#late middle ages love stories with anachronisms?? sign me up

[sunjaesol]

rosaline x dario | rosaline (2022) | fluffy one-shot

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He woke up to the sound of a scratching quill on thick paper. Dario sighed. It was the middle of the night with a single burning candle slowly losing its wax right by the desk. And behind it was his beautiful though stubborn wife, Rosaline. Of course, she didn't listen when he told her to go to bed. Did she ever?

"Rosaline," he sighed.

She hummed something.

"Come to bed."

"Sri Lanka isn't gonna draw itself, Dario," she uttered. Her long auburn hair appeared as fire in the lowlight and its sight made his stomach warm. He would never get used to seeing her in any hour of the day.

Looking over her shoulder, she raised her brows at him. "No reaction?"

He shrugged and stretched his arms behind his head. "Will it change your mind?"

"Probably not."

"Hm."

She placed her quill down and turned fully towards him, her inked hands in her lap. He wanted to reach out, lure her from the desk into bed and his arms. He loved their daily squabble, but he adored holding her, kissing her. But from the look on her face, he knew she wasn't done.

"Do you think we'll ever go there?" she asked.

"If we can get our hands on a caravel, sure," he replied casually. "Though I must say, my love, it's not in our budget."

Her lips tutted. "Damn. Shouldn't have given Romeo and Juliet your boat."

Dario smirked. "I regret that decision every day."

"Really?" she asked. Her eyes widened, wondering, and his sardonic smile melted to a gentle one.

"No," he whispered. "I don't. Come to bed, Rosaline. Please."

Something shifted in her posture. Her shoulders slackened and she nodded, grabbing the candlestick and moving it to the nightstand.

The inn was nicer than most they've stayed at, Dario noted. Thick wooden flooring and walls that kept the cold of the British Isles at bay. A firm mattress and plush pillows. A perfect mahogany desk for his love. She'd steal it if it weren't so heavy, she told him earlier today.

In a couple of hours, they would explore the Connemara of Ireland; a mountainous beauty with many lakes and coves. He would fish and attempt to learn the dialect, she would paint and draw and, eventually, add it to her map of Western Europe. It was a lot different to little Verona.

Rosaline laid beside him. "You're patient," she whispered.

"One of us has to be," he teased, soft, a gentle hand caressing her cheek.

Her head tilted to kiss him, capturing his lips as a hand clutched his neck.

This is what he had always wanted: discovering the world with the love of his life, his equal, one day at a time and not rushing through milestones. His father has been badgering him about an heir through countless letters, but he ignored them. What Rosaline and him wanted would always triumph his parents' wishes and expectations.

"I love you," she exhaled.

It was maybe the hundredth time she told him, but it never got old. Digging his nose in the crook of her neck, he let out a content sigh and closed his eyes. "I love you, too, Rosaline."