#Canopies In London | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gloomwitchwrites · 9 months ago

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, hand job, oral sex (male receiving), cum swallowing, vaginal fingering, dirty talk

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Fifteen of Ink & Needle

You and Simon start the trip he's been wanting to take you on. Simon thinks he sees a familiar face.

Chapter Fourteen // Chapter Sixteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It takes Simon a week to move his schedule around.

He wanted things to be smoothed out sooner, but sometimes rescheduling takes patience and careful planning. This is why he needs a second person just to keep the scheduling fucking handled. Simon is an organized person, especially when it comes to his work, but even he is beginning to slip.

Simon makes a mental note.

Create a fucking job listing for a goddamn personal assistant.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and then sighs. Simon is only lying to himself. He likes to handle things on his own which is why he was so effective during his military career. Not that he can’t work with a team, just that his skill set lends itself to independence.

Turning off the main lights and securing the deadbolts, Simon activates the alarm system and does a once over to make sure everything is in its place. For the next five days, 141 Ink will be closed to the public.

He’ll be with you. In Scotland.

Simon takes the stairs to his flat two at a time with Bravo on his heels. From his pocket, Simon withdraws his lighter and a cigarette, stepping out onto the sorry excuse of a balcony. The wood is starting to rot in places. Really, he should just tear it down and start fresh, but London has fucking rules about construction.

And Simon is too damn stubborn to deal with bureaucratic nonsense just to replace some wood.

In the dark, he ignites the end of the cigarette, the orange-red glow flaring before receding. He inhales deeply and savors the comforting burn in his lungs.

While Simon dislikes changing around his work schedules, this isn’t really about him. This is about you and what you need. Simon only managed to keep you with him for a few days. You’re too headstrong sometimes, especially when you care about something. While Simon admires that about you, it’s only going to drive you toward burnout.

Those few days were not enough. You were soft and present with him, but you need a proper break away from London and the life you’re building here. Simon escorted you home afterward and all he wanted was to draw you back to him, to keep you even for a few more seconds.

That is, you need a break from the temporary life you’re building here in London.

Simon has to keep telling himself that. You’re not a citizen. Eventually you’ll have to leave or attempt to extend your visa but that isn’t guaranteed. What then? Is Simon willing to let you go?

The answer comes immediately.

No.

He’d rather relive every second of physical therapy, all the fucking medical appointments, and his forced retirement then let you slip away again.

You’re his now. You’re his woman. There is nothing that will keep him from you from this point on.

Simon takes a long drag of his cigarette as the November air slips in to cool his skin beneath his leather jacket.

Johnny keeps badgering Simon about Christmas and if he plans on joining. He always does, but he wants to know if he can bring you along. This time when Simon called Johnny about his family’s cottage up in the Highlands, Johnny lent it to him without question.

But when Johnny asked about him coming to see the family for holiday, Simon shrugged it off. Johnny didn’t seem too worried but Simon also didn’t bring you up at all. Yet it doesn’t mean shit, and Simon just needs to get through these next few days before he even brings it up with Johnny.

Bringing you to the MacTavish farm to meet everyone makes this real.

Solid.

Like Redwood trees.

You will make a home in Simon’s branches. Relax beneath his canopy. Be protected under his shade.

Bravo whines, and Simon glances down at the dog, the domestic longing evaporating like the smoke from the end of his cigarette.

“Ready for a sleepover?” asks Simon, putting out his cigarette and heading back inside.

Bravo’s ears perk up and his tail starts to rotate like a helo’s blades. Simon snorts and reaches down to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

Simon loves Bravo but he is not taking the dog with him. He’s going to pick you up tonight and Simon is dropping Bravo off when he does. Originally, Simon planned on having Gaz watch him, but Amelia suggested that he leave Bravo with her.

Saves Simon a fucking trip.

Everything is coming together, and maybe—just maybe—the two of you can move this relationship into something stable. Because regardless of his obsession, Simon wants peace. He loves the tattoo parlor and his flat and Bravo. But it’s not enough.

Simon is not fulfilled. Not really.

He needs you.

As it stands, you’re not entirely his. Simon needs to claim everything. He might have your heart and your smile and your lips, but he is a possessive creature. Simon wants to ruin everyone else for you. That you will only ever beg for him, to desire him as much as he constantly craves you.

As Simon checks over the large duffle bag he packed for the tip, his mind drifts into the memories of the last few days.

That morning in the shower, Simon nearly lost his head. He knew what you wanted by the way you had arched your back and how your hand palmed him. He was ready to push you up against the shower wall and fuck the life out of you. But Simon fought off the urge even though it clawed at his ribcage.

He can still recall your lips against his skin, and the playful way you covered your eyes to not see his face. You’re always thinking of him. Not pushing. Allowing Simon to give pieces of himself to you when he’s ready.

Hiding all this from me? You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.

Simon stands in the middle of his bedroom grinning like a bloody idiot.

When it comes to you, he’s absolutely fucked.

Simon zips up the duffle bag before changing out of his work clothes. With it being November, it’ll be too fucking cold to take the bike. He’ll need to wait for a nicer day, but he also has no gear for you to wear. Just a helmet, and that isn’t enough to protect you.

He switches into joggers, trainers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a black sip-up hoodie with a fleece interior. If Simon is driving, he wants to be bloody comfortable.

Simon grabs the duffle and lifts it, hauling it over his shoulder.

“Let’s go, Bravo.”

The German Shepard rolls up and onto his feet, trotting happily beside Simon. Descending the rear staircase, Simon exits into the alleyway behind the building. Attached to the back of the building is a small garage but it’s not automatic. It’s manual.

Simon unlocks it and twists the handle lifting the door up enough that it ascends on its own. Popping the trunk, Simon tosses the duffle in and Bravo jumps inside.

Simon is in the driver’s seat of his SUV and to Amelia’s in less than a minute.

It’s after dinner but that was the plan. He wants to avoid traffic, and driving late at night has always calmed him.

You answer the door, and when your gaze falls on Simon his heart drops into his stomach. From there it explodes outward, every limb in his body tingling with pleasure. You’re grinning, nearly glowing.

Your gaze runs up and down his body before settling on his face. “You’re not wearing the balaclava.”

Simon blinks, his hand starting to rise to feel the balaclava’s absence.

“You’re right. I’m not,” he agrees, forcing his hand back to his side. He forgot to put it on, which is odd since he’s always remembered in the past. “You packed?”

“I am,” you reply, lifting the bag in your hand. Before you can drop it, Simon reaches out and snags it.

Your features change, morphing into indignation as if you’re going to protest. Simon smirks and shakes his head.

“Go on, Bravo,” instructs Simon, nodding his head in the direction of the house.

Bravo greets you with a tail wag before disappearing inside. Moments later, Simon hears Amelia’s delighted yell.

“I’ll take good care of him, Simon!” she calls from somewhere in the house.

You start to turn to call back but Simon shoves his way in. “We’ll be back on Wednesday!” he replies, before filling the entire space with his bulky frame.

You’re not able to move around him, and instead step out onto the front stoop. Simon did that on purpose. You’re acting tough like his actions annoyed you, but he notices the soft way you submit to him. If you were truly upset, you’d say something, but you’re walking toward the SUV with a little skip in your step.

At the car, Simon adds your bag to the trunk but he’s not fast enough to open the passenger door for you. You’re already sitting inside by the time he comes around to the driver’s side.

When Simon opens the door and hops in, starting the car, the reality of the situation sets in.

This is it. This is fucking happening.

Simon glances at you and you greet him with a lovely smile. He could bottle the way you look at him up and drink it down like his favorite whiskey.

“We’re driving?” you ask, briefly glancing around the interior.

“We are,” answers Simon as he checks for oncoming cars, before pulling out from his parking spot.

“Why aren’t we flying?” You’re not asking because you’re confused, you’re asking because you’re probing. Simon never said where he planned on taking you for this trip.

Simon makes a turn. “I hate planes.”

“You hate planes?” you reply, amusement in your tone.

Briefly, Simon’s brain draws forth a memory of when he was handed the controls of a helo and they nearly lost Kyle from Simon’s erratic steering. Gaz has never allowed Simon to forget it.

“Why are you smiling?” you laugh, your eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Better to stay on the ground,” says Simon, remembering how Price also lost is cigar during that and how bloody pissed off he was about it.

“And what about a train?”

Again, you’re inquiring instead of outright asking.

Simon shrugs. “Not in control.”

Your lips purse but you settle back into your seat, gaze turning toward the passenger door window.

Getting out of London is the hardest part. Everything is packed together, and sometimes traffic doesn’t cease even in the evening which is why Simon wanted to leave after dinner. Once the two of you are out of London, it’ll be much easier to drive up to Edinburgh without having to constantly stop.

Simon spends most of his time muttering obscenities under his breath as he navigates traffic. You don’t interrupt his concentration. Instead, you watch on, clearly amused by Simon’s attitude to everyone around him.

It isn’t until the car exits the bounds of the London metropolitan area that Simon finally takes a fucking breath. Reaching into the center console, Simon snags his lighter and a cigarette.

“Care if I smoke?”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

With the filter end between his teeth, Simon clicks open the lighter. The little flame pops up but Simon doesn’t light the cigarette. “No fight?”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “Would you like an argument?”

Simon brings the flame to the end of the cigarette. Inhales. Clicks off the lighter and tosses it back into the console. The smoke disappears out the cracked car window.

“Maybe,” he replies, voice slightly husky.

You shift in the passenger seat, twisting to face him. “Simon.”

“Yes, love,” he purrs, enjoying the chastising sweetness in your tone.

“Smoking is harmful.”

“Is it?” He takes another drag of his cigarette.

You nod, leaning one forearm against the middle armrest. “Yes. What if you get lung cancer?”

“Who says that will happen?”

“Literally every doctor.”

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

Your mouth opens in feigned shocked. “Are you telling me how I should feel, Simon?”

He shifts slightly in his seat. This is fun. He likes this. “Not at all, love. But I think I know how to put that mouth to other uses.”

This time your mouth remains open, the shock genuine.

Simon keeps going. “Seems like you already know what to do.”

You promptly shut your mouth. Simon watches as the heat rushes to your face.

Sweet fucking victory.

He takes a final drag on the cigarette and rids himself of the extinguished stub. Returning that hand to the steering wheel, Simon removes the other one, resting it against his thigh. He slides that hand up and down before lightly tapping.

“Come here, sweetheart,” purrs Simon. “Show me what you do with that mouth.”

You immediately smack his arm and Simon bursts out laughing. You’re laughing too but he knows his words stirred something within you. You keep touching your cheek as if you’re feverish.

“You’re terrible, Simon Riley,” you say right before you reach for the water bottle in the cup holder.

He waits until you’re taking a drink. “You won’t think that when I have you on my cock.”

You splutter around the bottle and smack his arm again. Closing the lid, you return the bottle and clear your throat. “When are we supposed to arrive to this mystery place?”

You’re changing the subject again, likely probing for more information. It’s not like it’s some big secret. Simon just wanted it to be a surprise, but there really isn’t any reason to be allusive about it anymore.

Simon shrugs. “It’s about a seven-hour drive to where we’re headed.”

“Seven hours? Where the fuck are you taking me?” You appear genuinely concerned.

He knows why, and Simon quickly attempts to extinguish the rising anxiety. “Evie and Amelia will be fine without you for a few days.”

You sigh. “I know. I’m just—”

The worry lines are back and Simon hates that. You’re always so concerned for others. Always thinking of everyone but yourself.

Reaching out, Simon clasps your hand and squeezes. “We’re going to Scotland.”

“Really?” This time, he hears the pleasure in your voice, and Simon’s chest swells with pride.

“Edinburgh first for a day. Then we’re heading out into the Highlands. Johnny’s family has a small farm up there with a little cottage.”

“Johnny?”

Fuck. You don’t really know the guys. You briefly met them once when Simon nearly punched Adam in the face.

Simon swallows before he speaks. “He was at the pub with me when you were with…Adam.”

“I see,” you reply softly.

“They’ll be gone. Johnny’s family. And the cottage is on the edge of the property.”

Your thumb brushes over the back of Simon’s hand. “So, we’ll be alone?”

“We will,” answers Simon, every muscle in his body tensing.

You nod, still clutching his hand, as you lean further against your seat. “What kind of farm is it?”

Simon glances at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “It’s not like what you’re used to in America. Johnny’s mother has a little greenhouse but they mostly raise animals.”

“Like what?”

“They have some pigs. Sheep.” Simon shrugs. “Fluffy coos.” He says “cow” the same way Johnny does.

A few Christmases ago when Gaz came, Simon and Kyle watched the fluffy beasts from a distance as Johnny tried to wrangle a few back toward one of the enclosures. They offered their assistance but Johnny was adamant he didn’t need their help. He was face down in the mud with bare ass up in the air after only a few minutes.

Your eyes go wide and you sit up a bit straighter. “Can I pet them?”

“With supervision,” says Simon knowing that while the animals are docile and gentle creatures, their horns can easily harm.

This appears acceptable because you snuggle into your seat.

Two hours in, and you’re asleep.

Simon smokes. Drives. Smokes again.

Occasionally, Simon glances in your direction just to make sure you’re still there. For some reason his brain keeps insisting that you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long. You’ll transform into smoke and drift out of the car just like the smoke he exhales from his lungs.

There are roughly three more hours left before arriving in Edinburgh. While most places don’t allow late check-ins, the little hotel Simon plans on taking you to for the night made an exception for him.

By the third hour, Simon is entirely focused on the road. You have not drifted into the air. You are solid and real and asleep in the passenger seat. A calmness settles over him. Everything is as it should be.

So, when Simon feels the weight of your hand against his thigh, he doesn’t think much of it. He drops one hand from the steering wheel intending to reach out to grasp your hand with his own. Yet you do no linger there. Your hand slides upward and Simon’s temporary calmness morphs into understanding.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

“What are you up to, love?” says Simon softly, returning his hand to the steering wheel.

There is a schedule, and while your hand resting on the outside of his joggers over his dick is a temptation he doesn’t want to resist, the two of you can’t stray far.

“Do you want me to stop?” There is a raspy quality to your voice like you’ve just woken from sleep. Perhaps you have, and in that state of wakefulness, your brain decided that this is a good idea.

But there is also lust in your tone. It drips like thick honey.

Now, that? Simon cannot resist that.

“No,” he says, matching your tone as your hand slips beneath the elastic band of his joggers.

Flexing his hips, Simon adjusts in his seat to give you a better angle. When your fingers find him, it’s difficult for Simon to keep his eyes on the road. The tips of your nails gently scratch against his skin before your fingers wrap around him completely.

Your hand is warm, and that first stroke is maddening.

His control is right on a knife’s edge. If Simon glances away from the road, he’ll fucking crash this car. In his peripheral, Simon sees you moving, and even that is hard to withstand. Simon knows that you’re leaning on the center armrest and that you’re looking at him.

Simon knows you are.

Your stare is a brand on his skin.

“This,” you murmur, gently squeezing him. “Is perfect.”

Fuck. He is fucking done for.

The middle of his chest burns as if he is a tree and his core is on fire. The need to be close to you is a lightning strike.

But Simon is fucking driving, and it’s not like he can just pull you into his lap.

“Careful, love,” growls Simon as you start a steady pace. “Might pull over and make you regret this.”

Because that is what Simon wants to do. Find an exit and a quiet parking lot or silent clump of trees.

“Is that a promise?” you breathe as the pad of your thumb brushes over the slit.

Oh, fuck you’re sweet.

So, this is where you’ve been hiding all along. You’ve always had a bit of fire, but this is what he remembers. In Riot Room, you weren’t shy at all. Your words and actions were bold. You opened like a flower in his hands. Bloomed and melted and reformed.

This is the woman who captured all his attention three years ago.

You haven’t changed at all.

“A fucking guarantee,” growls Simon in answer.

You make a little sound in your throat that goes straight to his dick. He is throbbing in your palm, and that only makes Simon’s control thin further. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. The knuckles of his turn white. Even the tattoos on his fingers pale.

You don’t let up. You just bring Simon closer to the edge. He’s not going to last. Not like this, but he sure as hell isn’t going to finish inside his joggers or on the fucking seat like some teenage boy getting his first handy.

No.

Fucking no.

If you’re going to be bold then you’ll take everything that comes with it.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Simon reaches out and grabs the back of your neck. The whimper you make, and the slight squeeze of your hand around his cock nearly causes him to bust right then and there.

“Use that gorgeous mouth and suck me off,” he growls, you tugging your head closer.

Simon isn’t fucking asking. It’s a demand.

Your answer is a playful smile and teasing tone. “You don’t tell me what to do, Simon.”

Simon shakes his head. “Oh, sweetheart, you love it when I tell you what do it.” He briefly glances in your direction before returning his gaze to the road. “Especially when my head is between your legs.”

By your sharp inhale, Simon knows you’re recalling the night when he made you count every orgasm.

“Now,” he says, his exhale stuttering slightly as it releases from him. “Be good. And swallow.”

You reach for him, and Simon lifts his hips a bit. It’s just enough for you to shove the band of his joggers down.

Even then, with his cock out, Simon does not glance away from the road.

Not when you lean forward completely.

Not when his hand fists your hair to keep you in place.

Not even when your mouth suctions around him and you throat him to the fucking root.

But his nostrils flare, and the muscles in his neck and jaw are fucking tight with tension. Every instinct is telling him to pull over, to fuck your luscious mouth, and then drag you into his lap so he can watch you ride his fingers.

That would be bloody perfect. That would be ideal.

Instead, he breathes in and out of his nose, attempting to stifle every groan as your head bobs. One of your hands cups him gently and Simon’s grip in your hair tightens.

“I’m—fuck,” groans Simon.

He feels the resistance of your throat from his instruction and hears the wet sound it makes when his length is entirely too much. You pull back a bit before trying again, and that is fucking it.

Your tongue lightly grazes against the underside of the head, and Simon’s lower half tenses, hips thrusting up slightly to meet you.

And you, like the good girl you are, take every drop.

Thank fuck he turned on the cruise control.

Simon’s fingers slowly unlace from your strands of hair. He’s careful not to tug, and then it’s just a gentle caress as you lift your head.

For a moment—a brief few seconds—Simon is fixated on your puffy, swollen lips. He wants to kiss those lips. To taste himself along with you.

“Eyes on the road, Simon.”

He quickly averts his gaze but still reaches out with his thumb to wipe away the bit of his cum that still slings to the corner of your mouth. Your grab his wrist and bring that thumb to your mouth.

Lips suctioning around it, you suck off that last little drop. When you release his thumb, Simon briefly presses it against your bottom lip.

Simon makes it only a kilometer before he pulls over, pushes his seat back, drags you into his lap, shoves your pants down to your ankles, and has you fucking yourself on his fingers. The hand not between your legs presses against your upper right thigh. His tattooed fingers are slightly curled inward to cling there.

He doesn’t want you moving.

“Come on, love. Grind down on me.”

There is sweat on your brow and it’s beautiful. Your mouth is open, head tilted backward in bliss to expose your throat. Your eyes are heavy-lidded, clearly lost in a lust-laced haze.

With one hand on Simon’s chest and the other on his thigh, you’re a goddess above him. Simon watches his index and middle finger appear and disappear as you use them for your pleasure, rolling your hips in fluid rhythm.

Sure, this is about you, but this is doing plenty for him. He’s fucking hard again just watching your pussy squeeze and stretch in time with your movements. Simon sits up a bit and gently bites your left breast through your shirt.

You whimper and grind down on him like he asks. It’s so sweet the way you come undone. The way your pussy tightens around his fingers. The way you say his name. It’s like you’re asking for more and yet chastising him.

And this is just his fingers inside you.

Soon, you’ll take his cock, and Simon cannot fucking wait to hear the sounds you’ll make then.

Tenderly, Simon eases his fingers from your pussy. They’re glossy. Shiny. And Simon brings them to his mouth to clean just as your head dips forward. Your gaze lands on his face the moment his fingers enter his mouth. Your eyes widen slightly, and Simon takes his time.

He wants you to see.

He wants you to know.

The little detour nearly adds an hour but Simon could give a fuck.

Simon sits smugly while you doze off in the passenger seat. He would have had you continue if he weren’t pressed for time. If Simon had another hour, he would have told you to continue until your legs shook. Even then, he’d simply do the work himself until your voice went hoarse.

By the time Edinburgh is in Simon’s sights, it’s late.

You still haven’t stirred. You’re curled up in the passenger seat and Simon has no idea how you’re comfortable.

When he pulls up to the hotel he booked, Simon decides not to wake you. Finding a parking spot in the little lot to the side of the building, Simon leaves you alone in the car. He’ll check in at the front desk, grab the room key, and then come back for you.

You deserve some sleep.

“Evening, mate,” says Simon to the clerk behind the desk.

It’s an older gentleman whose entire appearance reminds Simon of Ben.

“Evening. You’re,” he checks his little computer, “Mr. Riley?”

“That’s me,” nods Simon.

“Need to see some identification and I’ll square you away.”

Simon hands it over, and then it’s back in his wallet along with a set of keycards. The entire interaction takes less than three minutes.

As Simon exits the building and turns right to head into the little lot, he stops at the first row of cars.

At first, he’s not sure what the fuck he’s looking at.

The small lot is full and there was only one parking spot when Simon pulled up. He took it, not thinking much since the lot itself is well-lit.

But that isn’t the case now.

Several of the lights are out and is that—

No. It fucking can’t be.

Anyone else might mistake the odd lump as a trick of the shadows or even the back of another vehicle. But Simon isn’t mistaken. That is not just shadows playing games or a bad parking job.

That is a person. A man. Leaning against Simon’s SUV.

And he knows that stance, that casual lean that seems aloof but isn’t.

He knows who it belongs to.

Simon bolts, striding toward the SUV with purpose in every step. He loses sight of the back end of the SUV for the briefest second as he crosses over, another large vehicle in the way before it comes back into view.

But there is no one there.

All that training clicks back in like it never left.

Simon approaches slowly, walking around his car once to make sure. He’s completely on alert, his head on a swivel as he scans the area.

There is only you sleeping in the passenger seat.

There is no one else in the lot but Simon fucking checks anyway. He walks both lengths of the lot. Checks every car and corner. He even goes out to the street and back, canvasing further than he likely needs to but doing it anyway.

But he was so sure there was someone there.

He’s back, Simon.

No. What Simon saw was a fucking illusion. An old memory surfacing. That fucker—that waste of human—is in America. He isn’t here.

Unlocking the trunk, Simon removes both bags, tossing one over either shoulder. Then he’s at your door opening it, reaching out to gently shake you awake.

“We’re here.”

You groan softly and grab his hand. Simon keeps you closely tucked against him all the way to the room because it’s the only thing that keeps his hands from shaking.

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, Simon helps you out of your clothes.

“Want to shower?” he asks and you shake your head, rubbing at your eyes.

Simon offers you one of his shirts and you put it on. It’s all he can do for you before you plop onto the bed. You wiggle a bit and then finally dive under the covers, completely disappearing.

Once you’re settled, Simon checks the door and the two windows. Everything is locked and secure. There is no reason for him to panic like this.

Simon rubs at his face before sighing softly and stripping down to his boxer briefs. Sleep is what he needs. It’s what you both need.

And it is Simon who wakes first, the faintest bit of stress still lingering at his temples. But Simon isn’t one for sleeping in or even staying in bed once he’s awoken. You’re still snoozing, just a tangle of hair above the covers and nothing else.

Simon orders breakfast, and when you do wake up, it arrives.

“This all for us?” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“We’re exploring today,” replies Simon, bring the espresso cup to his lips. While tea is his usual beverage of choice, he needs some fucking caffeine.

You plop down onto your side and then slowly roll over until you bump into him. Simon arches an eyebrow as you sit up. Instead of reaching for the food, you reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair as you tug him down to meet you.

Your lips find his and the heat of that kiss goes straight to his toes.

“You need to fucking brush your teeth.”

“Simon, I fucking swear—”

“Kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You roll your eyes, pulling away, but Simon is moving with you, pressing you into the bed, slotting himself between your legs.

“Let’s stay here,” you murmur after a few more kisses.

“While I’d love to stay right here,” says Simon, emphasizing his words by pressing himself against your sex. “We have things to do today.”

“Do we?”

“Don’t want to explore the city with me?” counters Simon, wrapping you up in his arms only to haul you back up to a seated position.

“You know I do, Simon,” you reply softly, fingers brushing lightly against the line of his jaw. “That’s not even a question.”

Simon rubs your back before disentangling himself. “Then eat,” he says, pointing to the feast he ordered because he panicked and decided on one of everything.

He pushes off the bed, his bad knee aching slightly. Simon stretches into it, covering up the limp before he straightens up. You don’t notice, too busy buttering up some toast with lots of jam.

Five days.

He has five days with you.

Simon is about to savor every second.

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brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 2 months ago

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caught in the middle | charles leclerc

🎸 synopsis: After a rainy concert in London, you end up sharing burgers backstage with Charles Leclerc, of all people. tags: rockstar life, talks about fame & pressure (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) | (around 2.4k words)

It’s one of those nights. You can feel the rain before you even hear it, the weight of it pressing down from the clouds, and you just know it’s going to pour. And it does. Hard. The London sky opens up as if it’s got something personal against you, and you’re huddled under a canopy behind the venue, watching as water cascades down. Everything’s soaked – the equipment, the crew, you – and the mood is tense, all nerves and curses muttered under breath because, of course, this is how the night’s going to go.

It’s not your first time here. You’ve played this venue before, two or three times over the years, and every time it feels a little different. A little bigger, like the walls have expanded to swallow more people, like the stage gets higher and the lights hotter. And tonight, it’s not just the rain; it’s a mess of last-minute technical problems. Something about the lighting rig not syncing up, and the sound checks running late because of a blown amp, and the stage crew rushing around to patch things together while you pace the green room, wondering if it’s all going to fall apart before it even begins.

Your tour manager’s in your ear, reassuring you that everything’s fine, but you’ve heard that line before, and it does nothing to stop the nervous twist in your gut. You’re too old for this kind of anxiety, you think. 25 isn’t even that old, but then why does it feel like you’re walking a tightrope every time you hit the stage? Like you’re one wrong move away from everything crashing down. You watch the rain from the window, and it reminds you of all the other times you’ve felt this way, every tour and every city bleeding together in your memory.

Something shifts. It’s hard to say when exactly it happens – maybe it’s when the crew finally gives you the thumbs-up, or when the rain lets up just enough for you to see the crowd gathering through the fogged-up glass. Maybe it’s the hum of the bass vibrating through the walls or the way the adrenaline suddenly kicks in, hot and electric. Either way, you hear them out there, the crowd – muffled cheers and a murmur that swells and dips, building anticipation, wrapping itself around your chest and squeezing until you can barely breathe.

You don’t let yourself think about it too much. You go through the motions, pulling on your jacket, checking the setlist one more time even though you’ve memorized it, cracking jokes with the band like it’s any other night, and then it’s time. The stage manager is waving you over, and you take one last deep breath – just one – before you step out into the hallway that leads to the stage. Your footsteps echo, and the noise from the crowd grows louder. You can feel the heat of the lights before you even see them, hear the opening notes of the intro track rumbling through the speakers. You don’t look back. You can’t.

Then the crowd sees you, and the roar that goes up is like nothing else. It’s everything, like you’re not standing on a stage but flying, unstoppable, and the rain outside doesn’t matter, the equipment issues don’t matter. Nothing matters except the music, the energy.

You start singing. You don’t even remember starting, but your fingers are on the strings of your guitar and the music’s pouring out of you, and the band’s right there with you. You can feel the floor vibrating beneath your feet, the beat pounding in your chest. It’s perfect, even in its imperfections – the missed cues, the notes you almost fumble but catch at the last second, the feedback that whines for half a beat before it’s smothered. The adrenaline burns through you until you can’t tell where you end and the music begins.

When you look out at the crowd, you wonder if they know what it costs, if they can see how hard you’re fighting to hold onto this, to keep the dream alive even when it feels like it’s slipping away.

You hit the chorus and they’re all singing with you, the sound so loud it’s almost deafening, and it’s like the world stops. You’re not thinking about the rain or the mistakes or the way your fingers ache from playing the same chords over and over. You’re just feeling it, the connection, the rush, the way it all comes together for just a few minutes.

You stumble off stage, still feeling the echo of the last note ringing in your ears, your chest heaving with each breath. The heat’s oppressive, and your shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to your back in a way that makes you want to peel it off. You’re half-drunk on adrenaline, on the sound of the crowd still buzzing through the walls, and you don’t even realize you’re smiling until someone hands you a water bottle and you chug it down in three desperate gulps, nearly doubling over from the effort.

The band’s all around you, slapping your back, bumping shoulders, shouting half-coherent things like “Killed it tonight!” and “Best show yet!” But you’re only half-listening, already thinking about the part that comes next. The part that’s always a little awkward, a little forced, where you shake the hands of strangers who got lucky or know the right people or just happened to win some contest. You try to give them a moment to remember, even when you’re exhausted, even when all you really want is a quiet corner to catch your breath. You take a second to steady yourself, push your damp hair out of your eyes, and head toward the meet-and-greet area, already pasting on that familiar, practiced smile.

They’re waiting for you when you get there, clustered in small groups, some with wide-eyed grins, some pretending they’re not as excited as they are. You go through the motions – handshakes, hugs, quick photos with flashing phones that make your vision blur. You ask them how they liked the show, where they came from, if they’ve seen you play before. You keep the rhythm going until your attention snags on someone standing a little apart from the crowd, someone you haven’t seen around before.

He’s got the kind of beauty that makes him stand out, even though he’s just standing there, hands in the pockets of a jacket. And you know him. Of course, you do – how could you not? It’s Charles Leclerc, the one and only. But you’re the rock star here, and you know how to play it cool.

You step forward, hand outstretched, because if you think too much about it, you’ll probably lose your nerve. “Hey,” you say, your voice a little rough from the show, from the yelling and the singing and the way the night’s adrenaline still hasn’t quite worn off. “Nice to meet you.”

His handshake is firm, warm, and he’s got this smile that’s just a little shy, like he’s not used to being on this side of the spotlight, which makes you feel weirdly better. Less alone. “Nice to meet you,” he echoes, his accent softer than you expected, “I’m a big fan.”

You almost choke. Me too, you want to say, because you’ve followed his career, but you don’t. You just nod, feeling your own grin stretching wider than it should, because it’s not every day you meet someone who’s famous in their world, too, and suddenly you’re a little self-conscious, wondering if you’re as cool as you think you are.

“Glad you liked the show,” you say, keeping it light, like he’s just another fan, even though he’s not. Not really.

He laughs, easy and low, and you notice the way he shifts his weight, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but doesn’t want to come off too eager. “It was incredible,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “I’ve been listening to your music for years. This… this was something else.”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see it in the low backstage lighting. “Means a lot, coming from you.” It slips out before you can stop it, and you watch his eyebrows lift, surprise passing over his face like he wasn’t expecting you to know who he was.

The rest of the band finally notices him and they’re quick to be all over him. They’re his fans and unlike you, they’re not afraid to show it. They start asking about the car and which race is the hardest, and you just hang back, watching the way Charles lights up, giving them all the attention they’re craving.

The chaos dies down. The gear’s mostly packed up, the roadies are winding down, and you can finally breathe. The routine kicks in – the same one you always follow after a show because you need the familiarity to settle the adrenaline that’s still coursing through you.

There’s a table in the corner of the greenroom piled high with burgers, fries, and the kind of greasy comfort food that’s become your go-to post-show ritual. Always enough for everyone – staff, guests, even the hangers-on who just happened to have a backstage pass.

It’s your thing, the one you look forward to when the crowd’s roar has faded and the lights have gone down. You grab a burger – double patty, extra cheese, because you’ve earned it – and motion to Charles, who’s still lingering near the door. “Hey,” you say, nodding toward the food. “You hungry? There’s more than enough.”

He hesitates, just for a second, then nods. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

By the time you’ve both got food in your hands and the staff’s scattered around the room in little groups, you find yourselves at the same worn-out couch in the far corner, away from the noise and the half-empty beer bottles littering the floor. He sits beside you, and you try not to think too hard about the way the couch dips slightly under his weight, the way the space between you feels strangely intimate now that you’re not surrounded by people.

You don’t talk for a while, just eat. He’s halfway through his burger when he speaks first, voice low and casual like he’s picking up a conversation you weren’t sure you’d started. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

You pause mid-bite, looking at him, surprised by the question. He’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he’s crossed a line. And maybe he has, but in a good way.

“Sometimes,” you admit, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on the night. Some shows, it’s like I’m not even really there, just... going through the motions. Others, it’s everything I wanted since I was a kid, you know?”

He nods, his eyes dropping to the burger in his hands. “Yeah, I get that. Racing’s the same. Some days, it’s all instinct and adrenaline. Other times, it’s like you’re fighting just to stay in the car, like you’re not even sure why you’re doing it.”

You nod back. “Guess it’s hard to keep loving something when it feels more like a job than... whatever it was in the beginning.”

Charles looks up, and there’s something almost wistful in his eyes. “Yeah. But it’s harder to imagine doing anything else. Even when it’s rough.”

You get that. You’ve lived that – the way the music’s a part of you, the way you keep coming back even when you think you’re done. You take another bite, chewing slowly, letting the words sink in before you say, “Sometimes I wonder if I missed my chance to be something else. Like, what if I’d taken a different path, you know?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back against the couch. “Yeah,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “But then I think about the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been... and I don’t know if I’d trade any of it, even the bad parts.”

It hits you harder than you expect, because that’s exactly it – the good, the bad, the stuff in between that keeps you tethered even when you’re not sure why. You swallow, feeling a lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you say softly, staring at the half-eaten burger in your hand. “I think I get that.”

He shifts beside you, turning a little, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now,” he admits, and there’s a vulnerability there that makes your chest ache. “Like, when I was younger, I thought there’d be this moment where everything would make sense. But it never really does.”

You let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Me too,” you say. “I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I’d be this – ” you wave your hand vaguely, gesturing to the greenroom, the music, the life you’re living “ – and it’s great. Don’t get me wrong, but... I still don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

He laughs, a quiet, almost sad sound, and shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone knows if they’re doing it right. Maybe that’s the point. Just... keep going, even when you don’t know what’s next.”

There’s a silence that stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. You take another bite, and he does too, and for a moment, it’s enough just to sit there, side by side, caught between what you were and what you might be, both of you knowing you’re not alone in the uncertainty.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “at least we get good burgers out of it, right?”

He laughs, and this time it’s real, bright, and warm, and you can’t help but join in. “Yeah,” he agrees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Guess that’s something.”

And it is.

#f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x you #brightlightwrites

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classic80sand90smovieloves2 · 3 months ago

Text

Meeting and Courting Dracula

(Not my gif)(Requested by inference and the will of the winds)

(This one really got me feeling like a pathetic hopeless romantic. Hope you enjoy)

- He frightens you when you first meet him: like a phantom in broad daylight, a living shadow that contorts and disappears with the changing of the clouds above you. You blame yourself for nearly running into him, disregarding the fact that there’d been nothing in front of you mere moments earlier; that you were alone under the canopy of trees until you very suddenly weren’t.

- You’re struck dumb by his sudden appearance, your heart dropping down into your stomach as his eyes meet yours, the blue of them so deep and intense that you struggle to pull yourself away. You apologize quickly once you’re able to get your bearings, swallowing swiftly and moving to step out of his way until he very gently moves in front of you once again.

- His face twists into a smile, gentle and kind and very unlike what you’d initially expected from him. He explains that he’s new to the city as your eyes instinctively flicker back to his own, like there's a magnetic pull between the two of you. For a moment, you wonder if this is normal, if this is what all wealthy gentleman are like, yet your lack of knowledge on the matter only serves to make you feel even more insecure.

- He speaks to you as if you’re on his level, chuckling softly as he admits that he’s a bit lost and asks for directions to a certain attraction that’s been drawing in residents and tourists alike. Your hands twist in the frayed cotton of your working dress as you answer him, pointing out the street that he needs to follow before excusing yourself and walking past him.

- You don’t get very far before he calls out to you again, asking if you’ll join him. You’re compelled to laugh at the idea, part of you wondering if he’s teasing you, though the earnest look on his face and the way that he stands patiently awaiting your answer tells you otherwise.

- His gentle expression never once changes, even as you point out the fact that you’re still dressed in your work uniform and that you look a mess. He merely smiles softly and tells you that he hadn’t noticed, that it’s hard to look anywhere else but at a face as beautiful as yours: and when he assures you that he’d be willing to wait for you if you’d like to go and get changed, you find yourself unable to refuse.

- And so he does, escorting you home with a pleased smile and waiting patiently for you at your gate as your family rushes to scrounge up something suitable for you to wear, rifling through their wardrobes and jewelry boxes in search of something even half as nice as the tailored suit your perceived admirer is wearing. Your hair is combed though ruthlessly and you face is scrubbed violently and the little makeup your family owns is applied as perfectly as humanly possible until you’re deemed beautiful enough to entertain company. And only then are you ushered out of the door to reunite with the man, smiling nervously as he stares at you in awe, complimenting you quietly as you very purposefully walk towards him, willing yourself to relax and not trip over your own feet.

- You feel a bit silly walking alongside him, too distracted by the bustling streets of London and your own self doubt to notice the tender gazes he sends your way or to fully keep up with the occasional questions he tries to ask you. He’s patient however, and smiles at you in reassurance as you apologize nervously for missing whatever he’s trying to say to you, comfortingly insisting that he’d probably be distracted as well if he had to navigate such confusing roads as “these”.

- When you finally do arrive at the attraction, he pays for both your tickets and offers to buy you whatever else you may want: sometimes insisting while other times just gently questioning. A part of you can’t help but wonder why. Wonder what would make him so eager to gift you things and to listen to you speak; especially when you arguably provide such comparably undignified company. You wonder if he’s expecting something from you, something lewd that he thinks he’s owed now that he’s put money into you.

- But by the end of your day together, he simply walks you home, thanking you for your company and asking if he can see you again in the future, taking off his hat and bidding you adieu with a tender, fleeting smile after you assure him that you’d be happy to. When he’s gone, you can’t help but decide that he’s simply lonely and that he’s merely a foreigner who doesn’t care for English customs or status: a thought that sends you to sleep with great relief.

- It isn’t long before you see each other again, whether by coincidence or purposefully made plans. Whenever you do, he continues to be the perfect gentleman: always buying you things and asking you about yourself, seemingly genuinely wanting to get to know you. There’s times where he just keeps asking you about yourself and without even thinking, you manage to spend hours just recounting stories from your past, making you somewhat embarrassed once you realize that you’ve been the only one talking for most of the night. He always just shakes his head and insists that you “weren’t being anything of the sort” and that he wants to hear it whenever you apologize for being so rude, making your heart flutter in your chest.

- You’re not entirely sure when the feeling of your meetings shift from that of friendliness to that of potential lovers. You deny it for some time, not wanting to be presumptuous, but after a while, you’re incapable of calling it anything else. What else do you call a person like him? Someone who admits to finding you beautiful, or adoring your company, or wanting nothing more than to spend time with you and only you whenever you make a stray comment about how he should be making more distinguished acquaintances. If not a suitor, then what?

- A monster, perhaps. That's what your dreams will have you believe. For all the good that he brings to your life, there is still some bad. The world around you feels so strange after he enters it, so foggy and confusing and, at times, so frightening. He acts so oddly at times, misspeaks in ways that leave you confused, makes the air around you turn tense and suffocating at the drop of the hat for no good reason at all.

- And yet, any time there is something off, he’s there to soothe you the very next moment: like a dog laving at the wounds that he alone has inflicted. If you dream of him, his gentle face twisting into something evil and beyond recognition, he looks twice as handsome the next morning and you shake the unpleasant thoughts from your head: and yet, though they’re momentarily lost, they’re never truly forgotten.

- There are times you wonder whether you should refuse to see him again, reasoning that these things never happened to you before he came along. And sometimes you do refuse to see him, ushering him away as politely as possible and making excuses as to why you’re not able to entertain him. Yet you only ever feel worse, your body warm and weak and your mind a fuzzy mess until he visits you again, your parents letting him in as he explains that he was worried over what state you might be in, that he wanted to make sure you were alright. And you are alright, but only once you lay eyes on him, the sight of him clearing away your ailments like the dry cracks of the ground in the rain.

- It’s only a little over a month after you’ve met when he comes to you, sitting you down on the red velvet cushions of a private room warmed by a crackling fireplace, taking your hands as he explains to you that he’s returning to Transylvania and that he wants you to come along with him. That he wishes for your hand in marriage.

- And it all feels so soon and sudden and rushed but as you look into his eyes, you cant help but agree, all of your senses screaming at you to say yes and on a whim, you find yourself nodding your head, nerves bubbling in your chest as you watch a smile stretch across his face. He raises your knuckles to his lips, kissing them excitedly before he leans in and gently kisses you on the lips, promising to make you the happiest woman on earth; distracting you from the fact that it feels like you’ve done all of this before....

- Nevertheless, he surely keeps his promise....

- Public displays of affection have never bothered him. He doesn’t care to create a façade of modesty for the sake of society and it’s newly created customs: and considering the fact that you’re probably living in his castle, it isn’t often that you’re in public anyway. Visitors are scarce in your lives yet even if they do turn up, he doesn’t care either way, showering you with love and affection regardless of whoever may be watching; and coyly blaming it on a difference of culture should they have an issue.

- Although, funnily enough, he tends not to keep hold of you whenever you’re out in public together; not closely at least. He lingers more than he touches: a hand hovering close to you, a delicate grasp of your own, his fingers just barely gracing your spine as he leads you somewhere private, etc.

- Yet, if someone were to peer into the private rooms where the two of you are alone together, they’d find him completely wrapped around you: his arms embracing you from behind, his face close to your own, tender and loving touches, soft caresses, etc.

- Chaste pecks on the lips, kisses sponged across your hairline, soft pecks to your nose and eyelids, etc. He kisses you anywhere he pleases in the moment and oftentimes that means he’s going to kiss you everywhere.

- Passionate and adoring kisses: behind them all are years of yearning; and you can feel as much with the way that he clings to you and steals your breath away. They remain passionate but they soften a bit once he’s certain that you’re his, the overwhelming emotion fading into something a bit more tame and less dizzying; though that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of giving you equally all-consuming kisses literal centuries after the two of you have been reunited.

- He loves to kiss your neck and journey down your chest, brushing gently against the indentations that are forever embedded in your throat, occasionally leaving a mark in his wake; somewhere only he’s allowed to see.

- Soft caresses and tender holds of your jaw and neck. It’s his favorite place to touch you.

- Hand kisses; particularly when your hands are out of their gloves. *Gasp*.

- You curl yourselves around each other when you go to sleep: your arms and legs intertwined, head pressed close to his chest. Although, before you were turned, he liked to wrap himself around your middle and listen to your heart beating in your chest. He doesn’t turn you until he’s certain that he’s memorized the melody, wanting to remember it for the rest of his immortal life. Sometimes he’d even kneel on the ground between your thighs and embrace you like that, holding you close and calming himself with the steady sound.

- He loves hearing your real name leave his lips more than anything else, but he will call you my beloved, my darling, and dearest one; amongst other old fashioned pet names. He’ll also occasionally call you something in Romanian.

- Dancing together. You’re only lit by candles and surrounded by riches and magic beyond your wildest dreams: and every time you are, you cant help but fear; if only just for a moment, that all of this is just a dream and that you’ll wake up in your old bed alone. But then he smiles down at you, kissing between the slight furrow of your brows and asking what you’re thinking about, and you’re brought back into the unbelievable reality that's become of your life, your fears disappearing in an instant.

- That’s everyday that you spend with the Count: a dream within your waking moments. He creates a heaven on earth for the two of you and there’s nothing that he isn’t willing to do in order to create it for you.

- Gifts. So many gifts. Jewels, gems, jewelry, antique heirlooms, and dresses made of threads and beads beyond what you’ve ever seen before or thought possible. Libraries full of books and aviaries full of birds, rooms full of paintings and exotic flowers from faraway lands; anything you could ever ask for is there in his castle just waiting for you to come home to. He’d lasso you the moon if you asked him to and bring you some extra stars just because.

- Cuddling and walking the beautiful beast he calls a pet. He loves to watch you smile and shower the wolf in affection, burying yourself in it’s soft fur. He can’t bring himself to grow jealous of your love for it, seeing you happy and knowing that you have someone to keep you company during the times in which he cant is like a gift to him.

- Showing him around all of the new world attractions of your town: all the museums and shows and restaurants that you’ve always loved to go to or wanted to go to since you were young.

- He loves to indulge you in experience: bringing you to theaters you could never afford to enter on your own, ballets you always wished to see, trips to places you’d only ever read of, etc. He likes seeing your inner child come out, it makes himself feel youthful.

- The two of you would travel the world together if you wanted to. He’d journey to the end of the earth if you simply asked him to.

- Long goodbyes filled with...well...longing. Even if the two of you know that you’re going to see each other the next day, you can’t help but hate having to part from each other. You’d spend minutes lingering at your gate and gazing into his eyes until your parents inevitably called you inside for the night, your head turning to send him one last glance before the door is finally shut behind you.

- Hiding away in secluded rooms and corners.

- Candlelit dinners. Though he never eats with you, you never feel insecure when you’re around him.

- Carriage rides. You stop wherever you please to do whatever you want and everyone around you watches on in intrigue and fear. The locals near his castle gawk at the two of you whenever you stop by the village, watching as you smile at and point out all of the simplest of life's pleasures to him while he stands near the horses like death himself.

- Him always offering you his arm and helping you down from carriages or stairs or what have you.

- Long conversations. He wants to know every thought that's ever entered your brain and every story you could ever possibly tell.

- Listening to the tales of his past. A part of you feels sorry for not being able to remember the part of you that he does, and somewhat jealous of how much he loved someone who wasn’t quite you but you enough. Sometimes you worry that he loves her more than he’ll ever love you, but to him, you’re one in the same. You’re a part of her that he gets to love more than he ever got to love her, a butterfly reared from her cocoon: what makes you different is loved just as much; if not more, than what makes you similar.

- Poetic words spoken and written to you: confessions of love unlike anything you’ve ever heard. There’s never been more romantic words passed between two people. You’re truly spoiled.

- Please pacify him with kisses and admissions of love on the daily. He can’t stand not hearing and seeing you submit yourself to him and his love. He wants all of what you’re able to give him so much he could cry.

- Insecurities aren’t a thing between the two of you; unless they’re his own. Every inch and quirk and anything of yours is engraved in his memory and loved deeper than you can comprehend. To him, your flaws are perfection and there isn’t a thing about you that he would ever choose to change.

- Confessions, confessions. Oh the things he’ll have to admit to you before he truly makes you his.

- Learning to love all of his different forms; though he oftentimes only stays in the one he knows is most pleasing to you.

- It takes him a bit of time to turn you; even if you ask him to. He’ll feel somewhat remorseful and shy away from the action, struggling to damn you to the life he’s lived in “your” absence. Though I can also see him attempting to change you early on in your relationship while you’re none the wiser as well, leading to you trying your best to avoid him, confused and frightened by the whole ordeal; not quite sure if what you remember was a dream or reality but still feeling somewhat uneasy in his presence.

- Him sneaking into your home before the two of you live together/wed. You probably think its a dream when you see him levitating right outside your window. It simply can’t be real....

- That being said: this somewhat strange behavior and coincidences can end up drawing you away from him: feeling as though you’re going crazy and knowing that all of it started and surrounds the very man who’s trying to court you.

- The people in your life find him odd and most try to hint at the idea of you needing to find someone new, but you simply won’t have it and none of them have the heart to say it in his presence. Their disapproval is a lost cause anyway. They think his love is too consuming …and they’re right, they’ve already lost you to it.

- He likes to check on you whenever he pleases. You’ll be going about your business, relaxing in the garden or a room in his home and he’ll take a break from whatever it was he was doing, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you bask in the sun or asking what you’re up to wile he hugs you from behind; a pleased smile creeping across your lips at his sudden presence.

- Him occasionally scaring you with his habit of suddenly appearing out of no where, oftentimes catching whatever inevitably goes to fall from your grasp once you notice he’s there.

- Him always making sure you’re looking after yourself and being well taken care of. He worries and fusses over you: over what you eat, how much you sleep, etc. He’s always cooing at you and telling you to rest; as if you’re made of glass and about to break.

- He loves taking all of your worries away and handling whatever he can: which is nearly everything. You live a lavish life free from stress and it suits you well. He lives to keep you comforted and comfortable.

- You’re very good at calming him down, able to sway him towards the direction of mercy whenever he grows irritable. It’s very fortunate that he found you; at least for his enemies or those that otherwise get on his nerves.

- Though he’d seldom allow for you to meet them, you’re probably at least a little jealous of all of his brides. He no longer needs them after he finds you; and they might even be killed before your arrival, but you still can’t help but feel a little tense when the subject manages to come up. Unless you want some brides yourself I guess.

- On the outside, he’ll appear nonchalant but on the inside, he’s analyzing every single mannerism and expression passed between you and the man he’s jealous of. He’ll smile cordially and allow you to introduce him, biting back the venom he wants to spit or swallowing down the rush of sickness in his throat, but the minute he feels they’ve overstayed their welcome, they’ll be dealt with in private. He refuses to lose you in any way ever again and that includes meddling mortals capable of making you rethink your devotion to him. He never lets you know about his jealousy though; unless you can guess it from his occasional silent moodiness.

- Hell hath no fury than Dracula defending his love. He exudes an energy you occasionally match when putting people in their place for questioning your relationship; a trait of yours he cant help but love.

- He doesn’t entertain arguments with you, he remains calm and reasons with you gently, letting you snap at him if you need to but refusing to return the same anger. You don’t tend to get into very many fights but it’s hard to continue them either way since he simply doesn’t participate. Most of the time you just end up having a calm discussion and sorting things out.

- He sincerely apologizes whenever he upsets you and insists he makes it up to you; even when you can admit that you were probably being a little silly. He also accepts your apologies very easy; mainly because he can’t stand to be mad at or away from you for long.

- He tells you he loves you constantly, in more ways than one, and you try your best to do the same.

- You’re destined to spend the rest of your everlasting life as his countess whether you like it or not, so here’s to hoping that you love it as much as he loves you...

#count dracula imagine #count dracula imagines #count dracula headcanons #count dracula headcanon #bram stokers dracula imagine #bram stokers dracula headcanons #bram stokers dracula imagines #bram stokers dracula headcanon #90s movie imagine #90s movie imagines #90s movie headcanons #90s movie headcanon #oldman!dracula imagine

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ickyarson777 · 7 months ago

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Many Eyed Vessel Fic Thing???

This title will change later I promise.

Anyway! I did some thinking about This Post and I’ve decided I’m gonna go all out and write a fic about it. This prompt is something I think about all the time, so I was very excited to receive it to say the least :)

That being said, I have no idea how any of this is gonna play out. Right now I’m thinking kinda slow burn entities-to-lovers type of thing??

Here it is though!! I promise if you like it, I’ll do my best to keep up with writing, and please, let me know what ya’ll want!! I’m here to please ;)

Chapter 1, 2

Tried to stay as gn as possible, no mentions of y/n or names, readers is just called ‘human.’

Word count: 2,132

Content warning: Maybe a bit of dread, spooky horror type stuff. Bit of violence, not anything horrible at all.

I glance around me as I walk through the quiet woods. Rays of light filtered through the leaves of the trees behind gradually being drowned out by the darkness of the shadows ahead of me.

I had traveled to a new city, and decided to take some time to explore the smaller nearby towns. London was great, but it was nothing compared to the smaller communities that were just outside of the larger city. The town I was in was smaller in comparison, greatly so. A couple of small neighborhoods, a few streets of shops, convenience stores and restaurants. On one side however, there was a forest that wrapped around half of the town.

Anytime I was in a small town like this, I always took the time to learn the local rumors. Any scandal, or story going around. As I was making my rounds through this small town, I’d heard tell of the forest containing monsters, creatures. Things that were definitely not meant for the human eye. Angels, demons.. it had me absolutely captivated. I needed to know more. So of course, after a good night's rest, I packed a backpack of supplies, put on some thermal wear, considering it was a chilly, bleary fall day, and made sure I had food and water to last the day.

And then I drove out to the edge of the forest, and began walking.

Immediately the air turned colder. I had this sense that I definitely shouldn’t be here, that something definitely didn’t want me here. Multiple something’s at that. It was exhilarating.

I stepped farther in, glancing around slowly. The day was already dark, but the canopy of branches were so tightly woven above, the forest seemed to be bathed in midnight, though I knew it was barely a quarter past ten in the morning. Luckly, it wasn’t dark enough that I couldn’t see, so I continued on.

It wasn’t a quiet walk, branches and leaves snapped and crunched beneath my feet, and I could hear birds singing their sweet songs. For how terrifying the image of the dark forest was, it was still peaceful here, even if I did have a small feeling of dread brewing beneath my subconscious.

I walked further in, approaching a small stream, and stepped through. The water wasn’t deep, barely reaching the middle of my shins at the deepest. I could feel the temperature of the water through my boots, which I was very glad to be waterproof. Freezing cold, of course it would be in weather like this. I crossed to the other side of the stream, and whatever sense of peace I’d had before was ripped away from me.

For a moment, I hesitated, unsure if I should continue. I glanced around, trying to steel my nerves. ‘Calm down,’ I thought to myself. ‘You hear a couple rumors about monsters in the woods and you’re scared straight. What kind of explorer are you if you can’t walk through the woods by yourself..’

I shook off the fear and continued walking. I came to a clearing, where the trees opened to reveal the sky above, still overcast with dark clouds. I’d checked the weather before coming out here, there wasn’t supposed to be any rain, but looking at the sky now, I wasn’t so sure. I take a deep breath and keep walking.

At this point, I’m maybe half a mile in, knowing forest monsters, they’re sure to be a bit further in than that. I think aloud while walking, about anything and everything, home, my family, my friends. I’ve been studying abroad for a couple months now. As an anthropology student, traveling has been an incredible experience for me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t miss home.

Eventually, a couple miles into the woods, I begin singing to myself. Nothing particular, and everything at the same time, I sing nursery rhymes and lullabies, and find ways to rework the words, making myself laugh. I counted on like this for another half a mile before I realized suddenly that there’s no longer any sounds around me. The birds have gone quiet, and the wind has hushed entirely, the rustle of the leaves above me silent. I pause for a moment, glancing around me carefully.

Suddenly a horrible, piercing screech sounds and I’m filled with an absolutely overwhelming sense of terror. I make a split second decision and decide to walk in the direction of the horrible sound.

As I come closer to the location of the sound, I begin to notice there’s a slight path that’s been worn into the ground here, and I come up on a large rock formation. Not quite a cliff but not just a boulder either. It looks easy enough to scale, and I silently assume someone might’ve already been doing just that, seeing as the slight path seems to end here.

I take a breath, tighten the strap of my backpack, and begin to climb. Quickly enough, I reach the top of the formation and glance down below me. I stare in horror at the thing I see before me. The thing was at least eight feet tall, and covered in a thick black substance. It’s face could’ve been white, but it was now stained, smeared with whatever covered the rest of it. Its eyes, mouth and nose, or at least what I assumed it was, were nothing but dark empty sockets. It’s body was large and bulbous, segmented, almost like the thorax of an insect, and decorated in skulls, mechanical limbs jutting out at odd angles, and there were many of them, spindly, covered in grime and gore down to the jagged needle-like tips. It clutched a battle ax, dark and covered in rust and dirt.

“What the fuck,” I whisper into the air.

In a split second the thing whipped its head towards me, its empty eyes taking me in. I take a step backwards and almost fall from my perch on the rock, forgetting where I stood.

It begins stepping towards me on its multiple long spindly legs, slowly at first, but then it begins picking up speed. I watch it, safe from its grasp high above it on the rock, but then tense as it shoots one of its legs out into the rock, embedding itself there. I stare in horror as it begins to climb.

“Oh fuck, fuck,” I say out loud, panicking slightly.

I turn and begin descending back down the rock the way I’d come. At the last couple of feet, I let go, dropping to the ground just as the thing makes its way over the top. It doesn’t even bother climbing back down, just throwing itself off and continuing its pursuit, I watch, terrified for a moment before turning and running. I don’t even bother trying to remember which way I’d come from, running in zigzagging patterns, trying to throw off the monster. I can hear it, the metallic grinding and groaning of the half organic half machine thing that was hot on my trail.

I wasn’t even looking where I was going, vision slightly blurry, eyes stinging with sweat that fell into them occasionally. I hear the thing even closer to me now. I gasp out in shock as I hear a sharp whirring sound pass my ear, knowing it was right on top of me, trying to grab me. With every fiber of my being, I pushed myself to run faster, lungs burning and adrenaline coursing through my veins. And then BAM! I slam into something.

I glanced up quickly, thinking I had run into a tree, but realizing a tree would’ve hurt a bit more, and probably wouldn’t have grabbed my arm, and pulled me behind it.

The hands that grabbed my wrists left dark black stains on my skin. I pause for a moment, letting my vision clear. The figure now stood in front of me, facing away, towards the monster. He’s tall, much taller than me, wearing a black cloak and black pants. One shoulder of his cloak is covered by a stark white pauldron, lined with deep red and encrusted with rough gold ore at the curve of his shoulder. He raised a hand towards the monster.

Quietly, in a dark, melodic voice, the man breathed a few words in a language I didn’t recognize. before him, the monster stared, twitching and writhing in its place, swaying on its many legs. It took a gentle step forward, lowering itself and pressing its face into the palm of the man's hand, before turning, lurching forward and walking away from us.

I stand there, taking heavy, shaking breaths. The man doesn’t turn to face me until the monster is out of sight, and when he does, I gasp.

His body is completely covered in black paint, there are streaks running through it, lines of sweat showing pale skin underneath, his chest is broad, toned, but not overly muscled. His hands are large, the paint of his palms, light and mostly missing, though the lines of his hands are deeply stained with dark paint. There are silver rings on many of his fingers, the edge of them tarnished from the paint, like the chains on his chest, stretching across his chest, underneath the cloak is a leather strap, perhaps holding the pauldron in place. He was beautiful, by all accounts, but his face left my jaw slack. The paint covered him up to his upper jaw, if there was more paint, I couldn’t tell as the top half of his face was obscured by a mask. Stark white, a huge contrast to the black on his skin, beautiful and intricate deep crimson lines swirling and curling along the bottom edge of the mask, forming a crescent around his mouth. Six holes in the shape of eyes line the front, dark black and almost sleepy in shape, dark red lines, perfectly symmetrical in shape crossed over under and above the eyes or the mask, forming a sigil or sorts.

I notice my mouth is open, and snap it shut quickly before opening it again, trying to think of something to say. Luckily, the stranger beats me to being the first to speak as words fail me.

“Are you hurt?” He asks simply, voice soft, reverberating through me and sending a shiver down my spine.

Slowly, I shake my head, still staring in awe. “Uh.. what.. what was that?” I ask softly.

Rather than answering my question, the stranger turns, beaconing me to follow him. “The people of the town don’t venture into these woods, you’re not from here.” What he says should’ve been a question, but I can tell he’s stating it as a fact. “You seem well prepared, well traveled in your own right, but that’s no reason to wander into an unknown wood.”

I follow after him, unsure of where we’re going. “I’m studying abroad,” I tell him, struggling slightly to keep up the pace with his long legs. “Heard some of the locals mention monsters in the woods, and I wanted to see for myself. Clearly… they weren’t lying.”

He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “What is it with humans always putting their noses where they can’t protect themselves?” He says it softly, almost in an endearing way.

‘Humans?’ I think to myself.

Before I realized it, we'd approached the stream I’d crossed when I first arrived.

“This is not a safe place for you,” the man says softly. “You are incredibly lucky to have escaped that creature with your life. Leave this place please, and do not return. There are… worse, more terrible things than that one in these woods.”

I turn to face him, ask him what else there is, but he’s gone. Not a single trace of his existence, no rustle or crunching of leaves underfoot, no thud of footsteps on the forest floor. For all I knew, I could’ve played the whole situation off as a psychotic episode. But I knew better. The dark handprints around my wrists and the blood that dripped from the small cut on my ear told me all the truth I needed.

I turn to walk to my car, opening my phone and pressing the call button. The phone rings for a moment before my mother picks up.

“Hello?” She says.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, opening the door and tossing my backpack into the back seat. “So you know how I said I was passing through this small town? I think I’ve changed my mind. I might spend a little while longer here. Something about it…” I mutter glancing into the trees, almost convincing myself that I can see him, blending into the dark shadows of the woods. “Something about it just captivates me.”

OK!! Short little thing to get the story started, let me know if you want more!! I whipped this out in like 20 minutes, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

#sleep token #sleep token iii #sleep token vessel #vessel #iii #ii #iv #sleep token ii #sleep token iv #inhuman!vessel #vessel x reader #sleep token vessel x reader #ooh scary monster #it was the chokehold monster in case y’all couldn’t tell 😼#ANyway

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tagsecretsanta · 1 month ago

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From @mariashades

From @mariashades to @janetm74

Gifts and Giving

Prompts: 1. Chocolate.

2. Brother.

3. Soap.

A/N: So… I kinda went sideways on the prompts. Enjoy!

Heels clacking like hammers against the polished marble entryway to the Creighton-Ward London townhouse, the Lady of the house was in a fearsome temper as she stalked inside after a fruitless hunt, her mission incomplete and her day completely wasted. Nothing, absolutely nothing had been suitable. Yesterday the calendar had clicked over into December and she was painfully aware that time was running out.

Storming up to her rooms as only a vexed fifteen year old could, she ignored the amused chuckle as she passed her father’s office. Upon reaching her destination, she slammed her door shut behind her. Her ankle boots were kicked off in the direction of the wardrobe, her bag was tossed at her desk, and her hat, coat, scarf and gloves landed on the floor before she dropped herself onto her bed with a frustrated huff.

“I am Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward!” Penelope declared, “I will not be defeated nor stymied by something as banal as finding Christmas presents for the sons of my father’s business associate!” Her ire safely voiced, she groaned, rolled over to lie face-down on the soft blankets and proceeded to steep in her frustration.

Finding presents for various persons in the Creighton-Ward circle of associates was something her father had delegated to her at thirteen. Most of the time it was easy. He would present her with a list in August and she would set to work. A little careful enquiring and she would be armed with sufficient information to locate appropriate items suitable for the person and their place in the Creighton-Wards’ circle of acquaintances, associates, and friends. A search online or a visit to certain boutiques and stores would have the orders placed under her father’s credentials, and that would be that. If in doubt or she truly was stumped, there were always the safe fall backs of chocolate, alcohol, handmade soaps, and gourmet hampers.

This year she had again been presented with the list, but a week later there had been an addition - the five sons of Jefferson Tracy and the daughter of Kyrano, Jefferson’s right hand man and the boys’ unofficially-adopted sister.

Tanusha was easy. During a visit last month she’d caught the other girl eyeing up one of her pashminas, a delightfully soft and silky item that was wonderfully warm. Knowing Tanusha was bound for Cambridge next year, she ordered one of them in the teal blue shade that seemed to colour half of Tanusha’s wardrobe and a hat, coat and gloves in complementary shades.

The sons were far more difficult.

Strictly speaking she should have defaulted to the usual male-coded generic gifts by now “...but I can’t…” she rolled over again to stare up at the canopy over her bed, “...there is just something about the Tracys that means I cannot give them something so… so impersonal. Why is that? Daddy is organising the gifts for Jefferson and the other adults,” Penelope murmured to herself, “but why did he ask me to find gifts for them?”

That there was something afoot with the patriarch of the Tracy clan had been evident to her for some time. Her father’s holophone calls and meetings with Jefferson Tracy were both long and regular. Penny frowned over that. Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward never spent this much time closeted with someone unless it was for one of his passion projects. “And yes, while Tracy Industries does have some environmental work, the bulk of the business is aerospace and other engineering, not ocean clean-up or the like.” Penny dragged over a pillow and hugged it as she lay there and pondered the situation. “... he must want me involved with whatever he is cooking up with Jefferson, why else would he ask me to arrange gifts for the boys and Tanusha when he is taking care of the gifts for the adults? He would know them better, the logical thing would be for him to arrange all of their gifts, but instead he has asked me…”

Penny idly kicked her feet as she continued to theorise about the situation. She had met the boys several times before, in piecemeal fashion as events and commitments allowed. Despite being firmly in the ‘boys are icky’ phase of her younger years when they had first met when she was twelve, she had still been a good hostess, engaged in conversation with them, and idly observed them in the interim. That observation had become less idle when she’d realised that Jefferson was not just a business associate and investment opportunity, and she prided herself on knowing more than the tabloids did about the family of the first man on Mars.

Revelation struck like a lightning bolt and Penny sat up with a startled noise.

Her father knew her methods, how she would inquire and investigate to ensure whatever gifts she provided were both appropriate and appreciated. It required getting to know her target, to find out things about them. Previous years had never included the children of associates, the only time they bought gifts for children was when it was for the cousins and niblings of the family or her own friends and acquaintances, therefore her father wanted her to get to know the Tracys and Kyranos.

Penny’s eyes widened. ‘Scratch that. He doesn’t just want me to get to know the Tracys and Kyranos. He wants me to be friends with them.’

There was only one logical conclusion: whatever her father, Kyrano and Jefferson Tracy had looming on the horizon was going to involve her too.

“...well then.” Penelope tossed the pillow back to the head of the bed and got to her feet, her ire and frustration evaporating like the morning mist, replaced by purpose and determination. “If I am to be purchasing gifts for friends, I had best set about becoming friendly with them.”

0o0o0

In the aftermath of the Boxing Day gift opening in the formal dining room at the Creighton-Ward Manor, the three fathers nursed their cups of coffee and tea and watched their children with almost identical smiles, very pleased at how well the two girls and five boys were getting along.

Tanusha had immediately put on her pashmina and hadn’t taken it off yet. John was curled up in a corner with his autographed first edition of Carl Sagan’s ‘Contact’, Alan had his LEGO space shuttle half-built (and his older brothers were doing their best to not build it for him), Gordon was in love with his undersea simulator VR game, the Winsor and Newton Kolinsky sable brushes hadn’t left Virgil’s sight since he unwrapped them, and Scott was clearly eager to go into hibernation with his book, a first edition of ‘Flight of the Dragon Lady: Flying the Lockheed U-2’, but helping Alan with his LEGO took priority. Penelope had been equally thrilled with the gifts from the Tracys and Kyranos - a handmade silk sarong in rose pink and gold, a ‘certificate of adoption’ sponsoring coral rehabilitation in Fiji, two tickets to a special showing and behind the scenes tour at the Tate Modern, and a trio of books - ‘A Woman of No Importance’, ‘The Girls Who Stepped Out Of Line’ and ‘The Only Woman in the Room’ - biographies and autobiographies of female spies and secret agents who had bucked the social norms of their day.

A nod from Parker assured the fathers that he was on watch, then the three men withdrew to Lord Hugh’s office.

“I told you so, Jeff.” Hugh couldn’t help the boast as soon as the door was shut against little ears. “My Penny knows what she is doing.”

“She does indeed,” Jeff drawled, “she does indeed.” A glance at Kyrano confirmed that they were both very impressed by how quickly and quietly the teenager had gathered enough information about their kids to be able to give them such appropriate gifts in such a short span of time, and a nod from Kyrano was his approval. “Okay Hugh, you’ve convinced us. Penelope’s on board as your understudy for the London agent.”

“Excellent.” Seeing that all cups of hot beverages were now empty, Lord Hugh went to pour snifters of brandy for the three of them. “How are works proceeding?”

“Getting there.” Jeff shook his head ruefully. “Turns out most aircraft don’t like it when you want to hit Mach 20, but we should be ready for test flights by the end of next year.”

“When will you be briefing the children on it?” Hugh enquired.

“All going well, July,” Kyrano answered as he accepted the offered snifter. “John, Tanusha and Scott have already discovered that we have something big up our sleeves, we’re having to tighten security just to keep them out, but I anticipate we’ll be able to tell the older children what we are up to by July, June at the latest.”

“Not Alan?” Lord Hugh asked, leaning back on his desk to sip his brandy.

“Not Alan or Gordon, not yet. They’re still too little,” Jeff clarified. “But we will when the base and the ship are ready and we’ve all good to move in.”

“Sound planning,” Lord Hugh approved, then raised his glass. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast. To International Rescue.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Jeff grinned as he raised his glass. “To International Rescue.”

“To International Rescue.” Kyrano smiled

Glasses clinked, the fathers quite unaware of the two teenage girls and two teenage boys crouched on the other side of the door and intently listening to what the future would hold.

#thunderbirds are go #tag team secret santa #thunderbirds #tag team secret santa 2024

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intimacy-between-hearts · 26 days ago

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~ Intimacy between tormented hearts and broken souls ~

The memories feel so real sometimes and I can still feel your hands on me.

Laying me back against our large canopy bed and climbing on top of me, while slipping your hand up my shirt in the most gentle manner.

I have never been treated in such a way by a man before, but you took care of my body as if it was made of the most finest silk in all of London.

Feeling you in between my thighs and the heat that was there-

It calmed my entire being and I never wanted you to leave, because when you were inside of me- it felt euphoric and like the stars had finally aligned.

The most natural state of my existence, was laying in that bed with you and I never felt more safe or accepted than I did in those vulnerable moments with you.

- A heart crying out to the past life version of you

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aziraphales-library · 6 months ago

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Hello! I'm in the mood for some dancing fics 🕺 whether Crowley and Aziraphale are dancers themselves or they have to dance together like in season two. Either one would be great! Thank you so much and happy holidays :)

Hi! We have a #dancing tag with loads of fics, so check that out! Here are more to add...

Paved with Stars by Crowleys_Aziraphale2003 (G)

What if Aziraphale and Crowley had kissed and danced together, back in 1941?

We'll Meet Again by Nik_Knight (G)

Late that night in 1941, Crowley fully expects to be taken by hell in the morning after Furfur shows the council the photo taken of them after the magic show. Believing he has only hours left to spend with his angel, he asks for something he's always wanted from Aziraphale: just one lovely dance.

To be fond of dancing by everydayistuesday (T)

Angels don’t dance, but then again, Aziraphale has never been a very good angel. Or, Aziraphale learns to dance not once, but twice, and the ball goes a little more according to plan.

Wallflower by adele_sparks (T)

"Strike up, you lot!" Crowley called. There were whoops as someone hit a rhythm that sounded like a heartbeat. Clasping hands, a chain of dancers formed, Crowley among them, and it snaked around the green a while before resolving itself into a circle around the bonfire. The music was lively. The spring evening was warm and comfortable. Tapping one's foot didn't count as dancing. Five times Aziraphale didn't join in the dancing, and one time he did.

The Resurrection Waltz by Another_Realm (T)

Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley since that fateful night in Edinburgh, 1827. Three decades later, they happen to reunite in London at ballroom party; a sudden meeting which may or may not be entirely coincidental. Crowley wants Aziraphale to dance with him in exchange for information. Aziraphale wants to say yes. Problem being, of course, that angels don't dance. Or, Victorian reunion banter; the fic (with feelings!!)

Quiet, Gentle, and Romantic by braveatironheart (E)

Although Aziraphale has loved Crowley since before the Beginning, the fundamental opposition of their natures has prevented him from acting. It hasn't stopped him from wanting, or dreaming, or simply wishing things could be different. That he could love Crowley without endangering him. After 6000 years of glancing touches and lingering gazes, he finds himself estranged from Heaven. And then a series of unfortunate coincidences leaves them the task of making two humans fall in love. Mix mutual longing with a business-meeting-turned-party complete with a romantic atmosphere and dancing, and they don't stand a chance. “You mean like…a sudden rainstorm forces them together beneath a canopy. They look into each other’s eyes and realize they were made for each other.” “Cotillion balls! People would gather and do some formal dancing and then realize they had misunderstood each other and were actually deeply in love.” “One fabulous kiss, and we’re good.” Love doesn't always work like that, but then again, sometimes it does. aka A fix-it based on quiet, gentle, and romantic stories...plus very tender yet awkward sex because, come on, it's them.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #dancing #mod d

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thecrayonindisguise · 1 month ago

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Chapter 10 Rebinding of Hearts|| Bonds and Barrier

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Original Female Character

Masterpost || << prev || next >>

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: no particular warnings

Author's Note: Hey people, I'm back! I am so so sorry for the absence but I had a little of a lack of inspiration and also I failed my exams at the beginning of this month so I was a little down for a few days but here we go after Christmas! Merry Christmas <3 here is your new chapter! Enjoy :)

In the waning light of late afternoon, the world softened, painted in hues of amber and gold.

On the grassy bank of a secluded stream, a quiet intimacy unfolded.

Much younger than she was now, Caterina lay sprawled across the tender earth, her golden dress cascading around her.

Waves of hair framed her face, loose and untamed, catching the occasional glimmer as the dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves above.

The melodic trickle of water nearby mingled with birdsong, weaving a cocoon of tranquility around the pair.

Beside her, a young man reclined, his gaze steady and warm as it lingered on her.

His hand, strong yet tender, intertwined with hers.

Their fingers fit together effortlessly, the connection between them as natural as the breeze that rustled through the grass.

Here, hidden from the world, they seemed suspended in their own secret universe, both in place and in time.

Caterina tilted her head, the soft curve of a smile gracing her lips.

She turned onto her side, leaning on one elbow, her other hand still entwined with his.

Slowly, she reached out, her free fingers tracing the contours of his cheek with a feather-light touch.

The familiar planes of his face, the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, ignited a quiet joy within her, unguarded and complete.

His eyes softened, their depth reflecting something unspoken but deeply felt.

The air seemed to still as she spoke, her voice a quiet murmur, carrying both the playfulness and vulnerability of youth.

“Will you love me forever?” she asked, tinged with a hesitancy that only deepened her sincerity.

A part of her already trusted the answer, though she longed to hear it aloud.

He smiled, his hand lifting to brush a stray curl from her face. His fingers lingered for a moment, caressing her cheek as if committing every detail of her to memory.

“Forever, my beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rich and steady, a promise etched into the golden air between them. “My love for you will never end.”

Laughter bubbled from Caterina, soft and unrestrained, a sound as light and natural as the breeze around them.

She tilted her head closer, her eyes sparkling with a joy so radiant it seemed to outshine the sun.

Her laughter danced in the air, weaving into the symphony of nature that surrounded them.

Then, as her laughter ebbed, she leaned down, her lips meeting his in a kiss, soft and unhurried.

His hand cradled her face, his fingers tracing delicate patterns along her cheek.

For a moment, the world melted away, the grass beneath them, the sky above, and the stream murmuring nearby, all fell silent.

There was only them.

─────────

Dearest readers, It seems this season has no shortage of delights, surprises, and intriguing visitors! The Medici family continues to dazzle the ton, with each member leaving their unique impression on our glittering society. While much attention has been directed toward the upcoming nuptials of the charming Miss Teresa Medici and the dashing Lord Ducker, another Medici has entered the fray to stir up even more excitement.

Yes, dear readers, the Duke of Lucca himself, Lorenzo Medici, has arrived in London with his enchanting wife and their two young children. Rumor has it the twins, Miss Teresa and Miss Caterina Medici, nearly toppled the household with their joy at their brother’s early arrival, a heartwarming scene that surely melted the hearts of even the most unflappable Londoners. To mark the occasion, the ever-hospitable Langstone family has announced a grand ball in the Duke’s honor, a soiree destined to be the talk of the season. With such a distinguished guest list and the Medici family’s growing influence in the social sphere, one can only imagine the connections and alliances that may be forged on this glittering evening.

But, my dear readers, do not let the splendor of the Langstone ball distract you from the whispers that swirl around one particular Medici sister. Miss Caterina Medici, known for her poise and charm, has been seen promenading with none other than His Grace, the Duke of Richmond. While their conversations appear the picture of propriety, one cannot help but wonder if a subtle courtship is blossoming amidst the preparations for her sister’s wedding.

And what of the ever-elusive Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, whose recent absences have left some speculating whether a certain young lady’s sharp words have cut deeper than she intended? Could there be more to this tale, or is it merely the folly of wishful observers? Time, as always, will reveal all.

Until then, my dearest readers, let us await the Langstone ball with bated breath and polished slippers. Who knows what revelations, romances, and rivalries the evening may bring?

Yours most faithfully, Lady Whistledown

─────────

The morning light filtered softly through the tall windows of Langstone House, bathing the drawing room in a golden glow.

The hum of activity echoed throughout the estate as the Medici family and their hosts began their day.

The spacious room, adorned with elegant furnishings and richly embroidered drapes, bore an air of refinement that perfectly matched its occupants.

Near the hearth, a cheerful scene unfolded as Teresa and Caterina entertained their young niece and nephew, Vittoria and Luca.

The siblings’ joyous laughter rang out as Teresa guided Vittoria through a game of pretend tea, carefully arranging tiny porcelain cups on a child-sized table.

Caterina, meanwhile, knelt on the floor beside Luca, who was determined to build the tallest block tower his little hands could manage.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Luca,” Caterina encouraged with a warm smile.

Luca’s tongue poked out in concentration as he placed a block at the precarious summit. “This one is the roof,” he declared with pride.

Vittoria looked up from her tea set with the superior air of an older sibling. “Luca, towers don’t need roofs. They’re not houses.”

“They do in my world!” Luca retorted, puffing out his chest.

Teresa and Caterina exchanged amused glances before laughter bubbled from them both.

Meanwhile, at the dining table across the room, Lorenzo Medici and his mother, Lady Medici, sat in conversation.

The Duke of Lucca exuded his usual commanding presence, his sharp features softened by the familial setting.

A half-filled cup of tea rested in his hand as he spoke, his deep voice low but firm.

“Madre,” Lorenzo began, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You have told me much about Tess intended, Lord Ducker, but I remain curious. What kind of man is he? Beyond the surface, I mean. Tess seems content, but I want to know if he will truly make her happy.”

Lady Medici’s blue eyes met her son’s with a calm, knowing gaze. “Lord Ducker is a gentleman of good repute, Lorenzo. He is steady and dependable, qualities that will serve your sister well. His affection for her is evident in his manner, and I believe he will honor and cherish her as a husband should.”

“Steady and dependable,” Lorenzo repeated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Worthy traits, certainly. But does he have the strength of character Tess will need? Marriage is not just a convenient arrangement, Madre, it is a union meant to endure through the years.”

A soft smile played on Lady Medici’s lips. “Your protective nature does you credit, my dear. Teresa’s happiness is my priority, as it is yours. You will have the opportunity to judge Lord Ducker’s character for yourself at tonight’s ball. But I trust my instincts about him.”

Lorenzo nodded, though his expression remained contemplative.

He took another sip of tea before voicing a new thought. “And what of Kitty?”

Lady Medici raised an elegant brow. “What of her?”

“I heard that a certain Duke is showing particular interest in her,” Lorenzo said, his tone casual but inquisitive. “Is there something I should know?”

Lady Medici’s smile grew wider, and she set her teacup down with deliberate care. “The Duke of Richmond has indeed expressed interest in your sister. He has called on her several times and shown himself to be most attentive.”

Lorenzo’s brows knit together in a mixture of curiosity and concern. “And what does Kitty think of him?”

Before Lady Medici could respond, the subject of their conversation entered the room, both sisters still laughing over some private jest.

The two young women approached the table, their steps light and their cheeks flushed from the morning’s play.

Lorenzo turned his piercing gaze on Caterina, his question hanging heavily in the air. “Kitty, I was just speaking with Madre about the Duke of Richmond. I heard he has taken quite an interest in you.”

Caterina froze mid-step, her composure faltering for the briefest moment.

The flush on her cheeks deepened, though this time it was not from laughter. “Oh,” she said, her voice unusually small. “I suppose he has.”

“You suppose?” Lorenzo pressed a note of teasing in his voice. “Either he has or he hasn’t. Which is it?”

Teresa, sensing her sister’s discomfort, intervened with a light laugh. “Lori, you sound like an inquisitor! Poor Kitty can’t even have a quiet morning without you interrogating her.”

Caterina shot her sister a grateful look before managing a composed reply. “The Duke has shown himself to be very kind and… attentive. But it is still early days, and I do not wish to rush to any conclusions.”

Lorenzo’s sharp gaze remained fixed on his sister as if trying to discern the truth behind her carefully chosen words. “Do you enjoy his presence?” he asked, his tone both curious and protective.

Caterina hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the lace edge of her sleeve. “I… I think he is a gentleman of good standing and character,” she said at last. “He is attentive and respectful.”

“But?” Lorenzo prompted.

“But,” Caterina faltered, “I do not know him well enough to say more.”

Lady Medici, sensing that her daughter needed reprieve, stepped in smoothly. “Caterina has always been thoughtful in matters of the heart, Lorenzo. She understands the importance of choosing wisely, and I trust her judgment. The Duke of Richmond is a patient man, and he respects her measured approach.”

Lorenzo nodded slowly, though his expression betrayed a lingering skepticism.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I might arrange an introduction to the gentleman this evening”

“of course,” Caterina assured him, her voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions swirling within her.

As the conversation shifted to the ball’s preparations, Caterina’s thoughts lingered on her brother’s probing questions.

Her gaze drifted to Teresa, who was now playfully helping Vittoria set up a new tea party.

Teresa’s laughter was light and carefree, a stark contrast to Caterina’s own brooding thoughts.

For a moment, Caterina envied her sister’s simplicity, wishing that her own heart could be as easily swayed by kind attentions and steadfast promises.

But deep down, she knew that her heart was anything but simple.

─────────

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue across the Medici sisters’ shared dressing room.

The Langstone estate buzzed with activity, the final touches of the evening’s grand ball being perfected by a flurry of servants.

Within the sanctuary of their room, however, the air was quieter, more personal, filled with the rustle of silk gowns and the faint floral fragrance of rosewater.

Caterina stood before the ornate mirror, adjusting the delicate pearl combs in her hair.

Teresa, on the other hand, sat by the window.

Her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

“Tess,” Caterina said gently, glancing at her sister’s reflection, “you’ve been fretting since the moment we returned from luncheon. What’s troubling you?”

Teresa sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s Lord Ducker and Lori,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Caterina turned from the mirror, her brow furrowing with concern. “What about them?”

“I’m worried about the impression Lord Ducker will make on our brother,” Teresa confessed, her words tumbling out in a rush. “you know well how he could be, What if he doesn’t approve? What if he finds fault with Lord Ducker?”

Caterina moved to sit beside her sister, taking Teresa’s hands in her own. “Tess, you’re thinking too much about this,” she said softly. “Lori may be protective, but he adores you. And as for Lord Ducker, anyone with eyes can see how much he values you. He’ll see it too.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Teresa pressed, her voice trembling. “What if he thinks Lord Ducker is insincere or unworthy?”

Caterina squeezed her sister’s hands. “Do you truly believe that?”

“No,” Teresa admitted, shaking her head. “Edward is the most honorable man I’ve ever known. He’s kind, thoughtful… everything I could have wished for. But Lori is different. He values strength and forthrightness, and Edward can be so… so reserved.”

Caterina laughed lightly. “Tess, Lord Ducker isn’t shy. He’s measured. There’s a difference. And Lori will appreciate that once they speak. Trust me, our brother isn’t as difficult to win over as you think.”

Teresa looked at her sister with wide, anxious eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Caterina replied with confidence. “Besides, Lori has a sharp eye for character. If Lord Ducker loves you, and it’s clear that he does, Lori will respect that.”

A flicker of a smile touched Teresa’s lips, though doubt lingered in her gaze. “I hope you’re right. I couldn’t bear it if they didn’t get along.”

Caterina leaned closer, her tone playful. “Well, if our brother does find fault, we’ll simply remind him of his own less-than-perfect courtship skills. That should humble him.”

Teresa giggled, some of her tension easing. “He did have a rather dramatic proposal to Beatrice, didn’t he?”

“Absolutely,” Caterina teased. “And if memory serves, she made him wait three months before accepting. Lori may be an intimidating Duke, but even he’s had to grovel for love.”

The sisters shared a laugh, their bond easing Teresa’s worries.

After a moment, Teresa’s expression grew thoughtful. “And what about you, Kitty? Are you nervous about tonight?”

“Me?” Caterina asked, feigning ignorance. “Why would I be?”

Teresa arched a knowing brow. “Perhaps because a certain Duke will be in attendance? Or because Lorenzo might decide to interrogate him next?”

Caterina rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed. “Lori wouldn’t dare,” she said, a touch defensively.

“Wouldn’t he?” Teresa countered with a sly grin.

Caterina sighed, rising to retrieve her gloves from the vanity. “I’m not concerned about our brother’s opinions tonight. My focus is on ensuring you enjoy yourself without spiraling into a fit of nerves.”

“Nice deflection,” Teresa remarked, smirking.

Caterina shot her sister a playful glare before returning to her seat. “Tess, tonight is about you and Lord Ducker. Let me worry about my own affairs.”

Teresa’s teasing softened into a warm smile. “You’re always looking out for me, Kitty. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“And you’ll never have to find out,” Caterina promised, brushing a strand of hair from her sister’s face.

The door creaked open, and Teresa’s maid entered with a tray of sparkling jewelry. “Ladies, I thought these pieces might suit the young ladies this evening,” she announced, setting the tray on the vanity.

“Oh, how lovely,” Teresa said, her earlier worry melting away as she admired the shimmering gems.

Caterina selected a delicate sapphire necklace for her sister, fastening it around Teresa’s neck with care. “Perfect,” she declared, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

“And for you, Miss?” the maid asked.

Caterina chose a simple string of pearls, their understated elegance complementing her gown.

As the maid secured the clasp, Caterina glanced at her sister, whose eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

Teresa nodded her smile more confident now. “Much. Thank you, Kitty.”

“Good,” Caterina said, rising to her feet. “Now, let’s make our entrance”

Teresa laughed, taking her sister’s arm. “Lead the way, Lady of Confidence.”

─────────

The Langstone Ball was an affair of unparalleled elegance, a dazzling celebration of the arrival of the Duke of Lucca, and his family.

The Langstone estate, already known for its grandeur, had outdone itself for this particular evening.

Guests began to arrive at twilight, their carriages lining the long drive leading to the stately manor.

As they ascended the marble steps, a murmur of anticipation filled the crisp night air.

The ballroom itself was a masterpiece.

High, gilded ceilings soared above, their intricate designs shimmering in the glow of countless crystal chandeliers.

The walls were lined with tall, arched windows draped in rich velvet curtains of deep burgundy, their edges embroidered with gold thread.

Through the windows, the faint glimmer of lanterns from the garden added an ethereal quality to the scene.

Beneath the chandeliers, a polished parquet floor reflected the light, creating a sense of endless luminosity.

At the far end of the room, an elevated dais held the musicians.

They played a lively yet refined waltz, their melodies weaving seamlessly with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

The music set a tone of joviality and elegance, urging feet to tap and hearts to soar.

The decorations were a sight to behold.

Garlands of roses and greenery cascaded from the balustrades and twined around the golden sconces.

Ornate vases, placed strategically throughout the room, held arrangements of white lilies and crimson peonies, their fragrance mingling with the faint aroma of beeswax candles.

Tables along the periphery bore platters of delicacies, miniature tarts, sugared fruits, and crystal glasses brimming with champagne, attended by an army of footmen.

The guests themselves were a spectacle, a moving tableau of fashion and refinement.

Ladies floated across the floor in gowns of silk and satin, their skirts shimmering in shades of lavender, emerald, and rose.

Jewels glinted at their throats and ears, catching the candlelight with every graceful turn.

Gentlemen, in their impeccably tailored evening coats and cravats, moved with practiced ease, their polished boots clicking faintly against the floor.

The air was filled with the rustle of fabric, the clink of glasses, and the low hum of conversation.

Lady Langstone stood near the entrance, resplendent in a gown of deep blue adorned with silver embroidery.

She greeted each guest with poise, her warm smile a testament to her role as hostess.

Lord Langstone, standing beside her, exuded a quieter authority, his watchful eyes surveying the room with satisfaction.

At the center of attention, however, was Lorenzo Medici, the Duke of Lucca.

Dressed in a finely tailored ensemble of midnight black accented with gold, he cut an imposing figure.

His wife, Beatrice, was equally captivating in a gown of ivory and sapphire, her serene beauty complemented by her gracious demeanor.

Caterina and Teresa were not far behind their brother, each commanding attention in their own way.

Caterina, in a gown of soft green with gold, carried herself with a quiet elegance, her hair swept into an intricate chignon.

Teresa, by contrast, wore a gown of blush pink and radiated a vivacious charm that seemed to light up every corner she entered.

The sisters moved together at first, exchanging pleasantries with acquaintances and admirers.

The atmosphere was electric, charged with the unspoken currents of admiration, intrigue, and ambition.

Conversations ebbed and flowed, ranging from polite inquiries about the journey from Italy to subtle hints of potential matches being observed and judged.

Young ladies glanced demurely at potential suitors, while mothers watched keenly, their eyes flitting between their daughters and eligible gentlemen.

As the evening progressed, the dance floor became the heart of the event.

Couples glided across the floor in perfect harmony, their movements a blend of precision and passion.

The waltz gave way to a quadrille, then a lively reel, each dance a testament to the refined skill and grace of the participants.

Caterina found herself pulled into the festivities, though her thoughts occasionally drifted elsewhere.

She exchanged dances with a few gentlemen, each polite and charming, though none seemed to capture her attention fully.

As she moved across the floor, she caught sight of the Duke of Richmond, his commanding presence unmistakable.

He seemed to be scanning the room, his eyes narrowing slightly when they met hers.

Teresa, meanwhile, was in high spirits, dancing with Lord Ducker and drawing the attention of more than a few observers.

Their easy camaraderie and mutual affection were evident, their shared smiles and occasional laughter painting a picture of a couple deeply in love.

Lorenzo watched them from the sidelines, his expression softening as he saw his sister’s happiness.

─────────

While every corner of the room was alive, amidst the celebration, Caterina’s heart was heavy.

While her lips smiled and her hands gracefully accepted compliments on her gown, her mind was miles away, replaying a moment she wished desperately to undo.

She had decided early that evening, perhaps before she’d even descended the staircase, that she needed to speak with Benedict Bridgerton.

The guilt had gnawed at her since the day of his proposal, her harsh rejection playing on a loop in her mind.

She knew her words had been unnecessarily cruel, a reaction driven more by her own fears than anything he had done.

Tonight, she resolved to set things right.

As the evening unfolded, Caterina slipped away from the crowded ballroom, her heart pounding.

She’d seen Benedict earlier, a fleeting glimpse of his tall frame moving among the guests, his smile warm yet reserved.

Her eyes had followed him until he disappeared, and now, as she scanned the room, she realized he was no longer among the dancing couples or the chatting groups.

Her resolve grew as she moved through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries but always keeping an eye on the corners of the room, hoping for a glimpse of him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she saw him slipping out to one of the balconies.

The cool night air kissed her cheeks as she stepped onto the balcony.

Moonlight bathed the stone railing, and the sounds of the ball softened to a distant hum.

Benedict stood with his back to her, the moonlight bathed him in silver, highlighting the sharp lines of his profile.

She hesitated for a moment, her courage faltering.

But then she took a deep breath and stepped forward. “A beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Benedict turned, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Medici,” he said, inclining his head politely, “Indeed, it is. Though I suspect it’s even more beautiful inside, where the company is livelier.”

Caterina smiled faintly, encouraged by his light tone. “I think you overestimate the charm of the company, Mr. Bridgerton. I’ve been among them all evening, and yet I find myself out here.”

He raised a brow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Am I to take that as a compliment? Or are you merely admitting to escaping boredom?”

“A bit of both, perhaps,” she replied, her smile growing.

But then her tone turned serious, “Mr. Bridgerton, I’ve been looking for you all evening to… to apologize personally for what happened between us.”

He studied her for a moment, his posture straightening. “You do not need to apologize, Miss Medici.”

“All the contrary,” she insisted, stepping closer, “I do need to. My reaction to your proposal was… disproportionate. Unladylike. Rude, if not even cruel. I cannot fathom what overcame me that day, but I humbly request your forgiveness.”

Benedict’s gaze softened, though there was a guardedness in his eyes, “Miss Medici, you don’t have to explain yourself. I knew the risk when I asked. You gave me your answer; that should be enough.”

“No,” she said firmly, her voice trembling with emotion. “There were a thousand ways I could have refused your kind offer, but I chose the worst. I said things… horrible things about you, about your family. Words I will never forgive myself for. I hurt you in a way I cannot undo, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint music drifting from the ballroom.

Benedict’s face was unreadable, but then he let out a soft chuckle, surprising her, “You know,” he said, his tone laced with humor, “when we were children, Eloise and I had a game where we tried to outdo each other in saying the most ridiculous things about people. I think you might have won without even trying.”

Caterina blinked, startled, and then a laugh escaped her, soft and genuine. “Is this your way of sparing me from drowning in guilt, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Not at all,” he replied with a grin. “I simply think it’s unfair that you’re the only one carrying this burden. I should share some of it. After all, I did propose to you in a rather ill-timed and dramatic fashion.”

She shook her head, her smile lingering. “No, the fault lies with me. You’ve been nothing but kind and patient, and I rewarded you with cruelty.”

She hesitated, her voice softening, “I truly value what we had, Mr Bridgerton. Not as it was, of course, but as friends. I know that the love you feel for me is… perhaps momentary, an infatuation that will pass.”

Benedict gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re remarkably confident in your ability to assess another’s heart, Miss Medici. Are you certain you’re not mistaken?”

A faint blush crept up her cheeks, but she met his gaze with quiet determination. “I am certain of very little, Mr. Bridgerton. But I do know that I value your presence in my life and would like to preserve it, even in a different form.”

His expression grew thoughtful. “Friendship,” he repeated, tasting the word. “It’s a peculiar thing to aspire to after a rejected proposal, don’t you think?”

“It is,” she admitted, her cheeks warming.

He studied her for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “You’re a rare creature, Miss Medici. Most ladies would simply avoid me. But here you are, seeking to salvage what you can.”

“I’ve never been one to take the easy path,” she replied, a hint of mischief in her voice.

Benedict chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “That much is clear. Very well, Miss Medici. Friendship it is. But I must warn you, I’m a terrible friend. I tell awful jokes.”

Caterina laughed, the sound genuine and free. “I think I’ll manage”

“Wise of you,” he said with a grin.

The moment stretched, their laughter fading into a comfortable silence.

Then Caterina glanced toward the ballroom, her expression turning wistful. “I should return inside. My family will be looking for me… I'm pleased that things have settled between us.”

Before she could step away, Benedict’s voice stopped her. “Miss Medici,” he said, his tone more serious now. “The Duke… is he courting you?”

She froze, the question catching her off guard.

Slowly, she turned to face him, her cheeks tinged with color. “I… yes, I believe he is ” she admitted quietly.

His expression remained neutral, though his gaze seemed to pierce through her. “And does that… please you?”

Caterina hesitated, the question throwing her into confusion. “I, yes. He is kind and attentive,” she said cautiously. “But I do not think it is proper to discuss such matters.”

Benedict nodded, his eyes lowering briefly before meeting hers again. “Of course. Forgive me for prying.”

She offered him a small, polite smile, her composure returning. “Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Goodnight, Miss Medici,” he replied, his tone soft.

As she disappeared into the ballroom, Benedict leaned against the railing, his thoughts a tangle of emotions.

Her apology had been heartfelt, her laughter genuine.

And yet, as the night stretched on, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still more between them, something unspoken, lingering like a shadow beneath the moonlight.

─────────

Benedict remained on the balcony long after Caterina had disappeared into the ballroom, her delicate figure swallowed by the glow of chandeliers and the hum of the crowd.

He gripped the stone railing, its coolness grounding him as his thoughts churned.

The night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of roses from the garden below, yet it did little to calm the storm within him.

Her words lingered like a haunting melody.

“I truly value what we had”

He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions that her unexpected apology had unleashed.

She had sought him out, searched for him, she had said.

Not for polite conversation, not for obligation, but to apologize.

To make amends.

To heal a wound she had inflicted days ago.

Did it matter that she was sorry?

Benedict wasn’t sure.

The memory of her rejection, sharp and searing, was still vivid.

It wasn’t just the refusal, it was how she had done it.

Her words had been like a whip, tearing into him with precision and purpose.

She had dismissed his love, his sincerity, and him.

The memory still stung.

But tonight…

He opened his eyes and stared into the gardens below, their neatly trimmed hedges and sparkling fountains illuminated by moonlight.

Tonight, she had stood before him, vulnerable and earnest, her voice trembling just slightly as she spoke.

The Caterina Medici who had once cut him down with sharp words had shown a softness he hadn’t seen in her before.

And it unnerved him.

Benedict was no stranger to forgiveness.

In a household as large and lively as his, grudges rarely lasted long.

Eloise’s sharp tongue, Colin’s mischievous pranks, or Hyacinth’s relentless teasing, were daily occurrences, and apologies were often swift and sincere.

But this… this was different.

Caterina wasn’t family.

She wasn’t someone he was obligated to forgive or someone he could easily tease and banter with as if nothing had happened.

She was Caterina Medici.

Beautiful, intelligent, infuriating Caterina.

And she had apologized.

Her words echoed in his mind.

“There were a thousand ways I could have refused your kind offer, but I chose the worst.”

The way she had looked at him, her eyes wide and glistening, had made him believe her.

She had regretted her actions, not just for his sake but for hers too.

Yet, even as he replayed the conversation, he couldn’t ignore the other thing she had said.

The Duke.

Benedict’s jaw tightened as the thought of the man crept into his mind.

He had seen the way her cheeks flushed when he asked about him, the way she had hesitated before answering.

It wasn’t a bashful blush, not entirely, but it was enough to stir something unwelcome in Benedict’s chest.

Jealousy.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He was jealous.

Not of the Duke’s title or wealth, but of the time he spent with her, the smiles he undoubtedly coaxed from her, the way she might be learning to trust him.

Benedict scoffed under his breath, the sound bitter and self-deprecating.

Of course, she would blush at the mention of the Duke.

He was everything a young woman like Caterina could hope for.

A title, a fortune, and no doubt a charming demeanor to match.

He likely didn’t paint sketches or dabble in pursuits society deemed unworthy of a gentleman.

But did the Duke know her?

Benedict frowned at the thought.

Did the Duke understand the way her voice softened when she recounted stories of her family, or how her eyes sparkled when she talked about art?

Did he know how fiercely loyal she was, or how her wit could both challenge and delight in equal measure?

And then there was her laugh.

He could still hear it, clear and genuine, from just moments ago.

It had caught him off guard, the way her guard had slipped and allowed her to laugh at his teasing.

It had been too easy, too natural as if no time had passed since they were friends.

Friends.

The word felt like both a gift and a curse.

She had offered it so sincerely, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes.

Friendship.

Benedict let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair.

Could he truly stand beside her as a friend, knowing he still loves her?

Knowing she was being courted by another man, a Duke, no less?

Could he watch her smile, hear her laugh, and not wonder what might have been?

Yet, her words had struck a chord in him.

“I truly value what we had”

what we had.

She had chosen that word carefully, and he couldn’t ignore the weight it carried.

Perhaps she did regret how things had ended between them.

But was that enough?

He thought back to the softness in her voice when she apologized.

There had been no falsehood in her words, no artifice.

Caterina Medici was not a woman who apologized lightly, and tonight, she had laid her pride bare before him.

And yet…

Benedict straightened, his grip tightening on the railing.

The Duke.

Benedict sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation settling over him.

He didn’t know the answer.

Caterina had made it clear she wanted to move forward as friends, and he had to respect that.

And perhaps it wasn’t his place to ask.

But the flicker of hope that had ignited in his chest during their conversation refused to be snuffed out.

As he stared out at the moonlit gardens, Benedict allowed himself one brief, selfish thought: perhaps their story wasn’t over.

Not yet.

And as much as he tried to push the thought aside, he couldn’t help but wonder if Caterina felt the same.

─────────

Caterina stepped back into the ballroom, the vibrant swirl of colors and sound washing over her like a tide.

The chandeliers above cast their golden glow across the room, reflecting off jeweled gowns and polished buttons.

The hum of conversation mixed with the lively strains of the orchestra, and everywhere she looked, people were laughing, dancing, and enjoying the festivities.

Yet, she felt a strange detachment, as though she were merely observing from a distance.

Her thoughts were heavy with her conversation with Benedict.

His words, his tone, the way his expression had shifted, everything lingered in her mind like an unfinished melody.

She had meant every word of her apology and every sentiment about their friendship, but his question about the Duke still echoed in her head.

She shook herself lightly, smoothing her gown and taking a steadying breath.

Focus on the present, Caterina.

Scanning the room, her gaze fell upon a familiar figure.

His brother stood near the far corner of the ballroom, engaged in conversation.

Beside him, tall and impeccably poised, was the Duke of Richmond.

Caterina’s heart gave an involuntary flutter at the sight of them.

Her brother, always charismatic, was gesturing animatedly while the Duke nodded, his expression one of polite attentiveness.

Caterina hesitated only a moment before making her way across the room.

As she approached, the Duke’s head turned slightly, and their eyes met.

His lips curved into a warm smile, and Lorenzo, noticing her arrival, broke off mid-sentence to greet her.

“Caterina,” Lorenzo said, his voice warm. “I was just telling the Duke about your infamous talent for convincing me to get into trouble as children.”

Caterina raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Infamous, is it? I recall most of those plans being your idea.”

Lorenzo laughed, clapping the Duke on the shoulder. “Do not believe her, Your Grace. She’s always been far more clever than me.”

The Duke chuckled softly. “I find that entirely believable.”

Caterina felt her cheeks flush slightly under the weight of his gaze.

“The Duke is an excellent conversationalist, though I must say, he is remarkably reserved when it comes to tales of his own mischief,” Lorenzo said with a grin.

“I assure you, I have none worth recounting,” the Duke replied smoothly.

“None worth recounting or none you wish to admit?” Caterina teased gently, her tone playful.

The Duke’s smile widened a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. “A fair distinction, Miss Medici.”

Before Lorenzo could interject, the Duke turned to Caterina. “Miss Medici, would you honor me with a dance?”

The question caught her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise with a polite smile. “I would be delighted, Your Grace.”

Lorenzo stepped aside, his grin unabashedly teasing. “Try not to step on his toes, sister.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately at her brother before taking the Duke’s offered arm.

He led her gracefully to the center of the ballroom, where couples were already moving in time to a waltz, the soft strains of the orchestra surrounding them in an almost dreamlike haze.

The flicker of candlelight cast a warm glow across the polished floors, and the laughter and chatter of the guests added a lively undercurrent to the atmosphere.

As they began to dance, Caterina found herself acutely aware of the Duke’s presence.

His touch was firm yet gentle, his hand steady at her waist, guiding her effortlessly through the intricate steps.

His posture was regal, as though he were born to lead, and Caterina, in contrast, felt herself falling into the rhythm of his command with a certain quiet ease.

Yet, despite the grace of their steps, her mind drifted, her attention slipping from the Duke for a mere moment as her gaze wandered across the room.

And there, in the far corner of the ballroom, she briefly spotted him.

Benedict.

His eyes caught hers from across the sea of swirling dancers, and in that instant, a wave of emotions rose in her chest, catching her off guard.

So caught up in the sight of him, Caterina’s foot caught on the hem of her gown, and she stumbled slightly, her body swaying dangerously off balance.

Her hand instinctively gripped the Duke’s shoulder for support, and she felt a sharp gasp escape her lips.

The Duke, ever the gentleman, steadied her instantly, his hand tightening reassuringly around her waist.

“Are you well, Miss Medici?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with concern.

Caterina’s heart raced, a flush creeping up her neck.

“I’m fine,” she quickly replied, her words a little too sharp, betraying the sudden flurry of thoughts in her mind. “It was nothing.”

She regained her composure and adjusted herself in the dance, forcing her attention back to the Duke.

The music resumed, and their feet began moving in tandem once more, but her thoughts lingered on the fleeting moment she had shared with Benedict.

His presence always had disrupted the careful mask of composure she had been wearing so tightly.

“You seem distracted, Miss Medici,” the Duke remarked softly after a moment, his tone light but observant.

Caterina blinked, offering him a faint smile. “Not distracted, precisely. There is simply much to think about these days.”

“A fair answer,” he said, his expression unreadable. “Planning a wedding must be quite an undertaking, even if it is not your own.”

She laughed softly. “That is an understatement. My sister has more opinions about flower arrangements than I ever thought possible.”

The Duke chuckled, his gaze warm. “And what of you? Are you fond of such events, or do you merely endure them for the sake of duty?”

Caterina hesitated for a fraction of a second, considering her answer. “I enjoy them, in truth. The music, the dancing, the chance to see familiar faces, it has its charm. But I must admit, there are moments when I long for something simpler.”

“A sentiment I understand all too well,” he replied, his tone thoughtful. “There is a certain appeal in escaping the grandness of it all, even if only for a little while.”

Their conversation ebbed and flowed as the dance continued, light and polite.

His questions were thoughtful, his attention undivided, and yet, despite his charm, Caterina’s thoughts kept drifting.

does that… please you?

Benedict’s question replayed in her mind, unbidden and persistent.

She felt her cheeks warm as she recalled how Benedict had looked at her when he asked it, not with bitterness or anger, but with something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name.

Did she like the Duke?

She couldn’t deny his many admirable qualities.

He was kind, intelligent, and undeniably handsome.

But did she feel for him the same way she felt for Benedict?

The comparison was impossible to ignore, and she chastised herself for even entertaining the thought.

“Miss Medici?” the Duke’s voice broke through her reverie, and she realized she had been silent for longer than was polite.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” she said quickly. “I fear I’ve been a poor conversational partner.”

“Not at all,” he said, his tone reassuring. “If anything, I’m grateful for the respite from questions about the latest political debates or hunting expeditions.”

She smiled, genuinely this time. “In that case, I’m glad to be of service.”

The waltz came to an end, and the Duke led her back toward the edge of the dance floor.

As they paused, he bowed slightly. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Medici. It has been a true pleasure.”

“The pleasure was mine, Your Grace,” she replied with a graceful curtsey.

As he stepped away to rejoin the crowd, Caterina found herself letting out a quiet breath.

She glanced around the ballroom, where she briefly spotted Benedict, and felt a pang of uncertainty.

What am I doing?

She couldn’t deny the Duke’s kindness or the potential of what he offered.

But something about tonight, about Benedict’s words, his presence, and even her apology, had stirred feelings she thought she had buried some time ago.

Taking a deep breath, Caterina turned back to the crowd, determined to face the rest of the evening with poise.

But in her heart, she knew that the questions swirling in her mind would not be so easily silenced.

─────────

The soft glow of the morning sun poured through the grand windows of Langstone’s drawing room, casting a warm, golden light that reflected off the ornate furniture and elegant décor.

It was a peaceful morning after the excitement of the ball the night before, the lingering energy of the evening still hanging in the air like the gentle notes of a sweet melody.

The laughter and chatter of women filled the space, accompanied by the soft sound of teacups clinking and the occasional delighted exclamation from the children playing at the hearth.

Lady Medici, regal as ever, sat poised in her favorite chair near the window, her fingers delicately holding a cup of tea as she gazed out at the well-manicured garden.

Beside her, Lady Langstone looked equally content, her eyes twinkling as she caught up with her cousin, discussing the success of the previous night’s event.

Beatrice, Lorenzo’s wife, sat near her, her calm demeanor almost a mirror image of Lady Medici’s, but with a gentler air.

She glanced occasionally at the two young children, Vittoria and Luca, who were playing near the fire with their toys, their laughter filling the room with lightness.

Vittoria was especially animated, weaving intricate stories with her dolls, while Luca tried to mimic her in the most endearing way possible.

Cynthia and Olympia, ever the lively pair, occupied a chaise lounge, their heads together in whispered conversation, their eyes twinkling with mischief.

The lively discussion of the ball was at its peak, each woman recounting a detail or a fleeting moment from the evening before.

They spoke of the grandeur of the event, the music, the dances, the gentlemen, everything that had made the night unforgettable.

“You know,” Lady Langstone said, her voice rich with excitement, “I think the ball was one of the finest we’ve had in weeks. The atmosphere was so lively, and the guests… well, they certainly kept things interesting, didn’t they?”

Lady Medici chuckled lightly, her voice low but full of warmth. “Indeed. It seemed as though everyone in town was eager to attend. I dare say the guest list alone could have kept some of the ladies up for weeks, debating who was invited and who wasn’t.”

Beatrice laughed, her eyes brightening with amusement. “And the dancing! I haven’t seen such energy on the floor in ages. I think even my feet are still aching from all the waltzes.”

The lighthearted conversation swirled around Caterina and Teresa, who sat quietly together on a loveseat by the window.

The two sisters, though not speaking, were very much in tune with one another.

They shared an almost telepathic bond, their silent communication enough to convey everything that words could not express.

Teresa looked radiant as always, the excitement of her engagement still fresh in her expression, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Despite the joy that filled the room, something lingered in the air around Caterina, a quiet restlessness, an unease that she couldn’t quite shake.

Her thoughts kept returning to the conversation she’d had with Benedict on the balcony. His words had stayed with her, even as she tried to convince herself that things were fine.

She had apologized for her rude refusal, for the sharp words she had said to him, and he had graciously accepted.

It was the right thing to do, but somehow, the weight of what had transpired between them remained, unresolved in her heart.

As the ladies continued their discussion, Caterina’s gaze wandered to the children again.

Vittoria had just dropped her doll and was now chasing Luca around the room, laughing as the boy, with his round face flushed with excitement, tried to escape her.

The scene brought a soft smile to Caterina’s lips, though her mind was far from the carefree playfulness of the children.

She turned her gaze back to her sister, who was watching her with quiet curiosity.

Teresa noticed immediately.

She always did.

With a gentle nudge of her elbow, she leaned toward her sister, her voice low enough for only Caterina to hear. “Kitty” she began softly, her tone carrying a quiet concern. “What’s bothering you? You’ve been distant all morning.”

Caterina hesitated, her fingers curling around her teacup as she looked at her sister. “It’s nothing, really. Just… the ball, I suppose. Everything feels like it’s moving so quickly. I’m not sure where I fit into all of it anymore.”

Teresa raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and knowing. “Don’t be ridiculous. You fit just fine, as always. What’s really bothering you?”

Caterina sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she placed her teacup back on the table. “I spoke with Mr Bridgerton last night. After everything that happened, I felt I needed to apologize for the way I treated him.”

Teresa’s eyes widened in surprise. “You spoke to him? I thought you would never do such a thing, you told me”

Caterina looked down, her fingers tapping nervously on the edge of the cup. “I know. But I had to. It wasn’t fair to him. He didn’t deserve the things I said.”

She glanced at her sister, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I apologized, and we’ve agreed to be friends. But…” She faltered, not sure how to put it into words.

“But?” Teresa prompted, her voice gentle but insistent.

Caterina hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “But it feels strange, Tess. He’s like changed. There’s this distance between us now, something that wasn’t there before. And I don’t know how to bridge it.”

Teresa considered this for a moment before responding, her voice thoughtful. “You can’t expect everything to go back to how it was. But you did the right thing. You apologized. What more can you do?”

Caterina nodded, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. “I suppose. I just… I don’t want to lose that connection with him.”

Teresa smiled, her gaze softening. “It just takes time. Just don’t overthink it. Let it unfold naturally.” She paused, her tone lightening.

The conversation lulled as the two sisters exchanged quiet thoughts, their connection growing deeper with every shared word.

Soon enough, the conversation turned back to the lively chatter of the other ladies, and the children’s laughter again filled the room.

─────────

The Bridgerton dining room, with its high ceilings and wide windows, was bathed in the golden light of a late morning.

The polished mahogany table gleamed beneath a pristine white cloth, laden with a spread of fresh fruits, breads, and steaming pots of tea.

The sounds of laughter, clinking china, and the occasional rustle of paper echoed through the room, creating a symphony of domestic cheer.

At the head of the table sat Lady Bridgerton, her posture elegant as she sipped her tea with an indulgent smile, watching the lively chatter of her sons.

To her left was Anthony, already impeccably dressed despite the early hour, his dark brows furrowed slightly as he buttered a slice of toast.

Benedict, seated across from him, looked far more relaxed, his cravat slightly askew and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Colin, perpetually the least serious of the lot, lounged in his chair, occasionally snatching a pastry from a passing tray.

Their cousin, Lord Edward Ducker, sat at the other end of the table, a picture of youthful enthusiasm.

Despite his attempts to appear composed, his animated gestures as he recounted the events of the Langstone ball betrayed his excitement.

Beside him sat his mother, Lady Ducker, who watched her son with amused indulgence.

Edward leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I must say, the Langstone ball was a rather splendid affair. Everything was so well-orchestrated, from the music to the decorations. And the Medici family, what a commanding presence they have.”

Colin raised an eyebrow as he bit into a scone. “Commanding, you say? Is that your polite way of saying they’re intimidating?”

Edward grinned, undeterred. “Not at all. Though I must admit, Miss Medici’s brother, the Duke of Lucca, does have a rather… formidable air.”

“Formidable?” Benedict repeated, his voice dripping with amusement. “Now that’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. The man looked as though he could cut someone down with a single glance.”

“Perhaps,” Edward conceded, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “But I found him to be perfectly civil. We had a long discussion about estate management and—”

Anthony interrupted, his tone dry. “You mean he interrogated you about your intentions toward his sister.”

Edward blinked, taken aback. “Not exactly. Though I do believe he wanted to gauge my character.”

“And did you pass the test?” Colin asked, leaning forward with mock seriousness.

Edward straightened his shoulders. “I’d like to think so. He even called me a ‘respectable gentleman.’”

The Bridgerton brothers exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

“Respectable!” Benedict said, feigning astonishment. “Edward, you’ve truly outdone yourself. To earn such high praise from the Duke of Lucca is no small feat.”

Colin clapped his hands together. “We should have a plaque made: ‘Edward Ducker, Respectable Gentleman, Approved by the Duke of Lucca.’”

Even Anthony smirked, his usually stern expression softening. “I hope you realize that’s the equivalent of him saying he doesn’t actively despise you.”

Edward rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Laugh all you like, but I’m confident I made a good impression. And I’d like to see any of you fare better in his presence.”

“Oh, I’d fare just fine,” Benedict said, leaning back in his chair. “I’d compliment his fine taste in Italian architecture and steer clear of any mention of his sister.”

Lady Ducker, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up. “Edward, darling, if you spent half as much time focusing on Miss Medici as you do worrying about her brother, you’d be married by now.”

The room erupted into laughter, even Edward joining in despite his reddening cheeks.

“She’s right, you know,” Colin said, grinning. “You’re marrying his sister, not the Duke.”

Edward sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “You lot are impossible.”

“And you’re easy prey,” Benedict countered, his grin widening.

Lady Bridgerton, ever the voice of reason, tapped her teacup lightly with her spoon. “Boys, let your cousin have his moment. He’s navigating uncharted waters, after all. Engaging with the Medici family is no small task.”

Edward nodded, his expression softening. “Thank you, Aunt Violet. Though I must say, Miss Medici makes it all worthwhile.”

The sincerity in his voice brought a brief pause to the table, and even the teasing Bridgerton brothers couldn’t help but smile.

“That’s the spirit,” Anthony said, his tone unusually approving.

“Indeed,” Colin added, raising his teacup in a mock toast. “To Edward, the brave and respectable gentleman.”

As laughter filled the room once more, Edward glanced at his mother, who gave him a small, encouraging smile.

It was clear that, despite the jesting, the Bridgertons were firmly in his corner.

Just as the conversation began to shift, a footman entered the room, announcing that the carriages would soon be ready for their errands.

The brothers rose reluctantly, their morning banter drawing to a close as they prepared for the day ahead.

As the group dispersed, Lady Ducker turned to Edward, her tone teasing. “You handled that well, my dear. But next time, perhaps don’t give them quite so much ammunition.”

Edward chuckled, adjusting his cravat. “It’s a fine line, Mother. But I’d rather be teased by the Bridgertons than face another interrogation from the Duke”

Lady Ducker laughed softly, looping her arm through his as they left the room. “You’ll be fine, Edward. If you can survive this family, you can survive anything.”

In the sunlight-dappled halls of Bridgerton House, the warmth of family lingered, a comforting contrast to the grandeur of the balls and the weight of impending proposals.

─────────

The Langstone gardens bathed in the golden hues of a gentle afternoon sun, were alive with the laughter of children.

Caterina knelt on the soft grass, weaving yet another daisy crown for her niece, Vittoria.

The little girl sat cross-legged in front of her, her cheeks flushed with delight as she chattered about becoming the queen of the garden.

Luca, her younger brother, toddled nearby, clutching a stick he had declared his royal scepter.

Teresa, seated on a cushioned bench nearby, kept an amused eye on them all, her hands busy embroidering a handkerchief. “Careful, Luca,” she called her voice light with affection. “You might accidentally dethrone Queen Vittoria with that scepter of yours.”

Luca turned and gave her a gap-toothed grin. “I’m the king!” he declared proudly, waving his stick.

“And a fine king you’ll make,” Caterina said, tying off the last flower in the crown.

She reached forward, placing it gently on Vittoria’s head. “There. Now you look regal enough to rule the entire estate.”

Vittoria clapped her hands and twirled, her giggles ringing like bells. “Thank you, Aunt Cat! I shall knight Sir Luca as my royal knight!”

“Knight or not, I think Luca prefers wielding that scepter like a warrior,” Teresa quipped, nodding toward her nephew as he brandished the stick in a mock battle against an invisible foe.

Caterina laughed, brushing the grass from her skirts as she stood.

The scene was idyllic, yet beneath the laughter, her thoughts were far from peaceful.

She had spent much of the day trying to untangle the complexities of her heart, though no answers had come.

As if summoned by her unrest, Lorenzo appeared at the far end of the garden path, his tall figure framed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees.

He paused, watching his sisters and his children with an expression that blended fondness and contemplation.

After a moment, he strode toward them, his boots crunching softly on the gravel.

“What a picturesque gathering,” Lorenzo called as he approached. “Queens, knights, and their devoted subjects. I almost feel underdressed.”

“Do you ever feel overdressed?” Teresa teased, setting her embroidery aside as she smiled up at her brother. “I believe your wardrobe consists solely of austere tailoring.”

“I’ll have you know, this jacket is quite fashionable,” Lorenzo replied, mock offense lacing his tone. “But I came here seeking the wisdom of my sisters. Kitty, would you walk with me?”

Caterina’s curiosity flickered as she handed Vittoria her scepter and took Lorenzo’s offered arm.

“Seeking wisdom from me? That sounds ominous, brother” she said with a teasing lilt. “Do you have a particularly challenging decision that only I can solve?”

“You’ll see,” Lorenzo replied, leading her down the shaded garden path.

Once they were out of earshot, his tone shifted, becoming more serious. “I wanted to ask your thoughts about Lord Ducker.”

Caterina raised a brow, taken aback by the question. “Lord Ducker?”

“Yes,” Lorenzo confirmed. “You’ve spent time observing them together. What do you think of him?”

Caterina considered her answer, a smile tugging at her lips. “I think Lord Ducker is… solid. Like a fine oak tree. Dependable, sturdy, and quite rooted.”

“An oak tree?” Lorenzo echoed, his lips twitching in amusement. “Is that your way of saying he lacks charisma?”

“Not at all,” Caterina replied, feigning indignation. “I’m saying he’s reliable, which is precisely what one would want in a husband. Tess adores him, and he clearly worships her. He’s respectful and kind”

Lorenzo chuckled, nodding. “You’re right. He does seem to care for her deeply. But as her brother, I still can’t help but worry.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” Caterina said, squeezing his arm. “To worry about all of us endlessly. But truly, Lori, Tess is happy. She’s chosen well.”

Lorenzo sighed, though a smile lingered on his lips. “I suppose I should trust her”

They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Lorenzo turned to her with a pointed look. “And what about you?”

Caterina blinked, suddenly wary. “What about me?”

“What are your thoughts on the Duke?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with interest.

Caterina felt heat rise to her cheeks. “The Duke is… a gentleman,” she replied cautiously. “Polished, courteous, and every bit the image of nobility.”

“And yet,” Lorenzo pressed, “your tone suggests there’s more you’re not saying.”

Caterina hesitated, her gaze dropping to the gravel. “I suppose I haven’t spent enough time with him to form a complete opinion,” she admitted. “He is… impressive, but I, well, I find it difficult to know what to think.”

Lorenzo stopped walking, turning to face her.

His expression was both serious and curious. “There’s something you should know,” he said after a moment.

Caterina frowned.

Lorenzo exhaled, his voice lowering. “The Duke approached me last night. He asked for my permission to propose to you.”

Caterina froze, her eyes widening. “He… he asked for your permission?”

“He did,” Lorenzo confirmed. “I told him that while I wouldn’t oppose the idea, the decision ultimately rests with you. But I thought you should be aware.”

Shock rippled through Caterina, leaving her momentarily speechless.

The Duke of Richmond, thoughtful, polished, and enigmatic, wanted to propose.

The weight of it pressed on her chest, and she struggled to find her voice.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Lorenzo said gently. “But I wanted you to know”

Before Caterina could gather her thoughts, Teresa’s voice rang out from the other end of the path. “Lori! Kitty! Vittoria insists her royal court requires your presence.”

Caterina exhaled a shaky breath, grateful for the interruption.

As Luca and Vittoria came racing toward them, Lorenzo stepped back, giving her a small, knowing smile.

Their conversation was left suspended, the implications of his words lingering like a shadow over the garden.

Caterina bent to scoop Luca into her arms, but her thoughts were miles away, tangled in questions without answers.

What did she truly feel about the Duke?

The main reason why she and Teresa are in London.

The Duke was everything a lady of her status should desire: handsome, noble, refined, a man of dignity and integrity.

His courtship had been respectful, methodical, and patient.

And his intentions were clear, he was not merely seeking her beauty or her fortune, but the prospect of a genuine partnership.

It was everything she had been taught to want, everything that made sense for her future.

Yet, even as she stood there, surrounded by the quiet comforts of Langstone House, the warmth of her family’s presence beside her, her mind drifted back to a moment that had stolen her breath and shaken her very foundation.

Benedict Bridgerton’s proposal.

The words echoed in her mind, louder than any conversation she had had with the Duke.

Why, did she find herself thinking of him now?

Why, when the Duke’s proposal was no longer just a possibility but an imminent reality, did her mind keep drifting back to Benedict and his words?

The truth was, that Caterina felt conflicted.

The Duke was everything she could want but Benedict…

Could she move forward with the Duke, allowing herself to be swept into a future of security and respectability, or would she always wonder how could have been if she had said yes to him that evening?

─────────

The fading light of the day poured softly into Caterina’s room, casting long golden beams across the lush rug and furniture.

The silk curtains, tied back with braided cords, fluttered gently in the evening breeze, adding a quiet rhythm to the stillness of the space.

In the corner, Vanessa carefully unpacked the accessories for the evening, a shimmering array of pearls, and a delicate gold necklace.

The gown, already laid out on the fainting couch, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship: soft ivory silk with gold embroidery tracing delicate vines along the bodice and hem.

It was perfect for dinner at the Bridgerton estate, a subtle statement of refinement and elegance.

Yet, amidst all this beauty and quiet preparation, Caterina sat at her dressing table, lost in thought.

Her hands rested idly in her lap, her gaze fixed not on her reflection in the ornate mirror, but on some invisible point beyond it.

Vanessa, ever watchful, paused in her task of untangling a pearl necklace. “My lady” she began gently, “if I may be so bold, you’ve been unusually quiet this evening. are you quite well? Is something troubling you?”

Caterina blinked, her gaze snapping back to the present.

She met Vanessa’s eyes in the mirror and forced a faint smile. “oh yes, I am perfectly fine. nothing troubling” she replied, though the lie was evident in her voice.

Vanessa arched a brow, her hands deftly fastening the necklace onto a padded stand. “Forgive me, but I’ve known you long enough to recognize when ‘nothing’ is quite the opposite.”

Caterina sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I suppose I cannot hide anything from you,” she admitted. “It’s just… tonight feels heavy as if there’s more at stake than there should be.”

Vanessa came to stand beside her, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Dinner with the Bridgertons? Surely it’s nothing to worry about. They seemed charming and kind people”

“It’s not the dinner itself,” Caterina murmured. “It’s what lingers beneath it all. The expectations, the undercurrents.” She hesitated, her fingers toying with the edge of the lace handkerchief on the table. “Vanessa, the Duke is courting me. And… I believe he intends to propose.”

The maid’s expression didn’t change, though her hand on Caterina’s shoulder stilled for a moment. “I suspected as much,” she said carefully. “And how does that sit with you, Miss?”

Caterina bit her lip, turning to face her maid directly. “I don’t know,” she confessed, her voice trembling slightly. “By all accounts, I should be elated. Becoming a duchess is everything a woman could hope for especially when her partner is kind, dignified, and undeniably handsome.”

Vanessa’s gaze softened. “But?”

“But when I think of a life with him,” Caterina continued, “I feel… hollow. Not because he’s lacking in any way, but because I don’t know if I belong there.”

Vanessa took a seat on the small upholstered stool beside her. “Miss Caterina, it sounds as though you’re trying to convince yourself of something you don’t feel. The heart doesn’t obey logic or societal rules.”

“I know that,” Caterina said, frustration creeping into her voice. “But it’s more than that.”

Vanessa studied her for a moment, then asked quietly, “Do you love him?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and for a long moment, Caterina couldn’t answer.

Instead, her mind drifted to another man.

Vanessa must have seen the flicker of something in Caterina’s expression because she leaned closer. “It’s not the Duke you’re thinking of, is it?”

Caterina’s cheeks flushed a deep rose, and she turned her gaze to the window, refusing to meet her maid’s perceptive eyes. “That’s irrelevant,” she said softly, though her voice carried a faint quiver. “I did not come here to fall in love, Vanessa. All the ton knows that.”

Vanessa tilted her head, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “Perhaps, Miss, but I’ve found that love rarely cares for plans or intentions. It tends to bloom in the most inconvenient of places.”

Caterina let out a faint, humorless laugh, her fingers nervously tracing the intricate embroidery on her gown. “You speak as though it’s a blessing. For me, it feels like a curse, a complication I cannot afford.”

Vanessa crossed her arms lightly, watching her mistress with a steady gaze. “And yet, you speak of love as though it’s already found you.”

“I never said—” Caterina started, but Vanessa held up a hand, silencing her with a knowing, almost sisterly look.

“You didn’t have to, Miss. Your eyes betray you,” Vanessa said gently, her tone neither prying nor judgmental. “If it’s not the Duke of Richmond who stirs this turmoil in you, then who?”

Caterina froze, her throat tightening as memories rushed forward unbidden.

She clenched her hands into fists, forcing herself to push the memory away.

She shook her head firmly, her jaw tightening as though to physically banish the thought. “Who it is does not matter,” she said with a strained calmness.

Vanessa’s brows lifted slightly, her expression softening with curiosity and quiet understanding. “Oh, but it does matter. It matters if it’s someone who holds your heart.”

Caterina turned abruptly to the vanity, her fingers brushing over the edge of a silver hairbrush as if grounding herself with the sensation. “No, it doesn’t,” she said, her voice sharper now. “Because my heart cannot afford to belong to anyone. Not him. Not the Duke. Not anyone.”

Vanessa approached slowly, her movements deliberate and gentle. “Forgive me, Miss, but you’re not the type to let fear dictate your choices. Why now? Why deny yourself this?”

Caterina let out a bitter laugh, one devoid of mirth. “Because it’s not about what I want. It’s about what I must do. My family needs me to make a wise match. I cannot…will not be a source of shame or disappointment again. I need to repair for what I did.”

Vanessa’s lips pressed into a line, her eyes filled with a blend of empathy and frustration. “My lady choosing love is neither reckless nor shameful. The events of the past now mean nothing, Don't let yourself become a victim of the past, you are still capable of love”

The words struck Caterina harder than she cared to admit.

Her grip on the hairbrush tightened her reflection in the mirror a portrait of poise cracking at the edges. “You make it sound so simple,” she said quietly.

Vanessa tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s never simple. But the right thing rarely is.”

Caterina’s gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers fiddling with the lace of her gown.

The weight of Vanessa’s words pressed against the walls she had so carefully constructed, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to feel the truth of them.

But the moment passed, and she straightened her shoulders, donning the mask of composure she had perfected over the years.

“Thank you, Vanessa,” she said softly, signaling the end of the conversation.

Vanessa hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to give her mistress the space she seemed to need. “Of course, Miss.”

As the maid returned to her duties, Caterina’s mind churned with thoughts and emotions she couldn’t quite name.

The mirror before her reflected not just her image but the storm brewing within, a storm she would have to hide before stepping into the Bridgertons’ dinner.

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