noona i NEED to yap about this thought I had about the angst Dukedom au so my brain worms will let me sleep. I Imagine a people's princess duchess who spends time with others to fill in for the lack of emotional connection between her and John and people just do not understand why she is out of the house so much. Tea with the ladies? She's there. Charity event for struggling orphans? Duchess is there to help! Church in the middle of the afternoon on a random day? She's in the pew. The house is taken care of, her parties are enjoyable, but why is she gone so often? Duchess just gives a pained smile and says that her husband does not mind her being gone because neither the staff nor him want her there. Why ask her husband for love when he clearly just needed someone to run the duchy?

Hope your sleep went well <3 i nees these men to suffer tbh

The house runs itself.

At least, that is what you tell yourself. The schedules are in place, the staff well-trained, the estate thriving. You have done your duty as Duchess of Price, managing affairs with grace, ensuring that the duchy’s name remains untarnished, that the books are balanced, and the tenants are provided for. You have even done more than what was expected, expanding the duchy’s charitable reach, establishing new programs for the less fortunate, and ensuring the nobility sees the Price name attached to every act of generosity.

And yet, despite all your efforts, there is no warmth in your home.

The staff keep their distance. There are no hushed greetings in the morning, no inquiry into your health when you sit at the long dining table, staring at your untouched, cold meals that are a stark contrast to the others’ steaming dishes.

They serve you as required, but do not linger. They do not ask if you would like another cup of tea, if your shawl is warm enough, if the flowers in your room are to your liking. You don’t need them to do it, but- it’s the emphasized loneliness that hurts the most.

John is no different.

You see him at dinners, always seated across from you, his gaze never lingering, his words few and functional. He speaks to Kyle more than he speaks to you. He shares glances with Simon that you have never been privy to, and when Johnny appears with a dish in hand, John’s expression softens in a way it never does for you.

Meanwhile, you are… tolerated.

And so, you leave.

Your absence from the manor goes unnoticed at first.

The city welcomes you in ways your home never has. Tea with the noble ladies? You never miss an afternoon, sipping floral blends as you listen to idle gossip, smiling where appropriate. A charity event for struggling orphans? You are the first to arrive, personally distributing warm coats and new shoes to children who look at you with something you rarely receive- gratitude.

Church in the middle of the afternoon? You kneel in silent prayer, hands clasped, seeking answers from a God who offers none. And yet the statues and pews are still not as cold towards you as your own husband.

“Duchess, you do so much,” Lady Bethany remarks one afternoon over luncheon, her fan flicking open with an appreciative snap. She’s a pretty thing, recently wed and already draped in the pretty glow of pregnancy. “I swear, I see you more than your own husband must.”

You laugh softly, demure and mindful. “The duchy has many responsibilities.”

“And yet you make time for everything but your home?” Another lady muses, curiosity laced in her tone.

You lower your gaze to your plate, the question hanging in the air. You have learned to navigate this tightrope of expectations, of unspoken truths wrapped in silk and civility.

With a practiced, pained smile, you say: “My husband does not mind my absence.”

You let the words settle before adding, voice barely above a whisper, “Neither he nor the staff particularly miss me.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Lady Bethany’s fan stills, her eyes softening towards you. Another woman fidgets with her gloves. No one speaks, and you take a sip of your tea, the bitterness sharp on your tongue.

Why ask for love when your husband only needed someone to run the duchy?

And the house remains indifferent to your absence- at first.

The staff continue their duties as usual, the butlers maintaining the schedule, the maids ensuring the rooms remain pristine. No one spares a thought for why you are always gone, only that it makes their jobs easier.

Until, one evening, Kyle pauses in the study, glancing at the untouched tea left on a side table. The Duchess usually ensures the staff are well taken care of, he realizes. Who had reminded them today?

No one.

In the kitchens, Johnny frowns when he notices the ledger left open, the list of requested ingredients unusually long. You had always been meticulous, approving the finest quality for the household, ensuring every item was fresh and of the best stock. The kitchen had run smoothly for months, never wanting for anything.

Now, it was as if no one had noticed the difference until the fruits arrived bruised and the meat not quite up to the usual standard.

Simon notices, too. The events you planned, the invitations you managed, the way you always ensured John’s name was spoken with admiration at every gathering- without you, the social scene seemed… quieter. The duchy’s presence less prominent.

And John notices most of all.

At first, he does not think much of it. His wife was always attending some function or another. That was her role, wasn’t it? To manage the estate, to see to the duchy’s reputation?

But then, he starts seeing the effects of your absence the longer you continue to keep to the people and not the duchy.

The reports come in slower. The meetings with city officials, once neatly arranged for his convenience, are now scattered, delayed. The letters from the nobility are fewer, the invitations sparser. The charitable events- ones that bore the Price name- have dwindled in number.

And the house itself… feels empty.

John returns from meetings to silence. Dinners are quiet, even when the others join him. There is no soft rustling of skirts as you pass through the halls, no gentle murmur of your voice as you speak to the staff.

One evening, he enters his study to find a stack of correspondence on his desk- letters you had handled, decisions you had made.

You had been doing so much.

Too much.

And no one had noticed.

When he finally seeks you out, it is not in your chambers.

John finds you in the drawing room, seated by the window, your hands resting idly in your lap. Your gaze is distant, unfocused, the usual light in your eyes dimmed. Winter was drawing nearer, and so gatherings dwindled in number and as a result, you had to spend more time in this cold, unfeeling house.

For the first time in months, he hesitates.

“…You’ve been busy.” He says at last.

You turn your head slightly, but you do not smile. Or at least, put no effort in making your smile appear genuine. “As have you, my lord.”

He swallows, uncertain. “You have done a fine job with the duchy, wife. The duchy is in good standing.”

You inhale, waiting for the unspoken ‘but.’

“But…” He hesitates. “Some matters are not quite as well-managed as before.”

Your lips curl in a faint, humorless smile. “Did it take you long to notice?”

John exhales slowly. He had not noticed, not until things started slipping. But now, looking at you- at the exhaustion in your frame, the emptiness in your eyes- he realizes you had been holding up far more than he had ever given you credit for.

“… You aren’t here anymore much.” His voice is quiet now, almost careful. As if he is speaking to an animal that will bite him if he misspeaks.

You laugh softly, but there is no joy in it. “Would you want to spend your days in a house where you are not wanted? That aside, I assumed you would prefer not to see me at all.

“I never said you weren’t wanted. Nor have I told you I’d prefer it if you were away.”

“You didn’t need to.”

The realization strikes down much like a hammer, and all that’s left in its wake is silence.

John had always assumed you knew- knew that your marriage was one of convenience, that his affections lay elsewhere, that you were never meant to be part of the life he had built with his men.

But looking at you now, he realizes he had mistaken your silence for understanding. Had mistaken your silence for acceptance, for agreement that you were complete fine with this cruel treatmeant.

He had thought you accepted it, that you preferred the distance.

But had you?

Or had you simply endured it because… there was nothing else to do?

You sigh, bowing your head to avoid his gaze. Your voice is quiet when you speak next, bereft of any hope, any warmth.

“…I shall return to my duties in the morning, and I will keep out of everyone’s way, my lord. Goodnight.”

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 3/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 3 :

The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden stood like a monument to a time when art was worshipped like religion. Tonight, its grand entrance gleamed under a halo of soft amber lights, a string quartet playing near the entrance as elegant guests stepped from black cabs and town cars, their breath visible in the cold air. 

Inside, everything glowed: marble floors reflecting chandeliers, velvet staircases winding upward like ribbon, golden balconies, the scent of expensive perfume and old wood. People murmured in soft voices, as if too loud a sound would shatter the illusion. 

Lando Norris stood near the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, tugging a little at the stiff collar of his tailored black suit. 

“This is a bit much,” he muttered. 

Pietra turned and shot him a look. “This, is culture. Behave yourself.” 

Max adjusted his cufflinks beside him, eyeing the crowd like he wasn’t sure he belonged on. “Did you really drag us to a ballet?” 

Pietra’s eyes twinkled. “Not just a ballet. The Nutcracker. Classic. Winter tradition. Magic. Glitter. Men in tights. Dreams.” 

Lando lifted a brow. “Men in tights, huh?” 

“Oh, grow up,” she laughed, swatting his arm. “It’s a masterpiece. And it’ll be good for you.” 

“Good for me how?” 

“Perspective,” she said smugly. “You’re always going on about cars and adrenaline and lap times. Well, try precision, beauty, and five pirouettes en pointe. Let’s see you do that.” 

“I drive at 300km/h for a living,” he said dryly. 

“And tonight you’ll sit still for two hours and appreciate that not everything is solved by horsepower,” Pietra countered. “Now straighten your jacket, we’re in a royal box. This is the Royal Opera House. Respect the moment.” 

Lando sighed but complied, pulling at the lapel of his suit jacket. The group—dressed to the nines—ascended the staircase like tourists who had accidentally wandered into the dream of a duchess. The women glittered in long satin dresses, the men striking in black tie and sleek silhouettes. 

And though Lando looked good he felt like he was walking through someone else’s story. The grandness, the quiet, the elegance—it wasn’t Monaco nightclubs or paddock chaos. It was another world entirely. 

Inside their box, the lights dimmed. 

Pietra leaned forward, eyes wide and sparkling. “Okay, okay, so,” she whispered like a child about to spill a secret. “The Nutcracker is a two-act ballet. In the first act, there’s a Christmas party, and a girl named Clara gets this magical nutcracker doll from a mysterious man. That night, everything becomes enchanted. The doll comes to life, there’s a fight with the Mouse King—don’t laugh—and then the nutcracker transforms into a prince.” 

Max leaned closer. “And then?” 

“Then they travel to the Land of Sweets, meet all these magical characters from different countries, and it’s all dreamy and symbolic and kind of romantic.” 

“And people like this?” Lando asked, genuinely puzzled. 

Pietra grinned. “People love this. Watch. You’ll see.” 

The lights dimmed further. 

A hush fell over the entire theatre. 

And then, the curtain rose. 

It started gently. A twinkling overture, warm lights over a wintry backdrop of a Christmas tree and glittering snow. Children ran across the stage in costumes, dancers moved in character, graceful and composed. 

Lando was watching with polite curiosity when, halfway through the first act, everything shifted. 

The moment she stepped onto the stage, it was like time paused. 

Ariana. 

His breath caught. 

No warning. No introduction. No spotlight drama. 

She entered as if summoned by the music, wearing a pale blush gown that shimmered under the lights, hair pulled back with a delicate silver ribbon. She was Clara. The Clara. The lead. 

Lando blinked once. Twice. 

His heart was suddenly very loud. 

Pietra’s mouth dropped open. 

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “That’s her.” 

Lando didn’t move. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on her. 

She floated across the stage—not just graceful, not just pretty—but impossibly, breathtakingly alive in a way he hadn’t seen before. Every movement was deliberate, yet effortless. She leapt and landed like gravity didn’t apply to her. She spun in tight, impossible circles, arms open as if catching stars. 

She wasn’t just performing. 

She was the story. 

And suddenly, Lando understood. 

Why she moved like that. Why she held herself the way she did. Why she had looked at him like noise in a quiet room. Because this—this was her universe. This was the language she spoke. 

And he’d never even asked. 

He felt a strange, tight twist in his chest. A mix of shame and awe. 

He hadn’t known. 

Hadn’t known she was this. 

Throughout the rest of the ballet, he barely blinked. 

He wasn’t the only one. The entire box was mesmerized. Even Max, who had made at least three jokes on the way in about falling asleep during the performance, now leaned forward, chin in hand, watching every scene like he was afraid to miss something. 

They watched Ariana twirl through snowstorms, dance with the Nutcracker Prince, glide through dreamscapes and magic lands. Her expressions were soft and full of wonder, her body arching in impossible angles, muscles whispering with the kind of strength he hadn’t realized ballet required. 

There were no words spoken on stage. 

But Lando had never felt someone say so much with silence. 

When the final curtain fell, the theatre erupted in applause. 

The entire company bowed. 

And then Ariana stepped forward, alone, bathed in golden light, cheeks flushed from exertion but serene, glowing. She bowed deep, arms sweeping with practiced elegance. 

Lando clapped, but he couldn’t stop staring. Something twisted hard inside him again—like the moment you realize you’ve underestimated someone so completely it hurts. 

Pietra leaned in close. “So… still think ballet’s boring?” 

He swallowed. “She didn’t tell me.” 

“Tell you what?” 

“What she does. Who she is.” 

“Well, you didn’t actually ask,” Pietra said gently.

The applause was still echoing in Lando’s ears when they stepped back into the velvet-lined corridors of the Royal Opera House. The performance had ended, but he felt like he was still inside it somehow—like something had cracked open inside him and the air hadn’t quite settled. 

Pietra turned to the group, eyes alight with the glow of champagne and satisfaction. 

“So,” she said, with the flair of someone about to drop a bomb, “slight update. These weren’t just regular tickets.” 

Max raised a brow. “Pietra…” 

“They were donor tickets. Which means…” she leaned in closer, “they come with an invite to the post-show gala.” 

“What gala?” Lando asked, distracted. 

She grinned. “The gala. In the grand reception room. Dinner, champagne, the company dancers mingling with donors and patrons. Which means…” she gave Lando a pointed look, “she will be there.” 

Lando’s pulse jumped before he could stop it. 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. 

Five minutes later, he was striding through the gilded maze of corridors, ascending the wide staircase toward the reception hall, his jacket adjusted just enough to pass for elegant despite the nervous energy thrumming beneath it. 

The gala was already in full swing. 

Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over towering arrangements of white roses. Waiters in white gloves wove through clusters of well-dressed guests with silver trays of champagne and amuse-bouches. A small quartet played softly in the corner, the music smooth and expensive. 

And then—like a moment conjured from thin air— 

She entered. 

Ariana. 

Her hair was pulled into a sleek high ponytail, the ends curled slightly and brushing her bare back. She wore a floor-length white silk gown that clung to her like poured light. The back dipped scandalously low, revealing the clean lines of her spine and the soft muscles of her shoulders. The neckline was delicate, held by thin straps, the fabric moving like water as she walked in heels she made seem silent. 

He didn’t have the words for it. 

Maybe no one did. 

And apparently, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. 

Almost instantly, she was surrounded. Dancers from the company enveloped her with cheers and laughter, their energy infectious. Some older patrons came forward, offering her flowers wrapped in tissue paper, others fawning with compliments, air kisses, and flutes of champagne she accepted with elegant restraint. 

Lando watched from a distance, frozen in place. 

Then he arrived. 

The lead dancer from the ballet. 

Tall, chiseled, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a dancer’s arrogant poise. He wore a midnight blue tuxedo that looked custom, his dark blond hair slicked back, smile gleaming like it had been rehearsed. And he greeted her like they were the only two people in the room. 

His hand went to her waist first—innocent. Then her back. Lower. Too low. 

Lando’s jaw tightened. 

They were laughing at something. She leaned in to whisper something in his ear, and the dancer grinned like he’d just won a game no one else had even noticed being played. 

Max appeared beside Lando with a champagne flute. “Dude. You look like you’re ready to fight someone.” 

Lando didn’t respond. 

“You gonna talk to her?” 

“I’m trying,” he muttered. “But she’s surrounded.” 

“And the blond guy?” 

“Don’t ask.” 

Pietra sidled up next, watching Ariana like a hawk. “She’s like… otherworldly tonight.” 

“She always is,” Lando murmured. 

Pietra glanced sideways at him, then smirked. “You’re so screwed.” 

It was almost an hour after that Ariana slipped away. 

He saw her excuse herself from the circle gently, handing her untouched champagne to someone else, her smile soft but clearly rehearsed. She walked through the tall glass doors onto the balcony that overlooked Covent Garden below, the city twinkling with holiday lights. 

She stood there alone, arms resting lightly on the marble edge, her gown catching the breeze. 

Lando didn’t wait. 

He moved. 

Quiet steps. Fast heart. 

When he stepped onto the balcony, she turned—slowly, calmly. Her expression unreadable. 

There was a long pause before either of them spoke. 

“You followed me,” she said, voice soft, without surprise. 

“You left the room,” he replied. 

“Not everyone would follow.” 

“I’m not everyone.” 

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer. Then she turned back to the city lights. 

He took a breath. “You were incredible tonight.” 

A pause. 

“Thank you.” 

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I mean… really. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that was you. That you could do… that.” 

She tilted her head slightly, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “You never asked.” 

The words landed like a dart. 

“I should have asked.” he admitted.  

A flicker of something passed over her features—disbelief, or maybe disappointment. 

“You didn’t seem that interested.” 

“I was,” he said quickly. “I am.” 

“But only now,” she said, her voice still calm, but with a slight edge. “Only after you saw me on stage. In a silk dress. Under lights.” 

“That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer again. “I just didn’t know how to talk to you. You… you’re—” 

“Different?” 

He hesitated. “Not what I’m used to.” 

She gave a small laugh, almost bitter. “That much is clear.” 

He stepped closer, so close now the chill of the air seemed to warm between them. 

“I didn’t come out here to fight,” he said, quieter now. “I just… needed to talk to you.” 

“You’re doing that,” she said, her tone unreadable. “But why?” 

He looked at her for a long moment. Then asked, quietly, “Can I ask you something first?” 

She nodded, cautiously. 

“Do you even know what I do?” 

Ariana blinked, taken off guard. “No,” she admitted. 

Lando gave a crooked smile. “Formula One driver.” 

She stiffened. Visibly. 

He watched the breath leave her lungs, slow and sharp like a cold wave. 

“That’s sound… dangerous.” 

“Sometimes, yeah.” 

She turned to face him fully now, the silk of her gown catching moonlight, her arms crossing lightly in front of her body. “I don’t like dangerous things.” 

He tilted his head. “Why not?” 

“I prefer things I can control,” she said simply. “A set rhythm. A choreographed routine. No improvisation. Nothing sudden or reckless.” 

He smiled—just a little. “I’m sudden and reckless.” 

She didn’t smile back. “I noticed.” 

There was a quiet beat between them, the breeze fluttering a piece of her hair across her cheek. She didn’t move to brush it away. 

“I like being surprised,” Lando said. “The adrenaline, the edge of not knowing what’s coming. That’s… where I live.” 

“Sounds exhausting.” 

“Maybe.” He took a small step forward, dropping his voice lower. “But it’s also kind of beautiful, if you learn how to see it. You should come watch sometime.” 

She raised an eyebrow. 

“Just once,” he said. “You let me into your world tonight. Let me show you mine.” 

“I don’t like danger,” she repeated, but softer this time. 

He gave her a look that lingered, slow and deliberate. “Maybe you don’t hate it as much as you think.” 

The tension between them shifted again—less prickly now, more charged. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak but changed her mind. 

“You really didn’t know I was a dancer?” she asked, quietly. 

“No. And I don’t know why it makes me feel like I’ve missed a hundred important things.” 

“You did.” 

Her voice was soft. Closer now. He could see the curve of her collarbone, the gentle rise and fall of her breath. 

“I want to know them now,” he said. 

She searched his face, something undecided flickering behind her eyes. Then he ask— 

“That dancer earlier. The one who played the prince.” 

Ariana stiffened. “We trained together since we were thirteen. He’s like a brother.” 

“…Didn’t look like a brother.” 

She smirked. “You’re jealous.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“You’re possessive for someone who barely knows me,” she said, stepping a little closer. Just enough for her perfume—something floral, sweet, and faintly powdery—to wrap around him. 

“I want to change that,” he said, voice low. “The barely part.” 

The distance between them had all but vanished. 

A wind passed through the balcony, her silk skirt brushing his legs, her ponytail swaying softly. Her eyes searched his face—carefully, cautiously. 

“Still not sure about you,” she whispered. 

“Good,” he whispered back. “I’m not sure about me either.” 

Her lips parted. 

Then— Someone called her name from inside. The spell shattered. 

She stepped back, visibly pulling herself together. 

“I should go,” she said gently. 

Lando nodded, pulse thudding. 

But as he turned to leave, she called softly, “Lando?” 

He paused. 

Her eyes met his, one last time. 

“You look good in a suit.” 

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

[electricaquarius]

Thank you for the tag @astarioffsimpmain!

Putting my spotify on shuffle and picking out the ones that make me look the most interesting lol. My taste in music is all over the damn place.

Suki Suki Daisuki - Jun Togawa

The Kids Ren't Alright - The Offspring

Jitterbug - Nanashi Hachiya

End of Small Sanctuary - Akira Yamaoka

Drowning Lessons - My Chemical Romance

Leviathan - G-Eazy

Love Me Dead - Ludo

Beautiful Girls - Sean Kingston

Romeo and Cinderella - doriko

Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen

Tagging: @redroomroaving @russica @lizziemajestic @el-tur-el @turquoiseoverthesea @underdark-dreams @tadpoleatemybrain @letters-from-dekarios @graysparrowao3 @theoneofwhomisblue

10 songs, 10 mutuals

Thanks @bhaalbabebardlock for the tag! Here's my 10, courtesy of Spotify's daylist

That Part by Lauren Spencer Smith

The Way I Loved You by Taylor Swift

Lose You To Love Me by Selena Gomez

happier by Olivia Rodrigo

In The Stars by Benson Boone

Dandelions by Ruth B

Forever by Lewis Capaldi

I miss you, I'm sorry by Gracie Abrams

Ghost of You by 5 Seconds of Summer

Love in the Dark by Adele

Tagging @micropoe10 @nyx-knox @pursuitseternal @marimosalad @lipstickghoulie @starryjuicebox @kaeoticneutral @phaseeternal @mouldering-casket @astarioffsimpmain

[hiraizyo]

two worlds apart.

pairing: manon bannerman x female reader

synopsis: being a daughter to a duke and duchess, manon knew she had little to no say as to who she would end up with. that didn’t stop her from seeking out others, specifically you, the daughter of a barman, whom she had become completely enthralled by. the only problem? you were of different social status to manon, and oh, what a scandal it would be if anyone were to find out.

tags: fluff, angst, suggestive, slight nsfw, forbidden love, royalty!au, lady!manon, commoner!yn, secret relationship

now playing: astronomy, conan gray

a/n: icl i don’t understand how i haven’t written for manon before like i have SOOO MANY ideas for her 😔😔 there is somewhat of an attempt at old english to fit the time period but the language is still kind of modern fyi. i hope you enjoy, sorry for any typos or spelling mistakes !

++ inspired by this ask. i apologize for taking so long, i’m also kissing the brick gently… before throwing it </3

manon’s laughter was bright and full of life, her giggles like music to your ears as her fingers tangled with yours and pulled you along with her. the wind whipped past your face, cold air of the nightlife briskly kissing your skin while your legs carried you in urgency, trying to keep up with the ghanaian woman. her curls bounced as she ran, much further ahead of you, the only thing keeping you attached to her was the grip she had on you.

it wasn’t just the sight of manon that had your heart racing, but also the adrenaline rushing through your veins from sneaking out into the night, your only chance of being able to see her.

you had lost count of how many times you’d done this before, though now you were much better skilled than when you and manon first began your relationship. you knew when to leave the house, which route was best to take for your shared secret place, how to be discreet with your stares when out in public.

“darling,” you called out, smiling at her. “why are you making such haste?”

manon looked back briefly. “why are you not?” she countered, flashing you a teasing grin.

a couple more steps was taken before manon stopped, her breathing heavy, as was yours. she yanked you down with her to the ground, falling back together on the grass in a fit of laughter, facing the starry sky.

“this is our one night together before i am to leave for the countryside.” she turned to face you, staring at your side. “i wish for it to be special.”

propping yourself on your elbow, you were slightly leaning over manon, looking down at her. “every moment spent together is special, my darling.”

she shuffled closer so that she was tucked below your arm, her smile soft and dashing. manon reached out to caress your cheek, thumb grazing over the cheekbone and leaned up to press her lips against yours in a sweet kiss.

the kiss was short lived, and when yours eyes fluttered open once again, nothing would have prepared you for the sight that resided in front of you.

you grinned, “have i ever told you how utterly gorgeous you are?” gripping onto her hand that rested on your cheek, you placed a kiss against it.

“you flatter me, ms. yn.” manon replied, her voice teasing, yet at the same time knowing.

“but it is true!” you declared, arching a brow at her. manon hummed as you continued. “i believe even the gods weep at your beauty.”

manon let out a loud laugh, though her heart stuttered in her chest. she couldn’t contain the smile that was battling to break free, her teeth grazing the soft flesh of her bottom lip.

“oh hush,” she tittered, and dragged her finger down from your nose until it reached your lips, tapping it twice. “you ought to put that mouth of yours to better use.”

you eyes danced over the soft features of her face, gazing from her dilated pupils to the curve of her nose, from the corner of her mouth to her exposed neck. you smiled gently, leaning forward, close enough that she felt your breath on her.

“as you wish, my lady.”

silencing manon with another kiss, your hand found its way to the small of her back while hers cupped your cheek once again. she kissed you back with vigor, her tongue dipping inside your mouth. you moaned as she let out a breathless sigh, your kisses traveling across her jaw and down to her neck. she leaned back, allowing you to have better access, and pulled on your hair tightly when she felt your teeth nip her skin.

you planted open mouth kisses across her collarbones, while your hand traveled lower, quickly and messily pushing the frills of her dress away. dipping your hand between her legs, slick wetness coated your fingers. the cream coloured material was quickly bunched in your tight grip as you moved to positioned yourself between her now bent knees, kissing the inside of her thighs, traveling to where she needed you most. the last thing you had seen before going beneath her dress was manon’s head thrown back, her gasps echoing around you as she lost herself in the ecstasy.

a while later, after manon had calmed down from her post orgasm bliss, she watched as you resurfaced, licking your lips clean. you hung above her, arm on either side of her and harshly kissed her for the third time. her fingers trailed over the back of your neck, pulling you down until your body pressed against hers.

when you’d finally separated from one another, you shuffled around, laying sideways, and settled to rest your head in her lap, silently counting the stars. manon sat up and leaned back on her hands, facing upwards with her eyes closed as she basked in the moment with you, a warmth encompassing her.

the cool temperature of the night provided great relief to the heat of your skin. it was quiet, the only sound being howls hooting from nearby trees.

“for how long will you be gone?”

manon looked down at you, regretfully. “i am not certain, a week or two.” she announced, moving her one hand from the grass to rake through your hair. “father has business to take care of, but he still wants the family to be together.”

you nodded, leaning into her touch. a soft exhale left you from the soothing sensation of her nails against your scalp. “i must confess a week away from you is too torturous for one to bear.”

“surely your heart can take it.” manon teased, her lips curved into a smile. she twirled a few strands of your hair around her finger.

“it cannot,” you uttered, staring at her longingly. “my heart calls your name.”

manon’s breath hitched in her throat. it wasn’t out of the ordinary for you shower her with romantic words, but each time you did, she could feel herself falling deeper and deeper.

“as does mine,” she admitted, her smile widening. her voice then lowered into a whisper, “i will be back before you know it.”

you looked up at her, wetting your lips with a swipe of your tongue. “i love you, more than you will ever know.”

the warmth that engulfed manon was unlike any other as she repeated the words back to you. your hand traveled up to where hers was, linking your fingers together and squeezed. your eyes shone with affection as manon squeezed back, a silent promise that you’d be together once again.

the days without manon had proven to be difficult. they were slow, almost lacking life. you busied yourself with helping your mother around the house, taking care of your younger brother, and assisted your father at his bar. though it was frowned upon for a woman to be seen working, you endured the strange looks of the many lords and other men that occupied the place.

you kept careful watch of how long it’d been since manon left. seven nights had passed already, and you ached for her more than ever. the longest you’d been apart was three days, courtesy of the ghanaian’s lack of free time and the many balls she had to attend.

it was nightfall and you found yourself sitting at the window seat, a forgotten book in hand. the glass showed your reflection, but your eyes were on the moon above. the only thing that brought you comfort was knowing that somewhere, out there, manon was staring too.

with a sigh, you shut the book closed and shoved it back into the bookcase between the others. you walked into the chambers of your room, and with a heavy heart, willed yourself to fall asleep.

the following day, you repeated everything that you’d been doing from the start of the week. the only difference was a letter had been delivered to you once you reached home later that night. the stamp of the bannerman seal was on the flap of the envelope. you peeled apart the sealing wax, opening it hastily, taking out the piece of paper with rushed hands. manon’s handwriting was neat, only three words present.

nightfall. bannerman manor.

— m.

your eyes glistened with unshed tears. finally, after so long, you’d be able to see her.

it wasn’t long before you were out the house, sneakily closing the door and ventured out into the night. though you were confused as to why manon requested you at her place, it didn’t stop you from taking the journey.

carefully, you trudged along the outskirts of the manor, attentive as to not get caught by the surrounding guards. it was dark, so dark that you had to squint your eyes tightly in order to see.

manon was close by, she’d snuck passed the servants of the manor, quiet as a mouse. once near the gates, she quickly caught sight of you from the silhouette of your movements and the crunching of leaves beneath your feet. slowly, manon approached you from behind, tapping your shoulder.

you jumped from fight, a gasp escaping you. you turned around, with widened eyes and a fearful heart that you’d been caught. manon clamped a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, her own eyes shining with mischief. she then glanced around to be sure no one had heard you.

you sighed in relief, shoulders slumping forward. with a delicate touch, you peeled manon’s hand away from your mouth, a short, breathless laugh of nervousness leaving you. she tangled your fingers together, and turned to walk back in the direction she’d come from. you knitted your eyebrows together, out of both confusion and fear, but manon only placed a finger against her lips, telling you to be silent.

she took one last look to be sure that no one was around to see you and her, and pulled you along with her. you followed meekly, almost stumbling over your own feet.

the inside of the manor had you looking around in astonishment, the tall walls and intricate designs of white and gold were beautiful. you’d never seen anything like, the pure admiration on your face caused manon to giggle, finding your shock humorous.

soon, you’d made your way to her room.

the door shut behind her, and manon leaned her back against it, beaming at you. still with panic in set in your body, your frightened voice was heard in the dimly lit room, a candle burning in the corner.

“what is this?” you hissed, “why are we here?”

“is that how you greet someone you’ve missed dearly?” manon tilted her head to the side, a fire dancing about in her eyes.

you blinked, “no, but this is far too dangerous!” gesturing to the door, you hinted at what lurked behind it. “what if someone had seen us?”

manon paid no mind to your frantic state. she took prolonged, deliberate steps toward you, a smirk set in place. when she finally reached you, her pointer finger ran along the edge of your jaw, almost as if she was taunting you.

“kiss me.”

your voice shook, “manon—”

“i saw you today,” she flicked her gaze up to your eyes. “with a girl awfully close to you.” manon quickly retracted her finger, like she had been burned, and it felt as if her hand was never there at all. “is that what you do when i’m not here? entertain others?”

as you took in her words, you noticed the tinge of aggression. they had a sharp bite to them, and the way manon’s body was rigid told you all that you needed to know.

she was jealous.

it was a sight you liked far too much for you to admit.

you stepped closer, head dipping down. “i belong to you entirely.”

manon’s eyes connected with yours, her stare so intense that it had your insides tingling. her voice was husky, “is that so?”

“i swear it.” you mumbled, leaning in further. your hand gripped her waist, the layer of fabric being on the only thing keeping you from feeling your skin against hers.

manon tilted her head up to meet your lips in a featherlight kiss, her lips barely brushing against yours. you pulled away, your other hand sweeping your knuckles across her cheek.

“i dreamt of you while you were away.” you confessed, the tenderness in your voice a stark contrast to the tension between you and manon.

she tugged you closer by your neck, “now there is no need to dream any longer.”

whatever else you wanted to say was stuffed down as manon pressed a rough kiss to your lips. you stumbled back from the force, furrowing your eyebrows as you kissed her passionately.

she trailed her hand down to your ribcage, holding it tightly. her other hand held was placed on your ribcage as well, as she pushed you back until you collided with the dresser in her room. the wooden furniture knocked against the wall, the sound loud and rattled around the room.

manon’s lips were bruised by the time she moved her attention to your neck, while you fought with every bit of strength left in you not to rip the back strings of her dress, desperate to feel her. a soft moan slipped out your mouth as manon littered kisses over your skin, feeling your throat bob up and down you as swallowed. your hands made a mess of her curls, bringing her back up to connect your lips once again, teeth harshly clashing against one another.

unbeknownst to you and manon, her lady’s maid stood behind the door, listening in. a hand covered her mouth, the impure sounds she’d heard frightening her.

two days came and went.

that morning, manon felt as if something dark was lingering in the air, awaiting her presence. it wasn’t until she’d been called in to her father’s study when the ball finally dropped.

“tell me it is not true.” her father said, back turned to her.

the last thing manon expected when she stepped into the room was for him to bring you up. now, standing with her head down, eyes trained to the floor, she shuddered at the coldness in her father’s voice.

“it is merely a fantasy of hers.” manon replied. her hands were shaking, so she gripped them together and hid them behind her back.

her father turned around to face, his stare was hard. “you mean to call your lady’s maid a liar?”

“no!” she shrieked, tone fearful. “i-i only meant that perhaps she was… mistaken.”

manon watched as her father chuckled bitterly, and she felt a chill run down her spine. she turned her head to the side, not being able to hold her fathers dark gaze.

“mistaken? i hardly think so.” he commented, and manon felt as if she’d been cut with a blade.

she gulped down her nerves. “you take her word over mine, father?”

“your word means nothing!” he bellowed out. his face contorted into one of anger, pointing a finger at her. “if she is correct in her claims, we cannot have you bring shame upon this family, manon.”

manon had half a mind to find her lady’s maid and strip her of her job, but she stayed rooted to her spot, unable to move.

silence hung heavy in the air, it weighed on her body like a rock.

the scrapping of a chair’s legs rang in manon’s ears. her father sat down at his desk, his hands folded together. he took in a deep breath, and shut his eyes, but manon could tell this was nowhere near the end of their conversation.

“so, which is it?” he asked, and waved his hand out. slowly, his words left his mouth, falling like acid rain on manon’s skin. “tell me, or i shall have your lover slayed before your eyes.”

“you can’t!” she gasped. manon’s knees began to feel weak, she stumbled towards the desk, gripping onto the dark brown table. her eyes pleaded with him, tears threatening to fall.

manon’s father was rarely a cruel man, but as she looked into his eyes, they had an icy glare in them. her father stared at her menacingly, and she choked on her breath, feeling as if her airflow was being constricted.

“you can’t…” she whimpered brokenly, her voice lost in her throat. “please, father!”

tears leaked from her eyes, wetting her cheeks. she swiped her tongue over her lip, tasting the saltiness. as she silently begged him, her father never wavered, his jaw tense and locked.

the reality of the situation dawned on her.

manon had your life in her hands.

as if threatening you was not enough, her father’s voice was heard again, ripping all of her happiness from her brittle hands.

“you will marry lord martin’s son, and you will do so without any argument. he is a fine, suitable man, and this is the last i ever hear of that girl.”

the loud and heavy stomping of the dark brown horse was nothing compared to beating of manon’s heart. it was harsh against her ribcage, feeling as it would jump out at any moment.

cold wind whipped against her cheeks, blowing past her ears as it whistled around her. she yanked on the ropes, instructing the stallion to go faster, hooves hitting hard on the ground.

you were soon in manon’s vision, your back facing her as you took in the fresh air of the night. she slowed down the horse until it trotted your way, and she quickly dismounted it, tying the rope around a tree.

“my love.” you called upon seeing her, reaching to wrap your arms around her once she was close.

manon mustered up a smile and placed a gentle kiss on your lips, her fingers intertwining with yours. she gazed up at you, though you could tell there was something wrong, the crease in her eyebrows evident of that.

“what is that matter?” you asked, cupping her cheek softly.

manon shook her head and attempted to smile again, “nothing to fret about.” she replied, taking her hands in yours and kissed your knuckles.

her hands were smooth in comparison to your rough and dirty ones. you chuckled lightly, easily being able to see through her.

“you take me for a fool?” you quipped, raising a brow. manon sighed and leaned her head against your shoulder, falling into you.

“no.” she murmured, her lips touching your skin caused goosebumps to arise.

you ran a hand over her head, all the way down to back of her neck and rested your hand there. manon could feel the agony in her heart, knowing she had to tell you of her fathers plan to have her wed lord martin’s son. her breath hitched in her throat.

“yn, i—” she began, stopping herself.

it was difficult to hear with her head stuffed into your neck, so you placed both hands on her forearms and pulled her away. the tears that gathered below her eyes alarmed you, curiosity now settling in your chest.

“what is it?” you asked her.

manon breathed shakily, her eyes meeting with yours.

slowly and with deep sadness, she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. manon couldn’t bare to break the news to you, but she knew she would have to eventually.

“i am to be married in three weeks.”

what?

your eyes widened, body going stiff.

manon sensed the stillness of your movements, taking in a sharp breath and shuddered. she hastily grabbed at your hands, her eyes frantic.

“my father, he—” she said, pausing at the fear she felt after the night in the office. “he hreatened to have you killed. i couldn’t let you die!”

shaking off the stunned feeling, you swallowed heavily and pulled up one of manon’s hands to press it against your chest. beneath her palm, manon could feel your heart beating. it was steady, a reminder that you were still alive and breathing. you needed to calm her down.

“shh, hey, it’s alright.” you whispered, trying to derail the situation. “i am here, i’m alive.”

you brows were knitted together as you stared deep in manon’s eyes. tears freely rolled down her cheeks, no longer being able to contain her emotions, sanity quickly slipping away.

“i don’t want to leave you.” she whimpered, her voice cracking.

at her vulnerable state, your own tears began to well in your eyes. you blinked them away, trying to stay strong for the both of you, but it was difficult when you felt as if you were being ripped apart.

you hushed her once again when she began to murmur under her breath, a mess of words and syllables that sounded foreign to your years.

it was a rare sight to see manon so defeated.

you took in a gasped breath, your voice lost. manon was quick to pull you against her, wrapping her arms around your midsection, holding you close to her as her mind ran a mile a minute, swirling with thoughts of how your relationship would survive.

she wasn’t thinking clearly, her judgement clouded by heartbeat and the unfairness of having to marry someone she did not love.

manon wouldn’t let this be the end.

she pulled away quick, her words falling out in a tumble. “we will run away— together! we can find a place, somewhere we can be free.”

her eyes were hopeful. it broke your heart even further to deny her of her solutions.

you shook your head violently, “no.” the shake in your voice contrasted with the somewhat firm answer. manon stared at you in disbelief, her eyes held a hint of betrayal.

you cupped her cheeks, “there is nothing i desire more than to have you, and i did. for a little while.” you admitted softly, pressing your foreheads against one another. “but i cannot ask you to break your family’s heart over me.”

manon was no longer feeling that sadness, instead she was angry, livid, at how easy it was for you to give the relationship up. her breathing quickened, putting some distance between you and her, her hand gesturing around the air.

she narrowed her eyes, “so instead we should suffer?”

“it is the sensible thing to do.” you told her, now finding the strength to harden your voice.

you knew from the very start of your relationship it would end at some point. after all, it was against social norms for someone of manon’s prestige to be with you, and it was even worse for it to be two women. and though it broke your heart to do this, you couldn’t let manon suffer the repercussions of going against her father.

“but i love you!” she shouted, vision blurry. “i love you, and i want— i want us to be together.”

your heart broke further from the desperation in her voice, seeing manon visually spiraling, clawing at the remnants of what once was.

you took a step towards her, pressing your lips against hers in an earth-shattering kiss. your brows furrowed together as you poured every ounce of emotion into the kiss. manon grasped her hands to your waist, her grip tight, fingers digging into your sides.

she breathed heavily, tear stained cheeks glistening in the moonlight as your own tears finally fell.

you hugged her close, setting your chin atop her head. “i know it is hard, but you must—” manon’s head vigorously shook in your chest. “you must do this, okay?”

manon let out a sob, the sound caused for your heart to shatter even more.

“my darling.” you mumbled, “my beautiful, beautiful manon.” pressing another kiss to her lips, you placed her hand over your chest once again. “you will forever be here.”

the cry that left manon was so strong it could shake the world. her lips quivered, shoulders slumping forward.

“my heart calls your name.” she told you brokenly, the words like a chant that reminded you you’d always have these memories to look back on.

“mine too,” a sob now ripped from your throat. “it always will.”

you fell into one another, once again desperately holding onto each other for dear life. your rough hands were gripped tightly, and she squeezed her arms to press your closer against her.

it hurt to let her go, but you had to, for her own safety and yours.

you needed to.

your breathing went shallow, almost as if the sharp edges of your broken heart were scraping against your lungs. the physical pain was evident on your face, tears never ending.

“now, leave.” you announced, looking up at the starry sky. “if you stay any longer… i may never let you go.”

manon bit down her lip so hard it drew blood, the effort it took to let you go was the most difficult thing she’d ever done.

she made quick work of untying the rope and mounting the animal, riding off into the dark night, a piece of her being left with you. as you watched manon ride away on her horse, you felt yourself finally crumble, succumbing to the deep pressure on your heart and the pain that raked through your body.

another cry left you, looking up at the stars, reminding yourself that even if you once had manon, it was doomed from the start.

the harsh truth felt like a slap to the face.

you and manon, no matter how much you tried, would always be two worlds apart.

so likeeee will i be forgiven for this or 🧍

[zaynessbeloved]

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: 2.5k words

Epilogue

The early morning light poured through the frost-trimmed windows of Ashbourne Hall, soft and golden, pooling across the silken folds of the bedding. The world beyond your chamber was quiet—blanketed in the hush of a countryside winter—but inside, warmth pulsed gently from the fireplace, casting a flickering glow over the elegant molding, the wide carved bed, and two lovers tangled beneath its covers.

You stirred only when his lips found your shoulder. 

“Mm,” you hummed, smiling before your eyes had even opened.

Zayne chuckled lowly against your skin, brushing back a strand of hair as he whispered, “There she is.” Another kiss, this one to your jaw, soft and lazy. “Still asleep while I’m dying beside her.”

“Dying?” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “Is that what this is?”

“It must be,” he said solemnly, trailing his fingers beneath the hem of your nightgown, “because I’ve been waiting to touch you for all of six hours. A man cannot endure such cruelty.”

You laughed, muffled against his shoulder. “You are the Duke of Ashbourne. You’ve survived duels, courtrooms, and the House of Lords, and yet six hours without touching your wife nearly kills you?”

His fingers slipped higher, teasing, reverent. “You underestimate just how deeply you ruin me, my Duchess.”

Your laugh was stolen mid-breath as his lips found the crook of your neck again, moving with the kind of hunger that never dulled. Five years had passed. Five years of mornings, nights, slow afternoons, and stolen hours in halls and libraries and the drawing room floor—and still, he touched you like he was discovering something sacred each time. As though time had only sharpened the edge of his desire.

“Zayne,” you warned softly, giggling into his collarbone. “The cats.”

Almost on cue, a weight plopped at your feet. Then another, followed by the distinct chirp of a low mewl. Neve leapt onto the bed with the grace of a predator, followed closely by Jasmine and the slow, hulking elegance of Frost, who immediately flopped beside Zayne and began licking his paw like he belonged there more than either of you.

“I’m starting to believe they’re possessed,” Zayne muttered against your skin.

“They’re just needy,” you teased, stroking Jasmine’s silken ears. “I wonder where they got that from.”

He pinched your waist in retaliation and made to slide over you again—only to curse under his breath when the knock came at the door.

“Your Graces,” a maid called. “Your breakfast.”

Zayne groaned, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “This house is cursed.”

You were still laughing when he sat up, tousled and frustrated and shirtless, glaring at the cats with as much betrayal as he could manage.

“They’ve been interrupting us for five years,” you reminded him sweetly, wrapping the dressing gown around yourself as the door opened and a tray was placed on the side table. “You’d think you’d have learned by now.”

“I have learned nothing,” he grumbled, but his lips quirked despite himself. 

You settled beside him on the chaise by the hearth, pulling the heavy blanket from the bed over both your laps as you reached for a piece of fruit.

“Do not think you’ve escaped, Duchess,” he whispered into your hair. “I fully intend to finish what I started.”

You kissed his cheek and popped a slice of pear into his mouth. “Finish your breakfast first, then you can finish ravishing your wife.”

He chewed with narrowed eyes, then picked a berry from the tray and fed it to you just as smugly. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You leaned into him with a soft laugh. “That, or I’m very persuasive.”

Zayne nuzzled your temple, resting his chin against your head as you both reached for more fruit.

“I have spoken to Seraphina yesterday,” you said after a pause, smiling as you traced the rim of your teacup. “Beatrice apparently tried to climb a bookshelf and gave Jace a near heart attack.”

Zayne chuckled. “He always said he wanted a girl.” 

“She’s giving him every ounce of karma he deserves.”

“Serves him right,” Zayne agreed, stealing another berry and leaning back, perfectly content. “You know, sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever reach a point where this doesn’t feel like a honeymoon.”

You looked over at him, heart still stupidly full after all this time. “I hope not.”

And with the cats curled around your feet, the fireplace crackling low, and his hand reaching for yours under the blanket, you believed it. Honeymoons could last a lifetime if you were lucky. And oh, how lucky you were.

The five years since your wedding passed like a dream stitched in gold—one soft day bleeding into the next, the passage of time marked more by the rhythm of shared breaths than by seasons. Ashbourne Hall had become more than a place. It was a world, carved carefully between ancient stones and sunlit windows, where love lived in every quiet morning kiss and every gentle brush of fingertips across the dinner table.

There were seasons filled with travel, others with snowfall, others with nothing but days spent lounging by the library fire while Frost draped himself over Zayne’s lap and Neve curled possessively at your side. Jasmine often nestled herself in a nearby sunbeam, dignified and judgmental, as though supervising her human household. You and Zayne had fought only in jest, teasing one another over misread maps or spilled tea or who got to read the newest acquisition first. You learned the notes of his laughter the same way you learned the hills of his body, and he learned your moods with a glance, a breath, a pause in your step.

And when it came to riding—well, that remained a shared delight neither of you ever tired of. On misty mornings and crisp afternoons, you would saddle your horses and fly across the fields that stretched between Ashbourne Hall and Everthorne Estate. Sometimes it was a calm ride, a hand held across the distance between two saddles. But more often than not, one of you would flash the other a glance—a raised brow, a mischievous smile—and then, without warning, dig your heels into the earth and take off.

Today was one of those days.

Winter clung to the edges of the morning, but the sky was blue, and the earth had softened. The snowdrops were blooming—shy little white petals peeking through the frost-dappled grass. You looked at them as you adjusted your gloves, mounted on your mare near the edge of the Ashbourne woods. The breeze tugged at your riding coat, and beside you, Zayne was watching you with that insufferably fond smile that never seemed to fade anymore.

“You’re stalling,” he said.

“I am admiring the flowers,” you replied with mock primness.

“You are trying to psych me out.”

You grinned, nudging your mare a few paces forward so you were chest to chest with his stallion. “Wouldn’t need to if I knew I had any real competition.”

That earned a scoff and a kiss to your gloved knuckles before he dropped them and adjusted his reins. “First to the ravine clearing?”

You nodded. “Try to keep up, Your Grace.”

And then you were off.

The world blurred around you, wind catching your hair as hooves thundered across the field. Trees bent toward you, branches whispering encouragements, the laughter of the wind rushing past your ears. Zayne was beside you, then slightly ahead, then back again. Neck and neck, the two of you wove through the trees of Ashbourne Forest like light itself.

You leaned low, urging your mare faster, catching that final break in the trees—and then you surged ahead.

The clearing opened like a gasp in the forest, the stream glittering nearby with just a thin sheet of melting frost, and you reined in, breathless and triumphant. Zayne followed seconds later, his stallion huffing, nostrils flared.

You turned in your saddle, eyes gleaming. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” he panted, unable to hide the delighted disbelief in his voice. “You cheated.”

“I did not.”

“You used the flowers to distract me.”

“Perhaps you’re just slow.”

You barely had time to laugh before he was off his horse and tugging you down from yours, his hands sure and steady as he wrapped you up against him.

“You,” he growled softly, pressing his forehead to yours, “are an enchantress.”

“And you,” you whispered back, lips brushing his, “are a very sore loser.”

He kissed you before he could respond—deep and full of wind and winter and joy. His hands were warm through the thick fabric of your coat, his mouth eager, smiling even as it moved over yours.

The forest swayed around you, and the snowdrops bent beneath the breeze, but neither of you noticed. Not when you were wrapped in the wild rhythm of your laughter, your breath, your love.

Your laughter was still catching between kisses, your cheeks warm from both the ride and the way his arms cradled your back, the forest wind tugging at the ends of your coat. Zayne kissed you again, slower now, as though the whole world had narrowed to this—to your lips, to the way your fingers curled into his coat, to the ease in your laugh that had always undone him more than anything else.

He didn’t let you go. Not when you leaned your cheek against his chest, not when your hand slid up to rest just over his heart, tapping out a gentle rhythm.

“My love,” you murmured, voice soft and teasing. “Are you happy?”

He blinked down at you, clearly thrown by the sudden question, but your tone gave you away. He squinted. “You’ve gone entirely giddy on me.”

“Answer the question.”

He pretended to think. “Well, I have a stunning wife who humiliates me in front of my own horse, three cats who own the estate, and no privacy whatsoever unless I bribe the staff to pretend they hear nothing.” his mouth curved, brushing the top of your brow. “I am happier than I ever imagined I’d be allowed to be.” 

You smiled at that. That soft, radiant smile you only ever gave him when you were on the edge of something—when you were holding something back, and your joy could barely contain it.

“I am glad,” you whispered. “Because I’ve been feeling… a bit different lately.”

His brow arched, mildly alarmed. “Different how?”

“Craving things,” you said lightly, almost shyly. “And not just you, though that hasn’t changed.”

His expression flickered—amusement laced with a growing flicker of suspicion. You tilted your head up, cupping his cheek with a gloved hand.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed,” you added slyly. “You, who claims to know every inch of me, inside and out.”

Zayne tensed. His eyes searched yours now, all trace of laughter wiped away, replaced with dawning, breathless realization.

You gave a small nod. “I believe I’m with child.”

His mouth parted, but no words came. He blinked once, twice—then the breath left him entirely in a stunned, silent gasp.

You softened, cupping his face fully now. “I thought it might’ve been that night in the stables. Remember?” you murmured, your cheeks heating at the memory. “We didn’t even make it back inside. You lifted me right onto that pile of blankets and said something dreadfully romantic—right before making love to me like I was the last thing on earth you’d ever touch.”

His hands tightened around you instinctively. And then, without warning, he lifted you fully off the ground with a soft, incredulous laugh—more like a stunned breath of wonder. You yelped, half-laughing, your arms wrapping around his neck as he spun you once in the clearing, snow scattering beneath his boots.

“You’re sure?” he whispered against your cheek, against your hair, between fervent, overwhelming kisses. “You’re truly sure?”

You nodded against his mouth, breathless and glowing. “I wanted to wait until I was, and now… I am.”

He kissed you so thoroughly you forgot what standing felt like. His joy vibrated through every movement, every touch, every reverent brush of his mouth. And when he finally set you down again, his hands still cupped your cheeks, eyes glistening just slightly.

“We did it our way,” you said quietly, holding his gaze. “Not theirs. Not the Ton’s. Not for appearances. Just us.”

Zayne lowered his forehead to yours, overcome. “And I would not have it any other way,” he whispered. “You, me, and now… this new life. Our family. Ours.”

The winter forest was silent around you, save for the soft huffing of the horses, the breeze rustling the earliest signs of spring. But between the two of you, everything felt blooming. Quietly, beautifully, unstoppably alive.

You barely had time to steady your breath, your smile, your heart, before he stepped back just enough—not away from you, never that—but down, dropping slowly to his knees in the snow without a single care for the cold or the damp seeping into the fine wool of his coat.

“Zayne—” you started, startled by the motion, but your breath caught in your throat the moment his gloved hands framed your waist and he leaned in to press a soft, reverent kiss to the curve of your lower belly.

“I cannot believe,” he murmured against you, his voice rasped with emotion, “that I get to love you this much.”

The words broke something open inside you.

The wind whispered through the trees around you, snowflakes still drifting gently from the overcast sky, soft as confetti from the heavens. Your hand instinctively tangled into his thick dark hair as he remained there, head bowed against your stomach, his arms slowly winding around your hips to hold you, to anchor you both in the moment.

He looked up at you then, eyes more green than hazel in the filtered winter light, wide and unguarded. His lashes were damp with snow and feeling.

“I never dared dream of this,” he confessed, kneeling as if in worship, as if he’d never known a cathedral more sacred than you. “Not this life. Not the laughter. Not you.” He laughed quietly, voice breaking in the middle of it. “And now… now you carry the best piece of us both.”

A thick ache welled in your chest. You sank to your knees before him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulled you in closer, your foreheads pressing together in the hush of the woods. 

“I love you,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you with so much certainty it startled you a little.

He exhaled, as if the confession was the very air he needed. “I love you,” he returned, just as fiercely. “I love you more than I know how to say.” 

You smiled through the stinging blur in your eyes, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “You say it just fine.”

He kissed you then, soft and slow, the kind of kiss that stole nothing and gave everything back in return. And as your fingers tangled into the back of his coat and his hand caressed your back protectively, the snow fell softly around you, the wind stilled, and for a long, weightless moment, there was nothing but the two of you—heart to heart, breath to breath—already wrapped in the beginning of something new. 

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.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!

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taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @destinysrequiem, @biblioth-que

[fannyrosie]

The tartan duchess

Outfit rundown Jacket: second-hand Atelier Boz Dress: second-hand Juliette et Justine Underskirt/petticoat: second-hand Black Peace Now Shoes: old Hush Puppies Hat: vintage with added blue flowers High collar: second-hand Abilletage Brooches: vintage Gloves: vintage Earrings: Phantom Jewelry Rococo panniers: a gift from the designer of @british_wardrobe

[electricaquarius]

you guys have any BG3 music headcanons? astarion strikes me as a smashing pumpkins kind of guy. gale likes melodic metal of any kind. shadowheart is so clearly and obviously a lana girly it's not even funny.

[cupidsworstcrime]

Kyle Garrick x f!reader

middle ages AU

very very fluffy | non descriptive smut

Word Count: 8,784

contains mentions of marital abuse (not kyle)

The castle walls were cold, but not colder than your husband's silence.

Duke Simon Riley was revered across the kingdom—war hero, iron-fisted ruler, silent shadow of a man with a gaze like flint. You were the jewel he’d claimed after the war, a marriage sealed with blood-stained hands and noble signatures. They called you fortunate. A lady. A duchess. A trophy.

But behind the stone facade, you were his maid. His mother. His wife. His burden.

The servants knew better than to look you in the eye when you dragged the tray of food down the hall, your silks dusted with ash from the hearth you stoked yourself. They whispered as you limped from the cellar with buckets of wine, sleeves rolled, dignity unraveling thread by thread. The noblewoman who still scrubbed blood from his armor. Who kept his books and raised his bastard nephew. Who was expected to smile when he returned late, stinking of drink and war.

Simon barely spoke—unless it was to bark an order, or mutter thanks through gritted teeth. The only time his voice softened was when he needed you to serve him: in court, in chambers, in bed.

And you obeyed. Like a good wife. A good duchess.

Until one day, the shame turned to salt in your mouth.

When he dropped his boots at your feet without looking at you. When you poured his wine and watched him laugh with his men, never once thinking to ask you how your day was. When he dared to touch you in bed like you were a body he owned, a vessel, a duty.

Your love had died quietly, a candle snuffed out by indifference.

And one night, under a moon shrouded in mist, you packed nothing but what you could carry. Left a letter sealed with your ring. Walked past the guards who thought you were just one more servant finishing her chores.

The night air bit your cheeks as you crossed the threshold, barefoot and breathless.

No more.

No more bruised hands scrubbing floors you were meant to rule over.

No more gentle smiles for a man who never once said he loved you.

No more breaking your back for a crown that sat too heavy.

You ran into the dark, cloak whipping behind you, heart pounding.

The Duke of Blackmere would wake to an empty bed.

And for once—he could clean up the mess.

The forest swallowed the sound of your breath.

You ran.

The silk of your nightgown, once white, now clung to your legs—mud-slick and torn where the brambles snatched at it like claws. Twigs tangled in your hair, cruel fingers yanking your braids loose, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not even when the rocks bit into the soles of your feet, slicing skin and drawing warm blood that trailed behind you like a second veil.

The moon lit your path in shards—silver light piercing through the canopy, just enough to guide you forward, forward, forward.

Every step burned. Your lungs were raw. Your hands scraped against bark and stone as you stumbled, catching yourself, scrambling on all fours for a moment before rising again like a hunted animal.

Behind you, the castle stood still. Cold. Watching.

But the trees didn’t care who you were. The birds didn’t call you “Duchess.” Out here, you were no one. A woman with nothing but the fire in her chest and the echo of run, run, run in her ears.

Your gown snagged again. You hissed, yanking it free. The fabric gave with a rip, exposing your thigh to the night air. You didn’t care. You pushed on.

Until finally—lights.

Golden, flickering, swaying in the distance. Torches. Lanterns. Smoke curling from chimneys.

A village.

You stumbled over the threshold, barefoot and breathless, tears hot on your cheeks as you collapsed at the edge of a cobbled road. The world tilted. Voices called out, distant and muddled.

But you were safe.

For the first time in years—

You were free.

The first snowfall came early that year.

It blanketed the village in quiet, hush-white peace, and you watched it from the bakery window as the oven hissed softly behind you. The scent of yeast and cinnamon filled the small shop. Your hands, dusted in flour, shaped dough on muscle memory. You didn’t think much about the work anymore—it came easily now, like breath.

Months had passed since the night you’d run barefoot through the woods. No one asked why. No one pried. There was a sort of understanding here, a sacred silence shared between strangers who knew what it meant to begin again.

You were simply Miss, or darlin’, or love when Mrs. Price, the innkeeper’s wife, needed help minding her little ones and pressed hot tea into your hands. You cleaned the rooms at the inn, soothed fussy children to sleep, worked the early hours at the bakery in exchange for a roof and warm meals.

You slept on a straw-stuffed mattress beneath the rafters. It wasn’t a duchess’s bed. It didn’t need to be.

Each day blurred gently into the next. Until he became part of the rhythm.

Kyle Garrick, the farmer from just outside the village. Came into town twice a week with baskets of eggs and jugs of milk, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, hay in his curls, a dusting of dirt on his boots. He always called you Miss, voice warm as cider. Said it like a nickname, like a secret.

“G’mornin’, Miss,” he’d greet you with a little grin, arms full of crates, eyes kind. “Don’t suppose you’d let me carry those sacks for you?”

And you’d protest—always half-heartedly—as he hoisted the flour bags from the cart like they were weightless.

“I can manage,” you’d say.

“I know,” he’d reply, “but where’s the fun in that?”

He never asked where you came from. Not once. Just like the rest of them.

But sometimes you caught him looking at you—when your sleeves were rolled up and your face flushed from the oven’s heat, when you wiped sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. Not lustfully. Just curious. Gentle. Like he was memorizing your edges.

You shared quiet moments. Small things.

He gave you the first apple from his tree that autumn. You saved the seeds.

One night, during a thunderstorm, he brought extra candles to the inn. Said he figured you hated the dark.

You did.

You hadn’t told him that.

And still—you stayed silent. You didn’t speak of the Duke. Of the silk gowns. Of the cold halls of your marriage. It belonged to another life. A different girl.

You didn’t know what this was. What it might become.

But Kyle’s hands were strong. His heart was kind. And maybe—just maybe—you were finally learning what it meant to be held, not possessed.

Kyle asked the first time in early spring.

“Got a new foal on the way,” he’d said, leaning his weight casually against the bakery doorframe, arms crossed, smiling just a little. “Thought you might want to see the farm sometime.”

You offered a polite smile, shook your head. “That’s kind, but I’ve got work.”

He didn’t push.

The second time, he tried again.

“Built a new coop for the hens. Clean lines, real proud of it. You could come see?”

You dusted flour off your apron, gave a soft laugh. “Sounds lovely, but I really can’t.”

He gave a little shrug. “Maybe another time, Miss.”

There were more offers—gentle ones. Shared like wildflowers laid at your feet. He never asked why you always said no.

Until one day, when the sun was soft and golden through the clouds and you were restocking shelves, Kyle stepped into the bakery looking just a touch more urgent than usual.

“She’s close,” he said without a greeting. “The goat. Her first birth. Thought of you right away—thought maybe you'd want to be there.”

You blinked, confused. “Why me?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug. “You just… seemed the type who might want to see something come into the world. Something good.”

And something in you—some fragile, buried thing—stirred.

So you nodded.

The walk to his farm was quiet, just the two of you on the narrow path between wild grass and scattered yellow blossoms. Your skirts brushed the earth, your boots muddied at the edges, but Kyle didn’t seem to mind. He pointed out things as you went—that tree’s been leaning since I was a lad, foxes sometimes nest there, there’s a hawk that lives near the well.

The farmhouse was simple. Warm. The porch sagged a little, and the door creaked when he opened it. The air smelled like hay and woodsmoke and something sweet—jams, maybe.

He didn’t ask you inside. Just took you to the barn.

The goat was already panting by the time you arrived, her sides heaving.

Kyle knelt beside her and showed you how to stroke her neck. How to speak soft. Gentle.

And when the kid finally arrived, slick and squirming and alive, you cried without realizing.

Kyle didn’t speak. Just handed you a clean cloth, his fingers brushing yours.

Later, when the goat and her baby were settled, and the sun had begun to set in streaks of amber and rose, he led you back toward the farmhouse porch.

“I can walk back alone,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You could,” he said, “but I’d rather walk you.”

And so he did.

That night, you lay awake in your narrow bed, remembering the way his hands moved—sure, patient, reverent. Remembering how he looked at you like you were real and here and not something to be claimed.

You still hadn’t told him who you were.

But maybe… he already knew there was something broken about you. Or maybe it didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

The sky was still tinted with the faint blue of pre-dawn when he arrived.

He always came early on Wednesdays—before the others, before the village stirred awake. Just him and the birdsong and the steam from the fresh loaves you made for him.

The door creaked as he entered. You didn’t look up at first, hands deep in the dough, sleeves rolled to your elbows. Your hair was braided back, wisps escaping to stick to your warm skin. The oven behind you flickered with a quiet fire.

“Morning, Miss,” Kyle said, voice soft, respectful, warm.

“You’re early,” you replied, not unkindly, still kneading.

“I like it here when it’s quiet,” he said, stepping closer but not crowding. “You working on mine?”

You nodded toward a proofing tray. “It’s rising now.”

He sat on the edge of the counter, just watching you for a while. Your hands moved like you were born to it—strong, steady, sure. You’d come to the village like a shadow, but now you glowed in the firelight. Familiar. Trusted. His, in some unspoken way neither of you had dared name.

He watched you in silence until, after a moment, he asked, “You ever been in love before, Miss?”

You paused, only for a second, then dusted your hands and went back to shaping the loaf.

“...Thought I was.”

There was no bitterness in your voice. No romance either. Just something hollowed out and carefully set down.

Kyle didn’t ask more. Didn’t need to.

He leaned back a bit, looking at you with something deeper than curiosity.

“Someone didn’t treat you right,” he said softly, not a question, not even a guess. Just a truth.

You looked up then. Just briefly. Your eyes, still tired from dreams you never spoke aloud, met his.

“No,” you whispered, “he treated me exactly how the world told him he could.”

Kyle blinked, slow. Then nodded. “World’s wrong about a lot of things.”

The air stretched between you like warm honey. The oven crackled. The dough rose. You turned your gaze back to it.

“I think I like making bread,” you said after a long silence. “It doesn’t ask anything of me. Just needs time. Patience. A steady hand.”

“I reckon you deserve the same,” he murmured.

You smiled, small and grateful.

When the loaf finished, you handed it to him wrapped in a linen cloth. His fingers brushed yours again. He didn’t linger, but he didn’t leave right away either.

“I’ll be by tomorrow,” he said. “Bring you something sweet. If you’d like.”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t answer.

But when he stepped outside, he saw your through the window, smiling to yourself with the faintest tilt of your lips.

And that was enough.

The moment the news reached you, you dropped a basket of rolls.

It passed from mouth to mouth like wildfire—a Duke, arriving tomorrow. One from the North. One with a name no one dared say but all seemed to know.

Your breath had hitched. Your hands had trembled. But you didn’t cry. You never did anymore.

By the time the sun began to dip low, painting the sky with shades of warning red, You were walking back from the bakery with your arms full of unsold loaves for the inn.

The air smelled like smoke and earth. Your stomach twisted.

“Miss?”

Kyle’s voice, always warm, always gentle, cut through the thick fog of your thoughts.

You hadn’t even heard him approach. But there he was—boots dusty, sleeves rolled, hands calloused and kind. He walked in step with you without asking.

His hand pressed lightly to the small of your back, and you startled just a little at the warmth of it. Not in fear. Just in surprise. You’d grown so used to holding yourself.

“You alright?” he asked, like he didn’t already see how tense you shoulders were.

You didn’t answer.

“Would you…” he started again, voice lower now, less sure. “Would you like to come by the farm again? Think the goats miss you.”

The question was simple. But it meant everything. A life raft offered in a storm.

You answered before you had time to think. “Yes.”

And it was the first thing that felt like a choice all day.

Kyle nodded once, like he’d expected you to say no, and the quiet joy in his eyes when you didn’t made you feel something you hadn’t let yourself feel in months.

Safe.

Not free yet. But close.

The loaves were still warm when you handed them off at the inn, your hands lingering on the cloth-covered basket like you might take it back and run. But you didn’t. You gave a soft nod to Mrs. and Mr. Price, mumbled something about being out late, and slipped through the door without another word.

Kyle waited just beyond the threshold, leaning on the fence post, eyes watching the fading sky.

Neither of you talked as you made the walk toward the farm. But it wasn’t the kind of silence you’d known before—the cold, stiff kind that always left you feeling like you’d said something wrong just by existing. No, this one was… easy. Like the earth didn’t expect anything from you but your steps on the road.

The goats came into view as the sun dipped further, casting gold over the hills. One of the younger ones bleated at you and stumbled toward the fence, nosing your palm with enthusiasm.

You laughed.

Not a pretty, courtly giggle. A real laugh. One that cracked something open in your chest, something you’d been pressing down so hard it left bruises.

You blinked fast, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat.

Kyle didn’t say a word. Just crouched near one of the fence posts, adjusting a bit of loose rope like he didn’t notice the way your eyes shined.

But when you looked at him, he was already looking back. He smiled, soft and crooked.

“Stay for supper?” he asked. “I’ve been meanin’ to try that stew recipe you told Mr. Mactavish about. We can make it together.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. But because it had been so long since anyone had asked you anything that didn’t come with a price.

And gods, it was hard to say no to eyes like that—gentle and open and not expecting anything more than what you’d give.

So you didn’t.

You nodded once, quiet, and when he smiled again, your heart ached in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

It was the first time in months you didn’t feel like running.

The kitchen smelled like thyme and onions, rich and warm as the stew bubbled low in the pot. Your sleeves were rolled, flour on your cheek from shaping the bread you’d offered to bake as a side, and Kyle stood beside you, peeling potatoes far slower than necessary just so he could sneak glances.

You caught him once and nudged him with your elbow. “You’re terrible at that,” you teased, grinning.

He shrugged, helpless and boyish. “Never had to impress anyone with my peeling skills b'fore.”

That made you laugh—really laugh—and you leaned over the cutting board, hiding your smile behind your wrist.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” he murmured, voice a little lower than before.

You glanced up.

He was closer than you'd thought. Still holding a half-peeled potato, but now his other hand was on your waist, firm and warm. Your breath caught. You could smell the firewood smoke on his shirt, see the soft scruff on his jaw, and then—

Your foreheads touched.

Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

Your eyes fluttered shut just as his did, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the stew simmering and the quiet beat of two hearts, nearly in sync.

Then he kissed you.

Soft, patient, and certain.

And you kissed him back, your hands curling into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in something that felt impossibly real.

A warmth bloomed in your chest, equal parts comfort and fear. Because the moment didn’t feel borrowed.

It felt like home.

You pulled back just a little, your heart racing as you caught your breath. A soft laugh escaped your lips, genuine and a little breathless. “Didn’t know it could... feel like that.”

Kyle’s gaze softened, like he was savoring the moment just as much as you were. He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek as he spoke, his voice low but certain. “It does when it’s right, Miss.”

Your chest tightened at his words. For the first time in what felt like forever, something felt right. You had spent so long running, hiding, trying to outrun your past. But here, in this small kitchen with the scent of cooking filling the air and Kyle’s gentle presence in front of you, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could stay for a while.

He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your skin. “You’re not alone here,” he murmured, almost as if he was reading your mind. “You don’t have to be.”

Your heart fluttered at that, but the reality of your past tugged at you like a chain, invisible but heavy. You forced a smile, trying to push the unease away, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I’m not... running anymore, Kyle.”

He didn’t need you to explain further. His smile softened, understanding more than you expected. “I know.” His hand slid from your waist to your hand, intertwining your fingers. “And you don’t have to. Not from me.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the kitchen. You could hear the faint rustling of the animals outside, the gentle breeze making its way through the open window, but for once, it all felt like it was in its place.

The weight of the past hadn’t vanished, but it felt lighter here, in this little corner of the world where Kyle’s touch made everything seem a little more possible.

He stepped back slowly, never breaking your connection, his hand still gently clasping yours. “Supper’s almost ready,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that made your stomach flutter.

“Right,” you replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You squeezed his hand, the action grounding you in the present, in the here and now.

“I’ll be right there,” you said, but Kyle didn’t move just yet. Instead, he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a promise in that gentle touch.

As he stepped away, you exhaled slowly, fingers still tingling from his touch. Tonight felt different. For the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you could belong somewhere again.

And maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself believe in that feeling.

You sat across from each other at the small wooden table, the flickering light from the lantern casting soft shadows around you both. The air was warm with the scent of roasted vegetables and the rich, earthy aroma of the bread you’d helped bake earlier. The goats had been fed, the kitchen cleared, and the simple supper you had prepared together was now in front of you.

Kyle took a bite, his eyes lighting up as he chewed. He grinned at you, a playful glint in his eye. “This... this is delicious.” He set his fork down, still smiling. “Thank you for making it with me.”

You shook your head, feeling a slight heat creep up your neck. “You did most of it,” you protested, but there was a warmth in your voice. “I just helped with the bread and the herbs.”

He leaned back slightly, considering you for a moment before his lips curled into a grin. “True, but your bits,” he paused, picking up a piece of the roasted vegetable, “are the best.”

Your cheeks burned at the compliment, but you couldn’t help the way your lips quirked up into a smile. “Flattery won’t get you more food,” you teased lightly, but there was a softness to your tone, an ease you hadn’t expected to feel so quickly.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the exchange. “I think I’ve already got what I wanted,” he said, his eyes locking with yours for a brief, quiet moment. “You.”

The words hung in the air for a second, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was simple. Honest. The kind of honesty you didn’t know if you were ready for, but something about him made it easier to hear. To believe.

You stirred your food, not quite looking up at him, feeling a knot in your chest tighten slightly. But it wasn’t a bad feeling—it was just... unfamiliar. “Well, I’m glad you think so highly of my cooking,” you said, trying to keep the mood light, though your heart was beating a little faster now.

Kyle took another bite, but his eyes never left you. “I’m serious,” he said softly, his voice steady and warm. “You’re different, Miss. More than you know. You’ve got a way of making everything feel... right.”

Your heart fluttered at that, and you swallowed before meeting his gaze. “And what’s that?” you asked, though you had an inkling of the answer.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers loosely wrapped around his cup of water. “You make the world a little less heavy, just by being in it.”

Your chest tightened at his words. It was so simple, and yet it felt like something you hadn’t allowed yourself to believe in for so long. Maybe you did deserve to have something light in your life again.

You didn’t say anything at first, just took a slow breath and looked back down at your plate. There was a tenderness between you now, unspoken but clear.

The sound of the wind rustling outside was the only interruption as you both finished your meals. There was no rush, no tension. Just the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

“Thank you, Kyle,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper, but it held more weight than you expected. “For all of this. For tonight.”

He smiled again, a soft, contented smile, before leaning back in his chair, settling in. “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss.”

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

The evening had unfolded into a quiet, comfortable rhythm, the soft glow of the lanterns flickering in the corners of the room. The meal had been simple, yet satisfying, and the air between you was easy, filled with gentle laughter and light conversation. But now, as the last of the dishes were cleared away, the weight of what was to come settled in.

You glanced toward the door, the thought of returning to the inn pulling at you. The routine you’d grown so accustomed to, the security of blending in, of being unnoticed. But tonight felt different. Kyle’s presence had been grounding, steady, and his quiet sincerity had created a warmth in your chest that you weren’t sure you wanted to leave behind.

Kyle leaned back against the chair, his hand resting on the table, his gaze soft but determined. “You don’t have to go, y’know.”

You hesitated, caught between the life you had built here and the life you had once run from. Your heart thudded in your chest at the vulnerability in his words, the earnestness in his eyes.

“Kyle…” you started, her voice trailing off. The question you had been avoiding, the fear that gripped you tightly, threatened to spill out. What if I stay?

“I mean it,” Kyle continued, his voice steady but laced with an edge of hope. “Stay with me. You don’t have to go back to the inn. You don’t have to keep running from... wha'ever you’re running from. You can stay here, with me. You’re already part of this place.”

You swallowed, your breath catching in your throat. The pull of his words, the sincerity in them, had your heart racing faster than you expected. It wasn’t just about staying for the night or sharing another meal together. It was about something deeper, something more permanent. A future you hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine.

“I—” Your voice faltered. You were afraid of what this could mean. Afraid of what it might feel like to let yourself fully trust someone again. But there was a part of you, buried beneath the walls you’d built, that longed for this. For him.

Kyle’s hand moved across the table, palm up, waiting for your, his expression softening as he watched you struggle.

“You don’t have to answer right away,” he said quietly, his fingers grazing over the table’s edge as if offering you a lifeline, a choice. “But I want you here, Miss. I want you here with me. Wha'ever you need, whenever you’re ready.”

The words hung between you, heavy with possibility. Your eyes flickered from his hand to his face, the conflict clear in your gaze. But then, something shifted inside you. Something told you it was okay to let go, to stop fighting it.

You stood slowly, your legs slightly unsteady from the weight of the moment, and stepped closer to him. Without another word, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his touch spreading through you.

His fingers closed gently around yours, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stay with me,” he repeated, a promise in his voice this time.

And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, staying could be the right choice.

The night was quiet, save for the steady sound of your breaths mingling in the dim light. The sheets, tangled between you, were warm and comforting. In contrast to the nights you had once known, nights that had been harsh and demanding, this one felt like a revelation. Kyle was slow, patient, guiding you with a tenderness you hadn’t known you needed, but now couldn’t seem to live without.

His movements were deliberate, each touch gentle, coaxing you through every sensation. It wasn’t hurried or desperate—there was no frantic urgency. He savored you, as if every inch of you deserved time and care. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, memorizing the soft tremor of your skin. His lips brushed against your neck, soft whispers of praise against your skin, each word making you feel seen, wanted.

You let out a sharp breath when he finally met your lips again, the kiss slow and tender, his body shifting against yours, each movement carefully planned. He was slow in all the right ways, building you up before bringing you down, making you forget everything but him. It was a stark contrast to everything you had once known—his hands were not harsh, they were reverent. His mouth was not demanding, it was kind.

Your body responded, arching beneath him, his name slipping from your lips with a mixture of awe and longing. The passion built slowly, layer after layer, until it was a pressure you couldn’t contain. Your hands found his shoulders, his back, needing to ground yourself, to feel every inch of him.

His forehead came to rest against yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you heard words you never expected to hear again.

“I love you,” Kyle whispered, his voice rough but filled with sincerity.

Your heart stilled in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. Time seemed to slow. You closed your eyes, running your hands up his chest, needing to touch him, needing to make sure he was real, that this was real. You cupped his face, bringing him closer, your gaze locking with his.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice soft but unwavering. The words felt like a promise, like something that could anchor you in this moment, in this life that you’d never imagined for yourself but somehow found.

Kyle’s smile was gentle, the way he looked at you made you feel seen, cherished. And in that moment, with him above you, with his warmth surrounding you, you knew you had found something worth staying for. Something real. Something true.

It wasn’t just love. It was everything you had been searching for without realizing it—softness, care, and a connection you had once thought was beyond your reach.

The days had passed quietly, a rhythm settling between you and Kyle. The work, the shared meals, the laughter, it all became part of your new life, one you were growing more attached to every day. The tension from the arrival of the Duke had faded into the background, though it never fully left your mind. You had avoided the village center as much as possible, staying in the comfort of Kyle’s farm, but now, on the third night, as the Duke was about to leave, you could feel it all creeping back.

You sat at the small wooden table, picking at the remnants of your supper. Kyle was across from you, his usual easy smile a bit more subdued tonight. He didn’t press you to talk about it, not really, but he had known something was up.

"I was his wife once," you said quietly, almost too quietly. The words felt heavy, like they had been waiting to be spoken, but you hadn't known when to say them.

Kyle didn’t flinch, didn’t look surprised. Instead, he nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair, his gaze soft but steady. "I know, dove," he replied simply. His voice was calm, like it wasn’t the first time he had processed this.

"You knew?" you asked, voice rising in surprise. You didn’t know how you expected him to react—anger, judgment, maybe pity. But Kyle was looking at you like he had known all along, like it wasn’t a revelation, just a fact.

"Whole village knew," Kyle said, his eyes never leaving yours. His tone was matter-of-fact, and it made you realize something you hadn't thought about—your past, your marriage to Simon, hadn't been a secret to anyone. It was common knowledge, and yet, the people in this village had let you be. They hadn’t pried, they hadn’t pushed you to speak of it. They had accepted you without question, without curiosity.

"Oh," you whispered, a wave of surprise and relief flooding through you. It was as if the weight of the past had lifted slightly, knowing that your secrets had never been the subject of gossip, never turned into something for the village to talk about.

Kyle smiled softly, almost as if he had been waiting for your to realize that. "Didn’t mention it, wasn’t our business," he added, his voice warm but firm, like he was assuring you it wasn’t something that needed to be discussed. The Duke was gone now, and whatever had happened between you, whoever you had once been to him, didn’t matter anymore. Not here, not with Kyle.

You nodded, taking a deep breath, as if exhaling a burden you hadn’t known you were still carrying. For all the guilt and confusion you had felt about your past, here, in this quiet farm with Kyle, it didn’t have to be a part of you anymore. You could simply be yourself. You could be the woman you were now—someone who had found a life you never expected to have, but one you were beginning to truly love.

Kyle stood up then, moving around the table to where you sat. He gently cupped your face in his hands, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. "You’re safe here, dove," he said, his voice so full of warmth and care that it made your heart ache. "With me. Always."

The words, simple as they were, meant everything. And you realized, with a quiet certainty, that for the first time in years, you were free. Free from the weight of your past, free from the expectations placed on you, and free to live a life that was entirely your own.

With him.

Months passed, each day blending into the next with a quiet rhythm that had begun to feel like home. The days were simple but comforting—working at the bakery in the morning, kneading dough, shaping loaves, the warm scent of freshly baked bread filling the air. You had always found solace in routine, the predictability of it all, and it gave you a sense of purpose you hadn’t had in years. The steady pace of your work kept you grounded, kept your mind from wandering back to the life you had run from, to the Duke who had once claimed you as his own.

Kyle never pushed you to leave the bakery, even though he offered time and again. He insisted that you could stay home on the farm, help with the chores, and be with him all day. But you knew he understood. He never pried, never made you feel guilty for the hours you spent at the bakery. He simply smiled and kissed your forehead every morning before you left for work and again every evening when you came home.

The small village had become your sanctuary, the faces of the townspeople familiar and kind. The bakery was a place where you felt useful, where the simple act of making bread for others brought you peace. You didn’t feel the need for anything more—at least, not for now.

The mornings with Kyle were often slow and peaceful. He’d wake up early to tend to the animals, always making sure to stop by the bakery to bring you fresh milk or eggs from the farm. He would help with unloading the flour or carrying the heavy sacks, always with that quiet smile of his. You could feel the ease between you, the unspoken bond that had grown stronger over the months.

And in the evenings, after the long days of work, you would sit together at the small table in the farmhouse, a candle flickering between you. And you would talk about the small things—how the animals were doing, the weather, and what you had for dinner—but it was enough. You didn’t need grand gestures or endless promises. Just the warmth of his presence beside you was all you ever needed.

"Why don’t you stay home today?" Kyle would ask sometimes, a playful gleam in his eye. "You could help me with the garden. Or maybe just sit and rest."

You would smile, running a hand through your hair. "I like the routine, Ky," you’d say softly. "I like being there."

He’d never push further. Instead, he’d simply nod, understanding that you needed this. It was the one thing from your old life that you had held on to—the routine, the simple sense of purpose that came with it.

But there were moments, fleeting ones, when Kyle would catch you gazing out at the farm, lost in thought. He’d gently pull you back into the present, reminding you with a soft touch or a quiet word that there was no need to look back anymore. He had given you a new life—one that was free from the pain of your past—and all you had to do was embrace it.

And you were starting to. Slowly, but surely, the shadow of the Duke faded more each day. The nights were yours to cherish, spent in Kyle’s arms, where you felt safe, where you felt loved. It wasn’t a life of grand adventures, but it was yours, and it was enough.

The evening air was thick with the smell of hay and the soft rustling of the barn. The loft was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the setting sun slipping through cracks in the wood. You and Kyle had just made love, your bodies tangled in the soft bedding of straw. His laughter mixed with yours as you tugged at the strands of hay that had caught in your hair. The warmth of the moment lingered, a perfect silence settling between the two of you, broken only by the gentle rhythm of your breathing.

Kyle leaned back against the hay, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes, always soft and full of affection, met yours, but there was something different tonight—a quiet intensity, like he was holding something in. You could feel the weight of it in the air, the anticipation, but you didn’t know what to expect.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet pouch. Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t say anything. He opened it with his fingers, and there, nestled in the fabric, was a simple, delicate ring. His mother’s ring.

He took your hand gently in his, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he held it up to the fading light. "I know we don’t need any of this," he said softly, his voice low and sincere. "But I want you to know that I want you with me, always. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine." He paused, his gaze never leaving yours. "Will you marry me?"

You didn’t answer with words. You didn’t need to. Your heart raced, and in that moment, all the pain of the past, all the fear of what came next, melted away. The weight of the world felt light, the uncertainty replaced with a profound sense of belonging. With a breathless smile, you slid your legs over his, straddling him as you bent down to kiss him, slow and lingering. His hands, warm and firm, gripped your waist as you pressed your body against his.

The ring was slipping onto your finger, but it wasn’t the ring that mattered. It was the way he held you, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his, both of you laughing softly.

He kissed you again, and you kissed him back, your heart beating fast, and before either of you could say anything more, you did it all over again. This time, with a different kind of intensity, a deeper connection, as if everything that had led you to this moment had been leading you here.

His mother’s ring gleamed in the dim light, but it was Kyle’s love that sparkled brightest.

You giggled as Kyle carefully cradled you in his arms, bridal-style, his strong arms holding you close. The night air was cool against your skin, but the warmth of his embrace kept you more than comfortable. The crunch of the gravel beneath his boots mixed with your laughter as you playfully scratched at the itching hay that clung to your skin, your dress still speckled with the remnants of the barn loft.

Kyle chuckled softly, his voice low and affectionate as he glanced down at you. “You alright there, Missus?” he teased, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Got enough hay in your hair for the both of us?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. “I swear, Ky, I’m gonna be itchy for days,” you muttered, scratching again at the hay that clung to your arms.

His laugh echoed around you, warm and genuine, as he shifted you higher in his arms, making sure you were secure. “Well, you’ll just have to deal with it, Mrs. Garrick,” he teased again, his lips brushing over your forehead. “That’s what you get for marrying a farm boy.”

You pressed your face into his chest, trying to hide the grin threatening to overtake you. “Mrs. Garrick…” you repeated softly, testing the sound of it, the words feeling both foreign and perfectly right all at once.

He chuckled again, his breath warm against your hair. “Yup, that's you now. Mrs. Garrick. My missus.” His voice softened, turning serious for a moment, though there was still that playful glint in his eyes. “And you always will be, you know?”

Your heart swelled, the quiet reassurance in his words enough to make the moment feel even more perfect. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him a little tighter. “I don’t think I could be happier, Mr. Garrick,” you whispered, finally letting go of the itchiness and just letting yourself be in this moment with him.

He smiled down at you, and the warmth in his eyes was enough to banish any remaining doubts or fears you had. With him, everything felt right. Everything had always felt like it was leading here.

As you neared the house, he gave you one last squeeze, pressing his lips against the top of your head. “And you’re stuck with me now, Mrs. Garrick. Forever.”

The sun was setting low behind the rolling hills, casting a golden hue over the village. The chapel was small, but it felt like the whole world was gathered within its walls. The familiar faces of villagers, the baker, the farmer, the innkeepers, all gathered together to celebrate a love that had blossomed unexpectedly. You felt the weight of their smiles and the warmth of their well-wishes.

Standing next to Kyle, you could feel the fluttering in your chest, the way your heart seemed to race every time you caught sight of his handsome face, that familiar crooked smile. The same smile that had made you fall for him, over and over again, even on days when life was hard. He looked at you like you were the only one in the world, the way he always had since that first time you handed him bread. Maybe he did.

The Bishop's words were a blur in the background, a soft murmur of prayers, but all you could focus on was Kyle’s hand in yours, warm and strong. You couldn’t stop the heat creeping across your cheeks as he spoke his vows—so sickly sweet, so tender. The words tumbled from his lips with such sincerity, his voice thick with emotion.

“I vow to stand beside you, in every storm and every quiet night. I’ll keep you safe, hold you close, and never let you go. You’ve changed my world, my heart. You’ve made me a better man, and I swear, on this day and every day after, I’ll love you more than you could ever know.”

Your heart swelled in your chest, the words sinking deep into your bones, making your breath catch. This wasn’t like the vows you once heard from your former life—no, this was different. This was real.

You squeezed his hand tighter, your eyes watering as you tried to blink away the tears that threatened to fall. How had you ever thought you'd be content without this? Without him?

The Bishop turned to you, a gentle smile on his face. “And you, my dear, what are your vows?”

For a moment, everything felt impossibly still. You looked up into Kyle’s eyes, the love and trust shining back at you, and for the first time, you didn’t feel like the girl who had run away. You didn’t feel like the broken wife.

You stood taller now, the past a shadow behind you. With a soft smile, you spoke, your voice steady, clear. “I vow to cherish you, Kyle Garrick, as you have cherished me. I’ll walk beside you in the sunshine and the rain. I’ll love you with every part of me, for all the days of my life. You are home to me.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Kyle’s hand tightened around yours, and a small tear fell from his eye, the corner of his lip tugging upwards.

The Bishop nodded, satisfied with the vows exchanged, and the ceremony continued with all the joy and love that filled the air.

But you hardly heard a word after that. All that mattered was Kyle, his soft hand in yours, his eyes full of love, and the future that stretched ahead of you both—together, forever.

"You may now kiss your bride."

As the Bishop’s words echoed through the small chapel, the world seemed to pause for a heartbeat. Kyle’s hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek as he leaned in. His eyes locked onto yours for a brief, tender moment, a silent promise passing between you both.

Then, without a word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything. The passion of every moment you’d shared, the struggles, the laughter, the quiet comfort of everyday life—it all poured into that single kiss. His lips were soft at first, exploring, tentative. But the moment you kissed him back, something inside him shifted, and so did you. His grip on you tightened, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his lips hot against yours, claiming you in a way that was all his own.

There was no hesitation, no fear, no doubt—just the two of you, together, right here, in this moment.

The chapel seemed to disappear, the cheering from the villagers fading into the background as Kyle kissed you like he was trying to savor every second. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melt into him, everything you’d been running from, everything you’d been hiding, falling away.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested gently against yours, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic energy you both shared. His lips were parted in a soft smile, his eyes gleaming with the same love he had sworn to you just moments ago.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, his words vibrating through you like the hum of a quiet promise.

You smiled, still lost in the aftermath of that kiss. “I love you too, Kyle.”

The room erupted into applause, but it felt like nothing compared to the warmth of his lips still lingering on yours. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like the girl who ran away, or the girl with a past. You were just his, and he was yours.

And as the cheers of the village surrounded you, you knew this was the beginning of a life that would be better than anything you could’ve ever imagined.

Kyle’s grin was playful, his eyes twinkling with that familiar, mischievous glint. He walked with you into the house, closing the door behind you both with a soft click. His hands were already reaching for the delicate fabric of your wedding dress, eager to strip it away, but there was something more to the moment than just the anticipation of what was to come. The joy in his eyes, the way he couldn’t stop smiling as he helped you out of the gown, made you feel like the luckiest woman alive. "Gonna give you a wedding night to remember, love."

You laughed softly, your cheeks flushing at the implications of his words. “I like the love we always make,” you teased, your voice low, a little breathless from the intimacy of the moment.

Kyle’s laugh was low and throaty as he kissed your forehead, his hands gently guiding you toward the bedroom. “Been holding out on you, dove,” he said, his tone teasing. “Had to get a ring on your finger before I could show you what I can do with my mouth.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t quite sure what he meant, but the thought of him using his mouth on you had your pulse quickening. You flushed, a shiver of anticipation running through you. “Your mouth?” you repeated, the word leaving your lips more breathlessly than you intended.

“Mhm,” Kyle murmured, his voice low and deep, laced with promise. He took his time, making sure the last few pieces of the dress were carefully removed, letting you step out of it and into the comfort of his arms. “I’ve got plenty of ways to make you remember tonight, Mrs. Garrick.”

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face as you let him pull you closer, your body pressing into his. His lips trailed down your neck, soft at first, then growing more insistent, sending shivers across your skin.

“I want to make you feel everything,” Kyle whispered, his breath hot against your skin. His hands, now bare, moved over your body, as if memorizing every curve, every inch of you. “And tonight, I’m going to show you all the ways I can.”

You felt your pulse racing, the familiar warmth of his touch igniting something deep inside of you. Tonight would be unlike any other night, and you were more than ready to see just what he had in store for you.

Kyle was a man of many talents, but nothing prepared you for the way he made you feel that night. Every touch, every movement, felt like a carefully orchestrated symphony of passion. He knew exactly where to press, how to move, and when to ease off, leaving you breathless, wanting more. His skill was unmatched, and every time you thought you might finally catch your breath, he’d take you to new heights again.

You must have died and come back five times that night, lost in waves of sensation that you never thought were possible. It wasn’t just the physical connection—though that was undoubtedly divine—it was the intensity of it all, the way his gaze never left yours, the way he seemed to be reading your body like a book, every page turning faster than the last.

And yet, despite all of that, he hadn’t even kissed you yet.

You were so caught up in the feeling of him that the lack of a kiss didn’t even register at first. But then, as his hands gently cupped your face, as he positioned himself just above you, you felt the shift—the tenderness, the deep connection that only he could give. His lips hovered over yours, barely grazing them before finally pressing firmly against you. The kiss was slow, deliberate, full of promise.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he whispered, his lips brushing over yours before he kissed you again, this time with more urgency, more heat.

And even as you surrendered to his touch once more, you realized that every moment with him had only deepened your feelings. You weren’t just being ravished; you were being adored, in a way that no one had ever done before. It was overwhelming, but in the best way. This wasn’t just about physical connection anymore. This was about being seen, about trust, about love.

And Kyle? He was more than worth it.

UGH MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN , POOKIE @goatgoesmbe

[todofics]

Off The Market | 1/6 | Todoroki Shoto x Reader

♡ Summary: The Todoroki name had always borne a heavyweight amongst even society’s finest. When the family’s youngest son, and heir to the title, is forced into the marriage market, it’s no surprise that he quickly becomes the season’s most eligible bachelor—hoping to avoid marriage for at least one more season, who better than to circumvent the ton other than his long-time friend, you? 

♡ Content: regency au, fake-dating trope, aged-up characters, age gap (4 years), mutual pining, fem reader, fem pronouns, mature content in future chapters

♡  Author notes: I recently watched Bridgerton and fell in LOVE with it. Who can blame me though? Nicola Coughlan, you have my heart. Anyway, this is my little love letter to that obsession! 

♡ 1.6k words/est. 15k words (chapter ⅙)ˋ°•*⁀➷ Main Masterlist ♡  MHA Masterlist ♡ Story Masterlist ♡ Next

Crystal chandeliers hung like constellations in the night sky, their scattering prisms causing the ballroom to glitter softly in its wake. As the rhythmic thuds of dance and orchestra filled the air, chatter flitted in the background. 

“Did you hear?” the Viscountess Ashido asked in a hushed tone, cheeks flushed a brilliant pink as she swirled her glass of wine. Despite it only being the first ball of the season, gossip spread like wildfire. The attention of the small group turned towards her as she continued to speak, “I hear Lord Todoroki is finally seeking to make a match.”

As you sipped on your lemonade, your ears perked at the sound of your best friend’s name. Shoto? Married? The thought made you snort internally. He never mentioned the prospect of marriage in their years of friendship - let alone in the last few months. If they truly knew the man, they’d understand that Shoto had always disdained society and its many traditions - offering himself out on the marriage market was simply… out of character. Then again, these rumors had been circulating every season since the man turned 22 (the year of your debut). It was a piece of gossip that was always best to ignore lest the man announce it himself. 

Still, even though most knew that rumors spread amongst the ton were often baseless (especially at an event this early into the season), those words always held particular weight. Even at a young age, Lord Todoroki always possessed an alluring sort of charm. From his dual-toned hair to his mysterious demeanor, Shoto’s presence commanded attention far before he stepped into society. Now, at 26, he had long lost all of his boyish features, his physique sharp and gaze undeniably melting. Somehow, with time, the already attractive boy only grew impossibly more magnetic. This, paired with his future inheritance of the Duke title, seemed to establish Shoto as the most eligible bachelor of each season - even if he was never officially on the market. 

“The Lord’s been ‘searching’ for a wife for four seasons now,” Lady Uraraka mentioned, not so swayed by the conversation. Her intentions had already long been set on the green-haired baron anyway. 

“I’ve heard nothing on the matter either,” you added, causing a few of your fellow debutantes to groan. If anyone were to know if Shoto was searching for a wife, surely it’d be you. 

The two of you had always been a rather interesting pair in the tons’ eyes. Having been friends since your younger years, they had assumed the year of your debut would lead to a proper courting from the male. However, each passing season made it evident that such a thing was far from reality. You and Shoto simply possessed a strong bond of friendship - something that both confused and delighted the debutantes as you settled on the outskirts of their group.

“No! This time, I hear it from the Duchess herself. The Duke intends to make arrangements unless Lord Todoroki makes his match this season,” Mina defended, adding more fuel to the fire. Duchess Todoroki herself had been speaking about it? 

After many social seasons spent in the countryside due to a proclaimed illness, the Duchess had only recently reappeared in court last year. This, of course, reignited old gossip surrounding her disappearance. After all, her first year gone coincided with the mysterious appearance of Lord Shoto’s now-defining mark. Thus, it was well-known by now that the Duchess kept to herself, her demeanor proving itself too delicate to get involved in spreading falsehoods. 

A frown etched across your face as you listened to the cheery pink-skinned debutante. Duchess Todoroki would never speak about such a thing unless it were true. While you knew Shoto was probably against the idea himself, a feeling of hurt still sank in your stomach as you wondered why the boy hadn’t told you. You considered him your best friend - and honestly, you thought he considered you his. Secrets like this ought to be shared.

Like wolves smelling fresh meat, mothers encouraged their daughters to accentuate their best features, readjusting their clothes and hair to make a good impression. Some of the more eager debutantes forewent this step, keen to catch the eye of the young Lord. They would stop at nothing to gain the upper hand, longing to become the center of his prospects. 

Suddenly, the room felt much too small, the heat sweltering as you excused yourself from the desperate group. You’d speak to Shoto later about his soon-to-be marriage.  Gliding across the room briskly, you quickly found the balcony door, stepping out and admiring the fleeting beauty of the garden below. The fresh air felt nice against your skin, the cooling sensation calming down the warmth in your cheeks. For now, all you needed to do was gather your senses - relax. Fanning yourself with fervor, your thoughts settled under the pale gleam of moonlight; eyes glazed over with careful consideration.

The sentiments that swirled within you made for great confusion. Irritation and… envy? Sure, the feelings of irritation were a given, but not once had you ever felt actual jealousy towards the man. Although you had always known Shoto to be an attractive man who would eventually marry, the thought of that happening so soon bothered you. You had grown used to the man’s constant presence in your life for years. With marriage on the horizon, that familiarity would simply have to die off - no bride-to-be would allow the future Duke to have such a close friendship with another woman.

Honestly, the situation was quite unfair. At your debut, speculations surrounding your relationship with the man had just about killed off any potential interest. Now, four seasons into your venture into the marriage market, your prospects had only grown slimmer. It rattled you that Shoto was seemingly leaving you behind. You clicked your tongue, attempting to snap out of the annoyed daze you were in. Unfortunately, this was just the reality of society. You’d simply have to succumb to your fate of loneliness. Maybe being a spinster won’t be so bad. 

Your thoughts were soon interrupted as the balcony door swung open, your gaze shooting back to see who it could be. “Found you,” Shoto flashed you a soft smile, his posture slightly hunched as he approached. It was clear that the advances of the debutantes had worn him out. He let the door shut behind him, opting to stand directly next to you despite the plethora of room the spacious balcony offered. 

“Lord Todoroki,” you replied, turning your attention to the glittering night sky. It was strange - that name felt so foreign coming from your lips. 

He frowned, “you know better than to call me that.” Shoto had always insisted on you calling him by his first name, and for the last few years,  you had relented (something you regretted now as his expression conveyed one of hurt). Still, you powered on, steeling your resolve. It would be best to distance yourself from the man now. 

With a soft laugh, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I should get used to it - your future bride might not take so kindly to another woman calling your name.” His eyes widened briefly, hands clenched as he cleared his throat. Despite being outside, the air grew stiff, the tension so palpable you could cut it with a knife. 

 “That,” he paused, attempting to gather his thoughts, “is what I came out here to discuss.” Shoto’s social skills were mediocre at best, his awkward demeanor shining through the seriousness of his tone. You raised a brow, curious of what the man could possibly say.

“To discuss? You came out here to discuss your marriage prospects?” you asked with an incredulous tone, waiting for the man to get straight to the point. He shifted awkwardly, not used to receiving any sentiments of bitterness from your end. “You should have warned me.” 

Shoto shot you an apologetic look, “I… I was not aware myself until a fortnight ago,” he murmured. The situation pained him as well - despite his rapid approach to the average age of marriage, he still didn’t feel quite ready. “A fortnight? You should have written. That isn’t information you keep from your friends.” 

“I know,” Shoto acknowledged, taking a deep breath as he prepared himself for the spades of anger you were sure to cast. Instead, however, you surprised him. He should’ve known by now that he could never predict your actions.

“It’s fine.”

You had always been quite the firecracker -  your passion and zeal for life unmistakable. It was something Shoto had always admired about you; your enthusiasm balanced out his serious demeanor, allowing for a sort of yin-and-yang relationship. This relaxed response was unlike the you he had grown to know. 

“I am sorry,” Shoto said, mustering up every ounce of sincerity in his body. You sighed, unable to stay mad at the man for long, the years of friendship preparing you for his aloofness regarding social situations. “Really, I promise you it’s fine, let us move on from this topic,” you reassured. The thought of Shoto’s marriage prospects made you uncomfortable enough - it wasn’t something you particularly cared to converse about. 

Before he could let the topic change, Shoto turned to face you, his hands gently grasping your smaller ones as your jaw dropped in surprise. “Just… one more thing,” he started, voice wavering with nerves. 

“Allow me to court you.”

[hyperactively-me]

regency era!ghost x reader au (part 7)

One evening, as you and Simon glided across the dance floor, lost in each other’s eyes, you couldn’t help but notice the envious glances and hushed whispers that followed in your wake. 

“How on earth did those two end up together?”  “By the look of it, the Duke should be proposing any day now.” “I think I deserve to be Duchess more than she does.”

“You know,” you say slowly as you twirl gracefully, “you’re making quite the spectacle of yourself, Simon. People are starting to talk.”

He chuckles, his grip tightening around your waist. “Let them talk.”

He has to bite his tongue to restrain himself from continuing with, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m yours, you’re mine, and I’m not about to let anyone forget it. 

You smile, feeling a rush of affection and amusement. “You really don’t care, do you?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice. 

He shakes his head, a serious expression on his face. “Not in the slightest. As long as I have you, nothing else matters.” 

You laugh softly, leaning into him. “You’re incorrigible, Simon.” 

God, the way you make his name sound so pretty. He might faint. 

After the dance, Simon pulls you away from the crowd and onto a balcony, the soft hum of the party fading into the background. With the way his hands feel on you, you can’t seem to care that you’re unsupervised and alone with a man.

The cool night air is a welcome respite from the warmth of the ballroom. You shiver slightly, hugging yourself to keep warm. Immediately, Simon shrugs off his coat and drapes it over your shoulders to ward off the chill. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, grateful for his thoughtfulness.

He nods, his eyes lingering on your face. He loves the way your makeup highlights your features, the way you style your hair. He loves the way you stand up for yourself, the way you speak your mind without a care in the world. He loves the way you look so small compared to him, the way your dress accentuates your frame perfectly. He loves how passionate you are about the things you love, the way you make him feel. And— 

"You know," he begins, his voice low and intimate, "there was a time when I thought I would never be capable of feeling this way about anyone, let alone you."

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh? And what way might that be, Simon?”

He smiles, a genuine, tender expression that warms you to your very core. "In love," he admits softly. "Completely and utterly in love."

For a moment, you're stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability in his voice—it's everything you had hoped for, yet never dared to believe.

"You— you love me?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He nods solemnly, taking your hand in his. 

"With all my heart, every fiber of my being,” he replies, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "I know I've hurt you in the past, and I can never truly erase those mistakes. But I promise you, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you'll let me."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them away, squeezing his hand tightly. "Oh, Simon," you breathe, "I never thought I'd hear you say those words. But now that I have, I love you too. Despite everything, I love you."

A radiant smile you’ve never seen from Simon spreads across his face, and he leans closer, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation. Finding none, he whispers lowly, "May I kiss you?"

Your breath catches, heart racing at the proximity of his face to yours. You can see every lineament, every tiny wrinkle, every light freckle that dots his face. You notice the details of his scars, the way his nose is slightly crooked. He squeezes your hand, bringing you back. 

“You... you mustn’t,” you stammer, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s highly improper.”

Who are you kidding? You want this as much as he wants it. 

Simon doesn’t immediately release your hand. Instead, he turns it over and places a soft kiss on the inside of your covered wrist.

“You might cause a scandal,” you say weakly, your resolve thinning with each passing second. 

Simon chuckles, low and quiet. “A scandal, you say? Perhaps it’s time I gave the ton something truly scandalous to talk about.”

You swallow thickly, heat rushing up your neck. “And what, pray tell, do you have in mind?”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Marry me.”

The world seems to stop as his words sink in. You pull back slightly to look into his eyes, searching for any hint of jest, but all you find is sincerity and love.

“Simon,” you breathe, your heart pounding. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” he replies, his gaze unwavering. “I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you every single day. So, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

A whirlwind of emotions sweeps through you—joy, love, and a hint of disbelief. You’ve always known that your relationship with Simon was special, but to hear him propose, to see the depth of his feelings laid bare, is almost overwhelming.

“Yes,” you say, your voice filled with emotion. “Yes, I will marry you.”

The words have barely left your lips before Simon's expression transforms, an unrestrained joy lighting up his face. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you entirely.

“May I kiss you?” 

You finally nod slightly, your eyes fluttering closed as anticipation builds. Simon cups your face gently with both of his rough, calloused hands, his touch hot and reassuring. He hesitates for just a heartbeat, savoring the moment, before he closes the distance between you. His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, then more assured as he feels you respond.

The kiss is tender at first, tentative, as if he's savoring every moment. You can feel the depth of his feelings in the way he kisses you, the way his hands cradle your face as if you are something precious and irreplaceable. It’s filled with the promise of all the unspoken words and emotions that have been building between you. It’s a kiss that feels like redemption, second chances, and the beginning of a future that you both long for.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as you deepen the kiss. He groans ever so quietly as you pull at him. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, a quickened rhythm that mirrors your own. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation, every worry and doubt melting away.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless and slightly dazed, Simon rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed. "I've dreamed of this moment," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “For so long.”

You smile, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. 

"You're mine," he murmurs softly, his voice filled with wonder and certainty. "And I'm yours."

"Always," you reply, your heart swelling with happiness.

As you stand there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together. And that is more than enough.

part 6 < > part 8 (finale)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 4

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/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged 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 a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: double chapter day?

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!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The summer sun brings little warmth to the castle of Debray. Those left behind in the shadow of their lord’s march to war, bide their time with baited breaths and unspoken worries. The duchess sinks into her cups, a nectar to her already sharp tongue, as her daughter buries herself in her wardrobe. 

Lady Jazlene hands you dress after dress, demanding a stitch here or there, only to snatch it back and have you cut the cloth of another to alter yet a third. And a fourth, fifth, sixth. Strips of fabric and loose buttons litter the drawing room table as you and Merinda put your needles to work. 

“Motherrrr,” Jazlene swirls around, swaying her hips back and forth, “it has been a fortnight already.” 

“Your father will return soon,” Lady Rezlyn slurs before she empties her goblet. She has no husband to chide her away from excess. “Never fear, dearest.” 

“That is not—mother, what am I to do? I have no wedding dress!” 

“You have no mind,” Rezlyn snickers, “you will have only rags by the time you decide.” 

“Hm,” Jazlene approaches the table with her hands on her hips, “mother, that gown with the gold lace. The one you wore last solstice--” 

“My gold lace,” Rezlyn sneers, “no!” 

“But mother. I only want the lace. You can have it re-trimmed. It would look much nicer with pearls,” Jazlene whines, “do you not understand? I am to marry a king. I cannot look as some simple countryside daughter.” 

Rezlyn clucks and shakes her head, “if it hushes your endless moaning, have the lace.” 

Jazlene gives a triumphant grin and turns to you. She grabs your arm and the needle catches in the fabric, slipping from your grasp, “go fetch mother’s dress. It is rosy satin.” 

“And wine! Bring more wine,” Rezlyn interjects. 

Jazlene rolls her eyes and flicks you away with her fingers. You hastily retreat as Merinda grimaces at her labour. Your fingers hurt from the endless hemming and seaming and you’ve noticed she’s jabbed herself more than once as the noble daughter changes course back and forth. 

You flit from the chamber and sweep down to the kitchens. The descent into the cellar is lit by only the candle in your hand, the flame wobbling dangerously before you. You find a bottle of the duchess’ preferred and climb back into the light. 

You snuff the tallow and quickly press on you. You climb the stairs again but falter as the wail of a horn breaks the afternoon din. You spin and turn to the window. Several other servants cluster beneath the arched opening as they try to see the horizon. The blast comes again, three in quick succession, followed by a long blare. 

The noise of chain and mail comes from the courtyard below. The few men left behind to man the castle walls are quick to action. You can see the flap of banners and nothing more between the other curious bodies. 

“Who is it? Enemy soldiers?” Waldon wonders. 

“I cannot see, my eyes are dim,” Margite shields her vision from the sun as leans over the sill. Their chatter swirls at the approach. 

“It is them! The Lord’s banner!” Stellan exclaims, “I can make out the sun and the sword on the banner. And the Winter King’s white crown.” 

“They return! They return!” Another cries out, “are they victorious?” 

You shuffle away. You forget about the golden lace and return to the drawing room. You enter and look down at the bottle in your hands. You blink, trying to recall what you were about to do. You set the wine on the table near the duchess as Jazlene seizes your other arm. 

“Where is the dress?” She snarls, “ugh, are you so useless--” 

“They’ve returned,” you utter cluelessy. 

“They...” Jazlene begins. 

“The king and your father, my lady,” you explain, “we saw them through the window. I thought to say so before I went to your mother’s wardrobe--” 

“Quiet!” She shoves you away, “I need a different dress. The crimson slit with ivory. Yes, yes, now!” 

She pushes you again and you stumble to the door. 

“And slippers,” she calls after you, “Merinda! Get over here.” 

You scurry back out and to Lady Jazlene’s chamber. You enter and sort through the mess of her clothing strewn and heaped about. You find the red and ivory dress and a pair of slippers of a similar hue. You are certain to bring a selection of jewels and pins to assuage any further remonstrance. 

In the drawing room, Jazlene has Merinda fixing her hairpins. You approach with your armful and lay it on the table. Outside the walls, you can hear the chaos unfurling. You can hardly keep the noises straight as cogs grind, ropes groan, and the noblewoman carry on their tittering. 

You help Jazlene step into the dress, Merinda holding the other side. As you work at the sleeves and skirts, she fidgets around. 

“The king? The king is with them for sure?” She breaths. 

You nod, “yes, my lady. His banner--” 

“Mother! They have won. They must have.” 

“Do not be too presumptuous,” the other lady rises and nears the table, snatching up a string of pearls, “come. Put these around my neck.” 

There’s banging and knocking and footfalls and voices yelling. The walls cannot keep out the rising fervour. Horse hooves and rusty hinges. They are close, in the castle or more. You pull tight the laces of the dress as Merinda clasps the pearls around the duchess’ thick neck. 

There is someone before the door. A shadow darkens below it for just an instant before it opens. No permission is asked as Lord Dustan clatters in. His eyes is swollen near shut. 

“Daughter, wife, you must come down to the--” 

Heavy, steady steps follow him. You continue to weave the laces through the eyes, going as fast as you can. 

“Father, I am not dressed. I am not ready to receive--” Jazlene protests. 

Dustan looks behind him and backs away from the doorframe. King Geralt fills it with his large figure, a dark cut along his hairline though he hardly seems bothered by it. Otherwise, he is untouched, unblemished. You knot the laces as you peek over Jazlene’s shoulder and his gold eyes shimmer in the low lantern light. 

“Your highness,” Jazlene gasps and drops to a curtsy. You stand, dumbfounded for an instant before you bend your neck and your knee to his status. “We were not warned of your coming. I pray you have tasted victory,” she raises her head slowly, “and we may wed in celebration to ring your reign in the Summer Kingdom.” 

He grumbles as his eyes search the space. Dull yet vibrant at the same time. He tilts his head as his jaw squares, “a king’s wife mustn’t fret so much about silks and wine,” he growls as he breaks the threshold. He marches to the rigid high back chair and lowers himself, “victory is mine but that does not mark the end of my efforts. I have no kingdom until all that which has broken is repaired.” 

“Certainly, your highness, and I will be by your side to help you amend what has been injured. As your loyal wife and queen,” she wilts as she wobbles just a little, “I am only so happy to see you alive and returned.” She rises as straight as she can and sweeps over to him, pushing out her chest, “but not unharmed. Your highness, you have been wounded.” 

She goes to touch the gash along his forehead and he motions her away with a flat palm. 

“It is not dire,” he insists, “Lord Dustan, where is your bishop?” 

“I sent away for him. He will come,” the duke avows. 

“The bishop?” Jazlene looks to her mother. 

“For the vows, precious,” Dustan assures. 

“The vows? Now? Today? But father--” 

“I haven’t time to wait around on paltry feasts and drunken hordes,” the king insists. 

“But-- but--” Jazlene stammers, “I am a queen, I should have a wedding.” 

“You are still but a duke’s daughter,” the king snaps, “a wedding you will have. Let us swear the words as was arranged. Then we must away.” 

“Away? Away?” Jazlene echoes again. 

“Take this parrot away from me,” King Geralt barks as he slams his fist into the arm of chair, “I tire of her squawking. When the bishop arrives, fetch me and I shall keep the oath I made.” 

The edge in his voice cannot be missed on that single word. He is a man who would not break a promise given, not the like the one cowering by the door. You glance up slowly as you notice Jazlene quaking. You can tell by her fists that she is not so much afraid anymore as she is angered. 

“Daughter,” Rezlyn girds and touches her daughter’s arm, “a wife should learn first to obey. Let us go paint your lips and await the bishop.” 

“This cannot be...” Jazlene hisses. 

“Quiet,” Lord Dustan snaps, “you want to marry, you marry as you are told. Out.” 

Lady Rezlyn keeps the duke from grabbing his daughter, instead steering her through the door herself. Merinda follows first and you trail after. The king grumbles, “Debray, leave a maid. She may fetch me that wine.” 

“My lord,” Lord Dustan points you back tersely, “the wine.” 

“Leave me,” King Geralt demands of his fair-weather lord. 

Dustan retreats and shuts the door heavily. You turn and cross to the table where you left the sealed bottle. You put your hand around the neck and lift it. You face the king and cross to him with your head low. 

“Your highness, would you like a goblet?” You ask. 

“I am not interested in imbibing,” he reaches beneath his mail and pulls free a grey handkerchief, “pour it on this.” 

You crack the wax seal of the bottle and grab the bulbous head of the cork. You wiggle it but cannot dislodge it. You struggle with it and he wraps his large hand around the pregnant bottom. 

“Little maid,” he slips it from your grasp and puts the kerchief in your hand. 

The uncorks it with only his thumb, flicking free the stopper, and he reaches out to you. You press the cloth to rim and he tilts it slightly, wetting the fabric. He pulls it away and reaches to place it on the floor. You look at him curiously. He leans forward and runs his index below the gash in his head. You get his meaning and daintily press the damp cloth to his head. 

“The alcohol cleanses,” he says as he leans heavier into your touch. 

“It looks rather painful, your highness.” 

You wince at your own careless words. You don’t know why you said anything at all. He sits in silence, breathing slowly. At last, he sits back and looks at you. You drop your hand and your chin. 

“Might I get you anything else, your highness?” You offer as you fold the cloth into a tight wad. 

“Tell me, how do you fare?” 

“Your highness?” You peek up at him through your lashes. 

“Are you well? Have you rested? Are you fed?” He prompts. 

You raise your head, surprised by his questions. 

“I am well, your highness. I have a roof above me.” 

His cheek ticks, “same as you were. Same as I remember.” 

He puts his head back and closes his eyes. He sighs deeply. You waver before him, unsure what to do next.  

“I don’t mind the cold. My land is frigid most days but I felt a true shiver out there on that road. Even Roach could not ease it.” 

You watch him, awaiting an order, not so well attuned to conversation. More often than not, a response is not warranted, just action. He gives you little direction though he is a man who easily commands. 

“My horse. Stinky steed,” he muses as he keeps his eyes closed, “valiant nonetheless.” He lets out another heavy exhale, “will you mind the door? Wake me when the bishop arrives should I doze?” 

“As you wish, your highness,” you go to the door, taking your usual stance beside it. 

He is still. The amber light of the lantern limns his large figure as he reclines in the stiff chair. He does not move but a man who has ridden to war has slept on worse. You cannot tell if he truly slumbers but you know it is not appropriate to stare. 

You remain in silence. It isn’t so bad to the duchess and her daughter. Almost serene if not for the tension of the man’s presence. A king. A wintry figure with his icy hair and colder demeanour. You do not envy Jazlene, he will be a rigid husband. She will not bowl him over as her mother does the duke. 

You listen beyond the walls, trying to track the activity beyond. There are softer voices you can’t make out, creaks which could be only the wind, and footfalls which are most certainly only servants about their tasks. The tedium stretches on as the lantern light wobbles. 

You stare at the wall opposite. The summer hue breezes in with a hint of pollen between the open curtains. Still the chamber remains dim in stone and mortar. 

There is the crank of the gates and you shift. You turn your head to hear better the entry of a new party. A man’s tenor from below assures you of the arrival. You wait until the footfalls reach the stairs. You do not relish waking the king should he have managed to sleep. 

You look to the king in the chair but find him alert. His eyes are centered on you as he sits straight, golden irises blazing. You gulp and shy away. 

“I believe the bishop has come, your highness.” 

He doesn’t speak or move. He just watches you. His gaze bores until it burns. You fear you might have strayed somehow. 

Finally, he slides to the edge of the chair and stands. He does not seem eager as he makes slow progress towards the door. As he crosses the room, he stops, just before the door, right beside you. 

“A war for a wife,” he mutters, “a barter, I suppose.” He reaches for the metal loop on the door, “come, little maid, we might need a pillow should the lady faint again.” 

[beloveds-embrace]

more angst dukedom i beseech you🙏

I gotchu 🫡 cw: implied suicide attempt

John Price had always carried burdens- command, the lives of his men, expectations he never wanted but accepted nonetheless. He bore them all without complaint, because that was what men like him did. They wore their regrets like scars and moved forward, no matter the pain.

But this was different.

There was no strategy, no enemy, no path forward that didn’t feel like wading through a graveyard of his own making.

The enemy was himself. And he had already lost.

The room was too quiet.

You lay in the massive bed, fragile and still, as though the sheets would swallow you whole. Candlelight flickered over your face, highlighting the hollows beneath your eyes, the unnatural stillness of your features. You weren’t asleep, but you weren’t here, not in any meaningful way.

John had seen death before, had buried men with his own hands. But he’d never felt a loss like this. Because you were still breathing. And yet, you were gone.

A part of him had known you were suffering. He had seen the signs, felt the shift in the house, in the way the light had dimmed in your eyes long before your body followed. But he had ignored it. Too busy. Too distracted by his duties. Too used to the idea that you, as a noblewoman, were meant to endure.

He had never stopped to see you.

And now, looking at you- this hollow shell of the woman he had legally sworn to protect- he knew with crushing certainty that he might never be able to bring you back.

His fists clenched at his sides.

The guilt weighed on him, suffocating him, pressing against his ribs. How had he let it come to this?

The doctors said you’d recover. But what was survival if there was nothing left to live for?

He sat beside you, careful, as though one wrong move might shatter what little remained of you. His hand hovered over yours before finally touching it, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin.

You didn’t react. Not even the slightest twitch.

He closed his eyes briefly, whispering, hoarse and broken

“I’m so sorry, Duchess.”

The words were too small, too late, too inadequate for what had been done. But he said them anyway. And he would keep saying them, even if you never heard them.

The manor is silent.

Not the comfortable hush of a home at rest, nor the solemn quiet of a place draped in dignity. No, this silence is heavy, suffocating, thick with something that clings to the skin like damp earth after a burial.

It is a mausoleum now. A grand, gilded coffin filled with ghosts that still breathe, still walk, still whisper their regrets into the very walls, as if stone and wood can grant them absolution.

But the dead do not listen.

And you are dead.

Not in the way the world recognizes, not in the way the priests preach about with their incense and hollow comforts, but in the way that matters. The way that leaves the soul hollowed out and emptied, a once-beating heart now reduced to something that merely functions. The way that makes a woman rise from her sickbed not because she wants to, but because the weight of stillness is unbearable, because even nothingness is preferable to lingering.

So you move.

Because what else is there to do?

The doctor tells you that you can begin walking again, so you do. You do not celebrate this, nor acknowledge the hesitance in his voice, the way he measures his words as though afraid one wrong syllable might shatter you further. He is the family doctor. He had ignored your aches and pains before, but he is still perfect for everyone else, so there is no reason for him to leave.

You simply nod, and then you leave.

No fanfare, no grand proclamation, no shared relief with the servants who dare not meet your eyes, nor the men who have spent too many sleepless nights outside your door, drowning in their own grief.

You pass them all without pause.

Johnny, standing near the stairwell, his mouth parting as if to say something, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you or let you pass. He says nothing. He does nothing.

Kyle, leaning against the corridor wall, eyes shadowed, his usual confidence stripped raw, his lips pressed into a tight, remorseful line. You do not look at him.

Simon, silent as ever, standing at the threshold of the hall, watching, watching, watching. Always watching. But what good were his eyes when they had never seen you before?

John, waiting at the foot of the stairs, as if he expected you to stop, to say something, to acknowledge him.

You do not.

You step past them as if they are furniture, as if they are just another part of the grand, empty estate that holds no warmth for you. You feel like an unwelcome guest in this house.

Thankfully, they do not follow you.

Perhaps they should. Perhaps once, a long time ago, they would have. But now, there is something in the way you carry yourself- a frigid, unyielding nothingness- that warns them against it.

You do not stop until you reach your office.

It is the one place in this house that still belongs to you, still exists outside of their guilt, their whispered apologies, their feeble, desperate attempts to undo the irreversible.

The papers on your desk are still neatly stacked, left undisturbed as if the very walls themselves had been mourning your absence. The ink in your inkwell has dried, a stark reminder of how much time has passed, how much has been lost.

You sit, you pick up the first document, and then you begin to work.

It is not a statement. It is not an act of rebellion, nor is it an attempt to prove anything to anyone.

It is simply something to do.

A way to fill the hours, to keep your hands moving, to avoid the empty spaces where grief might creep in, where thoughts might fester.

The servants try, at first. They hover, unsure whether to acknowledge you, whether to speak. They bring tea that grows cold on the desk, untouched. They set down meals that go ignored, waiting until you are gone to take them away in silent defeat. They do not try to talk to you anymore.

They understand now; you are done with them.

You are done with all of it.

You are not cruel. You do not snap at them, nor raise your voice, nor offer even a fraction of the coldness they once gave you.

But you don’t speak to them at all.

And in some ways, that is worse.

Because there is nothing they can do to thaw the ice that has settled into your bones, nothing they can say that will undo what has been broken.

There is no… warmth left to give.

[bon2bonn]

My darling I

Max Verstappen X female!reader

Words count :1.5k.

Regency au! , which I know nothing about 🤭

*No warnings so far.

" the family disappointment has arrived! " A shout rang through the grand hall , the nearby guests stood in a stunned silence at the loud octave of the yet again late guest .

Some of the ladies covered their mouths and start to whisper in a not so hushed voices about her , some curious at the peculiar young lady , while others looked in distaste, eyes followed as she walked in with air of nonchalant , scandalised by the behaviour as she turned to grab her first and most needed drink for the night .

Her face contoured into a grimace at the taste, then turned her head to the side and made a face at the empty corner , about to spit it out if not for her mother's harsh glare as she finally made it , eyes twitching at her daughter's antics before rolling her eyes and held out her booklet , a small thing folded with a silver pen attached to it with a delicate silky braided string , her mother's wuthering look made her take it with a defeated kicked face , tying it around her wrist and held it out for her mother to see , who in turn gave a satisfied hum along with a nod then turned to spy any potential catch as her maids called them .

She took the moment of her mother being distracted and turned to the corner once again with a small forced smile " just few hours and I'll be back to my misery hole " , turning to nod in a feigned politeness to greet a walking by duchess, holding back the snort at the sight of the sparkling yellow dress , the feathers were a statement if she dared to say , turning back to the corner with a look of misery " I need to exorcise this sight out of my mind " shuddering at another lady in green , mumbling lowly " this is atrocious" receiving a smack from her mother who maintained her best customer service smile while keeping her daughter in line .

A gentleman made a brave step her way , a voltage smile on as he took a skipping step a head , but halted when she sent a glare his way , the unimpressed look on her face asking ' think again ' making him steer away without another though, she shot another unimpressed look at her drink before discarding it on a table and turned with mocking grin before it wiped out at the hard stare of her mother, who was waiting patiently for her with who seemed to be a promising gentleman, well , at least his attire indicates so , royal blue bringing out his striking cold eyes , hair brushed back delicately , and beside him stood his mother , wearing the same royal blue in a subtle elegant style, a far contrast to the screaming colourblind atrocities she was forced to witness so far .

As she was giving him a not so subtle judging once-over , he wasn't shy to do the same, both unaware of their mothers sharing a hopeful look before her mother decides to start the conversation, " lady Sophie , what a delightful surprise to meet you here ! , it's been a long time " , lady Sophie gave a genuine wide smile and held out her hands for her long missed dear friend " your letters kept me company and were what I needed to stay strong " , both emotional as their children were shooting glares at eachother " it's been too long my dear Anna , how I missed you ".

Anna's daughter gave her a bewildered look of disbelief " you , have friends, hell must've frozen over " ignoring the look of disdain her mother shot her as Sophie's eyes turned towards her softening into something familiar , something warm and welcoming " you must be ____ , you've grown up so beautifully " somehow her face softened and a smile surfaced and she greeted back in an elegant courtesy " lady Sophie , it's a pleasure to meet you " voice steady and soft that left even her mother impressed, lady Sophie then gestured to her son in introducing " this is my eldest, Max " Max gave a nod of his head in greeting then turned to lady Anna with a polite smile " lady Anna , it's been a while " , his eyes turned her way , his smile faltering slightly before he greeted her next " miss " left his lips like a dry wind blowing across a desert with how his stiff shoulders squared , she noticed with a frown his mother giving him a look of disapproval at his manners but chose to ignore it with slight absentminded nod of her own , her eyes turned away as her mother cleared her throat to keep the awkwardly halted conversation going, but she was already bored and surely not paying attention for a few minutes won't do anyone any harm. Right? .

°

She was wrong, deadly wrong . Within five minutes her mother managed to get her robbed into a dance, an impossible feat that her mother managed to achieve in the span of the five minutes she was distracted trying to decipher if the greenish yellow dress of earlier was a crime against her eyesight, or the bright orange with red drapes was even worse, the dangling crystals weren't helping , when her mother exclaimed in delight " that would be wonderful " making her snap her head in alarm .

One , her mother is really this exited about anything unless she was involved in her mother scheming , and two, her mother's scheming includes the relentless work of trying to 'kick her out the estate' (finding her an eligible gentleman and marry her off) . So when she saw that achieving bright smile on her mother's face she knew that she's in for misery .

Not long after she was standing awkwardly in front of Max, looking around she caught several eyes of girls giving her their nastiest glare , and she didn't hesitate to glare back with a scowl of ' what ? ' before the music started . If she could take pride in anything it would be how well and gracefully she danced, even her mother couldn't argue in that forte , light on her feet with boise and elegance head held up and eyes never shy from her dance partner who's gaze was taking her in , not like he was doing minutes ago, this time it wasn't as harsh, wasn't as judgemental or as sharp, this time it felt like he was connecting to memory, eyes dancing from her eyes to the bridge of her nose, to her cheek where a faded scar resides and down to her lips, lingering for a beat too long before going back to meet her eyes . The hand she had on his shoulder twitched and gripped tighter , maintaining composure as he stepped back when the music came to a stop , the hand on her waist fell down in a clenched fist before he held it behind his back as he straightened , pairs around them gave a final curtsy then applauded the loud cheers seemed to snap him back, he gave her a curt not after letting their joined hands ease away from their hold , his lips parted to say something, but struggled to get the words out so he shut down , took a breath and turned his back and left .

Her feet rooted in place, a frown upon her face at the absurdity and the audacity of this man to leave like that , her confusion turned irritation at the delighted grins adoring the two mothers when she turned to retreat from the dancefloor, biting back a comment and stood beside her mother silently her mother's gaze was ignored ,her eyes swept around the grand hall , then up at the overlooking terrace where he stood , his hands grabbing the marble railings with a man beside him , she could only see the other man's back and unruly hair but she knew he was telling Max something from the occasional nods he was giving, his eyes moved their way before meeting her's before turning to his companion with a unreadable expression, giving his final words , then they both disappeared in a shadow .

•

The next morning came with news, the good ones , according to her mother who was gushing as she held a copy of the latest gossip column in town, reading it with an accomplished grin from a cross the table where she sat stabbing her fork into plate in disdain as she glared at the open invitation sent from lady Sophie first thing in the morning .

Her father however was reading the headlines, an official found dead in an alley , 'corrupt' written on his forehead and a copy of evidence plastered on the walls behind his body, money laundering, theft, and bribery all under his signature . Whispers starting to echo behind closed doors at the string being pulled , promising to unravel the gruesome lies .