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chronically-ghosted · 1 year ago

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can you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills?

rating: T (this is the tamest thing I’ve written in years)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a year into secretly dating, you are overwhelmed by your feelings for Dieter Bravo, confident and resigned to the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. But on Oscar’s night, drunk on sparkling wine and a terrific win, Dieter gives you a reason to doubt your fears.

warnings/tags: age gap, self-aggrandizing rumination on our public vs private personas, a stupid amount of kissing, angst but soft angst, angst that is resolved, this is very different from anything i’ve done recently, and there’s no smut? just kisses? What have you become Taylor? one very very very soft Dieter, waxing shamelessly poetic about being in love and being loved by Dieter Bravo

a/n: this comes from the same request by two of my LOVELY followers ( @tvversionperson and @bitchwitch1981) from my 100 followers event: “I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” with Dieter Bravo. this is so wildly different from anything i've done before, i'm flinging this into the internet like a goddamn trapshooter of emotional angst

shout out to @iamdesibell for the visuals of Dieter at the party. She spoils me with all of her incredible Dieter artwork.

🤍Masterlist

Every artist knows it's about the looks. The aesthetics of it all, the internet’s new favorite buzzword. Increasingly too often, the merit of the artwork is equated to the moral merit of the artist; it’s not so much about selling the image you create, it’s about selling the image of yourself. Does the artist fit into the image of what the masses imagine when they hear what the artist offers? Can the artist balance both the expectations and provide something new? When is the right time to break the mold, and be different, or when is it best to follow the crowd? Keep your head down and make more content than art. When does the aesthetics of a thing matter more than the thing itself?

For Oscar’s night, often there is nothing more important than the look of things. The elegance. The allure but approachability of the stars. Beautiful but obtainable. Handsome but effortless. But beneath all the veneer, all the lights, and gold and glitz, there is a yearning, an animalistic hunger, for a quite literal shiny object waved in their faces to clamor and push and shove for. The beauty is a mask that covers fragility and fear and anticipation – and that mask must remain firmly in place, no matter the outcome. Remember, they’re watching, always watching, and you cannot want a thing too much, lest you become conceited or conniving. You cannot love in a way that scares them.

And sometimes, you think you love him in a way that scares yourself.

His warm palm grips yours over your knee. He, along with the other nominees, wait patiently as the names are read allowed from the gilded stage. His face, a mask – of curiosity, of wonder – but only you, perhaps because you are so close to him, can see the fraught want in his eyes. You know how much he wants this, how much you want this for him. He wants it so much he’s trembling. Microscopically. Barely at all, barely a flinch of genuine human emotion, it makes you sick. Because Dieter, the Dieter you’ve come to know in the past year, is so wonderfully unpolished, such a sterling testament to the beauty in the raw, it makes a spot behind your sternum ache to watch him hold himself back.

You want to give him a smile of encouragement, to kiss his knuckles and soothe his hammering pulse with your thumb, but you can’t. You can’t even look at him, any movement immediately flagged by the cameras. Always watching.

But behind the rows of seats, they can’t see your clasped hands. Can’t see his tapping foot. They can’t see how much he wants, how much he loves. As the names are read aloud for the category of Best Actor, you lift your thumbnail to the meat of his palm, between his own thumb and index finger. Gently, softly, quietly, so as not to startle the molecules of air around you, you draw a heart in his skin.

But by his rigid posture, you’re not sure he registers it. You can’t tell if he knows you’re there at all.

It began a year ago.

After a truly spectacular break up that left you bereft and aimless, you decided to quit. Quit it all. Quit and start over doing the one thing you actually had passion for: screenwriting. Was it risky and dumb as hell at your age? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter if you never ended up writing for a big Hollywood film, you told yourself, as long as you were writing, that’s all that mattered.

So you quit writing articles about car insurance, packed up everything, and moved to the City of Angels.

Two years later, you were still earning your dues. Still working from the bottom of the barrel up, climbing through muck and verbal abuse and emotional exploitation and the very dredges of the industry.

You tried to focus on your craft, on getting more than just getting coffee for the actual writers, but after multiple days spending nineteen hours on your feet, the capacity to be creative so rarely comes, your brain often sizzled and fried like the back end of a janky, unreliable toaster. The production company you worked for had just purchased the rights to a popular novelist’s book for a film adaptation. The party you were at was more of a “pat yourself on the back” sort of thing for the director and novelist to rub elbows while surrounded by beautiful people. Attending mind-numbing parties for the sake of building connections was one thing. You could actually have fun when you wanted, but this? This self-indulgent, ego-driven, flattery bullshit, when all you wanted to do was sleep?

You watch as Eliot Baker, friend of the director and whose house is currently being trashed by a bunch of dangerously drunk and high animals, steps up onto his kitchen table. His pupils nearly dilated to the size of quarters, he holds up a baggy of white powder.

“Anyone interested in Colombia’s finest, please join me in the bedroom. Beautiful women, please stay.”

The three shots you had done earlier had done nothing to dull your irritation, now amplified by the grating cheer that goes up from the crowd. Coke rarely puts you in a better mood, but at least it’s better than sulking by the stairs. Eliot leaps off the table and leads a gaggle of giggling women, and men with their hands all over their sparkly asses, down the hall and you try not to roll your eyes, your feet all but dragging beneath you.

Then someone catches you by the elbow.

And you wonder how a homeless man got past security.

A comically large green beanie on his head, a blindly yellow hood zipped up over what perhaps had been a white t-shirt – you are immediately arrested by his dark, soft eyes. Thick, furrowed brow. He hasn’t let go of your elbow.

“That guy is a fucker,” he tells you with vehemence.

“What?” He could have asked you your name and you would have said the exact same thing.

“Baker,” he sneers over your shoulder at the small crowd tumbling through the open door, Eliot’s too blue eyes watching like a farmer counts cattle to the slaughterhouse. “He laces his shit. Makes you too fucked up. He’s the kind of evil fucker who roofies drinks.”

The stranger looks at you, the twist of rage around his mouth fading, eyes softening again, as if he is worried about you.

“Don’t go in there,” he says.

His warm hand is still around your elbow.

“Okay,” you say because you haven’t come across anyone this earnest, maybe in your entire life, and certainly not since moving to LA.

He blinks, as if surprised, and slowly withdraws his hand. You stare at each other for perhaps too long before he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Wanna smoke some weed?”

The cool night air of LA always surprises you. It’s never cold, no, but the chill is noticeable, tangible, always right at the back of your neck when you least expect it. You stifle the urge to shiver as the man slides the glass door behind him, immediately deafening the party inside. You hadn’t realized it had been so loud until there is blissful silence, the sound of blood rushing in your ears replacing the trance music and the dull hum of overlapping voices.

The man straight off the set of The Big Lebowski unhurriedly digs around in the pocket of that obnoxious hoodie for a bit, as if he could lose an item in that small pouch.

He finds what he’s looking for with a grin on his face, and when he brings both the lighter and blunt to his lips, you realize his left arm is in a cast.

He sees you eye it, managing to light and hit the blunt with one hand before pocketing the lighter and offering the smoke to you. The browns in his eyes are overcome by the darkness surrounding you on the back porch overlooking the valley below, the skyline of Los Angeles winking in the far distance.

You notice something, not writing or words on his cast, more like a dark blot, but you don’t ask him about it. Most people in this business you’ve found are only on for the cameras and when it comes to personal, quiet moments, the less personable they have to be the better. You feel like you’re already pressing your luck by getting a few free hits off this guy so you wait your turn, ready to be as silent as he wants it to be.

Which apparently isn’t very much at all.

“How’d you end up here?” He asks with genuine interest and just a touch of weariness.

You shrug as you take the blunt from him again. “My boss is here to schmooze his new writer. As his assistant, I think I’m contractually obligated to be around him more than his own shadow.”

“You’re a PA?” He asks, voice strained and full of smoke, before he puffs out the side of his mouth. A considerate smoker, then.

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m whatever is lower than a PA. I think an actual bottom-feeder in a fish tank has more power than me.”

“So you’re new to the scene?”

You scowl, one arm tucked around your waist, the other tapping on your thigh. “Yeah, if two years is still new.”

He frowns. “What are you trying to break into?”

His fingertips brush yours over the next exchange and maybe it’s the earnest look in his eyes, or the bizarre fact that he actually smells good despite looking like he’d raided a garbage can, or maybe it’s the weed finally hitting, but you are honest with this complete stranger.

“I wanna be a screenwriter.”

Maybe it’s the drugs finally hitting him too, but the glossy shine to his eyes doesn’t seem to be from boredom as you explain to him the past few years of your life, starting from the breakup in Boston to getting a very specific brand of q-tips from a drugstore on the other side of town for your boss at midnight.

“I know I have to pay my dues, and I don’t mind that, but I just want to do something that matters, you know?” The unexpected chill of the night air curls around your neck as he listens intently to your uninterrupted ramble for ten minutes. “I don’t even care about big movies, or the awards, I want to write something that touches just one person. Give them something to think about for years to come. Comforts or encourages them to do the thing they’re scared of doing.” You feel heat climb up your ears as he watches as though you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s silly. It’s just a job, and I know I should treat it like that . . .”

You trail off, waiting for him to admonish you, but instead he grins. A smile that widens his whole face. On someone else it might look condescending, but he’s grinning wildly as he slides the joint back into his mouth with two fingers and leans back on his heels.

“So you’re a little dreamer, huh?” That faint blush now beats a harsh red. Fuck, you knew you sounded like an idiot – always opening up too soon and too fast to strangers who don’t really give a fuck. You were just supposed to have a conversation with this nice, albeit weird guy and go on your way and –

He cocks his head as he looks at you, takes in your beet-red ears and cheeks and that smile falters.

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right? The world needs more dreamers. People, who despite all the bullshit, continue to believe they can be happy.”

“You could also call that being delusional,” you mutter as you take the halfway-spent joint from him when he offers.

One of those thick eyebrows jerks as though thinking of a funny joke. He shrugs, his mouth twisting down in a disbelieving smirk. “Personally, I like to call it whimsy.”

Whimsy? Who talks like that?

You fight a giggle and find him looking at you again, that smile smoothed out and warm again. One glance and you snort loudly, then bust out laughing.

Those magnanimous eyes glitter as he watches you laugh yourself silly.

“Child-like, wondrous whimsy,” he teases and you laugh harder as though he tickled you. Another snort explodes out of you and you clap your hand over your mouth, finally hearing the noises you’re making and mortified beyond reason. You glance over your shoulder, worried someone else might have heard your donkey laugh. In fact, you wish anyone other than the gorgeous man standing next to you had heard it.

But if he finds it unpolished or annoying, he doesn’t show it. He just rolls on his heels, grinning and looking overly pleased with himself. When the giggles subside, you bite your lip at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away, Pistol Pete.”

“How’d you break your arm?”

He looks down at it as he forgot it was there.

“Uh, it’s a long story.”

He finally pulls it out of the sleeve of his jacket. Your mouth drops.

You can’t even tell what medium had been used, either paint or sharpie or something else entirely, but the cast is a mosaic of some of the most gorgeous artwork you’d ever seen. Birds in gold and blue hues, flowers and leaves in stunningly rendered detail, the curves of anonymous noses and lips and teeth and earlobes – all wound together in collage by someone with an eye for detail and a precious reverence for the mundane.

But for all the artwork, designs you fully believe should be in a museum, you realize no one has signed it. Maybe only twelve year olds sign each other’s casts, you think harshly to yourself. Grow up.

But still, the sight makes you a little sad.

“Did you do these?” You ask quietly.

He nods, turning his arm to give you a better look, as if eager for your approval. You think you see the horns of Goya’s El Gran Cabrón before he pulls his arm back.

The man hasn’t answered your original question, watching your face for every microexpression. Finally, you do glance up and he has his bottom lip in teeth, as though preparing to be scolded.

At that moment, you want nothing more than to kiss those plush lips. You swallow, feeling rather lighted-headed and capable of making terrible decisions, so you take a clear step back.

“I got daydrunk and fell in my pool wrong.”

You frown at him. “That’s not a very long story.”

He drops your gaze, suddenly bashful, and shakes his sleeve back over his cast. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t come up with a better story that makes me look really cool, or makes you laugh, so I went with the lame truth.”

You don’t remark that it sounds like he wanted to impress you so you go for the easy alternative.

“Why would I laugh at you?”

He flops his arms in half-shrug. “I don’t want you to laugh at me. I just want you to laugh. I like your laugh.”

How does someone who wears their heart so openly on their sleeve survive in a place like this? You want him to swallow you down so you can count the rings in his stomach, learn his history like oak trees.

“Who are you?” You blurt out, your mouth full of cotton and brain somewhat disconnected from your brain stem.

At that, he laughs. “Gimme your number and you’ll find out.”

His smile elongates the longer you stare at him. “It’s not a line. I mean, it is, but not like that, if you don’t want it to be. This fucking industry is built on who you know and I know a couple of people to know. You can call me if you have any questions or need a reference.”

The whiplash between flirty tease and professional contact is jarring. Your fingers shaking from shock, you take your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He taps away, bobbing his head to some tune only he can hear, before lifting it up to his face and snapping a selfie – tongue out and eye squinting into the flash.

He tosses your phone back and you learn his name for the first time.

The shock wears off immediately and you roll your eyes.

“Okay, my turn.”

He digs into his back pocket and slides a bright pink 2007 motorola flip-phone into your outstretched hand.

Full – chock full, in fact – of surprises.

“I’m not gonna get tracked,” he says seriously, eyes narrowed. “You really should think about giving up your iPhone. All kinds of bad vibes.”

You eagerly look forward to him explaining the Big Foot Conspiracy and his theories about the magic silver bullet.

It takes you a second to type out your name with the multiple buttons, some old sense memory from seventh grade coming back like a grumpy, displeased ghost, but finally, you snap the phone together and toss it back to him.

With the nub of the smoking joint poking out of his mouth, he frowns when he looks at the phone screen.

“Dolly Parton?”

You pluck the joint out of his mouth, a surge of playful confidence keeping your eyes locked on his. You nod. “Since we’re doing the whole fake name thing . . .”

You want to wink, with your hand on your hip, so clever to have figured out his little game, but when he continues to frown, that rush of bravery fizzles out.

“But the name I put in your phone is actually my name?”

You chuckle, surprised and confused he’s still committing to the bit, a little frustrated at this point because you are actually starting to like this guy and . . .

Unless . . .

“You’re actually Dieter Bravo? The actor? Three-time Emmy nominated actor Dieter Bravo?”

He loops his finger through one of the free-roaming curls from under the beanie and twists it. “That’s what it says on my underwear . . . when I remember to wear it.”

The blush on your face now scalding, you dart across the space between you and him and snatch his phone back. You can literally feel the shameful heat in your spine, your lower back, as you delete Dolly’s name and frantically type in your own.

“I’m so, so, sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you but it’s dark and, um, you don’t look like I thought you would and I-I had no idea – I’m so sorry –,”

“Girlie, take a breath,” he chuckles and strokes your fingers as they tremble over the keypad. “I’ve never seen someone so stressed out after smoking half a joint before.”

You’ve gone stock still as he bleeds the panic out of you with just his touch. You watch as his warm hand, dwarfing yours in size, slowly moves up to your wrist, your pulse point. His thumb presses into the vein and gently rubs. You can’t help the sigh that eases out of your throat as all the tension in your arm collapses into that one focal point, that one place he presses against you. You inhale, not realizing you had stopped breathing for a second and he releases gently, the ache in your body left over from the rigidity gone.

A brief dark haze passes over his eyes when you sigh, but gives you space easy enough when you settle.

He takes the phone out of your limp hands and reads what you’ve typed out.

“Cute name. But I think I’m still gonna call you Dolly.”

Humor is your gut instinct. Defuse a situation or calm your nerves, sometimes the best you can do is crack a (often poorly timed) joke. You feel all fluttery inside, partially because you’d been talking to Dieter “I know people who know people” Bravo all night and partially because you’re about 86% sure he’d been flirting with you. And so, without thinking, you say:

“Because of my massive tits, right?”

His eyes flit up from his phone screen to, presumably, your tits. Which are very much not Dolly-Parton-comparable.

But he grins. He actually giggles, pressing the back of the hand holding his phone against his lips as if trying to hide his smirk.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.”

It is the kind of laugh that you know he’s laughing with you and not at you and he’s still staring when his laughter subsides.

He is still staring at your tits.

Just as your face flushes what feels like the hundredth time tonight, he glances up at you. He offers you the last puff, you shake your head, so he sucks in down before flicking the nub over the railing of the patio. His hands sit heavy in his front pocket, the frown on his face contemplative, eyes searching the horizon.

“I think you’re going to text me . . . on a Tuesday,” he says, like he’s divining portents from the shapes of the clouds.

You swallow, trying to purge yourself of this whiplash embarrassment, but you can’t quite decide what exactly to make of this man or this conversation. “What makes you say that?”

His smile is so genuine it rattles something inside you. “It’s my favorite day of the week.”

This feels too good, too real, too intense, too fast. It was a quiet, but familiar story passed around in writer’s rooms or on the back lots of sets: an older man seduces a young girl, promising the world, and then offering nothing once he had gotten what he wanted.

You beg your heartbeat to slow down.

But Dieter Bravo doesn’t seem capable of that, not with his honesty, his open heart, but then again none of them ever do.

That’s the whole point.

“So, um, I should go. My boss is probably out back, breaking things, pissed off because I’m not behind him with a fresh macchiato.” Your phone feels absurd in your hands, as if it now carries something vital inside of it. “But, uh, thank you – for everything. The smoke, the advice, listening to me ramble endlessly –,”

“You weren’t rambling,” he says, arms crossed and finger tugging at an errant curl again. “You were talking about what makes you happy and I was listening. I like listening to you.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

“I’ll call you sometime, okay?”

He nods, raising a hand in a wave, but as you turn away, something final, the last piece of the puzzle, pops into your brain.

“Why me?”

Dieter looks at you, big brown eyes confused like a puppy whom you scolded for chewing on your shoe.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be at least fifty people here. Why did you stop me from going into Eliot’s room?

Dieter shrugs, that easy smile returning. “You looked like the only other person who didn’t want to be here. And you’re really pretty,” he adds casually and your heart launches itself into your throat. “I’ve got a thing for really pretty girls. Gets me into a lot of trouble.”

There comes that heat, that flare in his gaze that makes you wonder how someone like him fucks, all proof necessary that he has a working cock, and he’s not some mystical, Willy-Wonka-esque Ken doll.

It’s a look that makes you wonder if he wants his cock in you.

“Good night, Dieter.”

“Night, Dolly.”

Weeks passed and immediately you were so drowned in work, Dieter Bravo occasionally slipped your mind, falling back on your list of things to do when a deadline was approaching.

But when a contract for a position in a new writer’s room passes over your desk, you pause, and immediately think of him. The offer is unbelievable. More money than you thought possible working as an underling. The channel set to produce was the real deal, likely to order more seasons if the first went well.

“Saw your writing,” your boss told you by way of explaining your dreams falling directly into your lap. “Good work. I sent some of it off, and the studio came back with this. Don’t take too long signing the dotted line, okay?”

You nod, dumb-founded as he walks off, and you glance back at the contract.

And, despite your almost desperate elation, something felt off. But you didn’t know enough about the industry to confidently say if this is a bad deal or not.

So, with a glance down the hall, you call the only person you know who would.

He is immediately livid. Not that you haven’t called, of course, but that someone has clearly tried to take advantage of you.

“Do not take that deal. That corporate bullshit means they’ll own your IP for years to come. I can’t believe they’d do that to you. Stay right there and whatever you do, do not sign that. I’m calling someone at the studios.”

“Yeah. Uh, okay, Dieter, I won’t,” you murmur, half-expecting your hand to burn if you picked the contract up again. “But, um, thank you, for being honest with me. It felt weird, but I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity and I was freaking out that this was the only one I was gonna get but I didn’t want to be rash,so I, um, . . .”

You trail off, the sudden silence on the other line only making your panic and shame more pronounced. You cringe inwardly – Dieter Bravo had better fucking things to do than console a baby screenwriter out of her first mistake – and Jesus, if there was ever a chance he was going to sleep with you, it’s long gone now – it must be, no one willingly sleeps with someone so goddamn gullible.

“Dolly?” His voice is quiet, but with a certain edge that makes you picture that implish little smirk. “Do you know what day it is?”

“No?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

That phone call turned into a new job with a female-led production team, thank yous over drinks, late-night dinners at obscure and dark Chinese food restaurants, movie nights at your shamefully small apartment, and then . . . a kiss.

Which led to all the rest.

A year later and you’re so in love with Dieter Bravo, you crank up Beyonce’s Countdown and belt it from the top of your lungs every time you hear it on the radio.

There’s a new irritant, a new agitation that can only be soothed by him. He’s remade you, changed you, reformed your very being to be missing a piece when he’s not around. He’s made space for him inside you, there was no life – not a real one, not a happy one – not before him and there won’t be anyone or anything after him. No one else fits with you anymore. Ever again.

Your blood runs hot over the ridges of his fingerprints, stamped deep on your soul and your bones.

Trouble is, he’ll never know.

“And the award for Best Actor goes to . . .”

His grip is almost painful and you return it with everything you can, your jaw drawn tight.

The pause feels like it lasts forever.

You hear his name and you think for a second you’ve blacked out, that you’ve somehow missed the moment, or you’ve somehow slipped into a pungently real dream.

And the crowd erupts.

The spotlight finds him in the crowd and you’re being pulled into his chest.

The cologne he wears costs more than your car payment but the instant you’re crushed up into his silken shirt, it’s him. Beneath all the layers, beneath the veneer, the man with the green beanie and fervent yellow jacket is still there. Somewhere. You love them both.

“You did it, darling, you did it,” you whisper into his ear and that’s all you can say before you know you have to tear yourself back, because every second you linger on him, the harder it becomes to quell this rising tide inside you that increasingly tastes like salt water whenever he’s around. It’s become so obvious his name resides in the cup of your mouth.

But when you do pull out of his embrace, in the ringing shout of the crowd, the sparkle of the spotlight, his hand lingers on your elbow, and in a space of a heartbeat that lasts impossibly longer in your memory, you’re met with such a look of profound regret you feel it take up room in your chest.

And in an instant, it’s gone. Grinning broadly, he drops your elbow and moves on down the line, cheered on by his peers, the white light from above illuminating his broad back, the bits of gray becoming ever more present in his beard. You cheer and you cheer and you cheer and you hope it’s from all the cheering that your voice grows hoarse and the tears start to trickle out of the corner of your eyes.

You’re trembling visibly as he accepts his award, showing just the right amount of awe, and appreciation, and excitement. He glances up into the spotlight and there’s the real Dieter for just a split second before he humbly gawks at the golden statue in his hand.

The clock begins.

Make your speech thoughtful and poignant – relevant to what is close to people’s hearts right now.

Be profusive with your thanks. Better start with that, actually. Lower yourself at the height of your glory.

Mention family, friends, names and faces that the masses don’t know because it makes you appear connected to a reality those watching on the television can only speculate about. Say something kindly about how this means so much to you.

Cry a bit, but not too much. Keep your voice steady but with tears in your eyes. Cut yourself off, the emotion too much, and say thank you again.

And anything more than three minutes, they start to play you off.

You’re mentally going through the notes on a potential acceptance speech his PR manager gave him on the drive over, but in the end, it’s clear he doesn’t need it.

Dieter’s speech is excellent.

Really good. Really, really, really good. It has a flare of genuinity, but not the bite of vulnerability that makes people uncomfortable.

He’s been practicing for weeks now, editing as he talks, in the mirror, while driving home from the grocery store, before he goes to sleep. Tonight’s speech, a compilation of all that you’ve listened to time and time again, is the best version of all of them.

He’s soft when he needs to be and excited when he can. He’s onto the gratitude bit, going through the director, the writers, the cast and crew, even his costar, whose beautiful face is shown on the twenty foot screen above the stage, joyful tears in her eyes. And as the applause dies down, his big hand dwarfing the tiny metal statue, his fingers flexing, Dieter’s back goes ridgid, his eyes downcast. A smile slips out infinitesimally.

Dieter clears his throat and looks up.

“And there’s someone else I’d like to thank. This, uh, this one goes to all the little dreamers out there. Working nine to five, to make your dreams happen. We did it, baby, couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into the camera and you swear, you fucking swear, he’s looking right at you.

It’s a drowning sort of wave, this focal point that draws you down into him. It’s all consuming and it’s tender and it touches places you didn’t know could go this warm and what else could describe this but love? You resent the Academy, this place, these people for keeping him away from you. You think you’ll claw out the eyes of anyone who tries to separate you again.

You are crying – for your industry friend, his guest at the Oscars, so sees the cameras and the glitz and the glamor.

You’re crying because you’re in too deep.

The rest of the night is dipped into a champagne glass and swirled fast, catching like lighting in a bottle.

Gold dust falling fast, dizzily.

Bubbles, glinting green and pink in the light, rising and winking out of existence.

Golden bubbles in your drink, in your mouth. Your throat. Your stomach.

You feel lighter than air.

With him, you feel as bright and as strong as diamonds. As timeless and luminescent as pearl.

As beautiful as gold.

When the door finally shuts behind you in a darkened apartment, you’ve entered a secret, separate realm of domesticity: mismatched shoes, coffee creamer flavors you don’t like, and shampoo bottles that take up too much space in your shower.

It’s quiet here, blue and shadowed. The girl who left here hours ago to get ready in a hotel halfway across town forgot to leave on a light, rushing out in her haste.

Behind you, you hear him snicker, his tongue behind his teeth, champagne bubbles still in his nose, as he hangs his silk jacket on your coat rack, right next to your muddy raincoat and baseball caps faded with sweat.

“We gotta be quiet,” he hums, wobbling a bit as he toes out of his expensive loafers, pushing them near your off-brand birkenstocks. “Nala’s gonna hate me forever if we wake her up now.”

He is, of course, referring to your tabby cat, who hates everyone who isn’t you, and has a distinct requirement for twelve hour naps with no interruptions. Dieter swears he’s going to wake up one morning with that cat flexing her claws against his throat.

It takes you a moment to recognize and comprehend how your lives have melted together, how extracting you from him and him from you would be akin to destructive alchemy, the process of deconstructing two things causing both of them to oxidize and reduce to flaky rust. You’re drunk and you’re a little dizzy and you’re swaying slightly because your feet hurt but you are too consumed by introspection on your own feelings, what it means to love something other than yourself, to do anything about it.

You’re so far gone from your own body you float, untethered and lost in thought, right up until the moment his arms come around your waist and he pulls you into his chest, like slipping on a beloved coat.

“I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island,” he murmurs into the nape of your neck like he is reciting Neruda’s poetry. You stifle a smile, your hands gripping around his elbows, as he sways with you. He does this a lot; thinks one thing, then two, then three, and by the time it comes out of his mouth, it’s nonsensical to anyone not strapped into his train of thought.

“Try again, darling.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb, his chin tucked over your shoulder, ear pressed to yours. “I think you missed a couple of steps.”

Your voice is gummy even to your own ears, the endless drinks at the afterparty stitching your syllables and consonants together into some freakish creature. He’s slightly blurry in your eyes, his presence overwhelming all of your senses as they try to keep you upright.

He chuckles and presses his face into your neck in what you believe is an attempted kiss.

“I mean, you glow,” he admits quietly to your skin. The grin falls from your face when your heart constricts. “You fucking shined tonight and I couldn’t stop thinking how beautiful and sweet you looked. Sweetness I wanna lick up.” He chuckles again, this time through his nose, laughing at his own absurdity. “And then I remembered cotton candy is sweet too and you can buy cotton candy at Coney Island for a quarter and. . . I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island.”

He scrapes the back of your neck with his teeth as he nudges you forward down the hall, not sparing an inch between your bodies. Which makes for a disastrous time, both of you drunk, his socked feet slipping on the wood, and your heels and dress tangling up together.

“Baby, wait–,”

“We’re almost to the bedroom, we can make it–,”

“Not if we break our necks first. Gimme a second, I’ll just–,”

You slide out of his grasp, inching down the wall and tucking up the truly insane amount of tulle they managed to stitch into your dress. You feel like you’ve been digging for five minutes before you find what you're looking for.

You stick your heel in the air and fiddle with the clasp around your ankle, drunk and working in near total darkness.

Dieter huffs and slides to the floor next to you. He watches you struggle for a minute, nearly swallowed up by the layers and layers of tulle, before he squeezes the air with his open hand.

“Gimme. We’ll be here all night.”

You pout visibly and awkwardly rotate until your foot is in his lap. His fingers are warm as he plucks at the clasp.

“I am perfectly capable of getting dressed on my own.” You toss your hair indignantly.

“Yeah, but you’re always going to need my help to get undressed, right?” He smirks, eyes bleary, as he slides the heel off your foot and takes up the other one when you don’t move.

Always, he said.

Forever.

He’s being so soft, so gentle.

He sees the red marks left behind by the straps of your heels and frowns, displeased. Slumped over in the hallway of your tiny, pathetic apartment, his top few buttons of his pressed dress shirt hopelessly gone, tonight’s bow tie slung around his neck like a tipsy snake, Dieter gives you a foot rub by way of kneading out your pain.

He kisses your ankle with such reverence, adoration, the liquid in your mouth vanishes and ends up in the crotch of your tights.

You’re both too drunk for an actual fuck (“don’t make fun of my whisky dick, baby, it makes it sad,”) but you don’t want to be anywhere else but in your bed with him when you do sober up. So, you let the tulle drop, Dieter giggling as he gets hit with an avalanche of dress and you both clamor over each other to stand up.

Towering over you and smelling like rich, warm, leather and splash of something spicy, he raises an eyebrow at you. You scrunch up your face, your twisted-up mouth betraying the stern look in your eyes, and put your knuckles to your hips. He matches your stance, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us . . .

“You’re in my way,” he grumbles, his mouth twitching.

“Maybe you’re in mine.”

“Well, then it looks like we’ve got on our hands a good ol’ Mexican standoff.”

“By all means, pardner, stick ‘em up.”

You eye him like PopEye, cheek full of nothing but air, your one eye all squinty. At that, he completely breaks, going red as he laughs. You hold the pose for a second longer before you collapse against him, laughing until tears run out of the corners of your eyes. You press your forehead into his chest, his heartbeat like a homing beacon, as he nuzzles the back of your head, giggles escaping occasionally on puffs of air.

“That’s it!” He says after a moment of silence and tosses his hands into the air. “I’ve had enough! I can’t do this anymore!”

Without warning, he bends down and hauls you over his shoulder. He continues his tirade over your brief gasp of surprise – “Dieter!” – his finger indignantly in the air as he marches off towards the bedroom.

“I can no longer date a girl who is funnier than me and so goddamn, fucking pretty. Who let you do that, huh? Who taught you how to be so fucking adorable? Answer me, you sexy, little weirdo.”

He tickles you enough just to make you squirm before dramatically tossing you onto the bed. You assume your best heart-broken divorcé pose, hand draped over your forehead, one leg tucked under the other.

“Think of the children, honey! Nala needs a father’s influence, a lonely girl trying to survive in a man’s world! You can’t shoulder me with the responsibility of single motherhood!” You sit up, eyes fluttering up at him. “Everything I learned, I learned it all from you!”

Smirking, he kneels onto the mattress, your body folding back as he hovers forward, his nose inches from yours. You fight the shiver that arches up your body every time he gets that look on his face. He’s got your sanity between his teeth. “That child loathes me, darling,” he purrs. “She’s better off with you. She looks far too much like the milkman to be mine anyway.”

Your fake gasp is buried beneath the lunge of his mouth over yours. His hand cups your cheek as his mouth seeks out all its favorite places against your lips, your skin, your jaw. Your fingers dig into his wrinkled, once-starched shirt, the heat of his skin pricking your fingertips.

It’s right there, that knife edge between starting something there’s no going back from, no alternative path that ends in anything other than him buried deep inside you, filth that still makes you blush pouring from his mouth into your ear. A part of you, the part of you that’s been stalking behind every smile and touch he sends your way all night, the part of you that every nerve sing for him, is begging you to continue. To touch him in the right places that make his eyelids drop, mouth wrench open, to take on the animal that’s gnawing at you both.

But you don’t. You can’t.

The simple fact of the matter is – you’re exhausted. You know he is too. The Oscar statue sitting on your entryway is a culmination of dozens of exhausted nights that finally paid off.

He sighs when you pull back, there is no anger on his face, no disappointment that you’re ending things here. There’s only . . .

“You looked really, really pretty tonight,” he confesses to your nose with a smile. “Thanks . . . for coming with me tonight. You make everything better.”

You tuck his hair over his ear, feeling whole and small beneath the gentle search of his gaze. His hair is getting long and you love it, but you don’t want to nag him about it. The universe has finally balanced itself with him in between your legs, the foundations that make up the galaxy all settled in right here.

He takes it one step further, reaching back behind him to the comforter you keep on the end of the bed that inevitably gets kicked to the floor every time he stays over. You’d pick it up and put it back every day of your life without complaint if it meant him in your bed until the end of time.

Dieter tosses the blanket over both of your heads and crawls back in between your legs, elbows tucked by your ribs. All the champagne in the world couldn’t give you this same warm, bubbly feeling in your chest as his weight sinks into you.

He’s submerged you both in another realm, a deeper one than the one before, and in this one you have to whisper, even though the only other person in all of existence is inches from your nose.

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, hushed. You can barely find the outline of his chin, his lips, his nose. The steady drum in your chest misses a beat as you consider where he might be looking on you.

He awkwardly tugs your knuckles from both hands beneath his head, kissing them gently before allowing them to quietly slide into his hair. He’s so warm, nearly completely invisible to you in the blackness, the weight of his broad chest threatens to choke the air right out of you. But this exactly is how you want it to be. You want to be overwhelmed by Dieter Bravo.

“I’m not drunk,” he tuts, a soft slur still tucking his words together.

You reach down just inches to his temple, following the lines of his body that swear all lead to you, to find the arch of his cheek. He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against your thumbs.

“Could a drunk person do this?” He asks quietly, as close as he could come to indignant in this special, dark little world.

You wait, for a sloppy kiss, for something hard to tap against your thigh, but nothing comes. In fact, he doesn’t move.

You inhale as best you can, grinning, ready to start another proverbial sparring match with him.

“You’re not doing anything, Dieter.”

His eyelashes stroke your thumbs again, a kitten lick, as he opens his eyes.

“I sent you my love. Did you not get it?”

All in the air in your lungs is purged in a heavy gasp as his words impact your chest the way comets collide with meteors.

He says your name, concerned by the wounded noise you just made, and when you don’t answer, he leans back, tugging the blanket as he goes.

It’s not until you’re looking up at him in your bedroom, his face blurry and your cheeks cold, that you realize you’re crying.

“Dolly, what did I do?” He sounds so concerned, so visibly shaken, you can’t help but cry harder. He only touches your wrist, as if he’d been banished from your body.

If you hadn’t had so much to drink, this wouldn’t be happening or at least you’d be able to get it to stop, reign in those explosive feelings that you had kept for so long deep and buried until he came along with a match in the dark.

You take a deep breath, eyes locked onto the ceiling, hands clenched in fists. You know he can feel the tension in your forearm beneath his thumb making circles inches below your pulsepoint. You thought you never, ever wanted to have this conversation, but now you understand this has been the only thing that’s been on your mind for months.

“You don’t mean that,” you croak into the darkness. You feel small and foolish, embarrassed for having a body that produces emotions.

“Don’t mean what, darling?” He’s still talking quietly, but firmer, providing a hook onto which you can grasp and fight the current in your mind. He knows this feeling, anxiety, and he hates how it looks on you.

“That you love me.”

Your words ring in the air, like the distinctive pitch of singing glass. You swallow that choking knot further down your throat and, wrenching your gaze down from the ceiling, finally look him in the eyes.

It’s the same look he blinked at you from the seats, there and gone so fast you partially convinced yourself you’d imagined it: profound, deep regret.

“You think I don’t love you?”

His tone makes you instantly feel guilty. Did you miss something? What if he texted it to you and you didn’t see it? Or wrote it in a note . . .

“You’ve never said it. At least not to me.”

And his face crumbles.

He slides off his haunches, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, his big shoulders curved.

Slowly, as if believing he has no right to, he touches your ankle, where he had rubbed away those painful marks in the hallway. He shakes his head, smirking darkly at himself.

“At the risk of sounding like a dramatic fucking actor, I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

You sit up, unable to help yourself from curling up next to him, his grip adjusting to your thigh, instantly finding the heat of it beneath all the tulle. Cutting right to the core of you.

He gets this furtive glance when he’s thinking about something unpleasant, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth, as though unable to choose the right course of action. How much does he say, how much does he give away?

He rubs your dress material between his fingers.

“I’m older than you,” is how he starts. When your mouth twists open, ready with a litany of reasons why you don’t care, why no one should – reasons you’ve already said to him a dozen times – he meets your gaze and silences everything in your head. “And it’s not me they’re going to come for.”

The weight, the finality to his voice shoves that knot right back up your throat, your eyes hot and tight.

“I . . . I didn’t say it, outloud, because then we’d have to do something about it. I don’t want to keep us in the dark, but . . .” he swallows as if choking too. “But after the dox two years ago and then the incident in Austin, I feel like I’ll be putting you in physical harm when they find out we’re together. And I would literally rather die than have anything happen to you.”

He kisses your temple, the touch a consolation.

You don’t want to turn away, you want every kiss he gives you, but all you can feel are the studio’s words, the words of your managers, pressing down on you:

You know how some fans get. For your safety, let’s give it two years.

We’re happy for you, we really are, but you can’t be seen together too much. Minimal instagram, rare public appearances. We’re just trying to keep up appearances until the fans settle.

Appearances.

Aesthetics.

Image.

You’d happily kill anyone who tried to take him from you.

But you know he’s right.

“It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, what I feel for you,” he promises, voice warm, dipped in honey. “I just . . . I can’t lose you.”

“Then can you say it just this once? Just to me?” You try to smile but the tightening of your skin only spills the tears. “Please, Dieter, I won’t ask again. I have to hear it once from you. After that, I promise I–,”

His great warm palm covets the back of your neck, rolling you into him like melting chocolate drips onto the floor. He stops, inches from your mouth, so close you can feel your neutrons mix with his.

“I love you.”

Earnest, genuine, real.

A green beanie and a yellow jacket.

Chinese food and dreams of a better life. Of a happy life.

You steady yourself, your spinning world, against his hand around your cheek, clutching onto his wrist like it’s the last great lighthouse at the end of the world.

You open your eyes and, yes, yes, there is adoration in his smile, in the way he watches his words soothe some ache inside of you with joy.

“I love you too,” you tell him, in case it wasn’t obvious. If somehow he couldn’t smell your obsession for him. “I love you,” you say again, firmly.

It’s an inevitable sort of fall, his mouth into yours.

Like neutron stars collapsing together, alone and quiet in the far reaches of space.

Like the stone bones of an ancient church cracking and tipping into the sea as time and erosion eats away at a once great monument.

Like the spinning metal within a compass, never failing to find north, to find home.

When you awake next to him the next morning, warm in a way that goes behind physical body heat, he kisses your nose.

I love you, he tells you, with his words, with his body. With the dozens of ways he’s been mulling over in his mind to keep you safe and make you his for everyone to see.

I love you, he tells you that morning.

And every morning after that.

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sunshinies · 1 year ago

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⋆✩ Albedo inspired names/pronouns/titles ! 𖦹⋆

art by x!

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🤍 names: adalgiso , albus , alric , anthon , aurelius , avalon , benedict , blanc , caspian , cobalt , elric , emmerich , engel , felix , franz , gerard , hans , ivory , ludwig , lukas , matteo , merlin , neve , niklas , oskar , otto , sigmund , silvanus , solstice , sterling , tobias , weiss , wilhelm , winter , wolfgang

✨ pronouns: hy/hymn/hymnself , pri/princes/princeself , ae/aer/aerself , al/alchemys/alchemyself , bloom/blooms/bloomself , lumo/lumos/lumosself , sol/sols/solself , chalk/chalks/chalkself , one/ones/oneself , snow/snows/snowself , ivory/ivorys/ivoryself , gold/gold/goldself

any other variation pronouns of these may be used , of course !

🌨 titles: the kreideprinz , the prince of chalk , the sun’s blossom , the prince of alchemy , the honored homonculus , fontaine’s alchemist , the geo prince , he who raises life , the enlightened one , he who wields the golden sword , his beautiful inhumanity

prns and gendered terms may be replaced.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

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gvfgal · 4 months ago

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How to Fall in Love in Ten Days

*18+ series, minors dni.

A/n: I’ll skip the chit chat and let you guys get straight to it, I’m sure some of you have been looking forward to this 👀 Leave questions, comment, & concerns wherever you see fit, and as always, enjoy 🤍

Content Warnings: heavy angst, mentions of illness and death, graphic sexual content, loss of virg!nity (not graphic), fingering (f!rec), breeding (mild).

Word Count: 8.2k

Day Seven: The Rain

The thunderstorm had settled over Sterling House the next day, casting a somber gloom through the hallways with its dark, brooding clouds. Yet, the Duke’s spirits seemed unaffected by the melancholic weather. With a buoyant grin, Daniel waltzed into the breakfast parlor, expecting to see you there. However, he was met only with the sight of his staff, who were silently bustling about the room in preparation for breakfast. The fat droplets of rain hitting the windowpanes were the only sounds accompanying them.

Daniel frowned and turned to Roslyn, who was busy setting polished silverware on the table. “She is in the drawing room,” she spoke without hardly turning to look at him, lest she risk showing him the smirk that was set on her face.

With a nod, Daniel excused himself and made his way to the drawing room. There, he found you sitting by the window, gazing out at the sunless landscape with a slight pout etched into your features. He found it endearing.

“Good morning,” he announced softly from the threshold. You cast a somber glance at him before returning your gaze to the rain.

“It is raining,” you said with a huff.

Daniel chuckled, walking slowly towards you. “Indeed, it is.”

“I wanted to take the horses out today,” you lamented, standing as he neared, struggling with the urge to seek comfort in his touch, “but we cannot because it is raining.”

Thunder rumbled as Daniel admired your beauty, even when you were sulking you mesmerized him. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he apologized sincerely. “If I could part the clouds and summon the sun to shine solely for you, I would do so without question. But since I can do no such thing, I assure you there is plenty for us to do here in Sterling House to occupy our time.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not quite satisfied. “Like what?”

“Well, for starters,” Daniel suggested amusedly, “why don’t we have breakfast here in the drawing room instead? A change of scenery might do us some good. I can have the servants prepare the room for us.”

“And then what?” you asked, still not convinced.

“And then,” Daniel chuckled, taking hold of your hand, “I will show you just how wonderful life can be here at Sterling House. All of these rooms, they aren’t just for show, though I’m sure it appears that way. There is plenty to do here,” he stepped closer, “and I will show you.”

His effort was apparent. He could’ve easily closed himself up in his office with the weather as an excuse, but he wanted to spend the day by your side, doing whatever he could to brighten your mood and bask in your presence a bit longer.

“Breakfast in the drawing room it is, then,” you agreed, smiling up at him.

Daniel summoned the servants to prepare the drawing room for breakfast, and the two of you settled by the window as the gentle patter of raindrops created a soothing backdrop for your morning. Amidst the cozy setting, laughter and light-hearted banter flowed freely between you, a sense of warmth and belonging enveloping the room. Both of you felt truly at home together, finding solace and joy in each other's company.

Once breakfast was concluded, Daniel led you through the grand hallways to the art gallery. The long corridor was adorned with exquisite portraits and landscapes, ones you weren’t interested in when Roslyn showed them to you, but now they held a different type of allure now that Daniel was the one accompanying you. As you strolled leisurely, pausing at each masterpiece, you engaged in lively discussions about their histories and the emotions they evoked. Daniel’s hand frequently brushed against yours as he pointed out intricate details, each fleeting touch sending a delightful warmth through you.

After some time, Daniel guided you back to the drawing room, over to a small table set up with a chessboard. “Do you play?” he inquired, a playful glint in his eye.

“I must admit, I have never been taught,” you confessed.

“Then today is the perfect day to learn,” he declared, pulling out a chair for you.

The next couple hours were spent in earnest instruction. It was obvious Daniel enjoyed this teaching moment. His patience was evident as he explained each move and strategy, his proximity intoxicating, his voice a soothing balm as you concentrated on the game. You ended up not performing too well, as you struggled to focus, distracted by his nearness, but the intimate exchange seemed to deepen your connection even more.

When the rain showed no sign of relenting, Daniel suggested lunch in the conservatory. The clear ceiling allowed you to watch the raindrops dance above you as you dined, the sound creating a gentle symphony, a cocoon of tranquility that enveloped you both.

After lunch, Daniel led you to the library. You settled into plush chairs side by side, a selection of books between you. Hours slipped away as you read in companionable silence, the flickering fire casting a warm glow around the room. You took a break from your reading for tea, conveniently brought to the library by one of the servants. It felt wonderfully domestic, a glimpse into a future where you might spend your days lost in each other’s company, content in the quiet comfort of shared space. The constant thunder outside became a mere backdrop, overshadowed by the contentment of being by each other’s side.

As evening descended, dinner was a relaxed affair, the continuous rain providing a soothing accompaniment. Once the meal had concluded, Daniel whisked you away to the music room, a place you hadn’t entered since your second day at Sterling House.

You lingered by the door as Daniel stepped inside, your eyes inevitably drawn to the grand piano that always commanded your attention.

“Roslyn told me that you played,” Daniel said softly, gesturing towards the instrument. A flush of embarrassment washed over you.

“Oh, I used to.”

“You don’t anymore?” He watched you closely, his gaze intent.

“I haven’t in a while.”

Daniel paused, then his voice rang out, almost pleading, “Would you? For me?”

His words, so tender and earnest, sent your heart racing. Eager to please him in a way you never had been before, you nervously approached the piano. Daniel settled into a nearby chair, his eyes following your every movement as you removed the cover from the keys and ran your fingers along them.

“Is there anything you’d like to hear?” you asked meekly.

The Duke grinned sincerely. “Whatever is on your heart.”

Turning away from him to gather your courage, you recalled the songs you had memorized over the years. You finally decided on one you knew well, confident you wouldn’t falter and embarrass yourself.

Straightening in your seat, your fingers hovered over the keys before the melody began pouring into the room.

Daniel closed his eyes, the sound of the music mingling with the storm outside, creating the most soothing harmony he had heard in a long time. But as the familiar melody filled the air, his eyes shot back open in astonishment.

He recognized the tune immediately; it was his mother’s favorite. Memories of her playing that very song on this piano flooded back— his father completely enraptured by her playing, similar to the way Daniel was now.

He had not heard it since her funeral, and seeing you play it, so lost in the moment, stirred something deep within him. The Duke was motionless, staring at you in disbelief, wondering how, out of all the songs you could have chosen, you had selected that one. He had never shared that part of his life with you, and the coincidence seemed like a sign if ever there was one.

As you concluded the song, you turned to face Daniel sheepishly, his bewildered stare and stark silence making you grow nervous once again.

“I suppose I am a bit rusty,” you chuckled nervously.

“No,” Daniel insisted, snapping out of his trance, “no. That was beautiful. It is just… the song,” he stood and crossed over to you, sitting beside you on the bench, “it was my mother’s favorite. She used to play it all the time. I haven’t heard it since her funeral.”

You were surprised at this revelation, but there was a look on Daniel’s face, almost one of sadness, that you couldn’t help but want to dissect.

“How did she pass?” The question escaped before you could think twice about it. The Duke turned to face you, not expecting for you to ask him that question, but suddenly very willing to let you in.

“My mother was a beacon of light in our household,” Daniel began after taking a moment to gather his thoughts, his voice filled with a soft reverence. “She was beautiful, not just in appearance, but in spirit. Her kindness seemed boundless, and she was loved by everyone who knew her. My father…” His voice grew wistful, as if he were sifting through cherished memories. “My father worshipped the very ground she walked on. Their love was something out of a fairy tale, so profound and unwavering. I remember watching them together, observing how their bond was so unbreakable.”

Daniel’s face shifted, and he swallowed hard. You reached out, placing your hand over his, offering silent support. “When I was eleven, everything changed. My mother was struck by a mysterious illness that slowly sapped her strength and confined her to bed. My father, once a diligent and dutiful Duke, became consumed by the quest to find a cure for her. He spent every waking moment searching, refusing to let anyone else care for her. It was as if his love alone could will her back to health.”

“Then came the day he heard of a doctor in India who might hold the key to her recovery. Despite her grave condition, he set sail, determined to save her. I still remember the look in his eyes – the desperation. He did not want to leave her, but he left everything behind, risking all for the chance to bring her back.”

Thunder crashed outside, heightening the intensity of the moment. You dared not move, caught in the raw emotion of his story.

“But fate is a cruel mistress,” Daniel scoffed bitterly. “My mother passed away two weeks after he left, her body finally succumbing to the illness. Sometimes I wonder if she waited until he was no longer there to finally slip away, perhaps to spare him from seeing her in that state. And almost as if the heavens themselves conspired to keep them together, a storm capsized my father’s ship just hours after her death. He never made it back. I believe it was destiny’s way of ensuring they would never have to be apart. News of his tragic end overshadowed her passing. And I… I hardly had time to grieve the revelation of being an orphan before I was thrust into my duties.”

Your heart ached for your husband. Hearing his story brought a new perspective, a breakthrough you had hoped for. You couldn’t fathom the despair a young Daniel must have felt. In his position, you too might have been hardened by such tragic events.

Daniel wasn’t finished. The telling of his story seemed to unburden him, and you were the perfect, attentive audience. He’d never felt so comfortable speaking of these things aloud, and the relief was palpable.

“My father’s love for her was so profound, so all-consuming, that it ultimately cost him his life,” he sounded astonished at this. “For a long time, I was angry at him for this. I thought any man who would abandon his duty for love was foolish. Our people suffered greatly after his death. It took years of hard work on my part to restore what had been lost, which is why my people’s trust in me is so strong.”

“But now, I’m beginning to see things differently,” he confessed. “In a way, his death was the ultimate sacrifice, a testament to his devotion, and perhaps that’s the most noble thing a man can do.” Your words rang out in his head: ‘you pride yourself on being a dutiful man, yet you forsake the greatest duty of all.’

“As much as it pained me, I can’t help but see the purity in that sacrifice. It was a love so strong, it defied even death.”

As he gazed out the window, speaking his last words, a realization struck him—a realization so overwhelming it filled him with a mix of fear and wonder.

When he looked back at you, your face was etched with a profound emotion, an emotion he had longed to see. The way you held his hand firmly in yours as he poured out his most closely held feelings, unwavering, gave him a sense of clarity he had not felt before. In that moment, he understood the depth of his feelings for you, feelings that mirrored the love his father had for his mother, and it both frightened and enlivened him.

Daniel slowly withdrew his hand from yours, standing from the bench beside you. The sudden loss of his touch left you feeling bereft, and your eyes found his, filled with a gentle apology. Perhaps you shouldn’t have reopened such a painful wound, fearing he now regretted divulging so much. But you had no idea of the tumult of thoughts overwhelming him.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he apologized, attempting to compose himself. His voice wavered slightly, betraying his nerves. “It is getting late. I believe I shall retire to bed.”

Checkmate. He had mirrored the very move you’d made on him just a few days prior. Understanding the need for reprieve all too well, you chose not to protest his wishes.

“Of course,” you said, closing the lid of the piano keys and rising gracefully. You smoothed out your dress, casting a fleeting glance at the clock in the corner, though you didn’t bother to actually read the time. It was merely a distraction to keep yourself from staring at him.

The Duke, however, seemed unashamed to gaze at you. Though he had suggested ending the night, he made no move to tear his eyes from your form. His stare was intense, a longing restraint evident in his orbs.

A flash of lightning outside finally pulled Daniel from his reverie. He bowed to you swiftly, almost reluctantly. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”

“Goodnight,” you replied softly, your voice tinged with unspoken emotions.

As he turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the evening’s revelations pressing down on both of you. The storm outside raged on, mirroring the tempest within your hearts. Daniel paused at the door, glancing back at you one last time. His eyes held a promise, a silent vow that this conversation was far from over.

With a final nod, he left the room, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the echo of his words. You stood there, the room suddenly feeling too vast and empty, the memory of his touch lingering like a ghost. The night had revealed so much, yet left even more unsaid, and you knew that this was only the beginning of a journey that neither of you could predict.

The storm outside was relentless, each crack of thunder echoing through the dark halls of Sterling House. You tossed and turned in bed, your thoughts a tumultuous mix of your conversation with Daniel and the profound emotions it had stirred within you. Unable to find solace, you slipped out of bed and into your house slippers, making your way to the library to seek refuge among the comforting presence of its books, or at least that’s what you told yourself.

There was a more pressing reason that led you to the library, spurred by Roslyn's casual remark from a few days prior:

"...there are nights when I notice light seeping from beneath the door, late into the evening..."

This recollection lingered in your mind, filling you with hope that tonight might be one of those very nights. With a curious anticipation, you ventured towards the library, harboring a quiet certainty that you might find him there, cloistered away amidst the books and shadows.

And sure enough, as you pushed open the heavy door, there he was, standing by the window, his silhouette illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning and the fire that roared ferociously in the fireplace. He turned at the sound of your entrance, as if he’d already been expecting your arrival, yet you couldn’t tell if he was happy or aggrieved with seeing you.

“You could not sleep?” he asked, his voice soft yet resonant over the patter of rain.

“The storm is keeping me up,” you replied, though you knew it was not the storm but the storm of emotions within you that left you restless. You had a feeling he was awake for the same reason. When he did not respond, you felt a pang of guilt and added, “I am sorry if I upset you by bringing up your mother earlier.”

Daniel shook his head slowly, his eyes mirroring the turmoil of the storm outside. "No, you did not upset me. It’s just..."

"Just what?" you prompted gently, stepping closer, your voice soft but insistent. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air between you, and you felt a deep need to bridge the gap. "I am your wife," you continued, your voice wavering slightly, "you— you can confide in me." The assertion of your role seemed to anchor him, giving him the fortitude he needed.

"Tell me, Your Grace," you implored, your voice steady now. "What is on your mind?"

He turned fully to face you, his eyes holding a fierce intensity that sent your heart racing. Taking a deep breath, he seemed to gather the courage to unveil his thoughts. You stood there, breathless, waiting for the Duke to share what had drawn you to him this night, hopeful for a glimpse into the depths of his guarded heart.

Daniel began to pace, his movements restless, a stark contrast to the usual composed demeanor he wore like armor. His hands raked through his tousled hair, his eyes wild with the turmoil of emotions that had been festering within him.

“Since the day I lost my mother,” he began, his voice raw with emotion, “I have locked away a part of myself, terrified of opening my heart, dreading the inevitable pain of loss.” He stopped suddenly, turning to look at you, his eyes pleading for understanding. “My father’s unwavering devotion to my mother, his sacrifice, his journey to the ends of the earth for a remedy—it always seemed like an unattainable ideal, a love so profound it bordered on madness.”

He took several steps towards you, emerging from the shadows until he stood but a few paces away. The raw emotion etched into his face was now plainly visible, sending heat coursing through your body.

“Yet, standing here now, looking at you, I realize I would do the same for you without hesitation. That realization frightens me, for I have spent my life fleeing from the shadow of my father,” he declared, his voice rising in fervor, though not in a manner that frightened you. His passion commanded your attention; it would be folly to focus elsewhere.

“He was so blinded by love that he became a martyr to it, abandoning his duty for the sake of his heart. But, Your Grace,” he paused, his voice breaking slightly, “when it comes to you, that would be my greatest honor.”

He stepped closer still, and you moved forward in kind, feeling the electric pull drawing you nearer.

“I know I have been distant, even cruel at times,” he continued, “I shut you out, not out of malice, but out of fear. Fear of the power I knew you would wield over me, the way you have inevitably woven yourself into the very fabric of my being.” He was pleading now, “You have become my every waking thought, my every hope and dream. It is futile to deny how much I need you any longer. I find myself yearning for your presence at every waking moment of the day, craving your touch, needing your nearness like the air I breathe. You have awakened a part of me I thought long dead, a part that yearns for a future wherein your company is ever present.”

Daniel’s gaze bore into yours, his eyes dark with the intensity of his confession. “At first, I thought it was mere lust, but my realization tonight proved that my need for you far surpasses the physical.” His eyes raked over your body as he spoke, making it clear that desire still lingered heavily in his mind.

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Finally, he closed the remaining distance between you, taking both of your hands in his and pulling them close to his chest. “I know it sounds mad, perhaps even reckless, but I believe I am falling in love with you. My heart, my soul—they want to be yours entirely, and the thought of living without you is a fate I do not think I can bear. I know that now.”

Daniel’s voice trembled as he finished, his vulnerability laid bare. “So, forgive me if I seem distant or frightened, for it is not you that I fear, but the magnitude of what I feel. It is fear and pure desperation. I cannot conceal this any longer lest I go mad. I need you, wholly, desperately, and urgently.”

He looked at you, the realization of his own words crashing over him like a tidal wave. This was it—the final wall he had built around himself had finally come crashing down. His heart was now on his sleeve, bleeding openly. It was up to you to decide what the next move would be.

You were breathing erratically, staring into his passion-filled eyes as you tried to find the words to respond.

“I too have been afraid, Your Grace,” you admitted, your voice barely audible over the storm. “Afraid of my feelings, afraid of opening my heart to someone who seemed so distant,” you shook your head as you held him close, feeling as if that were the most foolish thing ever, “but from the moment I arrived here, I have felt something profound, something I could not put into words. All I ever wanted was to know you, to understand you, so that I could love you in the way you needed me to. I wanted immediately to be able to do that for you, I could not explain it. But you had been a mystery, a man of shadows and silences, and yet, you still captivated my every thought.”

“I tried fighting it the way you have, but with every moment I spend near you, even the ones when we aren’t at our best, I find myself wanting more. And every glance, every touch, every shared moment has only deepened my affection for you.”

You took a deep breath, knowing you wouldn’t be able to take back your next words, but nodding to confirm their truth. “I believe I am falling in love with you too, at least I think this is what falling in love feels like.” Leaning forward, your next words were spoken in a breathy whisper, “I am aware that my need for your surpasses the physical,” your eyes fell to his supple lips, “but if I may be honest, in this moment that need seems to occupy much of my being.”

Your voice had gone sultry against your own will, the feeling of being held against his solid body rapidly causing you to lose restraint. His putting his heart on the line as he had tonight had broken the last barrier you had up, and now you were ready to yield to him.

Daniel’s eyes darkened still with carnality at your confession, and though declarations of possible love were in the air, he was willing to set them aside in order to satisfy the agonizing desire he too was harboring.

Your admissions were laid bare, a foundation for future discourse. Yet this moment, so perfectly poised and tantalizingly intimate, demanded to be seized.

"So, Your Grace," you continued, your voice a soft command as you gently brushed your nose against his, "now that we have dispensed with those confessions, will you please kiss me again?"

Your tone, though gentle, held an assertive authority. It was not a mere request but a fervent demand, one you could no longer restrain. The Duke, captivated by your boldness, found himself unable to resist.

His hands snaked up to cup your face, closing any more space that might have been between you. Your eyes, round and pleading peered up into his fiery ones, begging him without a word to heed your request.

“As you wish,” he finally whispered into your mouth before his lips came crashing in.

Your knees buckled on impact, and you grasped firmly at the loose fabric of his shirt, sure to leave wrinkles in your wake.

The kiss was hot and heavy, similar to the one in the office the day before, only this time neither of you dared to stop yourselves. Daniel backed you into one of the towering bookshelves, a few of its titles falling to the floor at your feet with a clamber.

The Duke’s frantic kisses traveled lower, down your neck to your collarbone, seemingly his favorite place on your body. When his hands left your face and found their way to your chest, kneading your breasts over your nightgown in the palms of his large hands, you mewled loudly. He grinned wickedly into the kiss at you arched your back, seeking out more of his touch.

His slender fingers then became occupied with your gown’s ruffled straps, teasingly pulling them down your shoulders then up again once more, his eyes drowning in a tempest of his own desire.

“Take it off for me, would you, darling?” he hummed the question into your ear, “I’d like to see all of my bride.”

He gave your swollen lips one more firm kiss before he stepped away, allowing you to undress yourself as he’d requested.

Eager to please him once more, and shameless in your submission, you tugged at the straps of your nightgown, pulling it down off your goosebump riddled shoulders and letting it slide past your torso to your waist. Bashfulness had no place in that room any longer; there was no more hiding from one another.

Daniel’s gaze was all consuming as he beheld you, noticing the way your nipples harder in the exposure of the room. “Even better than I’ve imagined,” he muttered with a satisfied grin, then his head ticked upwards, “keep going.”

As you began tugging your dress down your legs, Daniel pulled his shirt over his head, discarding of it on the floor. Now only in your undergarments, there was only little that Daniel’s covetous eyes couldn’t see. Desperate for your touch again he reached a hand out to you, pulling you closer to where he was standing by the warmth of the fireplace.

He turned you towards the flames, pressing his chest against your back and you gasped at the sensation. Not only had you felt the gratifying sensation on his bare skin against your own, but another part of him, rock solid and pulsating pressed against the supple flesh of your rear. Never have you felt so much of him at once, and as you’d said earlier, every bit you got had you wanting more and more.

His hands began massaging your chest again, this time without anything obstructing him. It wasn’t missed upon him how much you enjoyed the touch earlier, and he wanted greatly to give you that bliss again. He wondered if you knew that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the pleasure he could bring to you.

“Daniel,” you purred out as his head dropped to suck hot kisses along your neck, his fingers rolling at your peaked nubs. It was so rare you called him by his name, and the Duke weakened at the sound of it leaving your lips. So saccharine and wanton, it increased the Duke’s urgency to unravel you more.

He spun you around dropped to his knees before you, his long digits toying with the hem of your under garments, gazing up at you in silent questioning. When you nodded, he began slowly removing them, agonizingly slow, making sure to leave a trail of his fiery touch down your legs as he did so.

You stepped out of them, feeling at last completely exposed, but you hardly had the chance to overthink it before his lips were on your skin once more.

“Say my name again,” his voice was muffled as he pressed impassioned kisses into the flesh of your thighs, “I love the way it sounds coming from your lips.”

You daydreamed often about being in this position, but never in a million years did you think it would feel this good. There were desires shooting up within you that you never knew existed, and you were sailing head first into to seeking them out.

Your hands found his hair, fingers twisting into his locks in a way that pulled a fervent groan up out of his diaphragm. His breath fanned against your heat, and your body began to tingle.

“Daniel,” you sighed again, your hands beginning to grip at him more urgently, “I need more of you.” You were begging now, and you weren’t ashamed.

The Duke rose to his feet, ushering you over to the love seat positioned across from the fire place. Exposed as you were, the frigid air in the room had you seeking shelter under the throw blanket that lay across the back of the sofa. You curled it up to your chin as you settled against the smooth upholstery, watching in awe as Daniel stood before you, the contour of his strong body illuminated by the flames behind him. A flash of lightning lit the room further, highlighting briefly the serious and concerned looked etched into his face. He observed you silently for several grueling moments, watching the way you lay panting and waiting for him. It felt almost too good to be true.

Finally, he stepped away from the couch, his hand finding the button of his pants, his eyes never wavering from you.

You tried your best to hold his gaze, but your eyes couldn’t seem to want to watch the Duke’s every move, eager for him to reveal the most intimate parts of himself to you. He was moving slower than necessary, but there was something about it that only served to make you grow hotter.

“Before we continue,” he rasped, calling your attention back to his face, “I need to hear you say that you want this.”

You smirked, glad for a chance to break the tension in the room, “a prideful man even in moments like these?”

He smiled warmly at you, unperturbed by your teasing.

“It is not for the sake of my ego,” he assured, his earnest returning, “I just want you to be sure you are truly ready to give yourself over to me fully,” he stepped out of one pant leg, “ready to make this commitment to our relationship,” then the other.

This reservation was a valid one. After this, your marriage would be sealed; fully binding in the eyes of the law and the church. Before, you had the chance of backing out of the marriage, though it was highly frowned upon, and you were glad you’d hung tight. But now, if things were to continue in the direction they were heading, that choice would no longer be. No matter how things progressed or digressed after this, your chances of escaping were ill to none.

Your eyes fell to Daniel’s lower half again, catching sight of the way he tried to conceal his erection from you, trying to hide how desperately he wanted to continue despite him giving you the option to stop. His efforts proved futile, however. You could clearly see the way he was pressed against his briefs, thick and rock solid, his entire being humming in anticipation. It’d almost be cruel to deny him in the state he was in.

You swallowed nervously, squirming in your place, “I am ready, your Grace.” The formalities were back for whatever reason. You blamed the butterflies that stirred within your stomach.

Daniel nodded in return, and at last, he removed his briefs from his body. His members sprung from beneath them, its tip hitting his abdomen and leaving a tiny glimmer of arousal in the patch of hair below his belly button.

Your orbs dilated at the sight of him in all his royal glory a soft gasp escaping your mouth, but he doesn’t leave you gaping for long. He made his way back over to you, slipping underneath the throw and crowding your space like never before. It was an overwhelming amount of sensations; his dark curls sweeping across your face, his erection hovering so close to your pulsating heat, his heavy breathing floating across your chest, his devilishly captivating eyes. The Duke lifts your chin so that you are gazing right into them, being reeled in further and further.

“I promise to be gentle,” he murmured sincerely, speaking in a way that eased any apprehension you may have been harboring. He could see it written on your face, but in the twinkle of your eye, he could see that desire was immense.

“And to take my time with this delicate little flower,” Daniel’s nimble fingers find your folds without having to tear his eyes from your face, collecting the slick that clung to them. A lazed smile finds his face when you gasped loudly, and he probed gently until he was hovering over your entrance. You fought against squirming your hips to seek out his touch, not wanting to come off as needy so soon. But it was growing more and more difficult with each passing second, because you were, in fact, needy. Desperate, better yet. The Duke leaned in close to your ear, his next words spoken in an authoritative husk, “and when you want more, you tell me you want more.”

After that, you could wait no longer, and luckily, Daniel did not make you. Once the words passed his lips, the finger hovering near your entrance dipped inside. Your body jolted, it was a brief moment of unfamiliarity before you were able to adjust to what you were feeling, and it was quite pleasant. But after a few strokes, you knew it wasn’t quite enough.

His eyes were back on your face, watching and gaging your reaction, trying not to show how much the moment was affecting him.

You pulled his lips to yours and kissed him deeply before pulling away and whispering, “more.”

He answered your request immediately, a second finger joining the first on its next venture in, slowing their pace as you adjusted to the change in pressure.

Your gasp stole the air right out of the Duke’s lungs, inhaling him deeply in more ways than one.

“How does that feel?” He questioned, remembering still even in his fervor to be gentle. He kissed the peak of your cheekbone, the gesture feeling so perfectly solidifying.

The tension that the additional digit brought had vanished, being replaced by searing pleasure once again.

“It feels good,” you peeped. You lifted your head to nip at the baby smoothie skin of his bicep, “but I need more.”

When a third finger joined the chorus, the stretch that accompanied it caused you to dig your nails into his back, to offset the burn.

The Duke, clearly spurred on by this, began grinding himself against your leg in time with the stroke of his fingers, his stifled groans of satisfaction filling the space between you.

It took a bit longer for you to attune to the stretch he was inflicting. But when you did, oh, when you did, a whole new world opened up around you. You felt more alight than ever before, bolder and more open than ever in your life.

“Please, Daniel,” you begged sweetly, “I need more.”

You were stunned when everything stopped in an instant, his fingers slipping out of you and leaving behind a unsatisfied pool of heat in your lower half.

But when his thrusting against your leg ceased as well, and you felt the tip of his pulsating cock prodding at your entrance, a new type of desire took hold of you.

He pauses once the tip was in, taken completely off guard by how silky you were, and how you clung to him tightly, not knowing anything in the world could feel that good. He’d had his rendezvous before, but this was completely different, and it could be felt.

“Christ,” he grunted, his head dropping into the crook of your neck, still holding himself still. But the Duke had opened a door for you that he was going to have to close. He steadies himself, leaning back to look you in your flushed face before he slides himself in. This time you do cry out, grateful the storm outside was raging to drown you out. Your grip on him tightens, and he hisses, his eyes falling closed in rapture before focusing back on you.

When your body relaxes, he slips out, then back in, this time a bit further. You gasp again, but there’s more delight laced in it this time, and Daniel takes notice of that. This was all new for you, but you both couldn’t help but notice how you welcomed him in so perfectly. After a few more thrusts, the sharp pain that accompanied every clip was replaced with a blissful form of fulfillment that rivaled little to nothing.

The Duke continued with his advance, gliding himself at a steady pace against your rippling walls. It was clear to you, however, that he was still holding his restraint, still making sure to take his time with you in this newfound territory.

A few indecent curses float out of Daniel, though you thought they were perfect for the moment. His chiseled arms framing your face were stiff as he restrained himself.

“I cannot believe I’ve been denying myself of this,” he leans down and plants a lazy kiss on your left breast, “all this time, this is what I’ve been missing out on.”

His admission was a triumph for your pride. It was gratifying to hear the Duke confess he had done himself a disservice by keeping you at arm’s length. Now that he had glimpsed the heaven you could bring, you fervently hoped he would never shun you again. And he knew, in his heart, he would never dare to shun you henceforth.

You are open, blossoming for him like like a rose after a fresh rain, coaxing him on with every sweet whimper that passes you.

“I’m ready for more, your Grace,” you sighed. Daniel was caught off guard by your insatiable desire. He’d thought, for your first time, this would be the most you’d allow yourself. There was still more of him for you to take in, his max had not been reached, and there certainly was plenty more pent up tension bubbling in the Duke for him to exert. But he wasn’t sure if you’d be ready for that so soon.

“Are you sure?” He beheld you sincerely, slowing himself to a stop, nestled still inside of you. Instantly mourning the loss of friction, in a move that stunned even yourself, you began rolling your hips around the Duke’s throbbing cock. He doubled over as your walls constricted around him, his hands jolting your body as his grip presses into the flesh of your hips to still you.

“Don’t,” he warns, squeezing his eyes shut. When they open again and find yours, they’re full of a honeyed desire that render you hopeless.

You are blinded by pleasure when Daniel continues at a delicious pace, fast enough to send your body humming with unwavering pleasure, but still controlled enough as to not overwhelm you. With every snap oh his hips, he drives in a little deeper, and this steady climb had you climbing right along with it.

Instinctively, your nails were digging into his shoulders again, and Daniel smirked down at you, his voice rasping as he teased, “are you trying to leave your mark on me, your Grace? So that I’ll remember being inside of you like this for days to come?”

“Are you not my husband?” Your reply was swift, and broken apart by another swift moan, “surely I am to leave pieces of me with you every where you go?”

The Duke’s heart leapt in his chest, a brief pause in the heated moment to remind him of his growing affection for you, the real reason behind this fervid venture.

“You already do, darling, more than you know.” At that moment, Daniel pricked a spot within you, so tucked away you hadn’t know of its existence until now. But now that Daniel had sought it out, and was now rocking into it repeatedly, a newer, even more foreign feeling began to take hold of you, and rather rapidly too.

The feeling was so unfamiliar, and so intense, that it had you ready to flee. You knew not what lay beyond that feeling, and you were admittedly afraid to find out.

“Daniel wait,” you pleaded, lifting your hips off the love seat. This only gave him a better angle and you yelped in pleasure as his tip nudged the spot once more.

The Duke knew well what was coming over you, and he settled you once more with a firm grip on your hips.

“Easy, my love,” he cooed, his choice in words melting you where you lay, “let me show you.”

“Show me what?” Your brow furrowed in frustration, this feeling that he was coaxing from you was increasing by the second as he continued thrusting into you.

His right hand appears from under the throw, and you beheld him as he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking over the pads of his index and middle finger. The hand retreated again, and the two fingers he’d dampened found their way to your clit. The pearly nub, so sensitive due to underexposure, only needed a few strokes from the digits before you were sent head first into your climax.

The earth stuttered on its axis as you plunged into the white abyss of pleasure, unexpected but all consuming. The entirety of your body was alight with a type of euphoria you never knew was achievable, your mouth hanging open as a long drawn out moan floated out of you.

This was a part of intercourse you hadn’t the chance of being privy too. All that you learned, all that you were taught, was of what was expected of a man, not of what you could experience for yourself. You partly understood why they hid these things, if all young women knew what they could expect, there would hardly be any decent ladies left for marriage.

When the Duke saw your orgasm take hold of you, the pure nirvana on your face, the melodic sounds you were producing, the way you clung to him for dear life, it was sending him head first into an unraveling of his own. He wondered then if this is the time to try and produce an heir, or if that was still another matter left to be discussed. Perhaps it was too soon to thrust you into that commitment, however, that was a duty that both of you still held. It was difficult to come to this decision on his own, Daniel’s brows furrowing together in a tasteful anguish as he continued leading you through your release, trying his best to hold back his own.

Your eyes finally snapped open as you came down to earth again, and immediately you could tell what pressing matter is on him mind. Oddly, you felt that this first union of your bodies has automatically made you more in tune with your husband than ever before. And from what you could sense, he was hanging on by a thread.

In that moment, you realized that Daniel was your future, and it was up to both of you to shape how harmonious it would be. This night was a turning point, yet much remained to be done. The tangled webs of misunderstanding and fear had begun to unravel, but nurturing this newfound passion required ongoing commitment from you both. Part of solidifying your bond, you believed, was the mutual decision to bring forth an heir—a child to share in your union, a bond to deepen your connection, and a reason to ensure that your marriage not only endured but flourished.

Your trembling hand lifted to cup Daniel’s flushed face, a hazy smile gracing your features, enough approval for him to finally allow himself to come undone. He drove inside of you one last time, pushing into the hilt as his release coated the inside of your walls, your name spilling repeatedly from his mouth. Both of you shuddered at the feeling, and you used your last bit of strength to wrap your legs around him and pull him in closer, ensuring that the deed would be done.

He collapses on top of you when he’s emptied himself, once more seeking refuge in the crook of your neck, but still doesn’t remove his twitching cock from you. It took longer than you expected for him to look at you again, partly because he was afraid of what he might see on your face when he did. Now that the moment has passed, both of you satiating the need you’d been fighting for days, would you regret giving yourself over to him?

Knowing he couldn’t hide forever, he willed himself to behold you again, searching your eyes for traces of contrition, but all he could see was pure satisfaction, appreciation, and optimism.

He pulls out, but stays atop of you, fingers tracing along the electrically charged skin of your legs, smiling down at you as you nuzzle your body closer to his. Another rumble of thunder sounds out through the room, but neither of you break away from one another.

“Well,” Daniel finally speaks out, his voice hoarse from exertion, “what do you say?” He dips down to plant hot kisses to the shell of your ear, then to your lips, “was it worth the waiting?”

You giggled as his lips ventured to the nape of your neck, still sensitive and alight to every sensation, “I have to admit that it was. I have never felt anything like that in my life before,” you sighed.

Daniel smirks, pulling your hands from below the cover to ghost his lips over your knuckles, “what if I told you,” he pauses to kiss the other hand, “that is only one of the many ways, I can make you feel like that?”

You were taken aback by this revelation, feeling like an impressionable young lady once more. You had believed this was the pinnacle of your experience and had been content with that. But now, the realization that there was more—more ways to share in bliss with your husband—filled you with a renewed eagerness to explore those possibilities.

“You mean there is more?” You whispered.

Daniel nodded, “yes, my love. So much more.” He finally stood from the sofa, unashamed in his nakedness as he extended a hand to you with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, “let me show you.”

Roslyn had never been fond of thunderstorms, particularly those as tempestuous as tonight's. The relentless thunder and flashes of lightning always disrupted her rest. Unable to sleep, she resolved to make her way quietly down to the kitchen, seeking to occupy herself with preparations for the upcoming ball.

The hour was late—or early, depending on one's perspective—and Roslyn was certain that the rest of the household was sound asleep, comfortably ensconced in their beds while she wandered restlessly through the silent halls.

After folding a set of freshly laundered table linens, she carried the stack toward the ballroom, intending to leave them ready for the staff responsible for the final arrangements. As she approached the back staircase, she paused, hearing the sound of footsteps—not just one pair, but two, ascending the stairs with haste.

A knowing smile spread across her face. There were only two individuals who would be awake and active at this hour, and she knew it was not any of the servants. Confirming her suspicions, she noticed a faint glow emanating from the library down the hallway and tiptoed toward the door.

Standing at the entrance, she surveyed the scene: garments strewn about the floor, several books displaced from their shelves, and the throw blanket, usually draped neatly over the sofa, now conspicuously absent.

Roslyn's heart swelled with delight. At last, it seemed the two of you had ceased your tiresome battle and surrendered to the inevitable. This revelation brought a glimmer of hope, a long-awaited sign of harmony that she was keenly aware of.

A loud clap of thunder startled her, causing her to jump and emit a small, involuntary squeak. Quickly closing the door behind her, she hurried to the ballroom to deliver the linens, resolving to leave the library's disarray for later.

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astor-and-the-endless-ink · 3 months ago

Text

Astor’s Intro

✦ Christian

✦ 17

✦ She/he/they

✦ This is my writing and character art blog!

✦ @encre-sanguine is my main blog :3

✦ I change my name a lot, but I’ll always keep the and-the-endless-ink part so yk who I am XP

Works In Progress

🪽💫 The Gift and the Ghostspeaker 🌙🤍

-> Masterpost Link Here <-

On the planet of Zephan, three teenagers live their lives the way they always have.

Rhys Lucen—the son of the world’s ruler, the Ghostspeaker—lives in luxury with his family, including his secret and possibly cursed half-sister, Brynn. But when word gets out that three-year-old Brynn is alive, people start to panic and riot, and Rhys has to run for his and Brynn’s lives, aided by the same Ghosts that his father has the Gift of speaking to…

Sterling Pierce and his sister, Sage, struggle to survive their abusive Mage father’s magic addiction—which he feeds using them as an endless supply. But Sterling has the Gift of using magic as well, so when his father threatens to murder the siblings in a fit of rage, Sterling uses his power to fight back—killing his father, and nearly killing Sage by mistake. Now she needs a magic transfusion bigger than what any hospital on Zephan can provide, and there's only one way to gather more…

Kairo Rayos is descended from a long line of Ghostspeakers—one that ended with his infamous immortal father, Lev, who started the Lunari Alliance to fight the Ghosts’ rebellion against the Creator God, Solaios. Now Lev has been banished to the abandoned Blanklands surrounding Zephan City, and Kairo, thanks to a deal his father struck with the Ghostspeaker, is safe inside—but most Zephnic people don’t take kindly to followers of Solaios, especially immortal ones, and all Kai wants is peace. This kind of peace, however, can only come through the afterlife, and as his family and therapist are always quick to tell him, immortals can’t die. But when proof appears that they can—and have, as an immortal’s dead body was found in the Blanklands, seemingly murdered—Kai sets out to find the killer, and through them, eternal peace…

As Rhys finds himself assigned a seemingly impossible task from the Ghosts—killing every living immortal—and Sterling teams up with him to collect the immortals’ magic for Sage, they discover that things are not what they seem on Zephan, and that they're included in a prophecy called The End of Immortality. The question is whether or not the prophecy is true, let alone morally right—and will they find the supposed ‘chosen one’, who happens to be trying to get himself killed?

💚🗡 This Blood Will Remember ✒️🩷

Okay so it’s basically just vibes rn but I love it, stay tuned?

♠️♥️ Unsuited ♦️♣️

The Game for the Unsuited has officially reopened - and Alana Hargreaves, a girl with no proficiency in any of the four Suits of magic, is the first of the chosen Pawns.

She has a plan to win the Game without playing by the rules; anyone who had ever won before had gotten in, gone a bit insane thanks to the Game's mysterious challenges, developed Sanity magic, and gotten out. But if everything goes according to plan, Alana - and her best friend, Penn, who was chosen for the Game the year before - will learn a different Suit of magic and, once no longer Unsuited, be allowed to go back home.

But as Alana realizes upon entering the Game's giant forcefield, there are two problems with her plan:

One, Unsuited Pawns aren't the only ones playing - in fact, the Game is practically ruled by a Queen of Hearts Mage, and she doesn't want any of her victims to leave.

Two, Penn has almost lost her mind already, but Sanity wouldn't be her first Suit of magic; she now wields the legendary, reality-altering Suit of Creativity.

As Alana investigates Penn's strange new abilities and befriends other residents of the Game - including the Queen of Hearts' messenger brother, Ace, and Charlie, the Game's built-in AI assistant whose origins are somewhat murky - she discovers that the reason for the Game is darker than anyone would have guessed, and that to make it out alive she'll need more than her sanity...but will she fight her way out, or give in and give up her mind in the process?

🩸👻 Destined for Death 🕳️✉️

Nicholas Acker is a ghost—and a special one, because not every ghost can say they were killed by their best friend…who also happens to be a half-vampire-half-bloodwielder.

Jameson, said best friend, feels terrible for accidentally killing Nick—especially considering that he just got engaged.

So Jamie does what any decent gentleman would do: set out to kill Nick’s fiancee so they can be together in the afterlife.

But when Jamie’s undercover-vampire-hunter twin shows up at Nick’s funeral, bringing with him a whole new set of complications, and Nick runs into a teenage ghost with dreams of curing vampirism, they all have to team up to save themselves—and all vampires with hope of becoming human again.

💎⏳ The Soulrobbers 🗡🪨

It’s been a long time and I don't have a synopsis and I’m too lazy to write one, basically it’s about rocks with your souls in them and fighting over them like kindergarteners XD

#new intro post #intro post #introduction #blog intro #pinned intro #my wips #wips #current wip #writing wip #tgatg #the gift and the ghostspeaker #tbwr #this blood will remember #unsuited #dfd #destined for death #tsr #the soulrobbers

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himetarts · 4 months ago

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Sterling / Farmer Commission 🌿🚂 🤍

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said. The twang of a banjo harmonizing with an acoustic guitar started playing in my ear. The artist’s voice was hauntingly emotional. The lyrics resonated with me in a way I wasn’t really prepared for. “I dialed drunk, I’ll die a drunk, I’ll die for you…” Yoba, I hope not… As the song progressed, I could feel him trying to figure out what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding his phone. He tried putting it behind his head, but that tensed his shoulder, so he put it down. He shifted to try putting his hand in pocket, but that brought him too close to my ass. He murmured an apology and dropped his hand to his side, shaking out his fingers. I rolled my eyes and grabbed his hand, dropping it into my lap, his arm resting gently against my middle. “Stop fidgeting. You’re distracting me.”

From: Field Snacks & Pancakes: A Stardew Valley Love Story

#hime art #always raining in the valley #stardew sterling #sterling cooper #modded stardew valley #stardew arv #stardew valley mods #stardew #stardew mods #stardew valley #stardewvalley #stardew farmer #stardew fanart #sdv arv #sdv farmer #sdv fanart #sterling arv

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footiehoemcfc · 2 years ago

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3 in a row, 5 in 6 seasons, arsenal bottled it, we have the goat manager, we have the norwegian viking robot, we have the goat of midfielders, we have the best cb pairing, the best cdm, world cup winner, sterling is giving us guard of honor, cancelo may not even win the league in germany

Today is a good day my city girls slayy💙🤍⚽️🏆🏆🏆

#manchester city #mcfc #john stones #erling haaland #erling håland #jack grealish #football #julian alvarez #ruben dias #phil foden #rodri #kdb #kyle walker #pep guardiola

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terrence-silver · 5 months ago

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What about Terry naming his kids pertaining to their last name? Like... Sterling Silver, maybe? Perhaps it's unconventional, but oh, so very memorable for a child as special as his. I also just like the way Pearl Silver sounds🤍. Goldie Silver, too- just for the contrast/irony. Hell, even Diamond Silver sounds cool, cause why shouldn't his kids be named after the toughest material. Just thinking about it lately <3

It is kind of hilarious how Terry Silver could name his figurative kids Penny, Mark and Frank and while on their own all those names sound really mundane, commonplace and easy to overlook, paired with his surname, it becomes abundantly clear this man named all his children after various currencies. 🙈

#sterling silver pearl silver goldie silver and diamond silver sound amazing incidentally #sterling silver especially #sounds like some sort of 19th century magnate robber baron ancestor of terry's...the type of guy who profited off the californian gold rush #terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #terry silver as a father

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scribe-of-hael · 1 year ago

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I tried -

Star is so expressive in this show that I really wanna practice facial expressions with him. They make his whole body just emote from his face to his wings. Loved that part of the show alot!

But more of Sir Sterling in all his goofy lil meow meow self.

Just wanna give old man a kiss ♡

#My art #My art 2023 #Sketch #transformers #tfp starscream #starscream #humanformers #My au #Tf au #starscream fanart #Transformers prime #Human starscream #Sterling 🤍#Hes my lil meow meow #Hes so damn goofy #I love him for it #transformers fanart #maccadam

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ashmp3 · 7 months ago

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top 5 jeonghan teeth? top 5 things you’re manifesting to find on mojekrpice (or are in the faves waiting to get checked out)? top 5 outfits you would have jeonghan wear if you could style him?

ouh... this is like when that anon asked me to choose favorite jeonghan toe... why pit bad bitches against each other? But i do find teeth topic much more serious so out of his wooden doll herbivore tic tac teeth i gotta say i love them all so i am going to say fav things about them as all as an entity (which they are to me) 1. front chipped tooth (see HERE) 2. the fact we can see both rows of teeth when he smiles (see HERE) 3. the way his whole face becomes so extremely scrunkly when he smiles like a little gremlin (see HERE) 4. the fact he was in a fight and they knocked out his teeth and he had to get braces but he didnt lose the fight. as if that MATTERS at that point krezubava lutkice 5. the way he looks so young and i think his milk teeth are one of the biggest reasons why like thats my choco bunny he cant be 28 kill yourself. anyway to end it all -> one of my all time favorite jeonghan teeth video 🦷🤍 WHAT AN INCREDIBLE QUESTIONNNNN ILYYYY okay i will show you whats in my likes! but first what im manifesting to cop in general is -> black high heel mules & black skort that doesnt look like shorts in the back just like a short skirt all over. thats it i am always very deliberate with my shopping but NOW! moje krpice favorites 1. wrangler denim platforms 2. the kooples silk skirt 3. roberto cavalli mules (Will be mine 🧿🧿🧿) 4. roberto cavalli jeans 5. stella mccartney + adidas shorts (dont know how to style this actually if u have any idea LMK please)

and OKAYY you know i literally made like 10 moodboards of me styling him (CLICK HEREEE i feel like a clickbait newspapers) so i will just put 5 more fits that i didnt already mention (i still stand behind everything i said i literally was insane back then... with a vision though!) and no i couldnt just choose 5 who do i look like... 1. valentino spring couture 2023 - i wouldnt put him in burgundy pants but u love the top so much and i think baby pink looks beautiful on him 2. helmut lang spring 2001 rtw - what.... 3. gucci spring 1997 - what............ 4. roberto cavalli spring 2003 - he would look unreal idgaf like his tiny waist in the corset and then the flowy top with chest shown nothing sounds better to me at this moment 5. except maybe whole stomach out with low waisted pants (fanci club 2024) 6. What....... (samuel cirnansck spring 2012) 7. fendi fall/winter 2023 - i mean love the asymmetrical bare shoulder. easy pick that didnt make the cut last time 8. jenny anderson x lily gatins (distressed sterling silver arrow choker) 9. and last but not least... this is embroidery of serbian dress and okay hear me out i want him in nošnja, idgaf i will defend him if anyone says anything about cultural appropriation like please. i think he would look darling...... 😁❤️

#ana this was so fun literally loveeeeed it incredible questions mwah i hope u have fun reading all this shiet if u you do it and please.#click on jeonghan teeth links. and tell me how would u style the shorts ookay kisssss #ask game

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katzaclysmic · 1 month ago

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Hello my dear friends ❤️🍉🍉

Thank you for your continued support by donating and sharing 🖤❤️🍉

I hope everyone will spread my campaign everywhere. ❤️🍉🇵🇸

I also hope to achieve my short term goal of 10,000 pound sterling 🔜👆❤️

Finally, I hope you donate any amount because it helps a lot. 💖🤍🍉

https://gofund.me/ba5b76e9

#plf #steven universe #gravity falls #cat #gaza gfm #gaza fundraiser #ao3 fic

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sunshinies · 1 year ago

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✧❅ Kaeya Alberich inspired names/prns/titles!❆✧

art by x! for anon!

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

⚔️ names:

achilles, adrian , alexis , amadeus , ambrose , anders , ansel , aristotle , arthur , atticus , auguste , augustus , blair , bowie , cassius , cecil , chance , chioni , colin , colton , cyril , declan , dimitri , ezra , gabriel , gunnar , icarus , joel , jude , julian , julius , keith , lachlan , laurent , lazarus , malachai , maximillian , mordecai , percy, pierce , princeton , rhys , seamus , silas , sivert, sterling, terence , theodore, vincent , xerxes , yves

🤍 pronouns:

ice/ices/iceself , snow/snows/snowself , ae/ aeir/aeirself , myst/mysts/mystself , abyss/ abyss/abysself , fro/frost/frostself , cel/celes/ celeself , cae/caer/caerself , pavo/pavos/ pavoself , cryo/cryos/cryoself

❄️ titles:

the heir of the godless city, his frostbiting embrace , the son of undying hope , he whose eyes never shut , knight of the shimmering glacier , the son of great prophecy , the eye of the peacock's feather

prns and gendered terms may be replaced.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

additional tags: @eternoelle @hauntingidol @delusielle @puriette @the-astropaws

#sunrise #liom #mogai #xenogender #actually mogai #liom coining #pronoun suggestions #name suggestions #title suggestions #neopronouns #list #fictive #kin #introject #genshin impact

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gvfgal · 5 months ago

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How to Fall in Love in Ten Days

*New Series*

18+ series

A/n: Day Four, as promised!! Please don’t be afraid to leave your question, comments, and thoughts in the replies or in my inbox, they make my day more than you’ll ever know! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist, and as always, enjoy. 🤍

Content Warnings: hangovers, angst, a *little* sexual tension (it only progresses from here).

Word Count: 3.3k

Day Four: The Ball

"Roslyn, close those curtains at once," Daniel groaned, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the pounding headache. "The sun is blinding me."

He was seated at one of the servants' dining tables, while Roslyn stood at the small counter, cracking fresh eggs into a glass. Daniel had sought her out in the early hours of the morning while you were still asleep, pleading for a remedy to his hangover.

"I do not think it is the sun that ails you, Your Grace," she retorted, sounding every bit the stern matron. "It is more likely the result of your carousing until dawn."

She approached him and placed the glass on the table with a firm thud. Daniel glanced up at her, a look of sheepish curiosity in his eyes. "Do you now find me as appalling as she does?"

This was no mere bid for sympathy; he was earnestly seeking an answer. He felt as though he had managed to alienate not only you, but the entire Sterling household.

Sebastian had been markedly displeased with the Duke's night of revelry, his silent disapproval speaking volumes.

"You know I could never find His Grace 'appalling'," Roslyn assured him, her tone softening. "However, I do believe this rift between you and the Duchess might have been averted had you shown a bit more kindness in the beginning."

"And now you fear it is too late to mend what has been broken?"

Roslyn detected the note of despair in his voice and paused to choose her words carefully.

"I do not wish to suggest it is beyond repair," she said thoughtfully. "However..."

Daniel dropped his head into his hands, the silence conveying more than words ever could.

"I am a dreadful man," he muttered.

"All you can do now, Your Grace, is take things one day at a time," she offered, attempting to provide a glimmer of hope. "The truth of the matter is, it cannot worsen from here. But it will not improve without a concerted effort. And I’m sure you do want things to improve?"

This advice, simple yet profound, struck a chord with Daniel. The discord in his marriage was like a chain of falling dominos, and if he wished to halt the cascade, he would need to exert considerable effort.

He nodded. “Yes. I do.”

"Well then," Roslyn prompted, tapping the table near the glass of egg yolks, "drink."

Seated at your vanity, you observed the delicate ministrations of your maids as they commenced the early preparations for the evening's ball. The room was enveloped in an unusual quietude that might have been unsettling had your thoughts not been preoccupied with other matters.

The clock had just struck three in the afternoon, and the entire day had passed without even a glimpse of the Duke. This absence left you in a state of ambivalence, a tangled web of emotions that you found difficult to unravel no matter how long you meditated on it. You could not determine whether his absence brought you a measure of relief or an increased sense of unease.

Your reflection in the mirror appeared distant, as if the image before you was but a ghost of the person you used to be. The maids worked with quiet efficiency, their whispers barely audible, the rustling of fabric and the clinking of jewelry the only sounds to break the pervasive silence. The preparations for the ball, normally a source of excitement and anticipation, felt strangely hollow.

In the back of your mind, you wondered where the Duke might be and what he was doing. His absence was notable, a stark contrast to the duties he usually attended with such fervor. Yet, part of you was grateful not to face him, not to confront the unresolved tension that lingered between you both like an unsaid accusation.

As the maids continued their work, you allowed your thoughts to drift. What would the evening bring? Would the Billngly’s ball offer a reprieve from the discord in your marriage, or would it serve only to highlight the growing distance between you and your husband? These questions swirled in your mind, unanswered and unnerving.

The room, though filled with activity, felt empty. The opulence of the vanity, the elegance of your waiting attire, and the dutiful attentions of your maids could not mask the underlying disquiet that had settled in your heart. The preparations continued, but your thoughts remained elsewhere, lost in a labyrinth of uncertainty and longing.

Before long, you were attired and prepared for the evening's festivities. Roslyn had entered midway through the preparations, and now it was just the two of you alone in the room, a solitude that always brought you a sense of ease.

Roslyn made a few final adjustments to your attire, her deft fingers ensuring that every detail was perfect. She then guided you to the large, ornate mirror so that you might behold the culmination of her and the maids efforts.

Your reflection revealed a vision of elegance and grace. You were adorned in a gown of midnight blue silk, the fabric shimmering subtly in the light. The bodice, adorned with delicate lace and tiny, glistening pearls, accentuated your figure while maintaining an air of refined modesty. The sleeves, fashioned from the finest gossamer, billowed softly at your wrists, adding an ethereal touch to your ensemble.

Your hair had been swept up into an intricate chignon, with a few artfully arranged tendrils framing your face. Roslyn had adorned your coiffure with a simple yet elegant diamond hairpin, a testament to her impeccable taste. Around your neck, you wore a necklace of sapphire and diamonds, the stones catching the light and casting a soft, luminous glow upon your décolletage.

As you gazed into the mirror, Roslyn stood behind you, her eyes meeting yours in the reflection. There was a silent understanding between you, a shared recognition of the effort and care that had gone into preparing you for the evening. The stillness of the room, combined with Roslyn's reassuring presence, brought you a moment of tranquility amidst the tumultuous emotions that had plagued you throughout the day.

"You look exquisite, my lady," Roslyn said softly, a note of pride in her voice. She gently smoothed a final crease in your gown before stepping back, allowing you to take in the full effect of your appearance.

For a brief moment, the anticipation of the evening ahead was overshadowed by a quiet satisfaction with your reflection. Yet, as you turned away from the mirror, the questions and uncertainties of your heart crept back in, reminding you that the true challenges of the night were yet to come.

Roslyn could discern the trepidation in your eyes, and it evoked a profound pang of sympathy within her. She was acutely aware of the desolation that had settled between you and the Duke, and she knew that venturing into society and maintaining appearances would be an arduous task under such circumstances. Yet, her purpose was not to amplify your anxieties.

“I have heard that Lord and Lady Billingly host quite the ball. I believe you shall find some enjoyment there, with or without His Grace’s presence,” she remarked, her tone infused with a gentle reassurance.

You offered her a smile, appreciating her attempt to assuage your worries. Despite your inner disdain for such social gatherings, you decided to indulge her optimism, hoping it might spark a glimmer of genuine hope within you.

“I should hope so,” you replied softly.

Roslyn escorted you from the room, and as you descended the grand staircase, your gaze fell upon Daniel, waiting below. His pacing ceased the moment your presence was revealed, and he looked up, his eyes locking onto yours.

The Duke was impeccably dressed in a tailored coat of deep midnight blue velvet, adorned with intricate silver embroidery that mirrored the delicate lace on your gown. His waistcoat, of the same rich fabric, was complemented by a crisp white shirt with a high, starched collar and a meticulously tied cravat. The ensemble was clearly chosen to harmonize with your attire, a silent acknowledgment of your shared role despite the discord between you.

However, even his polished appearance could not conceal the remnants of his earlier revelries. The faint dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight pallor of his complexion betrayed the restlessness and indulgence of the previous night. Nevertheless, he had made an effort to present himself with dignity and poise, a gesture that did not go unnoticed.

As you descended the grand staircase, Roslyn offered a reassuring squeeze of your hand before stepping back. Daniel extended his arm towards you, his expression a blend of determination and weariness.

It was an unexpected gesture, one that made you hesitate. Yet, with Roslyn and Sebastian observing you, and the Duke appearing almost desperate, you linked your arm with his, allowing him to escort you out of the front door and into the waiting carriage.

This was the first occasion since your wedding night that you were alone together, and the solitude unnerved you. All the attendants, including Sebastian, traveled in the carriage behind, leaving you with a little over an hour’s journey in a stifling silence.

The first half hour passed in oppressive quietude. Daniel seemed to still be recovering from his nocturnal excesses, while you forced your eyes to watch the sunset over the rolling landscape, avoiding looking back even once.

Gradually, you felt his gaze lingering upon you. You sensed every movement of his eyes as they took in your attire from head to toe, resting upon your face with an unwavering intensity.

Despite the intensity, he seemed unaware of how keenly you felt his gaze, but you dared not move, afraid it would break the spell.

You did not want him to look away.

Suddenly, he cleared his throat. “You look exceedingly beautiful. This shade of blue truly becomes you.”

His words caused your breath to catch, but you masked it with a discreet cough.

You glanced at him briefly, but the power of his stare was overwhelming, and you quickly diverted your eyes to your own dress.

“Thank you, Your Grace. You look… well yourself. The color suits you admirably as well.”

His face was on the verge of a smile, but he settled for a nod.

He simpered. “Perhaps we should have Roslyn incorporate more of this hue into our wardrobes, then?”

You wanted to smile at his lighthearted response, but were unsure if he was merely being courteous to maintain appearances at the forthcoming ball.

Nevertheless, it indeed felt good to have a respite from the animosity.

You turned your gaze back out the window, and Daniel, seemingly satisfied with the small but impactful interaction, reclined in his seat, appearing more relaxed and a shade more sober.

All eyes turned towards you as soon as you arrived at the Billingly estate. As the guests of honor, your entrance was eagerly anticipated by all who were in attendance.

You and Daniel, much like the previous day in the Duchy, managed to project an image of matrimonial bliss with remarkable ease. Tonight, it felt slightly more natural, the practiced motions of a devoted couple coming almost effortlessly.

You moved gracefully through the gathering, greeting each person with poise, your hand firmly resting on Daniel’s arm. Daniel had once again adopted his charming demeanor, effortlessly captivating the women in the room with little more than a smile and a few courteous words.

Observing the admiration in the women's eyes, you couldn’t help but understand their allure. Despite his hangover, Daniel did indeed look strikingly handsome, and for a fleeting moment, you felt a glimmer of the fortune that supposedly accompanied the title of Duchess of Sterling.

Daniel led you to the center of the dance floor, where the six-string ensemble ceased their current melody and began a new tune, specially selected for your first dance.

Had all gone according to plan, you and Daniel would have had a dance lesson earlier in the day to prepare for this moment. But strife had interfered, and now you found yourself feeling like a lamb to the slaughter.

Your nerves began to fray, and Daniel instantly noticed.

“Do not worry,” he whispered as the music swelled around you. “Just follow me. I lead, you follow.”

You nodded subtly, willing your feet to move in time with Daniel’s steps and the rhythm of the music.

As Daniel took the lead, you found his guidance surprisingly steady. The familiar steps of the waltz, though unpracticed, began to flow. The warmth of his hand on your waist and the firm yet gentle grip of his fingers on yours lent you both confidence and fluster. His eyes, intent and focused, never left yours, creating an intimate bubble amidst the grand hall's opulence. It was almost a suffocating, how intimate it was.

The ballroom's chandeliers cast a golden glow, the light reflecting off your sapphire gown and Daniel's navy tailcoat, enhancing the visual harmony you both presented. The room faded away as you concentrated on the dance, your earlier fears slowly dissipating with each step.

Daniel’s movements were assured and precise, guiding you effortlessly across the floor. The music enveloped you both, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the discord between you had vanished, replaced by a rare unity.

As the dance continued, you began to relax, your steps becoming more fluid, your movements more in sync with Daniel’s. The whispers and admiring glances of the guests faded into the background, and it was as though you and Daniel were the only two people in the room.

As the final notes of the waltz lingered in the air, Daniel twirled you gracefully one last time before drawing you close. The dance concluded with a flourish, and the guests erupted into applause. Breathless and slightly dizzy, you clung to Daniel for support, your heart pounding from the exertion and the unexpected closeness that your body seemed to take delight in.

For a moment, Daniel’s eyes softened, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips. The applause and the admiration of the guests seemed to validate the performance you had just given. It was a fleeting glimpse of what might have been, a reminder of the potential that may still be hidden beneath the surface of your strained relationship.

After the dance concluded, you and Daniel were quickly engulfed by the crowd, and you were reminded why you loathed such gatherings. The incessant questions about your recent marriage and future plans felt relentless, but to your surprise, you and Daniel navigated the inquiries with remarkable ease. He would answer some, you others, and though you hadn’t discussed any of it due to your ongoing strife, you both went along with each other’s responses as if they were gospel truth.

However, the constant attention soon wearied you. When the throng of guests inevitably separated you and Daniel, you found yourself even more exposed and under pressure. The women of society, with their endless chatter and insatiable curiosity, overwhelmed you. Having spent much of your formative years in seclusion, you were ill-prepared for this lifestyle, and your discomfort was growing.

You stumbled over your words, and as the questions about the Duke grew more probing, your responses became less convincing. Your nerves began to crack the facade you had so carefully constructed. Fortunately, the women were too engrossed in their own gossip to notice your growing unease. When their conversation finally shifted away from you and your marriage, you seized the opportunity to excuse yourself, craving the solace of fresh air.

You wandered out to the garden, relieved to find it devoid of other partygoers. You strolled aimlessly until you discovered a bench positioned before a rose hedge sculpture of two swans. The cool evening air was a welcome relief, and you closed your eyes, inhaling deeply before opening them to gaze at the sculpture.

Tilting your head, you couldn’t help but think the entire arrangement was rather tacky. Though you would never voice it, you found such sculptures outdated, believing they detracted from the natural beauty of the flowers.

The chirping of crickets was the only sound until you heard faint footsteps approaching. You stood quickly, ready to make your exit, but froze when Daniel’s figure emerged from around the hedge.

“What are you doing out here?” His surprise mirrored your own, but you relaxed, knowing it was only your husband who had found you shirking your duties at the ball in your honor.

“I just needed a breath,” you sighed, sinking back onto the bench. “Those women can be quite a handful. And a mouthful. And an earful.”

For the first time, you heard Daniel laugh—a soft chuckle, but the most heavenly sound you had heard in a long while. There was no one around, no need to maintain the charade of a happy couple, yet here he was, smiling at you as he came to sit beside you.

“I could surely say the same thing about the men. I do not remember them always being this way,” he confessed, shaking his head slightly.

The silence that enveloped you was unexpectedly comforting, not the tense affair you had anticipated with the Duke by your side. His hushed company, paradoxically, made you feel less isolated in this whole ordeal, despite his having been the very architect of your alienation. The irony was not lost on you.

“When I was younger,” Daniel broke the silence, drawing you from your thoughts, “I used to escape to our garden all the time.”

Our garden. You wondered to whom he referred. Perhaps it was a slip, an inadvertent inclusion of you in his memories. Yet, the nostalgic tone in his voice suggested he most likely spoke of his late parents. Far from deterring you, this revelation made you listen all the more intently. Never before had the Duke been so forthcoming, sharing fragments of his past that might offer insights into the man you had married.

You remained quiet, your eyes fixed on his face, waiting for him to continue.

“I’d sit out there for hours and hours,” he said, his gaze distant. “Sometimes until Roslyn had to come and drag me back inside.”

You smiled at the image of Roslyn scolding a young Daniel amidst the verdant splendor of the Sterling House garden.

“Our garden used to have a hedge maze,” you commented, feeling an urge to share a piece of your own childhood as well. “It wasn’t large, but it could certainly trick you up. I would get lost on purpose to avoid my lessons,” this made Daniel laugh again, a sound that was becoming increasingly pleasant to your ears. “But eventually, I started doing it simply because I enjoyed it so much.”

You sighed, a wistful note now coloring your reminiscence. Daniel noticed the shadow of sorrow on your face, understanding how deeply you missed the comforts of your former home.

He thought about how disorienting it must be to find yourself so far from everything familiar, in a place that was ostensibly your new home, yet where you felt so alone because of his coldness. It reminded him of his own experience, being thrust into the role of Duke at a tender age.

He turned to you with a gentle smile, “what else did you enjoy doing?”

The question caught your attention, as it seemed a genuine attempt on Daniel’s part to connect with you, free from the pressures of an audience. You smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth.

“Well, I enjoyed riding very much. My father was an avid rider, and it became a passion he passed on to me. I had a horse named Guinevere, given to me when I was only five, and my father taught me everything he knew. Soon, I was quite proficient.”

Daniel looked surprised. “Riding? Truly? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

You nodded, confirming your tale. “I would ride almost every day. When my father passed away, I couldn’t bear to continue, and eventually, my brother sold Guinevere, along with my father’s horse.”

The Duke absorbed every detail of your story, his interest visible. He found himself wanting to hear more, but something held him back from asking further.

A silence fell between you once more until you sighed again, “I hate parties.”

Daniel chuckled, a soft, genuine sound. “As do I, truly. Shall we leave?”

You looked at him with gratitude, “I would like that very much.”

You stood simultaneously, and in an instant, found yourselves startlingly close. Neither of you retreated, remaining instead in a charged proximity. Gazing up at him, you noticed how his eyes were not fixed on your own, but rather on your lips, adorned with a gentle red hue. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and though he seemed to struggle to look elsewhere, he could not.

Your eyes fell to his lips in return, slightly parted, and trembling with an unspoken desire. The moment was ripe; you could have kissed him, he could have kissed you, you could have kissed one another. He was your husband, after all, and there was nothing to hinder such an advance. If someone were to discover you both here, it would not have been scandalous. A newlywed couple sneaking off at a party was not unheard of.

Yet, neither of you made a move. You stood there, struck and yearning, Daniel’s fists clenching at his sides as he restrained himself, swallowing harshly.

"Shall we?" he finally broke the stalemate and gestured towards the small exit that would lead you back to the party.

You nodded, though it was barely convincing. Slowly, you began making your way out of the garden, and Daniel lingered behind, watching you before following a few paces behind.

Outside, Daniel had you wait while he went inside to fetch your staff. You bid farewell to a few guests passing by before seeing Daniel return several minutes later with the Sterling household staff in tow.

He and Sebastian were engaged in earnest conversation, and Roslyn took the moment to send you a small wink before making her way towards her carriage.

Daniel and Sebastian spoke for a moment longer before parting ways, Daniel coming to assist you into your carriage while Sebastian joined Roslyn.

As the coachman set off, you and the Duke sat side by side in tranquility. Steadily, the gentle motion of the carriage soon lulled you to sleep.

When you awoke again, the carriage was at a standstill, and you felt velvet against your cheek. Realizing it was Daniel’s coat you were resting on, you shot up quickly. You must have leaned onto him when you dozed, yet the fact that you remained there until returning to Sterling House felt peculiar.

Daniel watched you with an unreadable expression. "We’re home."

"Good," you cleared your throat, "I was beginning to grow tired."

Daniel laughed softly, sensing your embarrassment for falling asleep on him. Sparing you further discomfort, he simply opened the carriage door and helped you out.

As the staff began entering the house, you noticed Sebastian’s absence, but you were too weary to ponder it.

In the foyer, you and Daniel stood alone, several feet apart yet still very much in each other’s space, feeling just as close as you were on the dance floor.

"Goodnight," he spoke firmly but sincerely.

"Goodnight, Your Grace." You gave a small curtsy and immediately turned to ascend the staircase to your bedroom, eager to fall into bed and put some distance between you and Daniel before he stirred up those first-night emotions.

Though, you were afraid it had already begun.

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