#sense and sensibility x reader

[justafairytailofinnocence]

Hello how are you?~ What writings are you currently working on or will start working on? Requests and your own plans? I'm just curious because I really like your blog and your works~ 🍃

Hello deary ❤️,

Thanks for asking, currently I'm working on the following down below

Pirates of the caribbean headcanon, how they would react if you're a mermaid.

What it would be like if the goblin king took fascination in you

A mermaid chaptered fic within the potc universe.

Ballet Thranduil chaptered fic x anxious reader

Dancing willows, colonel brandon x reader

Colonel brandon x mermaid reader

Severus snape x mermaid reader

Currently, I have a lot in the works, and I'm working on them vigorously 😁. My job has me busy, but I often try to work on my breaks with them. I love writing, and I'm going to try and get through as many requests as I can ✨️💕😁

[panakinthedisco]

i haven’t updated anything in here coz irl BUT just coming back that people should stop remaking pride and prejudice when sense and sensibility is right there (tho i’m a big fan of ang lee’s S&S)…..

and PEDRO PASCAL AS COLONEL BRANDON 😭

we got the material LIKE SERIOUSLY. GIVE HIM A REGENCY ERA ROLE PLEASE

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 1 - DECEMBER MOON [A1]

Pairing : Colonel Brandon x OC

Summary : During a night on December, Colonel Brandon meets a young woman who captivates him instantly. He then realises that what he had mistaken for love when he met Marianne had never truly been love.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Sadness, mention of depression and loneliness.

A/N : Hello dear 😁 I'm so excited to write for my first Rickmas hosted by the amazing @deepperplexity ! I stumbled upon Rickmas last year... after Christmas, but I was in a very bad phase at the time and all those amazing stories helped me so much and I also discoverd the incredible trilogy "Judge and Sentenced" from @deepperplexity that I advise you to read because it's probably the best Turpin's fiction I've ever read ! Anyway, I'm doing my Sinclair by rambling here, therefore, let's begin Rickmas !

QUIET WISHING : Part II

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Poor Colonel Brandon was returning from London, exhausted. He, who usually preferred to be perched on his stallion was comfortably installed in the shelter of his carriage. At 38, he had never felt so old and yet, he was still so young.

But a small voice, which strangely had the same intonations as a lady he knew, told him that he was just an old man full of rheumatism. It was not entirely false. He had an old soul since birth, fuelled by the mistreatment of a violent and unloving father and by a protective mother who died too early. As for the rheumatism, it was more a vestige of his life in the army, but also of an accident in India involving an elephant, which had almost cost him an arm and had left him with a painful shoulder, especially in rainy weather.

But beyond his 38 years that he carried like a burden, there was the memory of his sweet Eliza and te one of the mischievous Marianne. Two women who had broken his heart. The first without wanting to, the second on a whim.

Eliza, tender, intrepid and in love with him, this beauty with whom he had fallen in love while still very young and whom his father had taken away from him without scruples before sending him, at only sixteen, to join the ranks of his majesty's army. 

Fortunately, in India he had met John Middleton who had been more than a friend, almost a surrogate father. Indeed, 20 years older than Brandon, he had immediately taken a liking to the young man and his situation, helping him to climb the ranks of the army thanks to his influence.

Later, when he returned to England, he met his mentor's mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, an intrusive woman who had an unfortunate tendency to meddle in things that didn't concern her, but for whom he nevertheless had infinite tenderness. Her intrusive nature came from the pain of having lost his eldest daughter, John's wife, while she was expecting a child. A haemorrhage in the middle of the night, an incompetent doctor, and in the morning, the mother and child had gone to join the heavens. Mrs. Jennings reminded him of his own mother with the gentleness she showed him and if she was not known for her subtlety, she had always had the delicacy to never mention Eliza in front of him.

As for Marianne... This pretty devil who had reminded him of her deceased Eliza had hurt him much more than any whipping given by his father for an unimportant misdeed.

He had loved her at first sight, finding in her his first love and it had taken him time and a little too much of a difficult lesson to realize that she wasn't even the shadow of his Eliza. Eliza would never have shown the wickedness that Marianne had shown by letting him hope just after his infectious fever, graciously accepting his gifts and demanding his presence. No, Marianne, full of malice, had felt no remorse in making him suffer as she did with all those around her when she could no longer get anything from them.

She had let him believe that she was his just after this fever that had almost taken her, but when he had asked her to marry him, she had hesitated, giving him an ambiguous answer, a "maybe" more than a "yes". It was during a social event organised at Barton Park that he had understood that the young woman had set her sights on another man of barely 23 years old. A young and dashing high judge of London with a cold and severe look, but rich and powerful, much more than him, much more than anyone in Devonshire.

The next day, he had asked Marianne for an answer to his question and when she had still hesitated, he had told her that he knew and that he was freeing her. He didn't yet know that it was him that he was freeing.

Marianne was now married to this man that all of London nicknamed The Death's Judge, and if she was happily married or not, Brandon didn't know, all he knew was that she was expecting her first child while he was still alone, with no one to love. No loved one and no descendants.

Alone with his heavy thoughts and this feeling that he would end up alone, he who had so much affection to offer, so much love to give, if only a woman with enough spirit but also a certain reserve could make his heart beat again that he now thought would be cold forever, he would cherish her as no man could.

Two years had passed since the injury inflicted by Marianne and with time, his heart had calmed down, and his old governess, full of wisdom, had gently made him understand that what he had taken for love towards Marianne had in fact been only an illusion nourished by this vague resemblance of character that the young woman shared with Eliza.

It was then that the carriage stopped abruptly and Christopher had just enough time to put his hand in front of him so as not to crush his hooked nose against the empty seat in front of him.

"What's going on ?" he asked in his baritone voice as he got out of the carriage.

The icy wind immediately bit his cheeks as night fell gently, promising new frosts.

"A dog, Colonel Brandon, I wanted to avoid a dog," the coachman apologized.

Christopher saw it. A little further away. A dog with a red coat was curled up.

"Is it hurt ?" Christopher asked, genuinely worried.

"No, I avoided him," the coachman replied, "I think he got scared."

Christopher approached the animal cautiously. Medium-sized, the dog looked fierce, ready to bite, but Christopher was reassured to see no injuries.

"Are you lost, little boy ?" he asked the dog, hoping to calm him down.

As if to answer his question, a young woman's voice was heard behind the trees that lined the road.

"Henry ! Henry !" she shouted urgently.

That's when you appeared from behind the trees at the very moment the moon was hitting the night with its first rays. Christopher couldn't take his eyes off that angelic face, fine features that gave off great gentleness and eyes... eyes as deep green as the woods you had just left, green like when summer brought the trees back to life.

You stopped dead when you saw the carriage and your face went from surprise to terror.

"HENRY !" you shouted as you ran towards the dog.

Without even a glance at Christopher or his coachman who had just dismounted, you ran towards the dog who immediately stood up to run towards you.

"Henry, are you okay ?" you asked as if the dog could have answered you.

You examined him carefully, looking for an injury or a trace of blood.

"My coachman avoided it just in time," Christopher reassured you.

You stood up, turning towards Christopher who was slightly disconcerted by your gaze, deep, vibrant, eyes that reflected a thousand emotions at the same time... and who seemed to judge him.

"I promise you it was an accident, the dog rushed in front of the carriage," he felt obliged to justify himself.

You still said nothing, watching Christopher carefully. He did the same, although a little uncomfortable by the sudden silence of this young woman who had been so vocal when she had thought her dog was injured. He too looked at you. He had never seen you before, not that he knew everyone living in Dorsetshire, but he could at least boast of knowing everyone living around Delaford, most of them working for him.

"I am Colonel Christopher Brandon," he finally introduced himself with a bow.

"[Y/N], [Y/N] [Y/S]," you answered in a soft voice, bowing back.

You seemed a little shy, perhaps due to your youth. But the more Christopher looked at you, the more he doubted that you were as young as you looked. A certain seriousness in your gaze, like a deep-seated pain that only someone who has lived long enough to know the true pangs of life could have.

"I have never seen you here before," he said in spite of himself.

"My father was hired as a gardener by the Hawthorns, we arrived a month ago," you answered without trying to appear for what you was not.

Christopher knew this influential family from Devonshire well, John's neighbours. You were far from their home, more than four hours on foot, maybe five if the rain started to fall on the ground that was freezing at full speed.

"You are far from home," he pointed out.

The moonlight prevented him from hiding a slight blush on your cheeks.

"It's Henry, he ran away this morning and I wanted to find him before nightfall. I was afraid he would die of cold tonight," you explained, glancing at the said Henry.

The dog, totally unaware of the fright he had given his mistress, amused himself by teasing Christopher's coachman who was not at ease in front of the animal, much to the amusement of the Colonel.

"You came all this way for a dog?" he asked, surprised.

"Henry isn't just a dog ! He's a full-fledged member of the family," you replied briskly.

Christopher apologized quickly. He hadn't meant to offend you, he had been sincerely surprised. In his world, full of nobility, a woman wouldn't have ventured so far, so lightly covered, to find a runaway dog.

"Aren't you cold, miss ?" Christopher asked, seeing you suppress a shiver.

"I'm used to it," you replied, looking away.

That was all it took for him to understand. He had already understood your modest condition, but he assumed, probably rightly, that your family had probably couldn't afford a proper coat.

Without hesitation, he took his off and before you could protest, he placed it on your shoulders.

"I insist," he said gently but firmly when you wanted to give it back.

A new silence settled between you. Christopher couldn't help but notice your similarities. You didn't speak much, looked serious but you had a certain dignity and you seemed deeply kind even if he guessed a volcanic temperament if you attacked those you loved, as you had shown when he dared to say that your dog was just a dog.

"Henry, that's a funny name for a dog," he finally dared to say.

"I called him that because when I found him, I was reading a book about Henry VIII."

"Found ?"

"Yes, an old farmer had abandoned his dog's entire litter in the middle of the woods. It was in the village where I used to live. Henry was the only puppy still alive. I brought him back and my father didn't have the heart to abandon him when he found him hiding in my room," you said before stopping suddenly, feeling like you had said too much.

But Christopher didn't judge you, not for your modest condition. He found you endearing, refreshing even in your own way.

"Can I drive you and Henry home ?" he offered kindly.

"That's nice, but we're going for a walk," you replied.

Christopher's smile immediately faded.

"Miss [Y/S], I insist, it's already pitch black."

"I don't think it's right for me to sit alone with you in your carriage," you said softly.

Christopher's eyes lit up with a flash of understanding. You had no chaperone to accompany you in the carriage and propriety shouldn't have made him insist, but it was cold, you were far from home, and he would not have been able to sleep properly tonight without being sure that you had returned home safely.

He was about to insist when, without warning, the rain began to fall, hammering the ground severely. He almost pushed you into the carriage before grabbing Henry and making him climb in at the same time as himself.

"You can't go back alone, by foot, in this weather, you will catch your death," he said in a tone that left no room for contradiction.

He told the coachman your destination and the carriage set off again. He wouldn't return home tonight finally, to his estate that he had so longed to return to, he wouldn't find his firm and comfortable bed and his governess's lemon cakes. He already knew that you would arrive home late, but he had no doubt that John and his mother-in-law would welcome him with open arms, even if he was not expected. It bothered him a little to impose himself like this, but he knew that the horse, and also the coachman, would not have the strength to make it all the way to Devonshire, then to Delaford.

The journey took place in comfortable silence. You were shivering slightly from the cold, snuggling in spite of yourself in the Colonel's oversized coat that smelled of cologne and another perfume whose name you did not know but that you had already smelled on your father's employer.

"May I ask you if you live alone with your father ?" Christopher dared to ask.

His intention wasn't entirely innocent. He wanted to know if you had a fiancé.

"Yes," you simply replied.

He wondered how old you were and what you did with your days, but he felt you were reserved and he himself was not a man who spoke easily about himself, he preferred not to bother you any further.

It was almost 10 pm when the carriage finally arrived near the modest cottage that the Hawthorns rented at a ridiculous price to your father. The place was small, modest. There were only four rooms: two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen as well as a small cold and poorly lit room that you used to take your baths.

Although you didn't know who Christopher really was, you guessed that he was important... and rich, and you couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed by the smallness of your means, but at no time did Christopher seem to be bothered by it. He helped you down before handing you Henry.

"Come inside and get warm, [Y/S]," he said, bowing before adding, "it was a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you Colonel Brandon, really," you replied before disappearing inside, not without one last look at the man who still had his hazel eyes fixed on you.

Christopher then headed to his old friend John's, his thoughts filled with your face, your soft voice, that strange feeling you had awakened in him but that he tried to stifle at all costs. He didn't want to suffer, not again. He had finally learned his lesson. Love wasn't for him, you wouldn't make him suffer, not you too.

"Brandon ! My old friend, I didn't know we were expecting you !" John exclaimed when the butler announced Christopher.

"I'm sorry to intrude like this..." he began before being interrupted by Mrs. Jennings who told him with her usual joviality that he was always welcome at their home.

John invited him to drink a glass of his best whisky, a Scottish vintage that he particularly cherished, in his office. Christopher hesitated to confide in him about the intriguing encounter he had had, and wisdom made him hold his tongue. Until the next day, when at breakfast, when he ventured a few questions to Mrs. Jennings.

"Last night, as I was heading to your place, I met a young woman. A certain [Y/S]. Do you know her, Mrs. Jennings ?" he asked casually without telling the whole truth about your encounter.

"Oh, Miss [Y/S] ! I don't know her very well, she's a very private young lady, but..."

She knew a lot for someone who didn't know you and she was able to tell Christopher that you were a 28 year old spinster with no known fiancé. You were rather private although often seen with your faithful Henry.

"She sometimes walks on my land," John informed Christopher as he took a bite of bread, "I've never had the heart to tell her she walks on private land, she's so reserved that I don't want to make her uncomfortable," he added.

"Oh, and she seems so respectful and she's not doing anything wrong walking here with her dog. Poor child, she's always so alone." Mrs. Jennings said theatrically. "She sometimes helps out at the Hawthorne manor with the children. I did try to invite her to have tea with me once, but she told me she didn't think a girl like her belonged at my table."

"Nonsense !" John exclaimed, "Any pleasant and well-mannered person is worthy of being part of our acquaintances."

His mother-in-law nodded vigorously before continuing with the latest gossip, but Christopher was already no longer listening, his thoughts lost in a December night where the moon lit up your eyes a deep green.

Finally returning home, Christopher settled into his old worn fabric armchair, a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading. You were still there haunting his thoughts. He had felt this feeling before. Not like with Marianne, no. But like with Eliza.

He shook his head vigorously as if to get your image out of his head. He couldn't afford to have heartbroken, he wouldn't survive it, not when he had finally come to terms with the idea of ​​being alone for the rest of his life, in the comfort of the Delaford, with his dogs. And yet, he didn't see his day go by. Not because he had been busy with his fishing trip and his horseback ride, but because his mind had been busy. Busy with you.

And for no real reason, he found himself visiting his friend John two days later, under the pretext of proposing a hunting trip. John accepted enthusiastically, unaware that his friend's real intention was to see you again. And it didn't take more than two days for him to come across you near the small river that crossed John's land. Recognising him, Henry ran towards him, barking happily.

"Miss [Y/S], what a nice surprise to see you again," Brandon said politely, bowing.

"Colonel Brandon, this is a surprise indeed," you replied, giving him a slight bow.

"You don't have any gloves," he remarked, a little concerned.

However, what he didn't mention, although he noticed it right away, was that you were wearing his coat, the one he had forced over your shoulders a few nights earlier and that you had forgotten to give him back. The fabric still smelled like him, in addition to being of undeniable quality, giving you a welcome warmth. Christopher was kind enough not to say anything, happy that you had something decent to cover yourself with.

"I never wear them," you replied, shrugging, "I can't turn the pages of my book with gloves," you added, showing him the book with the worn cover that you were holding in your hands.

"Can I accompany you on your walk, Miss [Y/S] ?"

You nodded shyly and you walked along the small river together, Henry at your side. The Colonel didn't seem bothered by your four-legged companion who regularly jumped on him, leaving his footprints on his black pants. When you apologised, a little embarrassed by Henry's behaviour, Christopher replied with a smile that he loved dogs and that it didn't matter to him that Henry decided to repaint his pants.

When the sky began to darken in the late afternoon, you politely excused yourself, stating that you should go home before nightfall.

"Can I walk you home ?" Brandon suggested, genuinely worried about letting you walk home alone.

You bit your lip, hesitant. On one hand, you didn't want to risk being seen with a man and having rumors spread about you, but on the other hand, you didn't want to risk hurting the kind Colonel Brandon. You finally agreed, praying inwardly that no viper's tongue in the village would see you two. Your wish seemed to have been granted and it was with the manners of a gentleman that Colonel Brandon wished you a good evening before waiting until you had closed the door behind you to turn on your heels.

In love. He was in love, for sure. And it wasn't an illusion this time. You were nothing like Eliza. You were neither lively nor spontaneous. In fact, you were more like him: thoughtful, calm and sparing with words. But you also had a certain depth, a certain culture and a natural curiosity to feed your mind. He knew that with you, he would always have a subject of conversation, whether it was books, poetry, art, theatre or music. He had understood it when, despite your lack of education on the subject, you had taken an interest in his life in the army and when you had started to drown him in questions not about him but about India, the different cultures and people he had met there, he had found it refreshing.

At no time had you asked a question about his field or made any allusion to his status. But that was where the problem lay in Christopher's mind. His status. He had never really given importance to social class differences. Not with Eliza. Not with Marianne. His father had taught him a first lesson, Marianne a second, more bitter than the first one. What would he do if you were also a dowry hunter?

Christopher wanted to be loved. Loved for himself, not for his wealth, not for the Delaford. Of course, if you were his he would spoil you like never before. You would have the most beautiful dresses, your own coats, gloves, clothes for every season and jewellery to match each dress. 

You would have access to all the books you wanted and he would teach you to draw and play the piano so that you could occupy your time in his big house. But it was not for all that he had to offer that he wanted you to love him in return. It was for himself and a small, vicious voice told him that a girl like you, a girl of little condition, penniless, a gardener's daughter, an old maid at that, could never truly love him for himself. But another small voice, weaker but still there, told him that he must not let himself be swayed by a bad experience. 

After all, Marianne was just a child, a capricious and changeable little girl and he wasn't even sure that her real interest in his love stories was money. With her impulsiveness, Marianne fell in love as easily as one falls off a chair and he wondered if she would keep her promise made before God to be faithful to her high judge. Although he knew the latter well enough not to doubt that he would hold this little demon with an iron fist.

Several miles from the Delaford, your thoughts were haunted too. Haunted by a tall man with dark blond hair and hazel eyes. His eagle-beaked nose that made him even more distinguished and his shy smile haunted you. You knew exactly what you felt for him. You had known it the moment he had wrapped you authoritatively in his coat before forcing you into his carriage to take you home on that December night lit only by the moon.

You loved him. You loved him as you had thought you loved twelve years earlier. But you realized today that what you had taken for love at only sixteen had nothing to do with what you felt for the dark Colonel Brandon. This time, you were experiencing true love, the kind that burns you from the inside, consumes you, haunts your nights and fills your days.

But you had no right to love him. By discreetly asking around at the old bakery, you had learned who Colonel Christopher Brandon really was. A man who wasn't for you. A man too good, too important, too rich. How could a man like him ever be interested in a woman like you ?

But that wasn't all. Even if, by some totally improbable chance, Colonel Brandon could have the slightest interest in you, you were hiding something. A secret that would repel any man, even a man of your status. A secret that only your grandmother knew and that she had taken with her to her grave. A secret that would die with you but that condemned you to remain alone forever.

A few days later, you were alone outside in the middle of the night, frozen to the bone as a pure white snow fell on Dorsetshire. Henry was sheltered in your coat, or at least the Colonel's coat. The little rascal had burrowed away again and now you were both going to catch bluetongue. If it hadn't been for the full moon, you would never have been able to find your way through all that white. Just then, in front of you came a man on horseback, a magnificent black stallion with a fine appearance.

Inwardly, you felt anxiety take hold of you. It was late and you could tell that the rider was a man, and you hoped that he was a man with good intentions.

The closer the horse got, the more familiar the figure on it seemed to you. But it was only when he was a few steps away from you that you recognized Colonel Brandon, dashing in his long wool coat.

"Miss [Y/S] !" he exclaimed in an almost angry tone, "what are you doing out in this weather ? You're going to catch your death !"

"It's Henry, he disappeared again himself again," you replied in a very small voice.

Hearing his name, the dog stuck his head between the flaps of the coat, his tongue hanging out trying to catch the snowflakes that were falling on you.

"Maybe we should build a proper barrier to stop your companion from scaring you to death... and freezing."

Brandon had said this with a firmness that left no room for any kind of humour. You nodded timidly, shivering despite the warmth of his coat.

"Give him to me," Brandon ordered.

You hesitated for a moment but when he held out his gloved hands towards you, you handed him Henry without fear. Deep down, you knew he wouldn't hurt your best friend. Christopher placed your dog inside his own coat, then he held out your hand.

"Ride with me, I'll take you home !"

You placed your hand in his hesitantly and he hoisted you up without any harm behind him before setting his horse into a gallop.

Your hands hooked on his hips, you gently rested your head against his back. You could feel the warmth emanating from his body pierce you and for a moment, you imagined what it must be like to be loved by a man like him.

When the horse stopped in front of the cottage you shared with your father, the snow had stopped falling and it shone like millions of diamonds under the benevolent gaze of the moon.

"Your father isn't here ?" Brandon asked worriedly, seeing no candles lit in your candle, nor the smoke of a warm fire burning in the fireplace.

"No. The Hawthornes are having a small party for the staff and he was invited," you replied as he helped you dismount.

Christopher dismounted as well, Henry still sheltered against his chest.

"Do you need help lighting the fire ?" Brandon asked, genuinely concerned.

"No, thank you Colonel, but I'll be fine."

The truth was that you couldn't start the fire eight times out of ten, but if anyone found out that a man had come into your house while your father wasn't there to chaperone you, it didn't matter that you were already 28, the rumour that you were a girl of easy virtue would spread like wildfire in the village and your father would risk losing his job with the Hawthornes, people of great kindness but who couldn't stand to be the object of mockery, especially at the fault of their employees.

"Good evening, Miss [Y/S]," Brandon murmured, his gaze tender.

"Colonel, I can't go home," you murmured.

"Why ?" Christopher asked in a whisper.

"Because you're still holding my dog in ​hostage," you replied with a slight smile.

Christopher chuckled before handing Henry back to you, but as he placed him in your arms, his fingers lingered longer than necessary on your icy hand.

Gently, he untied the silk scarf that brought a little more warmth to his throat and chest to place it around you, adding a touch of modesty to your fragile form in the face of his imposing stature. The scarf, light and delicate, immediately offered you an additional touch of warmth, a touch of warmth that manifested itself in a delicate blush on your cheeks, a touch of warmth caused by the violent feelings you felt for Christopher Brandon.

"I offer it to you. As well as the coat. They will keep you warm this winter," Brandon said softly, almost as if he were reciting poetry.

"Colonel..." you murmured, too moved to add a thank you.

"Miss [Y/S]..."

He hesitated for a moment. What he was about to say would change the destiny of both of you forever. He wasn't going to offer to be your friend. No, he was going to take a risk, a new one.bet against the reason that pushed him to make you a mere memory, against his heart that screamed at him that he would suffer again, against the love that seemed to refuse him with force, leaving him a little more broken each time.

"Miss [Y/S], do you allow me to court you ?"

A million emotions crossed your gaze and he could not name any of them. Inside, you screamed with joy while your heart beat so hard that you wondered if it would not explode with love. But there was this secret. This secret that could destroy the slightest illusion that you could nourish towards the slightest spark of love between Colonel Brandon and yourself. Yet, if your head told you to say no to him immediately so as not to hurt him later, so as not to hurt this man who seemed sincerely good and kind and who deserved so much better than you, it was your heart that answered.

"Yes."

You said it in a breath, your eyes diving into his. With tenderness, he caressed your face, a slight smile softening his features so often severe while you allowed yourself a sincere smile that hid your fear that he could learn what had haunted you for more than twelve years.

"I promise to always respect you miss [Y/S]," Christopher murmured, confusing your apprehension for what you were hiding with the fear that he was playing you.

"Colonel, please, call me by my first name," you asked him candidly.

"Only if, in private, you call me Christopher."

You nodded with emotion. He squeezed your small hands in his, smiling slightly at Henry's antics who was impatient at the idea of ​​going back to get warm.

"Come back, [Y/N], get warm. I'll come back to see you tomorrow and talk to your father. I'll ask for his blessing to court you properly." 

And without waiting to answer, he placed a tender kiss on your forehead, while on this December evening, only the moon was witness to this hope that you both nourished. The hope of a new chance, of redemption, of finally knowing true love.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sense and Sensibility 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Peter Parker (reader is Kitty from Death Wish)

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: Things in your life are changing and a new face is just one of many startling new realities.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The mail keeps coming. It’s the one consistency left in your life. You go out as you do every day and lift the flap to fish out the contents. That day, however, it’s more than just the flyers and the flimsy bills. You have to shove your hand fully inside to grasp the bulky weight. 

You pause and peer out at the street. You expect the black car to pull up at any moment. At least, you sense something waiting... Or you’re just paranoid. 

You bring it inside. You hear your sisters in the kitchen. Adrienne is cleaning the dishes as Stony sits at the table. Her fingertips anxiously draw circles on the wood. 

You approach and put down the usual envelopes and a few filmy pamphlets. You keep hold of the thick brown envelope. It has your sister’s name on it. You put it in front of her and say her name. She flinches. 

“Is he on his way?” You ask. 

She nods. Odd. That means someone else delivered that. 

“Mail,” you point as her gaze remains on the wall. She sighs and looks down. 

“Take it,” she pushes it across the table. 

You grimace, “it’s for you-” 

“It’s for groceries. Or whatever else we need.” She says dully.  “Take Adrienne to the bakery. Have something sweet.” She stands and gives a sullen look to the picture of your mother on the wall. “I’ll go wait outside.” 

She pushes the chair into the table and turns away. 

“We love you,” you call after her. 

She stops in the doorway, “love you too.” 

She disappears into the hallway and you frown. You grab the envelope and open it, checking the contents. A hunk of bills pad the paper. A lot. 

“Wow,” Adrienne lifts her chin to peek inside. 

“Yeah, wow,” you echo. “Well, how about it? Scones and tea?” 

“It sounds nice. It’s nice to have nice things,” she giggles at her repetition. “I wish...” 

“I wish she could be here too,” you agree. “But ma is better off.” 

She nods with a glum expression. She’s still the baby. Still the one with hope. And you still can’t bear to bring her down. You know this won’t end well. Nothing does. Just look at your father; dead at the hands of another. And your sister; promised to a man even more dangerous than your patriarch. 

“We should bring something back for Stony too. For when she gets back,” Adrienne suggests. 

“That’s sweet of you. I’m going to grab a sweater. You should too. It’s supposed to get chilly.” You gird. 

You go upstairs as your mind wanders outside those walls. You doubt Stony will be back that day to enjoy the treat. Not if it’s up to Barnes and everything in her life and your life is now in his hands. You’re not stupid. You might put a smile and keep the peace, but it doesn’t mean you’re stupid. 

You take out your favourite brown sweater; the one your mother embroidered for you when you were in high school. It pairs well with your thrifted dress. Not that anything you wear is especially flashy. 

You go back to the first floor and step into your brown scuffed mary-janes. Adrienne appears in her trademark striped pullover. You grab your purse and count a few bills out, shoving the rest behind the mantle. As you go back to the front door, she ties her sneakers. She no longer has to hide as your father can’t rant at her for the unladylike footwear. 

You follow her out with keys in hand. Your eyes skim the street. Stony is gone but that shadow isn’t. You turn to lock the door, your mind clinging to the speck near the bushes diagonal from Erlich’s rusty old truck. 

“We should make something special tonight,” Adrienne says. 

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” you smile. You always loved cooking. You would help your mother in the kitchen often and when you made your father one of her recipes, he was a little kinder. As kind as a man like him ever was. 

You rub your cheek instinctively. Sometimes, a lot of times, he was less than kind. He was vicious. Venomous. You’re happy he’s gone but in the same, you’re sad about it. Not because he was good, no, he was never that, only because he was a constant. Losing that sort of permanence is earth-shaking. 

Adrienne takes your hand, “he wouldn’t like this, but ma would.” 

You smile at her, a bittersweet twinge in your eyes, “she would. I think I’m going to try one of their tea lattes. I always was eyeing that strawberry parfait one on the specials sign.” 

“Oh, that sounds delicious.” She swings your arm. You feel like a child again even as those years feel so far behind you. “I need coffee. Double espresso at least.” 

You laugh. She’s still young enough to have bad habits. Yours are just starting to really bug you. 

As you come up to the cafe, another customer approaches from the other side of the pavement. The man opens the door and grins as he waves you in with a hand. You look him in the face, something you don’t often do but the prickle on the nape of your neck draws your eyes up. 

He seems familiar but you can’t place him. Reddish brown hair, parted neatly and combed, a darker shade in his eyes, and a square jaw that frames an otherwise boyish face. He wears a burgundy suit and his lips slant in a grin. 

“Ladies first,” he insists. 

“Thank you,” you say and squeeze Adrienne’s hand. 

You nod and pull her inside. Your hackles are up but your doubt is just as needling. It could be genuine intuition or it could be the effect of a lifetime of fear. No, you know better. At first glance, you know he’s one of those men. Like your father, like Barnes, he is dangerous. 

He steps up behind you to join the line. Amid the crowded cafe, it is only him that you are aware of. There’s just that voice telling you to pay attention. The same one that screamed at you when your sister came home the night before you found out about your father. There’s something amiss here, and again, you can’t figure it out. 

[snowblossomreads]

Day - 5 Open Doors

Pairings: Colonel Brandon x Reader

Summary: In where reader goes searching for her husband and has her heart warmed on a chilly afternoon.

Tag(s)/Warning(s): None!

A/N: And in something totally different from yesterday! Here is a little sweet fluff about reader from last year 😉. Side note this is in 2nd person which I have not written in in AGES. So sorry if it's not as pazzzzah~ as the others! Onwards my friends!

"Christoper my love, are you in here?" You inquired, as you opened the third door that evening, looking for your dear husband who you hadn't seen since lunch that afternoon.

It was quite strange for him to suddenly go missing, as he usually made sure you knew where he was if he was going out. So, in your mind, you assumed he was just somewhere in the house. But where? You had no idea, as you had left a number of open doors on your hunt for the man you were utterly devoted to.

At first, you thought you would find him in his library working on missives and the such, but no luck there. He wasn't in the stables either, caring for his favorite steed. Though you did find the stable boy who told you he hadn't seen him around. 

You quickly thanked the boy, and then gently coaxed him to go back inside once he was done tending the horses. It was much too cold to be wandering around outside. Even if for a moment.

Next, you checked in his study after warming up from being out in the chilly December air. Yet no luck. 

"Hmm, where are you my love? You must be in this great big house somewhere," you whispered to yourself, as you poked the darkened wood in the fireplace with the poker, causing some of the bark to fall in and stir up some of the blacken ash from previous fires. 

It was then a gentle knock on the open door alerted you to someone's presence, and you placed the poker down before turning to look at who had come in.

"Milady, are you alright?"

It was Charlotte, one of the young housemaids who you were close in age with, and someone you were comfortable being more casual with in private. 

"Charlotte hello! I'm alright, and it's [Y/n] please," you answered without thought. That was until you remembered your little problem and corrected yourself. "Well no actually. It seems my Colonel has gone missing, and I cannot for the life of me find him."

"Oh, have you not checked the second floor yet ma'am?" Charlotte inquired, ignoring your request to be called by your first name as she took a step in the room. "I believe when I saw him last, he was in the halls there. But that seems to have been almost an hour ago. Granted I do not believe I've seen him downstairs afterwards."

Hearing that she last saw him upstairs, brought an immediate smile to your lips, knowing exactly what he was doing, and it made your heart swell with even more love. Not that it wasn't already full of it for him.

"Milady?" The young woman asked again as she saw your face light up.

"I know exactly where he is Charlotte thank you!" You beamed strolling up to her and giving her a tight hug.

"[Y/n]!" She sputtered out, a grin forming on your lips as you finally got her to address you less formally. 

Quickly, you made your way out of the room to the staircase, looking forward to what you were going to find upstairs.

Each step brought you closer to him and made your heart beat faster, as you grabbed the skirts of your dress. When you reached the top of the steps, you began to walk swiftly and quietly towards where you had an inkling of where he would be. 

And as you neared the door that was cracked open, you knew you were right and it made your heart almost burst at the seams. The closer you got, the slower you walked, as to not alert your husband, wanting to see what he was up to.

Slowly you tiptoed, reaching the door and peeking inside to the sight that made your heart whole and melt all at once.

There he was, standing in front of the cradle of your little one. His back turned to it, and in his arms, was the love of both of your lives. The little boy you had given birth to the year before. Who screamed and cried and woke the entire house up that cold winter night.

But now in his father's arm, asleep and safe as you listened to him whisper to them, rocking them back and forth. 

Of course he was here. He was utterly devoted to you and his child and it moved you so much to see how gentle he was with the tiny baby. 

It wasn't a complete surprise to you truly, he was the gentlest soul you had ever known, and you were all too lucky to have fallen in love with him and have that love reciprocated tenfold. More than that actually.

The moment was so intimate, so sweet, so lovely that you stood there for a while watching. Admiring your husband and child, and just being thankful that even if your beginnings in life wasn't as full of love and tenderness that it was okay, because you had it now, and that was more important.  So engrossed in the moment, you hadn't even noticed the way your heart crept its way towards your throat until tears made their way down your cheeks.

Letting out a small sniffle, one that of course alerted him to your presence, you watched as he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours and a twinkle glimmering in them. 

"Darling is that you," he wondered in that thunderous voice that could be commanding, but was so kind to you that you feared speaking in case you began to cry.

Instead of answering with a yes, you opted to answer with a 'mhmm', wiping your eyes to not worry him before, opening the door completely, revealing yourself to him and walking over to the two people who completely held your heart.

"I had been looking for you earlier and had worried my Colonel had run away," you teased sweetly as you went to kiss him on his cheek, before leaning down to look at your sleeping child. All safe and warm in his father's arms. "And here you are, watching over our little one with such love and sweetness, that it warms me more than any fireplace could on a day like this."

Hearing your words made him smile gently, as you as he watched you stroked your child's cheek. Happy little babbles leaving the child even if he looked a bit drowsy. 

"I apologize if I made you worry my darling," he started that voice of his soothing you like nothing else could. "I wanted to make sure he was sleeping well as I know the trouble he has been having during his midday naps."

"Do not apologize for tending to our child my love," you answered looking up at him with glimmering eyes, "there are not many men in this world who keep up with their children's sleep schedule, and there are fewer who give them such care without the need of their mother's or nursemaids direction."

"Such praise from you my darling makes a man like me only want to do even more to bring our little family happiness."

"A perfect husband, father, friend, and the many more things that you are, I believe you are already doing enough to bring as much love and happiness."

Looking at you and finding you gazing at him with a tender yet sincere smile, he couldn't help but feel warmth bloom in his chest that mirrored your own.

Both of you were truly happy with one another and of course with your little baby boy who when you both went to look down at him had closed his eyes. Having fallen asleep with ease as both of his parents watched over him before they set him in his crib together.

A/n: Eeee i hope that warmed you all up especially if it's chilly outside now like it is here! The colonel is such a soft gentle soul how could I not write about him during the holidays! Let me know if he makes u feel warm and cozy as well! See you tomorrow 🎉🎉

[muiitoloko]

If that’s okay for you if I may request

Colonel Brandon If that’s okay? Cause I read all your Alan rickman stories and I love them all so very much! ❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for writing those

Title: You are you

Summary: You are everything he needs, even if he doesn't realize it initially.

Pairing: Colonel Brandon × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Madness, Self-criticism, inferiority complex, unrequited love, anguish.

Author's notes: I've been wrestling with writer's block for a while, trying to figure out how to craft a one-shot with Brandon. Then, a spark of inspiration hit me while watching the Netflix series "Queen Charlotte." Drawing from her character and that of King George, I found the muse I needed to create this piece. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your support!

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Colonel Brandon stood on the sprawling grounds of his estate, his thoughts consumed by the recent turn of events. Marianne had chosen John over him, and though he felt a pang of sadness and disappointment, he knew he had to respect her decision. Seeing her happy with another man brought him a bittersweet sense of contentment, knowing that she had found the love and happiness she deserved.

But as the days passed, Brandon couldn't shake the lingering emptiness in his heart. He knew he needed to move on, to find a wife who could give him children and heirs to carry on his legacy. And so, he reluctantly resumed his search for a suitable match, his heart no longer seeking love, but rather a practical solution to his need for a family.

It was during one of his social engagements that Brandon encountered you, the eldest daughter of the duke and duchess, a woman living in seclusion on their vast estate. He had heard whispers of your eccentricities, but he paid them little heed, his focus solely on finding a wife who could fulfill his need for heirs.

As Brandon got to know you better, he discovered the truth behind the rumors surrounding your behavior. Your parents, the duke and duchess, confessed to him the challenges you faced, the periods of aggression and madness that plagued you intermittently. Despite their wealth and connections, they had been unable to find a solution, leaving them resigned to your fate.

But Brandon was undeterred by the revelation, his pragmatic nature guiding him forward. He saw in you the potential for a suitable match, a woman who, despite her flaws, could provide him with the children he so desperately desired. And for your parents, you represented a burden they were eager to unburden themselves of, a means to secure your future and their peace of mind.

For Brandon, it seemed like the perfect compromise—a marriage born out of duty rather than love, but one that could fulfill both his and your parents' needs. And so, he approached you with a proposal, his demeanor calm and composed as he laid out his intentions with unwavering clarity.

As Colonel stood before you, awaiting your response to his proposal, you couldn't help but feel a whirlwind of emotions coursing through you. Despite your eccentricities and the challenges you faced, you couldn't deny the practicality of his offer. It was a solution that could benefit both parties involved, easing the burden on your parents while providing Colonel Brandon with the heirs he desired.

Lost in thought, you retreated to the comfort of your study, surrounded by shelves filled with notebooks containing your innermost thoughts and musings. Dressed in your usual attire of men's clothing, a reflection of your unconventional nature, you pondered the implications of Colonel Brandon's proposal.

As you delved deep into contemplation, the weight of your decision pressed heavily upon you. You knew that accepting Colonel Brandon's offer meant relinquishing any hope of a love-filled marriage, resigning yourself to a union of duty and practicality. Yet, the thought of bringing relief to your parents, sparing them the burden of dealing with your unpredictable episodes, tugged at your heartstrings.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of introspection, you made your decision. Stepping out of your study, you faced Colonel Brandon with a mixture of determination and resignation in your eyes.

"I accept your proposal," you announced, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging within you. "But under one condition." Colonel Brandon regarded you with curiosity, awaiting your terms with an air of patience and understanding.

"I ask for a cabin of my own on the estate's land," you continued, your gaze unwavering. "Far from the mansion, where I can retreat during my periods of madness. It is my only request."

Brandon considered your condition carefully, weighing the implications of your plea. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded in agreement, a hint of understanding softening his features.

"I see no harm in granting your request," he replied, his voice calm and reassuring. "In fact, it may prove to be beneficial for both of us. A space of your own, away from the confines of the mansion, where you can find solace during difficult times."

A sense of relief washed over you at his understanding, grateful for his willingness to accommodate your needs. With a silent nod of gratitude, you accepted his offer, knowing that it was the best course of action for both you and your family.

Brandon didn't see anything wrong with granting your request for a cabin of your own on the estate's land. In fact, he saw it as a practical solution to ensure both of your well-being. If you were to experience periods of madness, it would be best for you to have a space where you could retreat and find solace without causing disruption to the household.

So, Brandon accepted your condition without hesitation, understanding the importance of accommodating your needs. However, he didn't anticipate just how distant you would be after the wedding. Days turned into weeks, and Brandon found himself growing increasingly impatient with your absence from the main house.

Despite his frustration, Brandon respected your need for space and independence, trusting that you would come to him when you were ready. However, as the days stretched on without any sign of your presence, Brandon's patience began to wear thin.

One night, overcome with loneliness and longing for your company, Brandon made his way to the cabin where you spent most of your time. He approached the door with a sense of trepidation, unsure of what he would find on the other side.

As he entered the cabin unannounced, Brandon was greeted by the sight of you standing by a telescope, your eyes fixed on the starry night sky above. Books and notebooks were scattered around the room, evidence of your scholarly pursuits and intellectual curiosity.

You turned to him with a smile as he walked in, your expression one of genuine warmth and affection. Your nightgown billowed around you, your hair cascading in loose waves down your back, and Brandon couldn't help but think how beautiful you looked in that moment.

But despite the tenderness in your smile, Brandon couldn't shake the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. He had missed you, missed the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand, and he couldn't understand why you chose to spend so much time away from him.

"Good evening, Colonel," you greeted him politely, your tone casual and unaffected by his unexpected visit. "What brings you to my humble abode tonight?"

Brandon struggled to contain his frustration as he responded, his voice tinged with a hint of irritation. "I've come to see you, of course," he replied curtly, his eyes searching yours for any hint of emotion. "I've missed you, [Your Name]. It's been weeks since I last saw you, and I couldn't bear to spend another night alone in our bed."

Your smile faltered slightly at his words, a flash of guilt crossing your features when you met his gaze. You knew you had been neglecting him, consumed by your own thoughts and passions, but you hadn't realized just how much your absence had affected him. Pushing aside your feelings of guilt, you tried to divert the conversation, eager to steer clear of any discussion about your relationship.

"So, Colonel," you began, your voice light and cheerful as you gestured towards the telescope beside you. "Have you ever gazed upon the stars and wondered about the mysteries of the universe? It's truly fascinating how much we have yet to discover out there."

But Brandon wasn't so easily swayed by your attempt to change the subject. He could sense the underlying tension between you, the unspoken questions hanging in the air, and he knew they needed to be addressed.

"Indeed, the stars are a wonder to behold," Brandon replied diplomatically, his tone measured as he studied your expression. "But I believe there are matters closer to home that require our attention."

You paused at that, your smile fading as you met Brandon's earnest gaze. His words hung between you, heavy with unspoken implications, and you knew there was no avoiding the conversation any longer.

"What do you mean, Colonel?" you asked, your voice tinged with apprehension as you braced yourself for his response.

Brandon took a step closer to you, his expression serious as he met your eyes with unwavering determination. "I married you for one reason, and one reason only: to have heirs," he said bluntly, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "And how can we achieve that if the two of us barely see each other?"

You stopped at that, your gaze locking with his as you took in the gravity of his words. For a moment, you felt a pang of guilt at your own negligence, knowing that you had failed to uphold your end of the bargain. But then, a sense of determination washed over you as you realized what Brandon was implying.

Was he demanding that you fulfill your duty as a wife? Did he want... sex?

The thought made Brandon blush slightly, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment as he struggled to articulate his desires. But you weren't embarrassed; you were a 28-year-old woman, well aware of the implications of marital intimacy. Despite never having been intimate with a man before Brandon, you had spent enough time reading and learning from your already married sisters to understand the mechanics of such encounters.

And your first time with Brandon had been surprisingly pleasant. He had been kind and patient with you, guiding you through the experience with a gentle touch and reassuring words. In the aftermath, you had distanced yourself from him, convinced that it was for his own protection. But now, faced with his unspoken request, you realized that you couldn't continue to avoid him indefinitely.

With a resolute nod, you dropped the notebook in your hand and approached Brandon, closing the distance between you with determined steps. His eyes widened slightly in surprise as you reached out to touch his cheek, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a tender touch.

"Why not start today, then?" you suggested softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "After all, it is our duty as husband and wife to fulfill each other's needs, is it not?"

Brandon's blush deepened at your boldness, but he nodded in agreement, his eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and embarrassment. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to proceed.

You took the initiative, stepping closer to him until there was barely an inch of space between your bodies. Leaning in, you captured his lips in a gentle kiss, your heart racing with anticipation as you felt Brandon respond eagerly, his arms encircling you in a warm embrace.

And as you melted into his embrace, you knew that despite the unconventional nature of your marriage, you were determined to honor your side of the bargain. After all, you were both bound by duty and obligation, and it was time to fulfill the promises you had made to each other, no matter the cost.

As Brandon and you stood in the dimly lit cabin, the air thick with anticipation, he couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation mingled with desire. His heart still belonged to Marianne, his unrequited love for her a constant ache in his chest. But as he looked into your eyes, he saw more than just a means to an end; he saw a woman who deserved his respect and consideration, despite the circumstances of their marriage.

With gentle hands, Brandon began to undress you, his touch tender and reverent as he revealed your delicate form beneath the fabric. He couldn't help but admire the curve of your body, the softness of your skin, as he trailed kisses along your neck and collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You responded eagerly to his touch, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, urging him to explore every inch of your body. Brandon's heart raced with excitement as he felt your arousal building, his own desire growing with each soft moan that escaped your lips.

As Brandon guided you to the bed, he felt a surge of anticipation coursing through him, his body responding instinctively to the intimacy between you. He couldn't deny the pleasure he felt at being so close to you, the warmth of your skin against his own igniting a fire within him that he hadn't felt in years.

With practiced hands, Brandon explored your body with a gentle touch, his fingers tracing patterns of desire along your skin as he elicited soft gasps and moans from your lips. He marveled at the way you responded to his touch, the way your body arched and trembled beneath him, as if seeking more of his affection.

And when he finally entered you, it was with a reverence and tenderness that took your breath away. Brandon moved slowly, savoring each moment as he lost himself in the sensation of your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. He felt a sense of connection with you that he hadn't experienced in years, a bond forged in the heat of their shared passion.

But even as Brandon surrendered himself to the pleasure of their union, his thoughts strayed to Marianne, his beloved lost to him forever. He couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to make love to her, to hear her soft moans of pleasure as he brought her to the heights of ecstasy.

But Marianne didn't want him, that much was clear. Despite Brandon's unwavering love and devotion to her, she had chosen another, leaving him with a heart heavy with sorrow and longing. But Brandon was a man of honor, and he knew that he had to be content with what he had, which was you.

You, the woman whose mind was plagued by bouts of madness and unpredictability, yet whose heart was filled with kindness and compassion. And as Brandon lay beside you, his body still humming with the aftershocks of their lovemaking, he couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt wash over him. He knew that he should be focusing on fulfilling his duty as a husband, on siring heirs to carry on his legacy, but a part of him couldn't deny the pleasure he found in being with you.

But even as Brandon reveled in the intimacy between you, he couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that gnawed at him. He knew that his feelings for you were born out of necessity rather than passion, that he was simply using you to fulfill his own needs. And yet, a part of him couldn't help but enjoy the pleasure you brought him, the warmth of your body against his own.

As the days went by, Brandon found himself spending more and more time in your company, seeking solace and companionship in your presence. He tried to convince himself that it was all in service of their shared goal of starting a family, but deep down, he knew that he enjoyed being with you, in spite of everything.

He admired your resilience and admired your intelligence and creativity, seeing beyond the surface to the kind and compassionate woman beneath. You, in turn, found solace in Brandon's presence, grateful for his unwavering support and understanding. He treated you with kindness and respect, never once judging you for your eccentricities, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards him for accepting you as you were.

But as the saying goes, all good things are short-lived, and Brandon saw this firsthand when he witnessed one of your episodes of madness. One night, he woke up to the sound of whispers and found you in the bedroom, talking to yourself and drawing on the wall.

Brandon's heart clenched with concern as he approached you hesitantly, calling out your name in a gentle tone. But when you turned to him, your eyes unfocused and distant, he realized that you didn't recognize him.

"Are you Venus?" you questioned, your voice barely above a whisper as you regarded him with a mixture of awe and confusion.

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the realization dawning on him that you didn't recognize him as your husband. He took a step closer to you, his voice calm and reassuring as he reminded you of his true identity.

"No, my dear, I'm Colonel Christopher Brandon, your husband," he replied softly, his eyes pleading with you to see reason. "Please, come back to me."

But you shook your head stubbornly, dropping the chalk in your hand as you turned away from him, your mind set on a singular purpose. Ignoring Brandon's protests, you left the bedroom, navigating the dark hallways of the mansion with determined strides.

Brandon followed close behind you, his heart pounding with fear and anxiety as he called out to you, hoping to bring you back to your senses. But you paid him no heed, your mind consumed by delusions of Venus coming to take you away.

As you stepped out into the garden, your eyes fixed on the starry sky above, you spotted the bright gleam of Venus shining in the darkness. With a sense of urgency, you called out to the celestial body, your voice filled with longing and desperation.

"Venus, my love, please come get me," you pleaded, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night. "I'm ready to go with you."

Your screams alerted the mansion's employees, who came rushing outside to see what was causing the commotion. Brandon watched helplessly as you shed your nightgown, revealing your naked body to the world as you continued to call out for Venus.

Unable to stand idly by any longer, Brandon sprang into action, moving to cover you. But you pushed him away angrily, refusing to let anyone come between you and your imagined lover.

"Get away from me!" you cried, your voice tinged with frustration as you brushed him aside. "Venus will come for me, you'll see!"

Seeing that you were beyond reason, Brandon turned to the servants, instructing them to fetch a blanket to cover you. The maids obeyed without question, rushing to fulfill his command as Brandon's butler stepped forward to assist in calming you down.

But despite their efforts, you continued to scream and cry out for Venus, your mind lost to the grips of madness. It wasn't until Brandon made a bold declaration that you finally seemed to calm down, your eyes focusing on him with a newfound clarity.

"I am Venus," Brandon announced firmly, his voice filled with conviction as he met your gaze with unwavering determination.

For a moment, you stared at him in confusion, uncertainty flickering in your eyes. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, you seemed to accept his words, your body relaxing as you allowed the maids to cover you with a blanket.

Brandon wrapped the blanket around you protectively, his heart heavy with relief as he gazed down at you with a mix of sadness and concern. Taking your hand in his, he led you toward the cabin, his mind racing with thoughts of how best to care for you in the coming days.

As you walked beside him, your gaze fixed on him with newfound adoration and confusion, you couldn't help but question the reality of the situation. Was Brandon truly Venus, the god of love and desire, come to whisk you away to a world of eternal bliss? Or was he simply a mortal man, doing his best to care for you in your time of need?

"Are you really Venus?" you asked hesitantly, your voice tinged with uncertainty as you looked up at him for answers.

Brandon met your gaze with a gentle smile, his eyes filled with warmth and compassion as he squeezed your hand reassuringly. "Yes, my dear," he replied softly, his voice filled with tenderness. "I am Venus, and I'm here to take care of you."

And as you clung to him, expressing your belief that he was Venus and how you had waited so long for him to come for you, Brandon felt a pang of sadness tug at his heart. He did not like the hope he saw in your eyes, the desperate longing for happiness that seemed to radiate from your every word. While he was relieved that you finally seemed content, he could not help but feel conflicted about perpetuating the illusion that he was Venus.

Leading you gently to the cabin, Brandon guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you as you looked at him with such love and adoration, still addressing him as Venus. The realization that the duke and duchess hadn't mentioned this aspect of your condition left Brandon feeling unsettled. He had been led to believe that you were simply isolated in your cabin, dealing with your episodes of madness alone, but he hadn't expected this level of delusion.

Should he continue to play along with your delusions, maintaining the facade of being the god of love in order to keep you calm and prevent any further aggression? Or should he confront the reality of the situation, risking triggering another episode?

Sighing inwardly, Brandon decided to prioritize your well-being above all else. For now, it seemed best to go along with your belief that he was Venus, at least until he could figure out how to help you through this latest episode.

"Of course, my dear," Brandon replied softly, his voice filled with warmth and compassion as he took your hands in his. "I have waited for you just as eagerly. Now that we are together, I am here to take care of you, always."

Gently, Brandon helped you lay down on the bed, tucking the blankets around you to keep you warm. He listened quietly as you spoke, your words filled with a mixture of hope and desperation. You reached out to him, pleading for Venus to take you to the stars, to make you happy and relieve you of the burden you felt you were to others.

"Venus, my love, please take me away with you," you murmured, your voice soft and filled with longing. "I want to love you, and if you love me in return, I won't be a burden to anyone anymore."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your voice cutting him to the core. He wanted to reach out to you, to comfort you and reassure you that you were not a burden, but he knew that now was not the time for such revelations. Instead, he remained silent, his gaze filled with compassion and understanding as he listened to your pleas.

"I understand, my dear," Brandon said softly, his voice gentle as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "Venus loves you deeply, and he would never see you as a burden. You bring light and joy to his world, and he cherishes every moment he spends with you."

Your eyes shone with tears as you looked up at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Despite the turmoil in your mind, you found solace in Brandon's words, finding comfort in the belief that Venus was there to guide you to happiness.

"Thank you, Venus," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude as you closed your eyes, surrendering to the warmth of sleep. "I love you."

Brandon watched over you as you drifted off to sleep, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was deceiving you, allowing you to believe in a fantasy that could never be true. But for now, all he could do was be there for you, to offer you comfort and support in whatever form you needed.

And as Brandon lay down next to you, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air. Despite his best efforts to reassure himself that everything would be alright, a sense of foreboding settled in the pit of his stomach, a silent prayer escaping his lips as he hoped you wouldn't have another episode of madness.

Closing his eyes, Brandon tried to push aside his worries, allowing exhaustion to finally overtake him as he drifted off into a fitful sleep. But even in slumber, his mind remained troubled, haunted by visions of you lost in the throes of delusion, calling out for a love that could never be.

The next morning, Brandon awoke to the soft light filtering through the windows of the cabin, his eyes lingering on your sleeping form beside him. For a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the tranquility of the moment, the gentle rise and fall of your chest a reassuring presence in the stillness of the room.

But as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him, Brandon's heart clenched with guilt and sorrow. He knew that he couldn't continue to ignore the reality of your condition, that he needed to take action to ensure your well-being and safety.

With a heavy sigh, Brandon rose from the bed, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. Quietly, he dressed himself, his movements slow and deliberate as he prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead.

Leaving you sleeping in the cabin, Brandon made his way to the main residence, his mind racing with thoughts of how to best care for you in the days to come. As he entered the familiar halls of the mansion, he was greeted by the sight of the butler, who had served his family faithfully for years.

Without preamble, Brandon approached the butler, his expression grave as he relayed the events of the previous night and his concerns about your condition. He instructed the butler to pass on the information to the other servants, emphasizing the importance of treating you with kindness and understanding.

But as Brandon spoke, he couldn't help but notice the disapproving look that crossed the butler's face, a hint of disdain lingering in his gaze. It was clear that the butler harbored reservations about you and your suitability as Brandon's wife, a fact that didn't sit well with Brandon.

"Is something the matter, Jenkins?" Brandon inquired, his voice tinged with a note of concern as he regarded the butler with furrowed brows.

The butler hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone hesitant yet tinged with thinly veiled disapproval. "Forgive me, sir, but I cannot help but express my concerns regarding your choice of wife," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes darting away from Brandon's gaze.

Brandon's jaw tightened at the butler's words, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his frustration. He knew that the butler's opinion held weight among the household staff, and he couldn't afford to have any doubts cast upon your character or his decision to marry you.

"I understand your reservations, Jenkins, but I would appreciate it if you refrained from passing judgment on [Your Name]," Brandon replied evenly, his voice laced with a hint of steel. "She is my wife, and I expect her to be treated with the respect and dignity she deserves."

Jenkins bowed his head slightly, a contrite expression crossing his features as he acknowledged Brandon's reprimand. "Forgive me, sir," he murmured apologetically. "I spoke out of turn. It's just... I never imagined that you would choose to marry someone like her."

Brandon's jaw clenched at Jenkins's words, his anger flaring anew at the implication behind them. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice tinged with indignation.

Jenkins hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone hesitant yet tinged with thinly veiled disapproval. "I had heard rumors about her, sir, but I never thought they were true until last night," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes darting away from Brandon's gaze. "I cannot fathom why you would willingly take on such an unnecessary burden, sir. It would have been far wiser for you to marry Miss Dashwood."

As the butler's words hung in the air, Brandon felt a surge of frustration bubbling within him. How dare Jenkins question his choice of wife, especially in such a callous manner? Suppressing his anger, Brandon took a deep breath, his voice measured as he addressed the butler once more.

"Jenkins, I understand that you may have reservations, but it is not your place to pass judgment on my decisions," Brandon stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I married [Your Name] out of necessity, not out of choice. Miss Dashwood made her feelings clear to me, and I must respect her decision. As for [Your Name], she may be a burden, but she is a necessary one. I need a wife to conceive children, and she is the one I have chosen for that purpose."

There was a heavy silence in the room as Brandon's words sank in, his gaze never wavering from Jenkins's face. He could see the butler's discomfort, the conflict evident in his expression as he struggled to come to terms with Brandon's assertion.

But before Jenkins could respond, Brandon felt a shift in the atmosphere behind him. Turning around, he was met with the sight of you standing in the doorway, dressed in men's clothes, your expression unreadable as you listened to the conversation unfolding before you.

For a moment, Brandon's heart clenched with guilt at the thought of you overhearing the disparaging remarks about you. He opened his mouth to call out to you, to explain himself and reassure you of his commitment, but you brushed him off tiredly, expressing your need to retreat to your cabin for a few days.

"If the servants could bring me something to eat, I would be grateful," you added, your tone weary as you turned away from him and made your way towards the cabin. You were tired—tired of the constant struggles with your own mind, tired of being a burden to those around you, and tired of the expectations placed upon you as Colonel Brandon's wife.

Brandon followed closely behind you, his brow furrowed with worry as he tried to catch up to you. "Please, let me explain," he pleaded, his voice filled with desperation. "I didn't mean for you to overhear that conversation. You're not a burden, [Your Name]. You're my wife, and I care about you deeply."

But you kept walking, your steps determined as you refused to meet his gaze. "It's okay, Colonel," you replied softly, your voice tinged with resignation. "We didn't marry for love, that much was always clear. You don't have to explain anything to me."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the weight of your resignation heavy on his shoulders. He reached out to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but you shrugged him off gently, your eyes filled with sadness.

"I know I've always been a burden to everyone," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I always will be. But I'll fulfill my role in our agreement, Colonel. And I'll try not to be such a big burden to you."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your tone piercing him to the core. He wanted to reach out to you, to tell you that you were more than just a burden to him, but he knew that now was not the time for such declarations.

Instead, he watched helplessly as you disappeared into the cabin, the door closing softly behind you with a finality that left him feeling hollow inside. For a moment, he stood there in silence, his mind racing with thoughts of what could have been and what still might be.

But as the days turned into weeks, Brandon found himself growing increasingly restless in your absence. He missed you, deeply, your presence a balm to his weary soul in the midst of life's uncertainties. And so, despite his reservations, he found himself seeking you out, longing to be near you once more.

Every night, he would wait for you to come to him, the anticipation building with each passing hour until he could no longer bear the silence of the empty bed. And when you finally arrived, he would hold you close, cherishing every moment of your fleeting embrace before the morning light came to steal you away once more.

Today was another one of those nights, and you arrived at the agreed time, wasting no time in starting to undress your male clothes, as you always did every night, while Brandon waited for you in bed, watching you undress, revealing your body to him. The routine had become familiar, almost comforting, in its predictability.

As you climbed into bed with him, Brandon couldn't help but notice the exhaustion etched into your features. He longed to hold you close, to lose himself in the warmth of your embrace, but he knew that tonight was different. Tonight, he needed to talk to you, to address the elephant in the room that had been looming over their marriage for far too long.

"Are you alright, [Your Name]?" Brandon asked softly, his voice filled with concern as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. "You seem tired."

You sighed wearily, the weight of the day's events settling heavily on your shoulders. "I'm fine, Colonel," you replied, forcing a smile despite the fatigue evident in your voice. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Brandon studied you intently, his gaze searching your face for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. He wanted you, desperately, but he could see the weariness in your eyes, the toll that their arrangement was taking on you.

"Perhaps we could talk before... before we... make babies," Brandon suggested tentatively, his words carefully chosen as he broached the delicate subject. "I know it wasn't what we originally agreed upon, but I can't help but feel like we should talk to get to know each other better."

You nodded in agreement, grateful for the opportunity to postpone the inevitable for a little while longer. Pulling the covers over yourself to protect yourself from the cold of the night, you settled into the bed beside Brandon, your mind racing with thoughts of what you were going to talk about.

Brandon turned to look at you, his expression softening with affection as he regarded you. "How did you... how did you start to like astronomy?" he asked, his tone gentle as he broached the topic of conversation.

You smiled at the question, a fondness evident in your eyes as you recalled your childhood fascination with the stars. "For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by astronomy," you confessed, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "I found a telescope in my grandfather's things when I was a child, and ever since then, I've been hooked. There's just something about gazing up at the night sky that fills me with wonder and awe."

Brandon nodded, captivated by the passion in your voice as you spoke. He admired your thirst for knowledge, your willingness to pursue your interests despite the constraints placed upon you by society. In that moment, he felt a surge of affection for you, a newfound appreciation for the depth of your character.

"It sounds like you had quite the adventurous childhood," Brandon remarked, his tone laced with admiration. "Your parents must have been quite liberal in letting you learn whatever you wanted."

You nodded in agreement, a smile playing at the corners of your lips as you recalled the support and encouragement you had received from your parents throughout the years. "Yes, they were," you replied, a hint of pride evident in your voice. "They always encouraged me to follow my passions, no matter where they led me."

Brandon's heart swelled with affection as he listened to you speak, the warmth of your words washing over him like a soothing balm. He liked how you lit up, the sparkle in your eyes when you talked about astronomy. He found himself captivated by the passion and enthusiasm in your voice, admiring the way you spoke with such fervor about something that brought you joy. It was a side of you he hadn't seen before, a glimpse into the depths of your soul that left him feeling strangely drawn to you.

But as the conversation shifted, Brandon hesitated, his brow furrowing with concern as he broached a more sensitive topic. "When did your... episodes of madness start?" he asked tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper as he searched your eyes for answers.

The heat in your eyes disappeared as the tiredness returned, and you fell silent, your gaze drifting away from his as you struggled to find the words to explain. It was a painful subject, one that you had long tried to bury deep within yourself, but you knew that Brandon deserved to know the truth.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come as you recounted the events that had changed your life forever. "It all started when I was 15," you began softly, your voice tinged with sadness. "I was out riding with my father and brothers when my horse was startled by a snake. I fell off and... I hit my head on a rock."

You paused, the memories flooding back with painful clarity as you struggled to compose yourself. "I don't remember much after that," you continued, your voice trembling slightly. "But my brothers told me that I was in a coma for five days before I woke up."

Brandon listened intently, his heart aching with sympathy as he imagined the pain and confusion you must have felt during that traumatic time. "And then?" he prompted gently, his voice barely above a whisper as he waited for you to continue.

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek as you recalled the horrors that followed. "Things were normal for a few days," you admitted reluctantly. "But then... the first episode of madness began."

Brandon's heart clenched with sorrow at your words, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "What... what kind of treatments did you undergo?" he asked softly, his voice filled with apprehension as he braced himself for your response.

But you shook your head, the pain evident in your eyes as you diverted the conversation. "I... I don't think you want to know," you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's not something I like to talk about."

Brandon's heart ached with frustration at your reluctance to share, but he knew that now was not the time to press you further. Instead, he reached out to you, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you tenderly.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with reassurance. "But know that I'm here for you, [Your Name]. Whatever you need, whatever you're going through, I'm here."

You melted into his embrace, the warmth of his words washing over you like a soothing balm. In that moment, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you, a glimmer of light in the darkness that surrounded you.

With a soft sigh of contentment, you pulled Brandon closer, your lips meeting his in a tender kiss as you whispered softly against his mouth. "Don't make me wait any longer, Colonel," you murmured, your voice filled with longing. "Let's just get this over with."

Brandon's heart skipped a beat at your words, his desire for you burning hotter than ever as he surrendered himself to the passion of your embrace. In that moment, there was only you and him, lost in the intensity of their shared desire as they sought solace in each other's arms.

Brandon pulled you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he guided you onto his lap beneath the covers. You followed his lead, straddling him with your hands pressed against his chest, your lips meeting his in a hungry kiss that conveyed all the pent-up desire between you.

The kiss was intense, fueled by a longing that had been building between you for far too long. Your tongues danced together in a passionate tango, each movement sending waves of pleasure coursing through your bodies as you lost yourselves in the heat of the moment.

Finally breaking away from the kiss, you reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around Brandon's hard length as you positioned yourself above him. With a breathy sigh, you guided him to your entrance, the anticipation of being filled by him sending shivers of excitement down your spine.

Brandon groaned softly as he felt you take him in hand, his desire for you reaching a fever pitch as he watched you sink down onto him. He was big and you weren't quite wet enough to receive him fully. But the sensation of being stretched by him was exhilarating, and you couldn't help but moan in pleasure as you sank down onto his cock.

As you sat down completely on him, a low, guttural moan escaped Brandon's lips, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he relished the feeling of being buried deep inside you. And when you moaned his name in a breathy whisper—Christopher—Brandon's heart skipped a beat, his desire for you reaching new heights at the sound of his name on your lips.

"God, [Your Name]," Brandon breathed, his voice thick with desire as he savored the sensation of you surrounding him. "You feel so good, so tight around me."

You whimpered in response, the pleasure of having him inside you overwhelming as you began to move your hips in a slow, steady rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy coursing through your body, the pleasure building with each passing moment as you surrendered yourself to the intensity of your union.

Brandon matched your movements with his own, his hands guiding you as you rode him with increasing urgency. He could feel the tension building within you, the need for release growing more urgent by the second as you chased the elusive peak of pleasure together.

And as you continued bouncing on Brandon's dick, you experimented with new movements, gyrating your hips and watching the pleasure written all over his face. It was a sight that books and stories of your married sisters' experiences could never fully describe—the indescribable pleasure of seeing Brandon lost in ecstasy, his features contorted with pleasure as you rode him with abandon.

He was absolutely beautiful, his handsome face twisted in pleasure as he surrendered himself to the pleasure you were providing him. But despite his beauty and kindness, you pushed aside any thoughts of unworthiness, focusing only on the here and now with Brandon, on the pleasure you both felt.

Taking his hands that were on your waist, you guided them closer together, intertwining your fingers with his as you held his hands above his head. The feeling of his strong hands in yours only fueled your desire further, adding an element of intimacy to your passionate encounter.

And as you continued to ride him, lost in the sensation of being filled by him, you couldn't help but let out a torrent of praise and moans, your voice echoing through the room in a symphony of pleasure. And Brandon loved every moment of it, reveling in the sound of your moans and the sweet compliments you bestowed upon him.

"You feel so good, Christopher," you gasped, your voice filled with longing as you rocked your hips against his. "I never want this to end."

Brandon's heart swelled with pride at your words, his desire for you burning hotter than ever as he surrendered himself to the pleasure of your union. "You're amazing, [Your Name]," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he watched you move above him.

You smiled at his words, your heart overflowing with love for him as you continued to ride him with increasing urgency. You let go of Brandon's hands, your fingers curling into his chest as you rode him harder, your movements fueled by a desperate need for release. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, the tension building with each passing moment as you chased the elusive peak of ecstasy.

Brandon watched you with rapt attention, his eyes filled with desire as he surrendered himself to the pleasure of your union. He groaned softly as he felt you tighten around him, the sensation driving him closer to the edge with each passing moment.

At the sight of you throwing your head back in ecstasy, Brandon felt his own climax approaching rapidly. With a guttural moan of pleasure, he let go of all restraint, surrendering himself completely to the overwhelming sensation of release. As you reached climax, your body shuddering with the intensity of your pleasure, Brandon held you close, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he supported your weight. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he rode out the waves of his orgasm with you.

And as he came deep inside you, filling you with his seed, you felt a surge of contentment wash over you, knowing that you had given him everything he desired. You melted into his embrace, your bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs as you basked in the afterglow of your passionate encounter.

As you both calmed down, Brandon pulled you to lie down next to him, his arms wrapped around you protectively as he held you close. You snuggled into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. But as Brandon fell asleep beside you, a wave of sadness washed over you, threatening to engulf you in its depths. You knew that your relationship with Brandon was built on a foundation of duty and obligation, not love. He had made it clear that you were here just to give him children, nothing more.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, leaving you feeling empty and hollow inside. You didn't deserve him, you didn't deserve Brandon's love. He was kind and compassionate, everything you could ever want in a partner, but you knew that he would never love you the way you longed to be loved.

And as you stood up to get dressed, ignoring the sticky remnants of his cum running down your thighs, you couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over you. You cast one last look at Brandon's sleeping form, the ache in your heart growing more unbearable with each passing moment.

But as you turned away, tears streaming down your cheeks, you made a silent vow to yourself. You would bury your feelings deep within yourself, locking them away where no one could find them. You would continue to fulfill your duty as Brandon's wife, even if it meant sacrificing your own happiness in the process.

With a heavy heart, you slipped into your clothes and made your way back to your cabin, back to your books, and your stars. It was the only solace you had left, the only thing that could distract you from the pain of knowing that you would never have the love you so desperately craved.

Brandon woke up the next morning with a satisfied sigh, his body still tingling with the lingering sensations of their passionate encounter from the night before. He reached out instinctively, his arm seeking the warmth of your body as he pulled you close, his heart swelling with affection at the thought of waking up beside you.

But to his dismay, Brandon's hand met only empty space, his fingers brushing against the cool fabric of the pillow beneath him. Confusion clouded his mind for a moment as he blinked away the remnants of sleep, his eyes scanning the room in search of you.

And then, with a sinking feeling in his chest, Brandon realized the truth—you were gone. Once again, you had left him alone in the marital bed, slipping away in the darkness of the night without so much as a goodbye.

Disappointment washed over Brandon like a tidal wave, his heart heavy with the weight of your absence. He had hoped that last night's passionate encounter would bring you closer together, that it would be a step towards building a deeper connection between you.

But as he lay there in the empty bed, Brandon couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness that settled over him like a shroud. He longed for your presence, for the warmth of your body pressed against his, but he knew that you were gone, leaving him to face another day alone.

With a heavy sigh, Brandon turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a sense of resignation. He was tired of this—tired of the constant cycle of intimacy followed by solitude, tired of feeling like he was always left wanting more.

Rubbing his face tiredly, Brandon knew that he couldn't continue like this. He had to talk to you, to address the underlying issues that were driving you apart. He couldn't keep ignoring the elephant in the room, pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.

And so, with a sense of determination, Brandon promised himself that he would broach the subject with you when you came over again that night. He couldn't let things continue like this, couldn't let the distance between you grow any further.

But for now, Brandon pushed aside his worries, forcing himself to focus on the tasks at hand. There were duties to attend to, responsibilities to fulfill, and he couldn't afford to let his personal struggles interfere with his professional life.

With a deep breath, Brandon pushed himself out of bed, steeling himself for the day ahead. He didn't know what the future held for him and you, but he knew that he couldn't keep living like this, trapped in a cycle of longing and disappointment.

Brandon longed for more than just stolen moments in the dead of night; he wanted to be with you, truly and completely, in every sense of the word. And so, he resolved to confront you, to lay bare his heart and soul in the hopes of finding solace in your arms once more.

And so, on that fateful night, as the hours stretched on without any sign of your arrival, Brandon found himself growing increasingly anxious. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that you needed him now more than ever.

With a sense of urgency, Brandon made his way to the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest as he prepared himself for what he might find inside. And when he entered, he was met with the sight of you lost in another one of your episodes, drawing intricate constellations on the wooden floor as you mumbled to yourself.

"[Your Name], it's me, Christopher," he called out softly, his voice filled with concern as he approached you cautiously. "Can you hear me? It's going to be alright, I'm here."

You looked at him and smiled, beckoning him closer. Brandon realized that you weren't in one of your manic episodes, at least it didn't seem like it. He approached cautiously, a mix of relief and confusion flooding his senses. "What are you doing?" he asked gently, his concern evident in his voice.

You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm. "I'm drawing my favorite constellations," you replied, a hint of excitement in your tone. "The sky is beautiful tonight, don't you think?"

Brandon felt a surge of frustration bubbling within him, his worry dissipating into annoyance. "That's it?" he exclaimed, unable to contain his frustration any longer. "You didn't come to me because you were drawing constellations?"

You looked at him, confusion clouding your features as you processed his words. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to dishonor our agreement, but I just... I lost track of time."

But your words only seemed to frustrate Brandon even more, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to comprehend your actions. "Is that all this is to you?" he demanded, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Just a deal?"

You looked at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes as you struggled to find the right words. "How should I see it then?" you questioned, your voice barely above a whisper.

Brandon looked away, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. "Maybe... maybe I want something more," he admitted quietly, his voice filled with uncertainty. "I... I think I'm in love with you."

You interrupted him, shaking your head in disbelief as you backed away from him. "No," you whispered, your voice tinged with sadness. "You barely talk to me, Colonel. How could you possibly love me?"

But Brandon insisted, his gaze unwavering as he met your eyes with determination. "I see you, [Your Name]," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "I see you helping the servants when you're not alone in the cabin. I see how you light up when you talk about astronomy, how passionate you are about the stars. And those nighttime conversations we have... they mean more to me than you'll ever know."

You remained skeptical, your gaze fixed on him with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "You can't love me," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you turned away from him. "It would be better if you extinguished that love now, before it consumes you. Fall in love with another woman, but not with me."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your voice cutting him to the core. "No," he protested, reaching out to you desperately. "I don't want to be in love with anyone else. I want to be with you, [Your Name]. Please, let me show you how much you mean to me."

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you were about to say. "I heard rumors that Marianne Dashwood will no longer marry John Willoughby," you explained, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe you can ask for an annulment of our marriage, claiming that I am crazy, so you are free to go after Marianne."

Brandon's eyes widened in surprise at your suggestion, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. "How do you know about Marianne?" he questioned, his tone laced with disbelief. "And why would you suggest such a thing?"

You smiled sadly at him, the weight of your words heavy on your heart. "I heard Jenkins happily commenting on this with other employees," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "He seemed eager to see you away from me."

Brandon's expression darkened at the mention of Jenkins, his frustration mounting as he struggled to come to terms with the implications of your words. "Jenkins has no right to meddle in our affairs," he muttered, his voice tinged with anger. "And Marianne... Marianne is not the solution to our problems."

You looked at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes as you processed his words. "But you love her, don't you?" you questioned softly, a hint of sadness in your tone.

Brandon's gaze softened as he met your eyes, his voice filled with sincerity. "I thought I did, once," he admitted quietly. "But that was before I met you."

You looked at him, disbelief written all over your face. "But how can that be?" you questioned, confusion evident in your voice. "I'm nothing like Marianne. I'm not beautiful, or charming, or witty."

Brandon reached out to you, gently cupping your face in his hands as he met your gaze with unwavering determination. "You may not be Marianne, but you are everything to me," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You are kind, compassionate, and brave. And who says you're not beautiful? You are simply stunning."

You push Brandon's hand away, your heart heavy with disbelief and self-doubt. "You don't know what you're talking about," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just a crazy woman, Colonel. You shouldn't waste your time on me."

But Brandon refuses to back down, his eyes filled with sincerity as he reaches out to you once more. "It doesn't matter if you're crazy or not," he insists, his voice unwavering. "You're my wife, don't you see? I want you, all of you."

You shake your head in disbelief, unable to comprehend his words. "But why?" you question, your voice trembling with uncertainty. "Why would you want someone like me?"

Brandon's expression softens as he looks at you, his gaze filled with warmth and affection. "Because you're you," he replies simply, his voice filled with conviction. "You're kind, and compassionate, and brave. And I... I think I'm falling in love with you."

You stare at him in shock, unable to believe what you're hearing. "But Marianne..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you struggle to find the right words.

Brandon interrupts you gently, his voice filled with understanding. "Marianne sent me letters, asking me to visit her," he admits quietly. "But I refused, because... because of you. I want to explore this love, this connection that I feel with you. Marianne is not the solution to our problems. You are. Give me an occupation, [Your Name], or I shall run mad.”

Tears fill your eyes as you look at him, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don't deserve you," you whisper, your voice barely audible as you turn away from him.

But Brandon refuses to let you retreat into your self-doubt, reaching out to you and gently turning you back to face him. "It doesn't matter," he insists, his voice filled with determination. "It doesn't matter if you think you're not worthy of love. Because to me, you're everything."

You meet his gaze, your heart aching with longing and uncertainty. "But what if I have another episode?" you question hesitantly, your voice tinged with fear.

Brandon's expression softens, his hand reaching out to gently caress your cheek. "Then we'll face it together," he replies softly. "I'll be by your side, every step of the way. Because you're not alone, [Your Name]. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

You look away, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. The weight of Brandon's words hangs heavy in the air, his vulnerability laid bare before you. You want to say something, to reassure him of your feelings, but the words catch in your throat, choked by the fear and uncertainty that have plagued you for so long.

Brandon waits patiently for you to speak, his gaze searching yours for any sign of understanding. But when you remain silent, a defeated look crosses his features, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

"Maybe... maybe it's you who doesn't love me," he murmurs softly, his voice filled with a hint of desperation.

You feel a pang of guilt at his words, a surge of emotion welling up inside you as you struggle to find the courage to speak. But then, before you can stop yourself, the words spill from your lips in a rush of emotion.

"No, Christopher, it's not that," you interject, your voice trembling with emotion. "I love you. How could I not, after all the kindness you've shown me? There aren't enough stars in the sky to quantify how deeply I've fallen for you."

You pause, taking a shaky breath as you gather your thoughts. Weeks ago, when you overheard Brandon referring to you as a necessary burden, it had shattered your heart. You had never wanted to be seen as a burden to him, but your madness seemed to make it unavoidable.

"But I know that I can't make you happy," you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "But Marianne... she's young and beautiful. She'll have a much better chance of giving you children and making you happy. And the employees will like her. It will be better that way. I will no longer be a burden to you."

Tears fill your eyes as you speak, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. You know that this is your destiny, to fade into the background, with only the stars for company.

Brandon listens to you in silence, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. When you finish speaking, he reaches out to you, gently wiping away your tears with his thumb.

"You are not a burden, [Your Name]," he whispers softly, his voice filled with conviction. "And I don't want anyone else. I want you, just as you are. Marianne may have her charms, but she's not you. And I love you."

You look up at him, disbelief written all over your face. "But why?" you question, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

Brandon smiles tenderly at you, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. "Because you're you," he replies simply, his voice filled with sincerity. "And that's all I need."

[urgogodancer]

currently on holiday but you guys....i watched sense and sensibility (1995) on my way to my holiday AND WHAT IF I DID LIKE AN AU OF THAT WITH GWAYNE AS COLONEL BRANDON LOLOLOL my jane austen brainrot is off the roof right now. let me know if it's a good idea cus im desperate to write anything atp!!

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Because peeps asked for part 2, here's some more Austen referrences Jason's sweetheart makes.

“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.” You mumble in Jason's hair, to make sure he knows how much you cherish him letting you see this side of him.

“Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.” You muse during one of those quiet evenings at your apartments, sitting at the kitchen floor while Jason lets you patch up his pullet wound.

“To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.” You probe Jason verbally so he finally concedes and dances with you at his father's gala at least once.

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” You hiss indignantly to Jason's ear after you had misfortune of meeting a person who had the audacity to tell you that reading is boring.

"I have loved none but you. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan." Jason whisper to you after you confessed to him that you feel like you're dragging him down. You were, in fact, not in Bath. But Jason knew you understand his words perfectly.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

A Dashwood Heart

Word count: 4.8k

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Reader

Summary: The eldest Dashwood daughter, devoted to her younger half-sisters, moves with her family to Barton Cottage after their father's death leaves them with little inheritance. She secretly admires Colonel Brandon, who initially favors her sister Marianne.

______________________________________________________________

The passing of my father, Henry Dashwood, left a weight that settled heavy in the marrow of our bones. His death, unexpected in its swiftness, brought with it the end of comfort and the beginning of uncertainty. I am the eldest daughter of his first marriage, older by only five years than Elinor, the eldest daughter of his second. I had never known my own mother, who died bringing me into this world, and so my father’s second wife was the only mother I had ever known. She was kind and patient, and my sisters and I grew under her gentle guidance.

My older brother John inherited everything when Father passed, as was the law, but with it came his wife, Fanny—a woman whose character was as sharp as her tongue. Fanny Dashwood's arrival at Norland Park was not unlike a frost that comes too early in autumn, turning the leaves brittle and stripping the branches bare. Her presence suffocated any joy that had remained after Father’s passing. It became clear that our new reality, under John's roof, was not one we could endure. Thus, we set our sights on Barton Cottage, a modest home offered by a distant relation, Sir John Middleton.

The cottage was small and plain, lacking the grandeur and refinement of Norland Park. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in charm. We were together, and so it was enough. Elinor, Marianne, Margaret, our mother, and I—all of us settled into this new life with a mixture of trepidation and determination.

I had always been a second mother to my younger sisters, a role that came naturally to me as the eldest girl. I felt a special kinship with Margaret, who, being the youngest, had a particular need for a guiding hand. Elinor, though close in age to me, often bore her own burdens quietly. Marianne, on the other hand, with her romantic ideals and fiery spirit, needed a steadying force. I often thought it was my duty to be that force, even if she did not see it.

As time passed, our days at Barton Cottage grew filled with the warmth of companionship and the quiet joys of a simpler life. I found solace in the small routines—mending, reading, walking along the countryside with Margaret. For a time, I was content, even happy. But then, the company at Barton Park—the home of Sir John Middleton and his mother-in-law, Lady Jennings—brought a new awareness into my life.

It was during one of our frequent visits to Barton Park that I first observed Colonel Brandon. He was a man of quiet composure, with an air of reserve that spoke of unspoken sorrows. He was a gentleman, older than the other men we often met, but with a certain gravity that I found quite compelling. His attentions, however, were firmly fixed on Marianne.

I watched, often from a quiet corner of the room, as his eyes followed her movements, as he listened intently to her musical performances, his expression softening with every note she played. He would sit close enough to speak, yet always waited until she addressed him, his voice low and gentle when he did. It was clear that his admiration for her was genuine, but Marianne, so young and full of romantic ideals, was blind to his feelings.

Instead, she became enchanted by John Willoughby, a young man full of wit and charm. Willoughby, with his easy smiles and impetuous manner, was everything Marianne believed a hero to be. Colonel Brandon, seeing this, withdrew with quiet grace. I admired him for it, though it seemed his heart must surely ache. I began to feel a tug at my own heartstrings—a sense of kinship with him, perhaps, or an unspoken admiration.

One afternoon, as I sat with Elinor on the lawn at Barton Park, I ventured to speak of the Colonel.

"He is a man of remarkable steadiness, is he not?" I said, glancing over to where he stood, a little apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the distant hills.

Elinor nodded, her eyes following mine. "Indeed, he is. I find his company most agreeable, though he speaks but little."

"I have noticed that too," I replied. "Yet, there is much to be discerned in what he does not say. He has a manner that speaks of deep feeling, I think."

Elinor regarded me with a small smile. "Do you think so, sister? I believe you are right."

I could not help but feel a faint blush warm my cheeks. "It is only an observation," I murmured, turning my gaze to the ground. I had grown accustomed to being unnoticed, overshadowed by Marianne's beauty and Elinor's quiet elegance. Yet, I could not help but wonder if anyone had ever truly seen me—noticed me.

Days turned into weeks, and I continued to observe Colonel Brandon from a distance. I knew more about him than he would ever know of me, gleaned from quiet conversations with Elinor and overheard remarks from Lady Jennings, who was forever trying to marry off everyone in her sight.

"He is a good man, but so very serious," Lady Jennings had said one day. "A little dull for my tastes, but a fortune and a fine estate at Delaford. That is something, is it not?"

It was one evening, while we were all gathered at Barton Park, that I saw a change in him. Marianne was at the piano, playing one of her lively sonatas, and Willoughby was near, his admiration evident in every glance. Colonel Brandon, standing by the window, watched them, his face a study in quiet resignation. I saw, in that moment, the precise second his gaze shifted—away from Marianne and, for the first time, toward me.

I looked away quickly, my heart unexpectedly fluttering. Did he see me? Did he see something in me that he had not seen before? But no, it could not be. A man like him, so full of dignity and experience, would never turn his attention toward someone as inconsequential as myself.

The next time we met, it was at Barton Cottage. I was sitting with Margaret, helping her with her stitching, when there came a knock at the door. I opened it to find Colonel Brandon standing there, his expression as grave as ever, yet his eyes—his eyes were softer somehow.

"Miss Dashwood," he said, inclining his head. "I hope I am not intruding. Sir John mentioned that Miss Marianne had been unwell, and I thought to bring some books she might enjoy."

I invited him in, my voice trembling slightly, though I hoped he would not notice. He handed me the books, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest of moments. There was a warmth in his touch that startled me, and I quickly withdrew my hand.

"Thank you, Colonel," I said, mustering a smile. "I am sure Marianne will appreciate your thoughtfulness."

He nodded, his eyes searching mine. "And you, Miss Dashwood—are you well?"

The question took me by surprise, and I hesitated. "I am quite well, thank you, Colonel."

He seemed to want to say more, but just then, Marianne entered the room, and his attention shifted back to her. I could not help but feel a small pang of disappointment, but I knew better than to hope for anything more.

The days passed, and Colonel Brandon continued to visit, sometimes bringing books, sometimes just to call. Each time, he was polite and reserved, his conversations directed more often to my sisters than to me. Yet, there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when his eyes would linger on mine, and I would feel a warmth spread through my chest that I could not quite name.

It was a slow realization, like a bud slowly unfurling in spring, that perhaps, just perhaps, he saw something in me. And yet, I dared not hope, for I had never known what it was to be truly seen or wanted by anyone.

One afternoon, as we walked along the hills near Barton, I found myself walking beside him, a little apart from the others. There was a comfortable silence between us, the kind that comes from a shared understanding. I dared to speak.

"Do you think, Colonel," I began, my voice barely above a whisper, "that it is possible for someone to be overlooked all their life, and yet still hold hope for something more?"

He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and I felt the weight of his gaze settle upon my heart.

"I believe," he said slowly, "that there are those who go unnoticed because they are waiting for someone who sees them for who they truly are. And when that person comes, they will see them more clearly than anyone ever has."

I could hardly breathe. "Do you believe you have found such a person, Colonel?"

His eyes softened, and for the first time, I saw a hint of a smile touch his lips. "I think, Miss Dashwood, that I am beginning to see more than I ever expected."

As we walked on, my heart felt lighter than it had in years. Colonel Brandon’s words lingered in my mind, an echo of a possibility that had never before seemed within reach. I stole a glance at him beside me—his face turned toward the rolling hills, his expression contemplative. What did he see when he looked at me? Could he truly have meant that he was beginning to see me in a new light?

But no—doubts crept in as swiftly as the hope had formed. Perhaps he was merely being kind. Perhaps I had read too much into his words, a desperate grasping for something that was never there. I chastised myself inwardly and forced my thoughts back to the present.

Marianne, who had been ahead with Margaret, suddenly paused on the path. She turned back to us, her curls catching the light of the afternoon sun. “Colonel! Miss Dashwood! You must join us,” she called. “The view from here is quite extraordinary.”

Colonel Brandon’s gaze shifted from the hills to me. “Shall we?” he asked.

I nodded, and we walked the short distance to where Marianne and Margaret stood. As we reached them, I noticed the way Colonel Brandon’s eyes softened as he looked at Marianne. She was his first love here, I reminded myself, and my hopes began to wane again.

The four of us stood together, looking out over the valley, where the sunlight bathed the fields in a warm, golden hue. It was breathtaking, and for a moment, all my worries faded away.

Marianne, however, could never be quiet for long. “Colonel Brandon,” she began with a teasing smile, “you have been in a most serious mood all day. Come, share with us what weighs so heavily on your mind. Or is it that you have a secret you wish to keep hidden?”

He chuckled softly, a rare sound that drew my attention back to him. “I assure you, Miss Marianne, I am quite content at present,” he replied. “Though, perhaps I am simply in awe of the company I find myself in.”

Marianne laughed, a light and melodic sound. “You always know just what to say, Colonel. But I still believe there is something you are not telling us.”

“I assure you, my secrets are few,” he said, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he turned his gaze back to Marianne. “Though I do think some things are best left to be discovered in time.”

Marianne, in her spirited way, rolled her eyes and turned back to the view. Margaret, on the other hand, looked between us with a knowing grin, her youthful mind ever so quick to notice things others might overlook. I gave her a soft nudge, and she giggled, running ahead to explore a small cluster of wildflowers.

That evening, back at Barton Cottage, I found myself lost in thought. I could hardly focus on the book in my lap, my mind drifting back to the Colonel’s words on the hillside. Elinor, ever perceptive, noticed my distraction.

“Are you quite well, sister?” she asked, closing her own book and setting it aside. “You seem troubled.”

I hesitated for a moment. Elinor was always so sensible, so grounded in reality. “I am merely… contemplative, I suppose,” I replied. “I have been thinking about Colonel Brandon.”

Elinor raised an eyebrow, but her expression was gentle. “He is a thoughtful man, and I believe he holds you in high regard. It is only natural to think of him, given how often he is in our company these days.”

“Do you truly think so?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “That he holds me in high regard, I mean?”

Elinor smiled softly. “Yes, I do. I see the way he looks at you sometimes when he believes no one is watching. There is a certain tenderness there.”

My heart fluttered at her words, but I still felt uncertain. “I do not wish to be foolish,” I said quietly. “He is older and has known his share of heartbreak. I wonder if he could ever see me as… anything more.”

Elinor reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “You are kind and steady, and you see people as they truly are. If he does not see that, then he is a fool, which I do not believe he is.”

Her words offered some comfort, and I decided then to wait and see. I had no great expectations—only the smallest glimmer of hope that perhaps, in time, things might become clearer.

The weeks passed, and Colonel Brandon’s visits became more frequent. He brought with him a sense of calm that I found increasingly soothing. Sometimes, he would stay to read with us in the parlor, his low, steady voice filling the room with a quiet intimacy that made my heart ache in the loveliest of ways. At other times, he would invite us to walk, and though his steps often fell beside Marianne’s, his gaze would drift to me more often than not.

One evening, as we sat together after supper, he asked me a question that took me by surprise.

“Miss Dashwood, I have observed that you have a particular fondness for poetry,” he said, his voice low but clear. “Do you have a favorite poet?”

I looked up, startled that he had noticed something so personal about me. “I—I do, Colonel. I have always been drawn to Wordsworth. His verses speak of nature and the human spirit in a way that resonates deeply with me.”

He nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. “Wordsworth is indeed a master of capturing the beauty and complexity of life. Perhaps, one day, you would do me the honor of sharing some of your favorite passages.”

“I would be delighted,” I replied softly, my cheeks warming under his gaze.

Marianne, who had been listening, smiled broadly. “Oh, Colonel, you must hear my sister recite! She has a way with words, truly. You would be enraptured.”

I blushed deeply, but Colonel Brandon’s smile widened ever so slightly. “I have no doubt that I would be,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

As the days grew warmer, so too did my feelings for Colonel Brandon. I could no longer deny that my heart had grown quite attached to him, even if I could not be sure of his feelings in return. There were moments when I believed he saw me as more than just another Miss Dashwood, but I dared not hope too much.

One afternoon, as we walked back from Barton Park, Colonel Brandon lingered behind with me while the others walked ahead. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, and the soft rustle of leaves filled the silence between us. I could feel the weight of something unsaid hanging in the air, and I found myself wanting to fill it.

“Colonel Brandon,” I began cautiously, “I have been thinking much on our conversations lately.”

He turned to me, his expression attentive. “And what conclusions have you come to, Miss Dashwood?”

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. “Only that… I value them greatly. More than I had expected to.”

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something there—something warm and sincere. “I value them as well,” he said softly. “You have a quiet strength, Miss Dashwood. It is… a quality I have come to admire greatly.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You honor me with your words, Colonel,” I murmured. “Though I have done nothing to earn such praise.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary. You have earned far more than I can express. There is a grace in your manner, a kindness in your heart that speaks volumes.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Could it be that he truly saw me? That he valued me not just as a friend, but as something more?

Before I could find the courage to speak, Marianne called back to us, her voice breaking the moment. “Come along, you two! You are falling behind!”

We resumed our pace, but the silence that followed was no longer uncomfortable. It was filled with a new understanding, a new possibility.

It was a few days later when the opportunity for another conversation presented itself. Colonel Brandon arrived at Barton Cottage early, before any of the others were up and about. I was in the garden, tending to some of the late-blooming flowers, when I saw him approach.

“Good morning, Miss Dashwood,” he greeted me, a softness in his tone that sent a thrill through me.

“Good morning, Colonel,” I replied, brushing the dirt from my hands. “You are early today.”

He nodded, looking almost hesitant. “I hoped to speak with you alone, if I might.”

My heart began to race. “Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He took a deep breath, and for a moment, he seemed to gather his thoughts. “Miss Dashwood,” he began, “I have found great comfort in your company these past weeks. You have shown me a kindness that I had thought lost to me. And I find myself… drawn to you in a way I had not expected.”

I could hardly breathe. “Colonel, I—”

He held up a hand, his expression earnest. “Please, allow me to finish. I know I am not a young man. I have lived through much, and I do not offer my heart lightly. But if you could ever see it in your own heart to care for me even a fraction of how I have come to care for you, I would be the most fortunate man.”

Tears filled my eyes as I listened to his words—words I had never dared to hope for. “Oh, Colonel,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You have seen me when I thought no one ever would. And I… I have come to care for you deeply, more than I ever thought possible.”

His face broke into a smile, the kind of smile that transformed his entire countenance, and he took a step closer. “Then, may I hope, Miss Dashwood, that we might find happiness together?”

As the days passed, I found myself growing closer to Colonel Brandon. Our conversations were filled with a warmth and understanding that I had never known before. He would visit Barton Cottage frequently, bringing with him a quiet sense of comfort and constancy that I had come to cherish. When we were alone or with Elinor, his attention was always on me—his gaze gentle, his words thoughtful. I could feel the beginnings of a deep bond forming between us, a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

But there was a change in Marianne—a shift in her demeanor that was impossible to ignore. She had always been the center of attention, the bright star that drew everyone’s gaze. Colonel Brandon had once been enthralled by her every word, her every movement. Yet now, his attentions had turned toward me, and though Marianne had been enamored with John Willoughby, I could see the flicker of jealousy in her eyes.

One afternoon, as we all sat in the small parlor at Barton Cottage, Marianne decided to play the piano. She chose a lively piece, one that she knew Colonel Brandon favored. She glanced at him often as she played, her eyes bright with a mixture of mischief and expectation. But though he listened politely, his attention kept drifting back to me, where I sat beside Elinor, quietly observing the scene unfold.

Marianne finished the piece with a flourish and turned to the Colonel, her smile wide. “What do you think, Colonel? Is it not a fine composition?”

He nodded, offering her a small smile. “Indeed, Miss Marianne, you play it with great spirit.”

She seemed dissatisfied with his restrained praise. “But you seem distracted, Colonel. Tell me, where are your thoughts this afternoon? Have they wandered far from this room?”

Colonel Brandon’s eyes flicked briefly to mine, and I felt my breath catch. “I assure you, Miss Marianne, I am very much present,” he replied. “But there is much to contemplate in such company.”

Marianne’s smile faltered slightly. She looked between the Colonel and me, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You have been most attentive to my sister lately, Colonel,” she said with a forced lightness. “I had thought your admiration was reserved for more… romantic sensibilities.”

Elinor, sensing the tension, interjected quickly. “Marianne, the Colonel has been a good friend to us all. There is no need to assign motives where there are none.”

But Marianne was not to be deterred. “Oh, I only jest, of course. It is all in good fun.”

I could feel my cheeks warming under her scrutiny. Colonel Brandon, however, remained calm and composed. “I assure you, Miss Marianne,” he said, his voice steady, “my admiration extends to all those whose company I enjoy.”

Marianne seemed unsatisfied with this answer, but she forced a smile nonetheless. I could see the hint of something sharp behind her eyes—a flicker of resentment that she tried to mask with a laugh.

From that moment on, her demeanor toward the Colonel changed subtly. She became more flirtatious, more eager to draw his attention back to herself. She would seek him out in conversation, touch his arm lightly when speaking to him, and laugh brightly at his every comment. It was as if she could not bear the thought of his gaze resting anywhere but on her.

One evening, as we prepared to walk back from Barton Park, Marianne pulled Colonel Brandon aside, leaving me standing with Elinor and Margaret. I watched them from a distance, trying to quell the rising tide of insecurity within me. Elinor, ever perceptive, noticed my unease.

“She does not mean to be cruel,” Elinor said quietly. “She is simply unused to sharing attention. It will pass.”

I nodded, trying to smile, but my heart felt heavy. “I only hope she understands that I would never wish to come between her and someone she cares for.”

Elinor squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Colonel Brandon is not Willoughby, nor is he someone to be swayed by fleeting affections. Trust in his character, sister.”

I tried to take comfort in her words, but the doubt lingered.

It was not long after this that an unexpected letter arrived at Barton Cottage, bearing the unmistakable seal of my brother, John Dashwood. The contents were brief and to the point: he and Fanny would be visiting in a week’s time, bringing with them “important news” regarding my future.

Elinor read the letter aloud to our mother, who immediately grew anxious. “What could they possibly want now?” she murmured, her brow furrowed with concern.

“I can hardly imagine it is anything good,” I replied quietly, already feeling a sense of foreboding.

When John and Fanny arrived, it was as though a cold wind had blown through the cottage. Fanny swept into the room with her usual air of superiority, her eyes scanning the modest furnishings with thinly veiled disdain. John, though more subdued, still carried himself with a certain aloofness that made it clear he considered himself above our current situation.

“Ah, dear sister,” John said with a strained smile, “how… quaint it is here.”

I forced a smile in return. “We have made it quite comfortable, thank you.”

Fanny wasted no time in getting to the point. “My dear, we have come to bring you some wonderful news,” she said, her voice dripping with false cheer. “John has taken it upon himself to find a suitable match for you, as it is his duty as your brother. And you shall be leaving with us for London in a week’s time to meet your future husband.”

The words hit me like a blow. “A suitable match?” I echoed, struggling to keep my voice steady. “But I have not—”

“Of course, you have not met him yet,” Fanny interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “But he is a most respectable gentleman, with a fine income and a comfortable estate. You shall be well provided for, and we have already made the necessary arrangements.”

Elinor’s eyes flashed with anger. “And what if my sister does not wish to marry this man?”

Fanny’s smile was tight and condescending. “Elinor, dear, it is not a matter of what she wishes. It is a matter of what is best for her. And John, as her guardian, has decided this is best.”

I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. I had no say in this decision, and they knew it.

Colonel Brandon, who had come to call just as the conversation took a darker turn, stood in the doorway, his face a mask of quiet concern. He had clearly heard enough to understand the gravity of the situation. His eyes met mine, and I saw the turmoil there—the unspoken question of what he should do.

That evening, as we sat by the fire, Colonel Brandon pulled John aside for a private word. I watched them from a distance, my heart in my throat, as the Colonel spoke with my brother in low, earnest tones.

“Mr. Dashwood,” I heard him say, “I understand your intentions toward your sister are, perhaps, well-meaning, but I must speak on her behalf.”

John looked startled. “On her behalf? And who are you to speak for her, Colonel?”

“A friend,” he replied, his voice steady. “A friend who believes she deserves the right to choose her own future.”

John’s expression shifted, growing defensive. “I am her brother, her guardian. It is my duty to see her well settled. And the match I have found for her is more than adequate.”

Colonel Brandon’s eyes darkened. “With all due respect, a match is more than adequate when it is chosen with the heart in mind. Your sister deserves more than an arrangement; she deserves happiness.”

John scoffed. “And you believe you know what will make her happy?”

There was a long pause. “I would hope to know her well enough to understand what she needs,” Colonel Brandon said quietly. “And I would ask that you allow her the choice to stay.”

John’s face hardened. “Colonel, I appreciate your concern, but this is a family matter. She will come with us to London, and that is final.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Colonel Brandon standing there, his expression troubled. I watched him, my heart aching with gratitude and frustration. He had tried—tried to speak for me, to stand against the forces that sought to control my fate. But it seemed all for naught.

Later that night, as the household settled into uneasy silence, Colonel Brandon asked to speak with me alone. We stepped out into the moonlit garden, the cool night air brushing against my skin.

“I am sorry,” he began, his voice low and filled with regret. “I tried to reason with your brother, but he is determined. I fear I have only made matters worse.”

“You have done more than anyone else would have,” I replied, my voice trembling. “You have shown me a kindness I did not think possible, and for that, I am grateful.”

He took a step closer, his eyes searching mine. “If you wish it, I would go to London myself. I would speak with this gentleman your brother has chosen and make it clear that your heart is not free to be given.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You would do that for me?”

He nodded, his expression earnest. “I would do anything to see you happy, even if it means letting you go.”

Tears filled my eyes, and I reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I do not wish to go to London. I do not wish to meet this man. I wish to stay here, with you… and with my family.”

[deepperplexity]

Prompt 5. Grave Of Snow [A2]

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!Reader

POV: Second, Reader & Third, Brandon

Setting: The Lands Around Delaford Estate & Delaford Estate

Continuation of: Prompt 1. Chimney Soot

A/N: This was harder to write than I'd thought it would be. My own greatest death fear is drowning, no other manner of dying scares me more than that but this fic as being buried alive and it's quite a horrendous thing too - and it's Christmas time, what a super jolly way to spend it 😂 Gosh, I hope you weren't expecting Rickmas2023 to be all sweet and fluffy 🙈👍❤

On another note, we're making an ice rink in our backyard (nearly done) and I just realised this year I have no prompt for ice skating 😱 Like, sure, you can connect almost any prompt with Ice Skating but there's no dedicated prompt for it this year - feels a little weird 😂

Tags/TW’s: Buried Alive, Fear Of Being Harmed, Mentions Past Physical Hurt (hand lashing and punishment), Fear Of Losing Someone, Mentions Past/Current Fears (being buried alive) ...and good doggies doing a good job too

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name

Word Count: 3.2k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

⩤• You •⩥

You wiped at your face, the soot still clung to your skin, leaving you looking like a bandit raccoon as the handkerchief had protected your lower face. The dusty dress lay abandoned on the floor as you pulled on the rags you’d come to Delaford in. This can’t be happening, cannot, cannot be happening! The colonel! I-, I-, oh, I’m my own ruin!

You banged open the door, and slammed it shut by cheer force while running before you even released the handle. The winding, narrow steps were a death trap in your rush to get away. You were not going to stay for a lashing, for a rough yelling, for any punishment the upstanding man deemed fit for your actions — for your lack of knowledge about the very man himself rendering you unable to treat him correctly even. You didn’t even take the time to say goodbye to Mrs Garber, or inform Cook about you leaving. You just ran out into the snowy winter land outside as the winds whipped around, tossing about that very snow. While the clouds hid the warming rays of the sun, the sky was as grey as your trembling hands.

The night had gifted the world with another few inches of snow the stable boys were helping the other servants to shovel, but the servants’ side wasn’t cleared yet so your legs plummeted into the white cold to your mid-thighs. You shivered and hissed as your dress hiked up, the long underpants you wore upon your arrival were still up in your quarters. Your rush hadn’t allowed for more than your dress, shoes, and cloak to be put on.

You clumsily forced your way through the snow, not knowing where any paths were you only focused on reaching the tree line up ahead. It was far off, but you were determined to get away before anyone could get their hands on you. His gentle eyes still lingered in your head, the sweet warmth his voice spread through you, the slight scrutiny he’d viewed you with — as if he’d been trying to see beyond the soot and covering handkerchief. You’d never felt any tingle like the one he’d made your skin warm under. What was that even? A sudden lapse of judgement? A lust, like other men throw my way when they want to take advantage?No, that thought didn’t sit right with you. His gentleness was too clear, yet you knew nothing about him and you had met people like that before. Kind, caring, sweet — on the outside. Behind closed doors, that was a different matter entirely.

You feel forward, plummeting into the snow as your foot tripped on something. You were crawling forward a second later, determined to reach the trees, to hide among them and get away from the estate you had hoped would have been your salvation through the freezing winter. Now, well, you were even worse off than before. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I shouldn’t have tried so hard! I should have just told Mrs Thatch about the clog!

You reached the trees just as the sound of hounds filled the air. A foreboding dread filled you from within as you picked up the pace and nearly ploughed your way through the snow, your foggy breath heaving out of you while the hounds' yelps and howls seemed to turn louder. You grasped the first low-hanging branch of a pine and pulled yourself forward as the imposing trees sheltered you from the biting winds, the sounds of the hounds half drowned out as you dragged and pulled yourself forward until the snow lessened, burdening the branches above rather than the ground below.

A sigh of relief escaped you as you grabbed another branch and pulled yourself forward one final time before the snow only reached your knees. The relief was felt too soon while you sought to get deeper among the trees. You stumbled forward, snagging your foot on a hidden root below, only to grab a hold of another branch. It slipped through your numbing fingers, the pine needles like cutting blades — hardened by the cold — as they sliced at your palms while you ended up in the snow with a panted breath at the impact nearly burying your face in the white cold. Then you were pummelled.

The branch had been released with such force the tree swayed, its branches being freed of the heavy snow above before the sudden springing rippled through the nearest tree. Snow came crashing down in waves and you could do nothing but shield your face as the weight forced you to lay still — burying you completely without your cry of fear penetrating the deadly mass. Lord, no, you thought as you lay immobile with only a small bubble of air around your face thanks to your raised arms.

Why his chuckle echoed in your head, why the sturdiness of his body against yours filtered through the fear, why the gentle curiosity in his eyes shimmered before your mind's eyes you couldn’t tell. The echo of silver bells, the crackling of a fire, the swirl of dancing couples in wonderful dresses and beautiful frocks seemed like a hazy fog of a dream you’d wished for all your life and were now never to experience. Not even as an attentive maid blending into the scenery without anyone taking notice. In that foggy dream, keeping the horror of your grave of snow at a distance, he stood at the very centre and his eyes — gentle and sweet — were only on you. The tingling warmth in your numb fingers and toes felt as real as the crawling chill along your back while you struggled more and more to breathe and stay conscious.

⩤• Brandon •⩥

“Samson, search!” he bellowed, his voice travelling further than needed. Your dusty handkerchief held tightly in his harsh fist, the hound’s nose just having been buried in it before the other dogs took a whiff. The hound howled, setting the other dogs off with yelps and barks as they dove into the snow, the path your body had cut through it already starting to fill with the swirling snow the harsh winds threw about.

He had never been spellbound before. The way he had seen only your eyes surrounded by black ash ought to have discouraged any sensations within his chest but, alas, the wonder your eyes were and the manner you spoke with had taken him by such surprise his heart had no chance but to pound. He’d never thought sticking his head in a chimney while talking about Santa Claus would have lurched his entire body into a warm pounding. You had spoken so sweetly, your eyes those of someone who knew hardship yet prevailed. He was enthralled with the glimmer in them the second your eyes had connected in the dark of the chimney.

The hound howled again as he stepped out of the protective walls of stone, through the servants’ door, and felt himself sink to right above his knee in the snow. Remembering the disarray of your quarters, the discarded dress, the abandoned second undergarments that should have clad your body to protect against the snow — no matter the horridly tattered state of the thin fabrics — made his stomach twist.

He was not unfamiliar with the cold, the wetness, the dampness of melted snow, and how it would cling to one’s body. He had spent far too many seasons in service of the royals not to have experienced all sorts of weather and their respective challenges. And now you were out there, exposed and frightened given the horrendous look you had offered him before running away in a poof of swirling ash dust. There had been something wrong with that look, the dread of it — and the manner you had wrung your hands before you. what harm has befallen you before? Have hands been laid atop you for such a small thing as spreading ash?

He gave chase, following the loud dogs with servants following behind him with his heart in a harsh pounding. The snow wasted no time clinging to him, seeping through his clothes not suitable for the weather in the slightest. The only thing he’d done was drape a heavy cloak around himself while Mr Barkley had fetched the hunting dogs, his beloved hound at the helm of the pack. He was grateful for having taken that extra second to at least do that as the wind was bitingly cold, nearly clawing at his cheeks while the sky above seemed to darken by the second until the snow being thrown about was so thick the clouds above were no longer visible.

“Samson! Search!” he called, the hound howling back while your trembling shoulders filled his head. Something had been done to you, someone had hurt you for something akin to what had just happened and he could not fathom anyone harming anyone over cleaning, or stumbling, or not knowing the face of a man they had never before met.

Samson howled and came bolting back toward him, Christopher felt his heart stop as the dog kept sniffing the ground at his feet, searching for a fresher scent. The trail you’d left behind was gone, he could barely see an inch before him as the snow stuck to his lashes. He pulled out the handkerchief again, beckoning Samson to take a new whiff — the hound ignored him while sniffing the ground harder, burrowing his nose below the top layer before digging his way through the snow toward the trees Christopher knew lay not far away even if he could not see them.

“Sir Brandon!” Mr Barr called behind him. “Sir! The winds are too strong!” the man called over the howling of that very phenomenon of nature. “We shall find her! Or she will perish out here!” he called back, not stopping his trudge forward despite the snow gripping him nearly to his mid-thighs by that time. I shall not lose her to this storm , he thought while leaning forward to push through the snow faster, following the small dent after Samson and the rest of the dogs. “Sir! It’s too dangerous!” Mr Barr called, but he ignored it. He had faced danger, and the storm wrapping him up was nothing compared to the horrors of his past, or the pain contained within it.

They reached the trees and the thickness of the branches kept the worst of the winds at bay, the snow on the ground lessening for each step until it barely came to his knees and he could move faster. Samson’s howl up ahead caught his attention, he’d found something. Christopher barged forward, running despite the snow and whipping branches, until he found his dogs digging at what appeared to be a mound of snow created by yielding branches.

His heart leapt toward his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Are you in there? His mind had time to wonder before he lurched into action. If you lay buried under such heavy snow, had you any air to breathe? Had you broken anything? Were you crushed? To be buried alive had been one of his greatest fears back in the East Indies, and even before that. When he was a lesser man, fighting in trenches filled with muddy water that could have easily turned into a watery grave in the madness of battle.

He dug, and dug, and dug until his skin felt as if it would slide off his icy fingers and his nails crack with the cold. That was when your fingers appeared, icy cold and unmoving. His lungs stuttered on a sharp intake of air while Samson licked the fingers quickly. He dug with all his might just as the servants appeared behind him. “Dig, men! Dig! ” he demanded with such a dark rumble he barely recognized his frantic voice himself.

A frantic moment later you were dug out from the snowy grave he would not allow to become an eternal resting place. He dragged you too forcefully into his arms, wiping away snow from your cold face, smearing the ash further — hiding your face from him behind a blotchy mess of black and grey — but he could not have cared less as he saw foggy air part from between your lips. His shoulders sank with relief before he held you up and took off his cloak by interchanging his arms. You were tightly wrapped but unresponsive as he stood with Samson by his leg, his entire body wiggling with the motion of his tail as it wagged relentlessly from having found his target.

⩤• You •⩥

You shivered, a wet rag graced your forehead in a rubbing motion while the deep sigh of a woman echoed all around you. “Stupid child, why would you run in such a manner,” Mrs Garber nearly whispered, the familiarity of her voice softening the pounding of your heart. “And from the colonel no less, foolish girl.” You couldn’t tell if your mother’s long-lost friend was angry or worried, her voice didn’t let it slip through fully.

When your eyes blinked open she was leaning over you, and you were almost too warm. “Oh, Y/n,” she said while you blinked a few more times to clear your vision. “Foolish girl, you had me so worried!” she chided, but, perhaps affectionately so. “Mary?” you asked and she sighed but nodded. “Where-, where am I?” you asked as your eyes flicked about the glorious room as you tried to move your stiff limbs. A giant canopy of thick fabric was above you, the mattress beneath was the most comfortable one you’d ever laid upon, and the covers atop you felt lush — like silk, expensive silk.

“Oh, sweet child, you’re in—” “Mrs Thatch,” came that gravelly voice which sent goosebumps along every inch of your skin while your heart picked up the pace a notch as you turned your eyes toward the slightly ajar door. “Give me an occupation, or I shall run mad,” he continued so quietly it shouldn’t have been possible for you to hear the words. But his voice travelled far, even in such a low tone appearing to be far away given the echo to it. “Colonel, sir,” that shrill voice from the grand room before said. “There is little to do but wait. She is in good care with Mrs Garber, sir.”

Your eyebrows scrunched, he sounded anxious — it didn’t suit that voice at all to have such a tone. You found yourself wishing to hear that chuckle of his again. Perhaps you had a fever and were delirious? “You have had the master so worried, Y/n. How could you do such a thing to the good man?” Mrs Garber chided quietly but you couldn’t quite grasp the words. “Now, you lay here and I shall fetch the man before he drives himself to insanity. You apologise, you hear me? He is a gentle soul, I will not have you tormenting the respectable man with your nonsense behaviour. Your mother wasn't able to run away but that does not give you the right to bolt in such a manner.” Her eyes were harsh, nearly glaringly so, as she rose and tucked the cover all the way up to your chin before smoothing out your hair in what you believed to be an attempt at making you appear more decent.

Your heart pounded harder with each step she moved toward the door. When she pushed it open you sat up, the cover pooling around your waist while the nightshirt placed on you kept you covered from your collarbones and down. “She’s awake, sir,” Mrs Garber said and, not a second later, he was in the doorway. “Miss Y/l/n,” he said without taking so much as half a step into the room itself. His voice was that of relief, his gentle eyes warm in the glow of the hearth at the opposite end of the room from where you lay in a giant bed.

You felt your cheeks heat, your fingers gripping the cover atop your legs harshly while your eyes folded from his intent viewing of you. Your heart ran amok as he stood in figure-disclosing attire with his black frock coat nearly clinging to his waist while the shiny boots adorning his feet glimmered in just as black a colour.

“Miss Y/n/l? Are you fairing?” he asked while taking a step closer, making your head jerk up. “I-, I am,” you stuttered. “Sir, I’m-, I apologies, for my behaviour,” you continued while you endeavoured to remember what had happened after you lost your grip on the branch with slicing blades for pine needles. “Not a word about it,” he said as he began moving in, toward the foot of the bed. The light of the fire encased him in a glowing halo, making his hair shimmer and the glimmer in his eyes appeared brighter as his eyes held yours.

Why is my heart running rampant? I’m-, I’m all tingly all over when he views me. Your thoughts were uncertain but your body seemed to react in a wholly new way to the grand man before you. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice dipping lower. You could only manage to shake your head. “You were buried in the snow,” he said after a moment. His fingers curled around the footrest of the bed, his knuckles whitening at the force used. Your breath hitched at the sight, so alike hands around a riding crop used for lashings.

Your fingers began fidgeting, your hands wringing and rubbing atop the cover. The memory of the pain was far too fresh. “Miss?” he said, snatching your attention. “Are your hands hurting?” You stiffened for a second before you let go and grabbed the cover anew while shaking your head. “Did someone lay harm upon you?” You didn’t move, didn’t say a thing, only kept your eyes on his whitening knuckles. It was a common thing, after all. Masters laid hands upon their servants as they deemed fit, and you had time and time again ended up at the mercy of such wicked, cruel men and women were either fate or a coincidence.

Your breath hitched as he suddenly pushed off the bed frame, stepping around to stand at your side in less than three long strides. You shrunk into the mattress, his imposing figure hard to take so closely — yet, it wasn’t just fear of retribution that made you do so. No, no there was something else entirely imposing about him that you fought against so as not to be drawn in. If it were his handsomeness, the memory of his sweet chuckle, or those gentle eyes that now seemed to flare with something darker you couldn’t quite say. But he warmed you in places he ought not to have been able to reach at all.

“No matter,” he said quietly, a mere drawl of a whisper. “You are safe here, miss. No harm will befall you within my estate.” “S-sir?” you squeaked out, confused at his sweet words spoken in such a harsh tone. “Are you not to punish me?” you continued with a tremble to your voice that had far more to do with the warmth he spread within you than the question you’d just asked. His eyes flared before his entire face softened. “No, my sweet. No punishment shall ever befall you for breathing life into my heart with those eyes of yours.”

…To Be Continued…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Ugh, theses two... Gosh, I do love it when emotions are instant and soulmate-like 😩👏 And another cliffhanger it is - are we excited to see where this goes? 👀😘

I'm working as hard as I can to make sure I'm as early as possible posting and I'm going to start working on tomorrow's prompt right away, I have a little extra time today (aka I'm taking the time today 'cus I need it 😂) so perhaps I'll start working on Thursday's prompt too - tomorrow we're getting back to Turpin again anyway! 🥰👏

Q: If you had to choose between only listening to Christmas music and no other music or only watching Christmas movies and no other movies through all of December - what would you choose? 👀 A: I'd say I'd choose Christmas music - but, I love it and almost exclusively listen to Christmas music through November and December anyway 😂 Only watching Christmas movies would be harder 🙈

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[Dec:2023]

[catchthewindd]

these eyes (part one) - hugh grant

two ex best friends. one party. lots of alcohol. what could go wrong?

you had an intense love/hate relationship with one hugh john mungo grant. an intense relationship, in that you loved to hate him.

the pipeline of childhood friends to adulthood enemies is not uncommon by any means, but hugh and your’s situation was by all means the definition of the word. uncommon. for in fact, you two were on the best of terms just last year. that is, until “the incident”.

“the incident”, or “that one time hugh made out with my best friend right after i confessed my feelings to him” as you like to refer to it as, absolutely shattered you. and on your birthday of all days? definitely a cad-like move on his part.

yet here you are. another year, another birthday, another excuse to cry over him. except you won’t- or you’re trying not to, anyway. you are totally over him. he’s an asshole. he quite literally ruined your life.

needless to say, he’s not invited to your birthday dinner. neither is his girlfriend: your ex best friend.

who is invited, is jamie. jamie is a sweet guy you met at work, who you think has taken a shining to you. you’re starting to warm up to him yourself, but your (unfortunately) unresolved feelings for hugh have annoyingly been getting in the way. you plan on fixing that tonight.

hugh has hurt you. the fact of the matter is, it’s time to move on. you have a perfect new suitor in jamie, it’d be foolish to let him slip away from you.

—

it’s finally party time and guests are showing up in abundance. laughter fills your usually-silent apartment, and the snack food you had set out 20 minutes ago already seems to be gone. it’s as though you’d forgotten you had invited this many people!

the party goes on as parties do, you mingle with the guests, and let them all serenade you with birthday wishes and compliments. you drink. a lot. and with dinner time fast approaching, you make it a mission to seek out jamie. surely he must have arrived by now?

as you walk through the sea of people in your living room in attempt to find jamie, you are caught off guard by a seedy blonde with ringlet curls. you’ve seen those curls before. those curls surely weren’t invited to your birthday soirée. and to your utmost shock and despair, those seedy ringlet curls had brought their fuckwit fluffy brunette boyfriend to match. she spoke with utmost confidence, “darling! so good to see you, it’s been far too long. you remember hugh, of course?

dumbfounded, you had to make a quick escape- so that’s exactly what you did, finding shelter in your room. you couldn’t face this strange reality, not now, not today. it was your birthday! this was not part of the plan!

but instead of being greeted with lonesome bliss, you saw jamie foraging around your things. he looked up at you with sad eyes. knowing eyes. you didn’t even find reason to question his whereabouts, you simply ran over to him and melted. crying into his shoulder, letting your perfectly applied birthday makeup run down your face and onto his shirt sleeve. he didn’t ask for an explanation of your sorrow, he only held you and comforted you through your time of need. jamie was so perfect for you. he was everything you could ever want in a man.

yet you felt nothing. in fact, your tears only amplified from it. this incredibly sweet, handsome, doting man was right in front of you. holding you as you broke down. yet your heart was still attached to the absolute douchebag downstairs.

once again needing to flee, you apologized to jamie profusely and swiftly left his embrace. you were running out of “safe” spaces- your apartment had only so many rooms. maybe it was logic, or maybe it was the alcohol, but you soon found yourself fully opening the already half opened bathroom door. desperate times call for desperate measures. letting out a sigh and slamming the door behind you, you sunk to your knees in another sob. at this point, party guests were surely confused to where their host had gone, and likely even more confused as to why they kept hearing loud sobbing coming from the bathroom, only breaking cries to shout a profanity or two every now and then. you were a wreck in there, so much so that it wasn’t until 10 minutes after your less-than-graceful entry to the bathroom that you realized you weren’t alone. once again, a pair of sad, knowing eyes looked at you. but these eyes didn’t belong to jamie.

these eyes belonged to hugh.

[justafairytailofinnocence]

Colonel brandon x mermaid fem reader 🧜‍♀️🎩

It was the summer of 1792, within the Barton cottage of Devon in the countryside. Mrs. Dashwoods daughters wandered through the rich, vibrant field's plain accompanied by Edward and Colonel Brandon—much to the annoyance of Marianne. They were chatting about the yester nights supper.

As Edward and Elinor speak of their own personal affairs. Marianne remained silent, livid, and stultified along the walk. She had no interest in Colonel. He insisted to Mrs Dashwood on going along for the mere purpose of protection. In reality—it was primarily to grow closer to Marianne.

"I must say, tis quite a swell morning." Elinor lightly smiled at Edward. He was rather dashing in her eyes, a kind spirit who grew attached to her. She yearned for him despite having a polite demeanour. "I believe it is. The way the sun rose over the fields is truly a picturesque view."

Marianne, feeling the colonel's eyes linger on her, fastly walked, pacing with her sister Elinor. "I think it much more of a romantic scene, actually, the way the light reflects onto the grassy Plains as a man proposes on one knee, professing his undying love for her—".

"You read too many books, Marianne, romance is a complication, one must work hard to strive for what one can achieve, tis not all true love at first sight." Elinor interjected, speaking from a rational standpoint.

"Love is not all logic and reason. Tis an emotion, a beautiful part of life, when one falls in love only then does nothing matter but their one true love. You may think it foolish, but I see it as something special." Marianne protested passively. She was a poet, a romantic at heart who believed in true love whilst Elinor saw the realistic outlook.

"I think it romantic. That's how princes and princesses marry." Maragret skipped beside her sister's, causing Elinor to smile balmily.

"I'm afraid that's only in fairytails," Edward stirred at a kind jest.

"Is not, I swear it's true," She smiled back.

"Even fairytails don't paint the reality of such." Elinor kindly remarked.

The colonel remained silent and stern, as they were traversing across the rich, grassy plane. They came across a creek. The colonel nobly stood in front. From the first look, it was a small ledge following down into a creek with sand. Luckily it wasn't that hard to cross, they only needed to mind the gap which was a wide step to cross. There was a small twig within the middle.

The colonel stepped widely across. Firstly, he offered his hand to Elinor. At first she was cautious, stepping across as much as she could. She landed in his arms at least, thanking him for the help. Second was Edward, then Maragret. And finally—Marianne.

She gently grabbed his hand covered by a leather glove, averting his gaze. She landed safely but, she did not say a word thank the Colonel. "Quite a step I must say" Edward gleamed at Elinor.

"Indeed, but at least we're all in good spirits." Elinor assumed, though, she knew Marianne would've rather John. She wished Marianne would see how hard the Colonel is trying. He may not be as favoured within Marianne's romantic ideals but, he was a good man at heart despite his reserved outward nature.

Maragret had decided to follow the creek on her own, though, Elinor was rather against it. She didn't like the idea of such a young girl going off. What if she got hurt. How would mother react. They wouldn't be able to save her.

Though her thoughts were put to ease as Colonel Brandon assisted to keep a watchful eye over the thirteen year old child. Elinor thanked him, although, in the nick of time. Seemingly to the answered prayer of Marianne, a horses gallop could be heard gathering closer.

"John!" Marianne's face sprung a glint of joy. She was relieved to say the least, perhaps her dull end could be put to an exiting new, romantic rendezvous.

"Marianne" he grinned, sliding one leg off and stepping down from the horse. In well-manners, he bowed, kissing the back of Marianne's hand. "Oh how delightful it is to see you again."

"I've gathered word from Mrs Jennings of your outing, I knew you hadn't traversed far for I wished to accompany you."

Elinor smiled out of politeness but deep down, she knew this wounded the Colonel wanting the attention of Marianne. Within the Colonel's cold exterior, he greeted John formally. "Good morrow, Mr. Willoughby." He said with a cold tone and bowed.

"Sir Brandon, good morrow." He bowed back with a polite demeanour.

"I've come to ask permission if Miss Dashwood shall accompany me." John offered a hand to Marianne. Of course. She obliged willingly.

The two walked in front, Marianne delicately placing her arms around John as he offered his arm. Elinor felt sorry for the Colonel, she wanted to speak up, but, the Colonel had coldly agreed to keep a watchful eye over Maragret. "I shall bid you farewell Elinor, Edward, John—Marianne." He gazed at her expecting a politeful curtsy back, though, she ignored him. Fixated on John.

"I shall catch up with you for this afternoon's tea." He bowed formally and seemingly wandered off to keep an eye over Maragret. Elinor gently sighed to herself, walking beside Edward "shall we continue to stroll."

The colonel trailed upward the creek's stream, for what seemed like nearly half an hour. Maragret skipped along side the stream, holding a cottail crop from the waterside. Just as they were traversing and chatting. Margaret stopped in her tracks spotting something within the water.

She edged closer, taking a peek curiously. Twas it a fish? Mayhaps a yabby? Or—

At first it, within the water's stream, within the deeper part of the creek. It almost looked like the tail end of a fish, a big fish at that.

She stared closer. Concentrating.

Again. The movement of a fishes tail-end slithered within the water. She gasped at the discovery, nearly thinking it was some sort of weird snake.

In instinct, she climbed down the ledge of the creek, landing on the white sand. She trailed further appearing near a small grotto, big enough to fit baby cattle. She crouched, her white dress getting wet yet she didn't care.

She crept closer along the stream, only to see a tail slither in the water. She crept closer, her childlike curiosity getting the better of her. As she trailed closer, she was standing on rocks to keep her balance, her slippers now soaking wet.

She was often good and well mannered, yet, she was very inquisitive. Suddenly, as her hand tried to reach the side of the grassy mount. However, something slid beneath her foot, causing her to trip and fall.

She fell backwards into the river yelping, luckily she had not hit her head and only recieved a bruise. Within distance, Colonel Brandon heard her call and rushed to find her. He was often quite diligent when it came to such things but this time—she had wandered out of sight. "Margaret!" He called out.

"Colonel! There's something in the water!" Maragret called out. She was rather weary at first but, she put on a brave face. She cautiously looked further trying to gain her balance.

She saw movement in the water, though, it was a tail. Flapping in the stream, as if, the thing that tripped her was also frightened. "I'm not afraid of you! You needn't not be afraid of me."

The colonel trailed down the mount, following the voice of Margaret. To his relief—she was safe. "Thank heaven's" he sighed. He approached Marianne, similar to a father worrying over his daughter. "Your not hurt are you."

"No, I'm fine, just. Cold." She replied, afraid she'll get in trouble.

"I'm sorry Colonel. I was only curious. I-I-."

"I'm relieved your not hurt, but I do believe Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings will be rather perturbed." He said. She was expecting to be scolded but instead.

"But that's all part of the adventure tis is not" he smiled sympathetically.

She grinned back in response. He was truly a good man with a good heart, even though she never understood why her older sister Marianne never paid much attention to him.

The tail slithered once more within the water and in response. The colonel protectively stood in front of Maragret pulling her behind him so whatever may come at them, would go through him first.

"Margaret, I wish you to listen intently. Shall anything happen, I want you to run back to Elinor, Marianne, or Edward." He said simply, though, she noticed he did not mention John.

"Very well." She muttered, growing fearful.

The colonel, instinctively, grabbed a sharp rock from within the water. Walking back slowly.

Once more the fish tail flapped out of the water. The colonel nobly wandered forward preparing to attack whatever may come their way. As he walked closer, crouching, within the grotto. His eyes widened at something that seemed impossible.

Margaret stood still, clasping her hands together above her chest. Fearing what might become of Colonel Brandon.

He dropped the rock, his eyes were in disbelief that this would be the first moment, Maragret would see him show genuine emotion. "Colonel! What tis it."

"Go and retrieve Edward, quickly!" He said calmly yet sternly. Maragret not wasting anytime rushed from the creeks water to a ledge she could climb. Running to find, Elinor, Marianne, John and Edward.

The colonel approached cautiously, seeing a tail that belonged to a fish, flapping within the water. Seeing the upper half—twas a woman. She exhibited a hard time trying to breath as her gills on the side, was trying to find the water.

The colonel, unkowing of how to proceed, took off his black waist coat and placed it around the odd creature. She was half fish and yet half human. What sort of madness is this? Was he really seeing a mermaid? Something only in fairytails now exists.

You look up, bare and exposed. Vulnerable. Trying to seat yourself carefully not to slip. The Colonel instinctively placed something soft yet velvet around you. You couldn't speak. Only looking up into his cold, hazel/light brown eyes.

He took a glance at you. Examining you. She was unlike anything of this world, if the heavens had made such a creature, then she was something to behold. She was truly stunning, had my eyes feasted upon a rare beauty? I—had no idea how to interpret this—this feeling. She must be protected.

His hands slipped under your tail and around your shoulders. They were rough, calloused, and squishy.

He lifted you from the ground with ease, adrenaline kicked in as he carried you out from the grotto, from the creek, into the exposed air. As your tail draped, you felt the sun's beaming warmth touch your skin. To even more of Colonel Brandon's astonishment, your tail began to move and transform. The tail you once had transformed into legs.

The gills on your neck had disappeared.

You had turned human. And the colonel wasted no time to carry you back to the cottage.

It was quite a walk but—the colonel had handled worse, when he was in the war he traversed for miles and miles until he sighted the enemy.

He eventually made it back to the cottage. Carrying you as Mrs. Dashwood, to her surprise, quickly rushed to aid you. "Good heaven's, what's happened."

Mrs. Jennings sat up from her seat, seeing the poor woman within his grasp.

"Quickly, we must set up a bed and give her water." The colonel trudged through the room, his lower half drenching wet. Mrs. Dashwood frantically opened the door to set you down in a soft place.

Your eyes were closed and you had no recollection of how you traversed here.

"Colonel, is she well? Has she any injury" Mrs. Dashwood spoke worryingly.

"She is out cold. She needs a warm rag." The colonel quickly rushed to grab a rag, dipped it in a bucket of lukewarm water and placed it on your forehead.

"Colonel!" A young voice called from the front door. It was maragret. Along with the Elinor, Marianne and Edward. John had fallen behind due to other matters.

"Brandon, what's going on, what's this madness—" Elinor reached his side and gasped at the sight.

Marianne quickly rushed into the room "To who is this woman. Is she ill?" She said worried.

"I'm afraid, she'll be out for a while." The colonel reported not taking his eyes off you.

"I'll send word to the doctor." Mrs. Jennings wasted no time.

Within a few hours, your eyes opened. You took note of your surroundings, frightened and yet comforted. Within the corner, there was a chair, and a man—the same man that brought you here.

As the room was quiet, a middle aged woman with golden tresses tied into a neaten bun entered the room, carrying a tray of fresh bread. "Oh good, your awake, we were all worried." The woman offered a kind smile, it was clear she had no ill intention. She spoke gently with a posh accent.

"Here, it's freshly baked from this afternoon's tea." She figured something light would suffice, she didn't want you to have an upset stomach. You could smell the hot brew of green tea, pour at your table side. Looking down you were donned in a nightgown.

"Poor thing, he's been asleep for hours, never leaving your side." She glanced over at Colonel Brandon. "He deserves to rest, after all he's been through." She explained vaguely.

As she approached closer, you jolted your legs inward. Hissing in defence. Mrs. Dashwood holted only for a second, but kindly touched your hand. "Your welcome here, so long as you have no intention of hurting us."

"I'm not going to harm you, nor hurt you, my dear." Within her words she reassured you.

She placed a warm, soft blanket around you. You quickly softened as she offered you tea. She was a kind human, motherly even.

Elinor had entered the room "Mrs. Jennings has bid farewell mother, she was kind enough to leave us a gift of herbal tea and chocolate behind in care of her."

You looked up seeing Elinor, a young woman aged nineteen with golden hair and a rather sensible and intelligent gaze.

"She awoke moments ago, I will run her a warm bath. Feel free to let Marianne know Supper will be in a few minuets." Mrs. Dashwood told Elinor.

"Yes mother." She muttered.

A young face appeared from the corner of the door frame, she seemed curious and effusive. Tresses of light, golden, curly hair fell gently down her mid-back. As your gaze met hers, she quickly dashed away, retreating.

"Is she well mother? She's not dead is she." A young girl no younger than thirteen appeared on the bed wearing a white gown. Her golden hair—unlike her sister's—was rather unkempt, reaching only her shoulders.

"Supper's nearly ready, we mustn't wake the Colonel, go set out the cutlery." Mrs. Dashwood quietly ushered her youngest daughter out of the room.

As the ladies left and gently, partially shut the door. Your gaze lept over to the colonel. Curious, you pulled off the sheets and stumbled over to the colonel. Gripping onto the oaken surface to help you balance.

You learnt quickly however, like a doe that's just been born learning to walk. You stood in front of the colonel.

Curiously gazing back at the door. You reached to touch him, allowing your finger to gently feel his cheek. You felt the stubble against his chin and cheeks. In comparison to Mrs. Dashwood, it was rougher, like his hand yet, softer.

Soon from your finger, you gently placed your palm against his cheek. You parted your lips slightly. The man in turn, gently smiled. Was it you, he was dreaming of? Or was it Marianne.

Your thumb trailed further to his lips, cautious, you leaned forward. Your head growing closer. Just enough to nearly press—

Suddenly his eyes were flickering open. You rushed back in defence, jumping back into bed. Pulling the sheets over you. The colonel had woken up, gazing at you as you pretended to sleep.

As he gently approached, he loomed over you. His eyes roamed over your figure. Innocent. Gentle. Kind. It was almost as though you reminded him of someone.

His hand hesitantly, yet gently reached to move a strand of hair away from your face.

Just as his fingers touched your forehead. You snapped up, hissing as a warning. He held both of his arms up "My apologies, my lady. I had no intention of any ill-intent toward you."

You instinctively glared at him, defending yourself. "Your, in a place you have no knowledge of but—if you let me—I shall take care of you."

You were hesitant. You couldn't trust him. But something in you changed your mind, he did stay by your side and rescued you, instead of leaving you for dead.

You pulled the sheets from your bed and allowed your feet to feel the floor. He placed his arms around you, you nearly hiss at him once more but instead, you allow him to touch you.

He held your waist, helping you walk. "Come, you must be hungry, exaughsted."

Over the next coming weeks. You had learnt a few things about humans. For one, they walk on two feet. Two, they live in homes similar to caves but—homely. Three, they have delicious food. And four, they are kind. Accepting.

The Dashwoods accepted you into their home and accepted you as one of their own. Colonel Brandon had spent hours, by your side, teaching you of the human world.

However, you didn't speak much. The colonel had taken upon himself to teach you how to read.

"T-the man w-went up, the hill," you said as the Colonel praised you gently as you sat in his lap. "Well done, yes, you spoke it correctly."

One word caught you off guard however. "L-love?, what is Love?".

The colonel looked rather sincere yet, a hint of sadness lingered. "An emotion many feel, when, you find someone special and—."

"And?."

He trailed off in thought but then came to reality, smiling reassuringly. "And spent the rest of your life with."

"Have you loved?" You asked.

"Once. Twice. Years ago. A young woman, a ward that I could never have."

"And the other?"

"Will be but a dream."

You looked down, not knowing what to say. Instead your head curled into his chest.

One night, you heard a melodic voice. There, a young woman played the piano and sung. Curious, you asked how she could play on the—tapping instrument. She smiled with amusement and taught you how to play.

Upon the next suppers evening. The colonel had come, day by day, when he could, to visit you.

When everyone was preoccupied. You began to sing, staring out the window. The colonel drawn to your voice came in that night and stared at you in awe.

He came closer, drawn to your voice and visage. He had never heard anything like you. It was true mermaids had an alluring voice.

As you saw him, you stopped. He gently flushed and asked "p-please continue."

Out of request, you continued to sing. He was gazing at you like he witnessed an angel come below from the heaven's.

With that, he cupped your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. In response your eyes widened and didn't back away.

You followed in motion, allowing him to take over.

From the next morning, the Colonel had announced he wished to take your hand in marriage. Mrs. Dashwood smiled in glee at the good news, Elinor rejoiced for the Colonel's happiness and Edward did so in unison. Marianne, smiled but—it was not of joy, rather, disappointment. Ever since the Colonel spent more time with you, she began. To feel. Envious. Your receiving his attention. When she should have been the one he was pinning for since the start.

In a way, she started to rethink her choices. She mightve been fairly cold and dismissive but, he was always there for her. However, now she had hoped John would propose to her.

Within the next coming of days, everything seemed joyous and content. Except, you began to miss your home. The water. It was apart of a who you were.

You planned on leaving yet, unsure of how to, perhaps you should stay and marry Brandon. Or, tell him you wanted to go back.

So far, this was happening all so fast.

[dreamlandcreations]

Imagine seducing the 'Rogue Prince'

Imagine seducing the 'Rouge Prince', Lord Daemon, after you were sent away from home with nothing to your name, thanks to him.

Your father's tragic death left you at the mercy of his cousin, who he said he loved like a brother. But Daemon felt betrayed when Viserys chose Otto Hightower over him in an old argument. And now he can finally have his revenge.

Months after your exile into the cheaper country house where you had to count every penny your benefactor oh so graciously provided, you finally see an opportunity for revenge. The ball in celebration of his other cousin's wedding to the Hightower girl.

Seducing him was easy, not falling for him would be more difficult.

He married you the day after, much to the shock and outrage of the noble people in your circles. Daemon didn't care, he wanted you, so he would have you... or so he thought.

After consummating the marriage, you refused to share his bed, finally revealing your feelings to him.

"Maddening, isn't it? Knowing for sure what to expect, only to be left with nothing."

But what you didn't calculate with is the infatuated man who wanted you even more now. How foolish of you, to think you can beat a Rogue at his own game.

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 7 - QUIET WISHING [A2]

Pairing : Colonel Brandon x OC

Summary : The Colonel is ready to move on and to taste the delight of happiness, but your secret weighs too heavily on your shoulders.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Sadness. Depression. Mention of Abortion.

DECEMBER MOON : Part I

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Colonel Brandon's heart was beating to a new rhythm. The rhythm of happiness at having found someone who seemed genuinely interested in him and not in his fortune, his title or his domain. You made him smile. Better yet, you made him happy.

He still remembered your father's face when he had asked him for permission to court you. The poor man had not believed it, you whose sharp mind had scared away more than one man, here was one of the richest and most respected men in the county interested in you and did not seem put off by your intelligence which sometimes bordered on insolence. But he also feared that Brandon wanted to take advantage of you.

"My daughter... She is not like the ladies you usually frequent in the salons, Colonel," your father had told him.

"Exactly, I don't want a lady who just smiles and sits idle while spending my money," Christopher had replied in his deep voice.

"She... [Y/N] is already 28 years old and has never been... courted or proposed to... that should... worry you," your father had suggested.

Christopher had found your father's concern cute. He had recognized in him a man worried about your well-being. He had reassured him of his intentions and your father who could not miss your annoyed and pleading look had said yes.

But at already 38 years old, Christopher did not want to spend months and months playing the game of convenience. He wanted to marry you quickly.

And you too, for your part, did not want to wait any longer to leave your father's home for the safety of a husband. But the happiness you had of being courted and loved by a man like him was tainted by the fear you had that he might one day know.

"[Y/N], is everything okay ?" Brandon asked you, looking genuinely worried.

You jumped slightly before smiling at him, your mind returning to the inside of the carriage that was gently shaking you on the bumpy road.

"Yes, very well, I... it's just that this is the first time I'm going to go to the Jennings and Mrs. Jennings... she's invited me often but I didn't feel like I belonged there..."

That wasn't really all that was bothering you but you didn't want to tell him the truth. If Christopher didn't believe you, he didn't show it, too busy admiring you in the wool coat he'd given you before you left, a coat that fit you and would keep you warm all winter.

The Jennings welcomed you warmly. He already knew that Christopher was courting you and although Mrs. Jennings' insinuations had made you uncomfortable at times, the day had been pleasant. But you didn't feel entirely at home in this world. You didn't know all the rules of etiquette and you were always a little slouched, a position reinforced by your feelings of inadequacy.

"You'll learn," Christopher said kindly when you confided your doubts, "I'll help you and if you wish, I can have a governess come and see you every day. But [Y/N], I'm not asking you for anything, you know that, right ?"

You nodded gently, grateful for what he was willing to do for you, to help you integrate into his world.

That night, lying in your bed with Henry by your side, covered with several blankets to counter the cold wind that was seeping in through the gaps in the windows, a dull anxiety invaded you. What you were doing was wrong. You were going to make this honest and sincere man suffer who didn't deserve it, a man who wouldn't even look at you anymore if he knew the truth, if he knew who you really were.

12 years ago

You were sixteen years old and you were considered one of the most beautiful girls in your village. Your long brown hair that you rarely bothered to style like a real lady, your soft and delicate face, your big green eyes, your natural kindness and your intelligence made you a rather singular person. You had few friends and the boys didn't really look at you, intimidated that you could hold a real conversation.

But you didn't care, you were still so innocent about things of love. You had a simple life with your father, a man who gave you more freedom than any other girl in your village could have dreamed of having.

No one looked at you except him. A lord's son, no less than that who had noticed you one day at the spring festival that was organized every year thanks to the kindness of his father. This year the old lord had not been able to come and it was him who had come. Tall, elegant, dark-haired with a nonchalant attitude, he had immediately caught your eye. He didn't look like anyone you knew. Nobody. And you didn't look like any of the ladies he rubbed shoulders with either. Why he had noticed you among all the others, you don't know and you would never understand, but it had been the case.

He had spoken to you to talk about the weather. He was charming, disarming too. He wasn't flattering and his sincerity had made you waver, giving rise to a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

That evening, when you returned home, you couldn't forget the smile that lit up his face, but you knew that you couldn't expect anything from this meeting. You were just grateful that he had been kind enough to speak to you, to treat you as an equal.

Except that you had seen her again. Once. Twice. Three times. And he had ended up admitting to you that if he came back to the village so often, it was to see you. Each time, he had a little gift for you: a drug, a silver brooch, a handkerchief embroidered with his initials, gifts that you kept preciously in a wooden box hidden under your bed. Not to mention the dozens and dozens of letters that you exchanged, hiding them in the gap of a stone wall on the edge of the village that secretly kept your correspondence while the other went to get the letter addressed to him. The drawer of your dresser was filled with the languorous words that he wrote to you every week.

"We could leave," he had told you one day.

"Where would we go ?"

"Anywhere. We'll get married in Scotland and then... We could go to America. Or this new land that he calls Australia. They say that there everything is big and everything is wild. We would be free to be what we want."

He kept telling you that your difference in status, in rank, was of no importance and he insisted a little more each time that you leave. And soon, he had infected you with his dreams of escape, of distant landscapes and of a future where conventions, social statuses would not exist.

Back to the present

"[Y/N], will you come with me to the Christmas party that the Jennings are organizing the night before ?"

Christopher was standing in your living room, his hands nervously playing with his hat while your father prepared tea in the next room, Henry at his side hoping to see him drop a biscuit.

"I... I'm not sure I have my place at such an evening," you answered, your cheeks blushing slightly.

You knew that the Jennings would receive prestigious guests, accustomed to the codes of this kind of evening.

"I will stay by your side the whole time," Christopher promised.

You looked up as your father came back into the room, nodding vigorously behind Christopher to urge you to say yes.

"Very well," you murmured.

The Colonel smiled, a shy smile on his lips, the same one that always made you melt.

"If you agree, Mr. [Y/S], I could take [Y/N] into town to buy her a dress for this evening."

"There's no need..." you began but your father almost immediately interrupted you to give his consent.

As you walked side by side, you could feel the eyes of the evil tongues who whispered about the fact that you didn't have a chaperone. Christopher didn't care. After all, you were practically his fiancé and at your ages, there were many other things to worry about. Besides, he was a man of honour, he would never have touched you before making you his wife.

But those whispers tightened your throat, taking you back years.

11 years ago

After a year of dreaming and hoping, you had abruptly learned the truth from a maid at the manor where the man you loved lived. He was engaged. Engaged to a woman of his rank.

"Is it true then ?" you had asked him when you had seen each other in your secret place, far from the eyes of the village.

"[Y/N], I... I am from an important family. I must honour my name."

"You promised me! You told me that our difference in status meant nothing, that we would run away."

"I shouldn't have let you believe that, it was a mistake."

"William," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes.

"[Y/N], it was a dream. A beautiful dream, but you have to wake up now."

And he continued like this, in a cold voice, pretending that everything you had experienced, shared didn't count, was nothing.

"I'm leaving the region at the end of the month. I'm going to Wales. The wedding will take place there and we will settle in one of my father's properties. I'm sorry [Y/N], but you are intelligent, you must have suspected that all this was only ephemeral."

He stroked a lock of your hair, then he turned away and left without a backward glance, leaving you alone with your sorrow, your broken heart, your body in pain.

You fell to your knees, crying silently. You stayed there for a long time, hours. It was almost dark when you finally returned home. You felt empty, betrayed, in another world, so much so that you hadn't even heard your father's remonstrances.

The next day, you burned everything: the letters, the gifts, you wanted to erase him entirely from your existence. But it was too late. He had already left an indelible mark on you.

Back to the present

A lump in your throat, you listened to Christopher talk to you about the future. Children he hoped to have with you.

You had to tell him. He had to know what you had done 16 years ago. You couldn't let him believe that you were a young virgin saved for her husband. You had to tell him everything. But once again, you were too cowardly to do it, promising yourself once again that tomorrow, tomorrow you would talk to him.

But you didn't, the days passed, you kept your secret, your regrets, your remorse and your guilt with you. But on this December 23rd, Christopher did something you didn't expect.

He came to your house without you expecting it. Your father was busy at the Hawthorne's. He was preparing the tables and the decorations for their Christmas reception. However, you didn't hesitate to let Colonel Brandon come home. You knew you had nothing to fear with him, and besides, your four-legged companion would protect you if necessary.

Christopher stood in front of you, a little nervous. He felt a certain resistance in you, but he hoped that what he was going to ask you would break down your last defences and that you would teach him to understand your silences and your sometimes shifty glances.

"[Y/N], I wanted to ask you something," he began, pacing back and forth.

You were sitting by the fireplace, your heart pounding.

"I love you. With a deep and sincere love."

Your breath caught in your throat as he stopped in front of you, his hands crossed behind his back.

"I don't want to wait any longer. I don't want to waste any more time. I know I want you in my life. You touched my heart when I thought it was no longer possible."

"Colonel Brandon," you said, emotion choking your voice somewhat.

Christopher looked at you surprised. You only called him that in public, never in private, not since he asked you to use his Christian name.

"I..."

You couldn't continue. Sensing your hesitation, he took your hands in his, so strong, so powerful.

"I know I'm not perfect. I'm not the most handsome man in the kingdom, and my past has been filled with pain and regret. But I'm grateful to God for making me endure all of this. Thanks to it, I learned to recognize a true soul."

"Christopher," you began but he stopped you by raising his hand.

"I would like us to go to the Jennings' party tomorrow night as your fiancé and for you to allow me to tell my best friend that you have agreed to become my wife."

You turned pale. As if he could sense the tension emanating from your entire being, Henry came to rest his head against your leg. You absently took him on your lap, your eyes wide.

You looked up to see the hope in Christopher's, and you felt sick. You put Henry back on the ground and stood up abruptly to walk away.

"[Y/N]," Christopher said softly.

He didn't understand. What were you doing ? You weren't like Marianne, you couldn't be. He had thought he saw in you what he had been looking for for so long, and here you were about to break his heart, like all the others.

"I can't," you whispered.

His words were like a slap in the air. Brandon took a step back, hurt.

"Why ?" he asked firmly, "was I just a game to you ?"

"No ! Never ! I... Christopher... I..."

Tears welled up in your eyes and you bit your bottom lip until it bled.

"[Y/N], explain yourself. I want to know," he commanded.

"I'm not what you think I am. You deserve a much better woman than me who is worthy of walking by your side."

"[Y/N], I don't expect you to be perfect. But I want you to be honest."

"Honest... I wish I was, but I'm afraid you'll never look at me again."

"[Y/N], what do you mean ?"

Christopher felt worry rising in him. What could you possibly be hiding ?

"I... you'll probably despise me after this, but please, don't tell anyone, ever. I'm telling you because I owe it to you. What I did was wrong. I shouldn't have given you false hope, but please, Colonel Brandon... Christopher... keep my secret, I beg you."

You were crying for real now. Christopher helped you sit up and handed you a glass of water.

"Despising you ? Never. What could you have done that was so bad ?"

His tone was soft, his gaze worried. You hesitated for a split second, then spilled the beans.

"There... many years ago, when I was only 16 years old, I let myself be seduced by a young lord. He... he was insidiously sweet and he made me a thousand and one promises. He promised me a bright future, dreams that I would never have dared to imagine, but...

11 years ago

"My dear, you haven't stopped throwing up for three days. We should really call the doctor," your father had told you tenderly.

"It's not necessary, Dad. We don't have much money and I'll get better soon, there's an epidemic in the village. I probably caught it when I went to sell our apples to Mr. DeGardener."

Your father had nodded, even if he remained worried about you. But you knew you were lying. You weren't sick. It was worse than that.

Two months ago, William had taken you to his house in secret. A magnificent home like you had never seen before. His parents were away, traveling to Scotland with three-quarters of the servants. He had let you in discreetly, under the noses of the few servants still present.

He had taken you to his room, kissed you on the cheek, forehead, nose, mouth. Up until then, nothing more than what you had already done. He then went down your neck and one of his fingers had gently lowered the collar of your dress to place a kiss on the top of your breasts. Out of breath, you had let him do it.

He slid his other hand along your leg, raising your dress up your thigh to place his hand under your drawers, and there again, you had not pushed him away. You knew what was going to happen, you were not as naive as you seemed... well, at least you liked to think so.

Several times, he had asked you if you were sure, if you wanted him to stop. When he had unbuttoned your dress, when he had slid it down your body, when he had removed your wool socks, your undershirt and one last time, before his hands slid your drawers down your legs

And after you had whispered "yes" to him one last time, he had laid you down on his bed and had taken your purity, your innocence, your entire body.

You obviously couldn't tell your father this, but there was one person you could confide in. You knew she wouldn't judge you and she would never tell him again.

You had waited until the next morning, for your father to leave for work to leave him a note and you had left for your grandmother's house. She lived in a modest house a little outside the village, nestled at the end of a path lined with old twisted trees that filtered the autumn light, making their foliage almost unreal.

With bruised feet and a fragile mind, you had timidly knocked on the door, your shoulders weighed down by an emotional fatigue that devoured you more than anything else. Your grandmother had come to open the door. When she saw you, her face had lit up with a toothless smile. Her white hair was tied up in a strict bun and her face, marked by the years, was marked by a little more worry when she saw you with red eyes and a defeated expression.

"Grandma, I didn't know where to go," you had said, bursting into tears.

She had immediately pulled you into her arms. You still remembered her scent of lavender and wood and for the first time since William had abandoned you, you felt safe.

She had led you to the fire and while she made tea, you had unpacked everything. Absolutely everything, while your grandmother had sat in her old, worn armchair, a blanket around her shoulders, listening to you without saying a word.

"My dear," your grandmother had finally said at the end of your story.

"I loved him, Grandma. And I believed him when he said he would marry me," you had said in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.

"I know, my dear. But you are not the first young girl to be taken in by the sweet promises of a young man in search of pleasure."

"He left me like I was nothing. Like we had nothing in common and all his promises were nothing but wind," you said, crying even harder.

"You're no less precious, [Y/N]. No one needs to know what happened, it's yours," your grandmother had said wisely.

"Except... Oh, Grandma ! I'm expecting his child !"

Your tears had redoubled, almost choking you as your throat was so tight.

"There is no forgiveness for girls like me. I'm lost and when the whole village finds out, my father's name will be sullied."

The old woman had immediately stood up to hug you.

"No one needs to know. You made a mistake, that's true, but that doesn't define you. Neither you nor your worth. It's what you do from now on that matters," she had said firmly.

"What am I going to do, Grandma ?"

The old woman thought silently for a moment, her fingers clenched on the armrest of the chair you were sitting in.

"I... I'm going to go see your father..."

"NO !" you cried.

She silenced you with a look, the same kind of look she used to make you understand, when you were a child, that you were getting a little too insolent.

"I'm going to tell him that I'm not doing very well and that I want to go on a pilgrimage to talk to God. He'll tell me that I'm too old and I'll tell him that's why I want you to come with me, to watch over me."

"Where shall we go, Grandma ?"

"I know a place where we can help you."

"Grandma, you're not judging me, are you ?" you asked, consumed by guilt.

She took your hand in hers and squeezed it with all her strength.

"My poor little darling. You carry a weight that is far too heavy for a young girl, but you are not the first young woman to let a man abuse you. Listen to me carefully, this secret will be ours and you must never, ever let it define you or dictate the rest of your life, understood ?"

You didn't answer and she squeezed your hands a little tighter.

"Understood ?" she asked again with more force.

"Yes," you breathed.

"Good. I'm going to take you to a small, remote convent run by sisters who are rather... let's say more caring than others. They'll give you a choice. Either stay there until you're delivered and they'll then take care of your child, entrust him to a good family who can't have one or..."

You saw her hesitate and you raised a questioning look.

"Or what, grandmother ?"

"Or some of them know... they know how to make angels."

Your breath hitched. You knew what she meant.

"It will be your decision, [Y/N], but know that no matter what you decide, you will do what you believe is right and I, I will always love you just as much."

She hugged you again, whispering to you that anyone who dared to judge you would know nothing of the weight of the human heart. And a week later, you found yourself in this convent, surrounded by sisters who were not as caring as promised, who had made disparaging remarks to you under the disapproving gaze of your grandmother, but despite the sermons, one of them had created an angel and you had returned home as you had left, at least in appearance. But the specter of your guilt, you knew, would never leave you.

Back to the present

"It was supposed to be the best solution, an end, but it was only a beginning. I woke up after days of fever, weakened, my body bruised and my heart... my heart completely empty," you said without even trying to hold back your tears.

Christopher looked at you, his features serious but his eyes not devoid of compassion. He had listened to you from start to finish without interrupting you.

"That day, I lost my faith and my dignity. You see, Christopher, I am not what you think. I am not pure. I am just a slut who... who made an angel out of the child she was expecting. I am not worthy of you, of your love."

A heavy silence fell, broken only by your sobs. Christopher crossed the distance between you and took one of your hands in his. You tried to pull it away, but he stopped you.

"Please, Colonel, don't tell anyone. My father never knew, nor did anyone in our village. This secret belonged only to my grandmother and me. Today, my grandmother is no longer of this world, I am the only one carrying this secret. Please, please, keep it to yourself, I only revealed it to you so that you understand why we can't be together," you said in one go.

"[Y/N], look at me" he asked with authority.

You timidly looked up, afraid to see anger in his eyes, but you only saw love.

"I don't despise you. All I see is a young woman who, far too young, had to go through hell. But you came out stronger. And today, you don't have to carry that burden alone anymore," he said in a soft voice.

You shook your head violently, ready to protest, but he stopped you.

"You have survived much pain, much suffering that few could have borne," he continued with unwavering compassion, "and you are still here, standing before me, strong, fighting. It takes a strength that I can only admire, not despise."

"But I am not pure. I am broken," you whispered.

"And me too, life has broken me many times. But I got back up every time, like you. Life is like that. We all carry our burdens, but they shape us. You are not broken [Y/N], you are like a reed. The wind wanted to break you in two, but you only bent for a moment before getting back up."

His words resfelt like a balm on your bruised heart and for the first time in a long time, you saw hope and the possibility of finally letting those old wounds heal.

"I don't deserve you," you said weakly.

He squeezed your hand a little tighter as if to anchor you to reality.

"You deserve all the love in the world. And I love you. I love you as you are, for who you are. No matter who you were, what you've done. And if you're ready to accept me with my own demons, then I promise to love you, to protect you and together we will build a future far from the ghosts that haunt us. A future where there will be only hope, happiness and you can always lean on me."

You probed him as if to make sure he wasn't playing you, but you saw only sincerity and love on his features.

"[Y/N], do you agree to be my wife ?" Christopher asked softly.

"Yes," you said between sobs.

He held you close, resting his chin on the top of your head. When the front door opened, he quickly stepped back.

"[Y/N], what's going on here ?" your father asked, looking at Christopher suspiciously.

"Dad..."

"I asked [Y/N] to be my wife and she agreed," Christopher answered for you.

Your father's face might have made you laugh if you weren't still reeling from the confession you had just made.

"Well, that's a surprise," he finally said, sitting down heavily on an armchair.

The Colonel took his leave, not without kissing your forehead tenderly, almost possessively before taking his leave.

The next day, he picked you up for the evening at the Jennings, a ring between his fingers.

"It belonged to my mother," he told you as he slipped it onto your finger. "And now, it's yours. And you're mine," he said as he kissed your temple.

And you left for the Jennings, you wrapped in the wool coat that Christopher had given you, he had the biggest smile you'd ever seen on his face. And in that dark night where the cold bit your cheeks, you let yourself go against him when in the carriage, he wrapped his arms around you to warm you. But it wasn't so much his arms that warmed you as the promise of a future that you had never dared to hope for before. And silently, you thanked the heavens for having heard your quiet wishing.

[stxrshxpxd]

autumn

pairing: 90s professor hugh grant x reader

word count: 3k

warnings: student x teacher

prompt: reader falls for her university professor and she thinks it just might be a mutual feeling…

requested by anonymous <3

September.

I had seen Mr. Grant twice in passing on my walks across campus and through the seemingly endless hallways of marble flooring and dark stain wooden arches, on my little quests to navigate my way through my new university. The first time I had turned my head rather indiscreetly and nearly walked into a massive pillar as I studied his locks of brown hair bouncing away from me along with his rushing steps. The second time I had felt a stab deep in my stomach at the sight of him across the library, pulling his hand through said locks of brown hair, before ending his short conversation with the headmaster and quickly disappearing again.

My third encounter with him came on a September morning with ambiguous weather. I sat watching the strong sun begin to beam through the patchy coat of clouds and chase the morning mist away. As the doors opened to the lecture room I expected a large pregnant belly to enter first, but instead that pain in my stomach returned at the sight of Mr Grant marching inside. There were scattered whispers and mumbles around the room. I had no one to whisper to, and so I took a deep breath and secured my gaze on the bronze buckle of his belt and bit the inside of my cheek.

“I take it Mrs. Sherman hadn’t told you who would be filling in for her,” he chuckled at the palpable surprise in the room. “Well. It’s lovely to meet you all. I’m Professor Grant. I do recognise a few faces around the room.” His gaze hopped between students and he gave a handful of them soft smiles, skipping over me. “Well… Mrs. Sherman went into labour on Sunday and now has a little baby girl at home.” I noticed he spoke with his whole face and half his body, smiling, raising his brows and opening his arms in celebration at the happy news. “So, I will be teaching the rest of your Literary Analysis course this year.”

The sun had come to lay across half his body and was making the silver ring on his pinky glow brightly.

“I heard you’re reading Sense and Sensibility,” he said and a few of the students nodded in silence, backs straight and ears eagerly open. Mr. Grant swiftly pulled out a small, weathered copy of the book in question from the back pocket of his black suit trousers. For some reason that act made the stabbing in my abdomen worse. I held in a sigh at the fear that everything he did would make my stomach wrench in agony.

October.

The rain was beating aggressively against the large windows to my right and added to the soundtrack of Mr. Grant humming between his nods as well as tapping his index finger softly against the desk he was half sitting back on. I had lost track of what the student behind me was saying about Children of the Corn but forced myself to hurriedly tune back into the monologue once I felt Professor Grant’s eyes resting on me occasionally. I anticipated his question and I searched my mind quickly.

“That’s a very nice analysis, Thomas, thank you. Y/N, what thoughts did this story provoke for you?”

I couldn’t recall a time when I had properly shared my analysis directly with him before. My written words about Sense and Sensibility had been met with a seeming intrigue on his behalf though.

I greatly appreciate the depth of your character analysis. It shows you have a strong sense of morality and can view a person from a number of perspectives without favouring one. That is a very helpful tool. I am eager to hear more of your thoughts this year!

I had read the scribbled comment at the bottom of my short essay over and over, and right now they were the only words in my brain.

“Um, well, I think King has an incredible way of creating an atmosphere with just a few words. It’s quite remarkable.”

Mr. Grant nodded and smiled in agreement. Finally my thoughts caught up with me and I stammered on, all the while staring at the previously hidden forearms now sticking out of Grant’s rolled up sleeves.

“And, um… the thought that followed me all the way through the story is the exploration of religion in the modern world. Oftentimes I feel that religion is this untouchable and completely unstoppable thing that is, sort of, ironically out of our hands. You know, do we create it or does it create us?” Professor Grant’s smile grew slightly and I looked away, desperately trying to not lose my train of thought to the beauty of his pale, soft face.

“And also what is the difference between religion and cult, what defines them? …And why is one seemingly the pinnacle of good and the other inherently evil, if the line between them is so blurred, or indeed can’t be drawn at all? …Is ruthlessly shunning and marginalising people not just as bad as brutally killing them in a corn field? It’s just a choice of mental or physical death really. Except there isn’t a choice.”

I looked back at my professor once I had gotten my sentences out. He nodded slowly and pondered calmly with that satisfied smile on his lips, as I sat half panicking in the silence. All I could hear were my words echoing in the air between us.

“And do you think it should be stopped? Religion.”

He tilted his head and I took a deep breath in, in the midst of my light panic. He chuckled sympathetically with me, realising the magnitude of the question he had just asked.

“Yes and no, of course… I just think that it’s been a hell of a long time since society existed without religion, it might well be very healthy for us to step back and consider the world without it.”

“So, yes?” Mr. Grant suggested for me with a charming grin and an eye with a big twinkle in the centre. I laughed shortly and looked down at my nervous hands toying with my pencil.

“So, maybe,” I responded, looking up again. He chuckled and nodded once more and combed his fingers through the left side of his hair, only for it to bounce right back to its previous position.

November.

My eyes ached as I sat with my head hanging over my borrowed copy of E.M. Forster’s Maurice, reading the same line over and over again. I had read the book a few years earlier and adored it, but re-reading it now as the time was nearing 11 pm on a Friday night the words carried little meaning. Even my own words in my neat notes appeared increasingly alien.

The library was lit up softly and was about as silent as it could possibly get. It felt wrong to move and make sound as I stared out at the vastness of the room and the hallway outside of the library walls. Suddenly, just as my gaze had fixed sleepily on a framed painting hanging in line with my eyes, a person startled me as he came walking down the hallway. It was Professor Grant.

I shortly pondered the concept of fate as he turned his head casually and locked eyes with me. A smile came upon his face and he steered his steps inside the library without hesitating. He was in his usual black suit trousers and tight belt, a button-up without a tie, and a long coat and knitted scarf draped over his forearm. Under his other arm sat a thick stack of stapled papers caged in firmly against the side of his ribs. Shortly again I pondered the concept of jealousy now, before he spoke and washed my mind clean of everything else.

“Why aren’t you at that big dormitory party?”

Mr. Grant sat on the edge of my table and glanced down at me. He tossed his stack next to my stuff, at which my eyes scanned it and noticed several little notes and markings in red ink scattered throughout the text. I concluded that he had stayed late in his office to mark essays.

“How do you know about the party?”

He laughed quietly and looked around the room momentarily, allowing me a few seconds of shamelessly staring at his strong jaw as he looked away from me.

“Kids always think they’re very secretive. My hearing and deductive skills are excellent in fact.”

I smiled when he looked back at me, but the sentiment of the smile faded quickly from inside me.

“Do you think of us as kids?” I asked in the most neutral tone I could manage. He was only fifteen years older at the absolute most. He couldn’t be a day over thirty-five.

Mr. Grant’s soft stare dropped down my body in stages, seeming to halt at my collarbone and ribs and then my hinged hips where his gaze settled a short while.

“No,” he decided after a moment’s silence.

I didn’t know how the rest of that conversation was meant to go or indeed how to deal with the apparent tension that had built in the quiet room. Instead I backtracked to his initial question of why I was in the library on a Friday night.

“Well… You set an essay due Wednesday, didn’t you,” I chuckled breathily and impulsively looked down as I closed the book in my hands. We both gazed down at the cover and it felt like a strange form of eye contact. When I looked back up I saw a soft smile on his lips.

“That’s one of my favourite books.”

I exhaled and responded quickly.

“I will choose my words carefully.”

My professor’s smile grew and he met my eyes with his visibly tired ones, shaking his head.

“I trust you.”

Something in the air made me feel as though our conversation was coming to an end and it made me sad, which was why I grabbed onto a bit of substantial conversation I could find in our repertoire.

“I’m not big on parties anyway.”

Mr. Grant had crossed his arms now and nodded with the remnants of a smile.

“I understand.” He thought for a second and licked the corner of his mouth. “The parties in your future will be much more up your alley, when you’re an esteemed author. Trust me.”

He spoke of me being a revered published writer, yet all I felt like was a silly teenage girl as I tried to control my blushing cheeks at his sweet words. And then a soft groan escaped him as he reached to grab his essays again and stood on his long legs, clearly on his way to exit again.

“Just don't forget your old Literary Analysis professor when you’re famous,” he demanded sweetly and I simply kept smiling and blushing as he headed out, leaving me with my own company again. I had to fight to stop grinning and I found I was on the verge of breaking a sweat under my knitted jumper.

December.

For a few weeks now I had noticed an increase in stares between me and Professor Grant. I had found him resting his eyes on me several times across the room and once I thought I had made him blush, simply by looking up and meeting his eyes. He had looked down quickly and stuck his one hand into his hair, tensed his brows and stared down at his books again. I had mirrored his actions but hadn’t been able to make a single note for the next few minutes, completely consumed by the idea of letting my lips gently kiss his brow bone and feel him soften at my touch.

I was currently wrapped up in another one of those thoughts as I stared out the window, where light snowflakes were falling and slowly but surely forming a thin white coat over the lawn. I could hear his voice loud and clear as he was in the middle of a lecture - something about anti-heros apparently - but I wasn’t listening to the words. In my mind my lips were attached to his jaw and my fingers rushing to unbutton his shirt. Just as my mouth had reached his collarbone, his real life self changed his tone of voice and I tuned back in.

“Right, we’ll continue this tomorrow for a bit. And we will also have a chat about the exam in two weeks. So, bring all your anxieties and questions tomorrow and we’ll talk it through. Does that sound alright?”

I scanned the room quickly to find all the nodding and smiling students begin to toss their books into their bags and I scrambled to do the same, but once my eyes turned back to the front of the lecture room I found Mr. Grant on his way over to me.

“Hi,” he uttered quietly with a kind smile and I returned it. His hands were in his trouser pockets and his head tilted slightly as he looked down at me.

“I heard,” he began, glancing away at the last few students leaving the room. “from Mr. Holland.. that you’re doing quite well in your Creative Writing class.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I shrugged and laughed shyly as I fidgeted with the pages of my notebook.

“Now, I would hate to find out you have a favourite class that’s not mine, but,” Grant sighed jokingly and then gave me another soft curl of the lips. “I would love to read some of your writing if you wouldn’t mind. I promise to give you nothing but praise, of course.”

I chuckled and had to force my mind out of the gutter of imagining what type of praise he might give me.

“No, I want your critique,” I nodded, still anxiously toying with the notebook that conveniently enough held a lot of my creative writing drafts and half-ideas. Mr. Grant nodded back and swivelled around to my side of the table as I began flicking through my notebook to the sound of my umming and ahhing nervously.

He had planted his large palms on the table and his head hung between his broad shoulders as I finally decided on a page that felt somewhat representative of my work. His thin-rimmed glasses had been pushed up into his hair for the majority of the lecture, and he pulled them down now as he focused his eyes and mind fully on my text.

He was so close to me I could feel his scent begin to fill my nose, and his tricep was nearly brushing against my shoulder. I studied the few veins on his hands as his fingertips instinctively held the paper down against my table.

“It’s really good, Y/N,” Professor Grant finally concluded with his voice just a step above a whisper. “Really good.”

I looked up to make shy eye contact again and found his expression had changed from his sweet, composed smiles he would usually give me. There was something behind his spectacled eyes that suggested conflict. I realised there were just a few inches separating us and the urge to stand up and press my lips to his grew quickly, until I simply couldn’t fight it.

Pushing my chair back and half standing up, I planted a desperate kiss on his already slightly parted lips. For a second everything stood still and I wasn’t sure if he was kissing me back, but at least he wasn’t pulling away. Then I felt those gorgeous hands coat my sides, if only to help stabilise me as I staggered to my feet. It felt like everything happened within the space of a nervous heartbeat. Soon he backed away a step, his warm palms being the last to leave my body. Grant anxiously threw a glance behind him at the half open door as he wiped his bottom lip with his thumb. The sounds from the hallway came back to me again and regret washed over me with such power it nearly made me lightheaded.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I breathed.

“No,” he simply said and shook his head. The empty space in the air made me feel like he was supposed to or wanted to say something else, but he didn’t for a while. His eyes hopped from one corner of my face to the other and his chest rose and fell with his stressed breathing. At last his gaze settled on my lips.

“Y/N, you’re…” He rubbed his forehead and took a few more steps further away from me. “You’re very special and I really admire you… There’s just no way this can happen. You understand that, don’t you?”

He turned around to find me standing in the spot he left me, horrified by my own actions.

“And you have no idea how common it is to fall for a professor. It’s a very peculiar relationship; a student and a teacher… It happens. It’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, okay?”

Fully knowing I was going to be excruciatingly embarrassed by this incident maybe for the rest of my life, I nodded.

“Really, it’s alright,” Professor Grant spoke in a warm voice with a definite sadness behind it. My whole body was vibrating with nerves and heartache and I managed to move my stiff limbs enough to pick up my books and bag.

“Okay,” I exhaled, wanting so badly to believe him. I left his concerned expression behind as I passed him and stepped out into the hallway, managing to catch the heavy sigh he let out behind me. Even still, with embarrassment weighing down my steps, the only thing I could think of was the incredible feeling of his lips against mine and his hands holding my waist. My insides ached as I realised I would never be allowed to kiss him again. Hell, I wasn’t even allowed to kiss him this time. My lower lashes held heavy tears as I stomped outside and kicked my boots through the fresh snow, heading towards my dorm.

[starry-eyesanddaydreams]

Another try at @deepperplexity 's Rickmas prompts. Time for some sweet Colonel Brandon <3

December 10: Snow Prints

Colonel Brandon x Female reader

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Christopher loved this time of year. Everything was covered by a blanket of soft snow, casting a peaceful spell over the countryside. It had snowed steadily the night before, and today the clouds were high and thin, muffling the sunlight into a cool glow. He was riding his horse across the foothills near Delaford when he saw the tracks of another horse crossing the hill ahead of him. Part of him was curious as to who the rider was. None of the neighbours he knew were much for winter rides. The snow prints continued ahead of him for a bit before they suddenly devolved into a flurry of hoof prints and displaced snow, and a distinctly person shaped dent in the snow. The unfortunate rider had clearly been thrown, and by the footprints had walked in the same direction as their runaway mount. Christopher saw the footprints and the drag marks of a winter cloak trail off down the hill. The rider must be unharmed enough to walk, but it was still a fair hike to any nearby houses. He urged his horse down the path of the tracks. He should check that they were alright, maybe needed help getting home.

It wasn’t long before he caught sight of the person ahead of him. Clad in a dark blue cloak with a hood pulled up over their head, trudging across the snow-covered field. The person turned when they heard Christopher approaching, pulling back the hood as they did so. It was a lady. Christopher was stunned as he looked at her. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Locks of her hair had come loose from its style and curled softly either side of her face and her beautiful eyes shone with life. “Hello.” She said. Christopher mentally shook himself, “Hello Miss.” He swung down out of the saddle, and took a few steps towards her, “Are you alright? I saw the tracks up the hill.” “Oh. Yes, I’m alright.” She laughed softly, a bit embarrassed “My horse spooked. A bird flew up from the snow in front of him and I fell when he reared up. No real damage. Thank you for your concern though, Mr…” “Brandon,” He bowed his head, “Christopher Brandon, miss.” She smiled brighter at him, “Colonel Brandon? I believe you know my uncle and aunt, George and Eliza Coppersmith?” Christopher remembered his friends, the Coppersmiths telling him about their niece from London who would be visiting over the winter, “Yes, they did say their niece would be visiting. Although I hardly expected to run into you out here.” “I couldn’t resist taking a ride today. It gets so stuffy in London, and the snow today looked so clean and the air so fresh. But I haven’t ridden in a while, I think I’m a bit out of practice.” Christopher felt enchanted by the brightness of her smile and the bold way she spoke. But then he remembered that they were standing in the middle of a field, standing ankle deep in snow. “It’s quite a walk back to the Coppersmith estate. I can give you a ride back, if you are agreeable with riding double.” He offered. “It’s very kind of you, I accept.” In other circumstances, getting on a horse with a man you’d just me might not be a good idea. But you’d heard your uncle talking about Colonel Brandon, that he was a true gentleman of good character. Now having met the man, you felt that was not exaggerating.

Christopher helped you up to sit in front of him on the horse, one hand on the reigns and the other carefully placed on your waist to hold you steady, he set the horse at a walk towards your home. The two of you spoke softly as you made your way to and alone the winding road. You had never been this close to a man, other than at dances, and it was unlike anything you’d felt before. You were sat with your side resting against his chest, his strong arm around your back keeping you held safe. The feeling of being held like this stirred a warmth inside your chest. You looked up at him as you talked, he was a remarkable handsome man. His strong Romanesque features were countered by soft hazel eyes and his deep, rumbling voice wrapped you up in an embrace all its own. He made you feel relaxed and excited at the same time.

Far to soon, you thought, you arrived at your aunt and uncle’s house. As you approached the entrance, a young stable boy came hurrying out from the side of the house, “Miss!” He called excitedly, “We were worried, your horse came back ten minutes ago without you. We were heading out to look for you.” Christopher was helping you down from the horse and you immediately missed his closeness. “It’s alright, Toby, I’m…” before you could finish answering, your uncle came hurrying out. “Thank goodness, you’re safe. What happened? Are you harmed?” “I’m perfectly alright, Uncle. My horse spooked and threw me. Fortunately, Colonel Brandon found me and helped me home.” Your uncle reached out and shook Christopher’s hand in gratitude. “My heartfelt thanks, Brandon. I’m glad it was you that found her.” You ducked your head a little to hide your smile. You were also very glad he had found you. “It’s freezing out here,” Your uncle continued, “Won’t you come in, Brandon? Join us for some tea and warm up.” Chrisopher’s eyes looked to you quickly before accepting his offer.

After your aunt had equally fussed over you and you’d quickly changed out of your snow crusted riding clothes, the four of you passed a good part of the afternoon in the drawing room. You and Christoper kept ending up in conversations of your own, something your aunt and uncle couldn’t help but notice and feel happy about. It was getting late in the afternoon when Christopher left, needing to head back to Delaford before it got dark. You walked with him to the door, wanting to stay in his company as long as you could. He stopped by the door, fidgeting nervously with his hat in his hands, “I’m so very glad to have met you today.” “As am I.” Still fidgeting with his hat, he said, “I’m hosting a Christmas party on the 21st. I’ve already invited your aunt and uncle. I would be honoured if you would be my guest.” “I’d like that very much.” Christopher’s smile was the most beautiful you’d ever seen, “I was also wondering if you would permit me to call on you again?” You felt your cheeks warm. You’d been so hoping he would ask. “That would be wonderful. Would you perhaps come to lunch on Wednesday?” Christopher gently lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, “Until then, my Dear.”

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(Ended a bit abruptly but I was having trouble trying to reach a good ending)