"Mischief Managed, Stories Unleashed"

just a girl, lost in the charm of a figment

[coldkidcookieneck]

Author's Note / Requests ✨

Hey everyone, at last, I pulled through by emerging from the shadows once more🫡

First of all, thank you. Truly. Even though I haven’t posted much these past few weeks, the love, comments, support, and new followers have meant the world to me. I honestly didn’t expect so many people to enjoy my writing when I first started, and yet here we are, and I’m beyond grateful.

Life has been a little busy on and off, but things have finally settled down, and while uni still pops up occasionally, I’ve found my flow again. Everything feels under control now, like Snape’s billowing cloak, which means the writing will be popping as usual 😁

And one final thing is that requests are OPEN!

You can now request any of these Alan Rickman characters:

Severus Snape

Colonel Brandon

Sinclair Bryant

Judge Turpin

Frank Benson

And honestly, any other Alan character you adore

Moreover, since I know some of you read on Tumblr and some on AO3, I want both sides to have an easy and fair way to request. So, I’ve created a Google Form for AO3 readers and Tumblr users. You can still request through the ask box or use the form, whichever is easier for you 😉

Google form link

Thank you again to everyone who’s still here despite my chaotic schedule. Your kindness, comments, reblogs, and excitement truly motivate me more than you know 🫶🏼

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[muiitoloko]

Borrowed Names

Summary: Hidden beneath false clothes and borrowed identities, Louis and the Queen spend a rare day free from protocol. They bicker, laugh, and wander through ordinary life like two people who might have loved each other under different circumstances. Yet every joke, every smile, and every stolen moment is haunted by the knowledge that their freedom has an expiration date.

Pairing: Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Light Angst

First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth part here

Also read on Ao3

Louis was impossible to contain once he had decided he was no longer the King of France, but rather Marguerite, tragic beauty of the lower classes, misunderstood wife of a narrow-shouldered husband named Pierre.

He bloomed in anonymity.

Or, more accurately, he bloomed in what he thought was anonymity, which was not at all the same thing.

The borrowed carriage took you to the edge of the nearest market town, far enough from Marly that the household staff would not immediately recognize you, close enough that Louis could still return before anyone important began wondering why France’s monarch had vanished in brown wool and an apron. He stepped down from the carriage with scandalous enthusiasm, clutching your arm as if you were indeed his unfortunate husband, and looked around at the crowded street with the eager, delighted expression of a man who had discovered an entire kingdom existed beneath the level of his balcony.

“Oh,” he breathed, and even with the ridiculous attempt to soften his voice, the word still emerged in that deep, resonant baritone. He coughed delicately into his fan and tried again, higher. “Oh. How charming.”

“You sound like a judge pretending to be a duchess,” you muttered.

Louis snapped the fan open and struck your shoulder with it. “Do not ruin this for Marguerite.”

“Marguerite is going to be arrested.”

“Marguerite is beloved.”

“Marguerite is six feet tall and walks like she owns artillery.”

He ignored you completely.

The town square was alive with movement. Merchants called from wooden stalls, waving loaves of bread, ribbons, cheap lace, onions, salted fish, pears bruised gold at the edges. A boy balanced on a barrel and juggled knives badly enough to make you nervous. Musicians scraped out a lively tune near the fountain while children ran laughing between skirts and boots. Someone had set up a little street game involving painted cups and a hidden coin, and three drunk men were arguing over whether a goose had been unfairly sold as a duck.

Louis stopped at everything.

Everything.

He stopped to watch a puppet show and laughed behind his fan when the puppet king was beaten with a stick by a puppet wife.

“Historically inaccurate,” he murmured.

“You were dragged to a bath by your hair yesterday.”

He lowered the fan just enough to glare at you. “Treason.”

He bought roasted chestnuts from a woman with red hands and an unimpressed stare. He nearly overpaid her by a sum so obscene you had to snatch the coins from his palm before the woman called the entire square to witness the richest washerwoman in France.

“You said you knew how to disguise yourself,” you hissed.

“I do.”

“You just tried to pay for chestnuts with enough money to purchase the stall.”

“I am generous.”

“You are suspicious.”

“I am Marguerite. Marguerite has admirers. Perhaps one died and left her comfortable.”

“Marguerite’s husband Pierre is about to leave her in a ditch.”

Louis laughed, delighted, and hooked his arm through yours as if you had said something tender.

You did not know how long you wandered.

Time loosened. The sun lifted higher, then softened behind slow-moving clouds. Louis dragged you from stall to stall with embarrassing delight, tasting sugared almonds, sniffing soap with the suspicion of a man identifying poison, watching a pair of acrobats tumble over each other in the dust, and becoming far too emotionally invested in a game where one threw wooden rings over clay pegs to win ribbons.

He tried once.

The ring missed every peg and struck a chicken.

The chicken shrieked.

Louis froze.

You stared at him.

The stallkeeper stared at him.

The chicken fled with the offended dignity of a minister resigning.

Louis lifted his fan slowly and murmured, “The wind betrayed me.”

“You nearly assassinated poultry.”

“I was aiming for the blue ribbon.”

“You hit a chicken.”

“An agile chicken.”

“You are never commanding artillery again.”

He looked deeply injured. “I have won wars.”

“Not against that chicken.”

He sulked for several steps after that, though not convincingly. His hazel eyes kept darting toward the next attraction, the next smell, the next noise. He was absurd in the crowd: too tall, too graceful, too commanding even when pretending to be common. His black wig, hidden beneath the kerchief, gave his head too much volume, and the patched brown dress strained suspiciously across his shoulders whenever he forgot to move like someone who had not spent a lifetime being obeyed.

Still, people did not seem to know him.

They looked, of course. Everyone looked. At Marguerite.

Some with confusion. Some with curiosity. Some with the quiet calculation of men deciding whether an unusually tall woman might still be worth trouble if her husband seemed weak enough.

You noticed the man first near the pastry stall.

He was broad in the face, red-cheeked, with a trimmed beard and the swagger of someone who had mistaken persistence for charm. He had been laughing with two companions when Louis paused to inspect a tray of honey cakes, but his laughter died the moment he saw Louis bend slightly over the stall.

You saw his gaze travel.

Up the hem of the brown dress.

Over the cinched waist.

To Louis’s exposed throat, the fan, the kerchief, the ridiculous attempt at maidenly softness.

The man smiled.

You stiffened.

Louis, naturally, noticed nothing.

“Pierre,” he murmured, pointing at the cakes, “what are those?”

“Honey cakes.”

“I want one.”

“You had chestnuts.”

“That was nourishment. This is culture.”

“You are going to make yourself ill.”

“I am already married to you. Illness holds no fear for me.”

You gave him a look.

He fluttered the fan in front of his face and smiled as if he had just conquered the Netherlands.

The red-cheeked man followed.

At first, he kept distance. A few stalls behind. Then closer. Near the fountain. Near the musicians. Behind you at the booth where Louis bought a strip of blue ribbon and tied it around his wrist, declaring it a token of Marguerite’s tragic beauty.

“Take that off,” you said.

“No. It brings out my eyes.”

“It brings out your madness.”

“It brings out my eyes.”

The man laughed from behind you.

Louis turned slightly, and the man dipped his head with the boldness of someone who had waited long enough to convince himself the invitation was mutual.

“Madame,” he said, removing his hat.

Louis blinked.

You felt, with immediate dread, his entire soul awaken to theatre.

The man bowed—not well, but confidently—and reached for Louis’s hand before either of you could stop him. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to the rough knuckles, lingering far too long.

Louis went very still.

Not offended.

Not yet.

Intrigued.

The fan rose.

His hazel eyes widened behind it with a sparkle so dangerous you nearly stepped on his foot preemptively.

“What a gallant gentleman,” Louis said, attempting a feminine voice and landing somewhere between widowed duchess and tired magistrate.

The man did not seem to notice. Lust, apparently, had damaged his hearing.

“Forgive me, madame,” he said. “I could not help admiring you.”

“You could have tried,” you muttered.

Louis struck your arm with the fan again. “Pierre.”

The man’s eyes flicked toward you. “Pierre?”

Louis gave a breathy, theatrical laugh behind the fan. “My husband. Tell him, Pierre.”

You stared at Louis.

Louis stared back, fan fluttering, eyes shining with wicked expectation.

The man looked between you both. His expression soured faintly at the word husband.

You smiled.

“No,” you said.

Louis’s fan stopped.

The man brightened.

Louis turned his head slowly toward you.

You folded your arms, leaning into the role with sudden, vicious pleasure. “I am not her husband.”

Louis’s hazel eyes narrowed.

The man stepped closer. “Ah?”

“I am her brother,” you said blandly. “Poor Marguerite is unmarried.”

The fan lowered by one inch.

Louis’s face was a painting of betrayal.

“Pierre,” he said through his teeth, the baritone slipping dangerously low.

You smiled sweetly. “My sister is very modest.”

The man nearly glowed. “Unmarried, you say?”

“Widowed in spirit,” Louis cut in sharply, lifting the fan again. “Married in practice. Bound by vows. Deeply bound. Tragically bound.”

You coughed into your fist to hide your laugh.

The man, encouraged by your denial and apparently too foolish to notice the murderous energy radiating from Marguerite, moved closer still. “A woman such as you should not walk with only a brother for protection.”

Louis’s nostrils flared.

“I assure you,” he said, voice slipping even lower, “my brother is quite sufficient.”

“Is he?” the man asked, glancing at you dismissively.

Louis turned to you with a look that promised royal vengeance. “Pierre is stronger than he appears.”

You patted his arm. “Marguerite lies when nervous.”

The man laughed.

Louis did not.

The next quarter hour became a test sent directly from hell.

The man followed.

He offered to buy Marguerite wine. Louis refused with icy politeness.

He offered to win Marguerite a ribbon at the ring toss. Louis replied that Marguerite already had a ribbon, thank you very much.

He asked where Marguerite lived. Louis said, “Far away, in a place no man may enter without losing his head.”

The man laughed as if it were flirtation.

You laughed because it was not.

Louis leaned toward you at one point and hissed, “This is your fault.”

“You wanted to be beautiful and spoiled.”

“I did not want to be hunted by a turnip with boots.”

“He thinks you are charming.”

“I am charming. That is beside the point.”

“He kissed your hand.”

“I noticed.”

“You blushed.”

“I was restraining myself from having him imprisoned.”

“You cannot imprison a man for flirting with Marguerite.”

Louis’s eyes flashed. “I can imprison a man for making Marguerite regret her neckline.”

You looked down at the patched dress. “You chose the neckline.”

“I have many gifts. Humility is not one.”

The man returned with two cups of watered wine, offering one to Louis with a grin. “For the lady.”

Louis stared at the cup as though it contained swamp water.

You took it instead. “My sister does not drink from strangers.”

The man gave you a thin smile. “Your sister can answer for herself.”

Louis lifted his chin.

For one terrible second, you saw the King in him. Not Marguerite. Not the ridiculous washerwoman with a fan. The monarch. The man who did not tolerate being addressed as property by anyone unless he had decided to make a comedy of it first.

But then he smiled.

Slowly.

Falsely.

Beautifully.

“My brother is protective,” he said.

“So am I,” the man replied.

Louis’s smile sharpened. “How unfortunate for us all.”

You almost choked.

The man still did not understand.

By the time you returned to the ring toss booth, Louis had reached the end of his patience. You, unfortunately, were distracted by the game. Not because you cared about the prize, but because your first throw had actually landed around a peg, and the stallkeeper had declared it luck with such contempt that your pride ignited.

“I can do it again,” you said.

“You cannot,” Louis replied absently.

“I can.”

“You throw like a bookkeeper.”

“At least I didn’t hit a chicken.”

His lips flattened. “The chicken was in the wrong place.”

“You aimed left.”

“It moved.”

“It was standing still.”

“It moved spiritually.”

You picked up another ring.

The man appeared at Louis’s side again, much too close. “Your brother is serious about games.”

Louis watched you throw. The ring missed, bounced off the table, and rolled under a basket.

“A family weakness,” he said dryly.

The man leaned in. “Perhaps while he plays, you might walk with me.”

Louis slowly turned his head.

You were busy arguing with the stallkeeper about the fairness of the peg spacing and did not see the exact moment Marguerite died and Louis XIV returned in her place.

The man reached toward his waist.

Not touching. Almost.

Enough.

Louis’s expression became serene.

Too serene.

He looked left. A group of women were laughing over ribbons. He looked right. Children were chasing the previously offended chicken. The stallkeeper was bent under the table retrieving your escaped ring. You were pointing at a peg and declaring it crooked with all the authority of a queen disguised as an apprentice boy.

No one was looking.

Except the man.

Louis smiled at him.

“You want to walk with me?” he asked, voice still artificially light.

The man’s grin widened. “Very much.”

Louis leaned closer, fan half-raised, lashes lowered. “Then perhaps you should know something first.”

The man practically swelled with triumph. “Anything, madame.”

Louis took one graceful step back.

Then, with the calm satisfaction of a general unveiling artillery, he lifted the front of Marguerite’s dress.

The man looked down.

Silence.

For one perfect, suspended second, his face emptied completely. Desire vanished. Confidence vanished. Language vanished. All that remained was the naked horror of a man whose understanding of the world had just been struck by lightning.

Then he screamed.

Not shouted.

Screamed.

A high, ragged, soul-wounded sound that made three pigeons explode upward from the fountain and sent the offended chicken sprinting into a basket of onions.

Louis dropped his skirt at once and opened his fan with a sharp snap.

The man stumbled backward, pale as flour.

“Madame—!” he gasped, then choked on the word as if it had betrayed him.

Louis blinked at him sweetly over the fan. “Is something wrong?”

The man made a noise like a dying kettle.

You turned around at last, ring still in hand. “What happened?”

The man pointed at Louis with one shaking finger, unable to form speech.

Louis placed a hand over his bodice. “Sir, you wound me.”

The man backed away so quickly he nearly fell over a crate. “Devil!” he croaked.

Louis gasped. “Pierre, did you hear that? He called your sister a devil.”

“My sister often inspires religious confusion,” you said slowly, still trying to understand why the man looked ready to run into a river.

The man did run.

Not into a river, unfortunately, but through the square with remarkable speed, shoving past a bread seller, tripping over a dog, and vanishing down an alley while shouting something incoherent about witchcraft, false women, and the collapse of Christendom.

The square stared after him.

Then, gradually, returned to its business.

Paris had seen worse.

You looked at Louis.

Louis looked at you.

His fan fluttered gently in front of his face.

“What,” you said, very carefully, “did you do?”

He widened his hazel eyes in perfect innocence. “I discouraged him.”

“You discouraged him.”

“Effectively.”

“You showed him something.”

Louis’s mouth twitched. “Only the truth.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Louis.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. It was still too deep, still unmistakably his, still vibrating with smug masculine satisfaction beneath the absurdity of the dress. “He wished to know Marguerite intimately. I provided a correction.”

You stared at him.

Then you covered your mouth.

The laugh came before you could stop it.

Not dignified. Not queenly. Not controlled. It burst out of you so violently that you had to turn away, shoulders shaking, one hand braced on the ring toss table while the stallkeeper looked between you and Marguerite with open confusion.

Louis beamed.

Actually beamed.

“There,” he said, delighted. “You see? Perfectly handled.”

“You are insane,” you gasped.

“I am practical.”

“You lifted your dress in the middle of the market.”

“No one saw.”

“He saw!”

“That was the point.”

You laughed harder, despite every injury, every betrayal, every reason not to. You laughed until tears gathered at the corners of your eyes, until your cap sat crooked over your hair, until Louis reached out and steadied you by the elbow with a touch so gentle it almost ruined the moment.

Almost.

“He called you a devil,” you wheezed.

Louis lifted his chin, pleased beyond measure. “Many men have. Few have been so accurate.”

“You are proud of yourself.”

“I defended my honor.”

“You terrified a man with your royal cock.”

“Do not say it so loudly,” he hissed, glancing around, though his smile only grew. “Marguerite has a reputation.”

“Marguerite has a secret.”

“Marguerite has mystery.”

“Marguerite is going to get us hanged.”

“Pierre would never allow it.”

“Pierre is pretending not to know you.”

Louis leaned closer, hazel eyes alight under the ridiculous kerchief. “Pierre laughed.”

You swallowed the last of your laughter and looked away, annoyed by how warm your cheeks had become.

“I laughed because you behaved like a lunatic.”

“No,” he murmured. “You laughed because it was funny.”

You hated him a little for being right.

He reached for your hand, still playing the part enough to make it look like a wife clinging to her brother-husband’s sleeve. His fingers brushed yours once, then slipped away before you could decide whether to accept or reject the touch.

“Come,” he said, voice softer now. “There is a man selling pear tarts.”

“You just traumatized a citizen.”

“He will recover with prayer.”

“He may enter a monastery.”

“Then I have improved his soul.”

“You are impossible.”

“And hungry.”

You stared at him.

Louis smiled, radiant and infuriating in brown wool, fan resting against his cheek, black wig hidden badly beneath the kerchief, hazel eyes shining with victory.

“For the record,” he added, as you began walking again, “that man should thank me.”

“For what?”

“For sparing him heartbreak. Marguerite is already married.”

“You are still insisting on that?”

He took your arm with theatrical devotion. “Tell them, Pierre.”

You pulled your cap lower over your face and muttered, “My sister is widowed in the head.”

Louis laughed then, deep and unguarded before remembering himself and smothering it behind the fan in a ridiculous high trill.

It was awful.

It was absurd.

It was almost happy.

And for one dangerous afternoon, under borrowed names and false clothes, with sugar on your fingers and the King of France disguised as the most alarming woman in the marketplace, you forgot—briefly, foolishly—that nine days had an ending.

You had almost made it to the pear tarts.

Almost.

The smell of them had already begun to reach you, warm and buttery, drifting through the crowded street in golden waves. Louis had spotted the stall before you had, of course, because even disguised as Marguerite, tragic beauty of the lower classes, he still possessed a monarch’s instinct for pleasure and taxation. He had been steering you toward it with increasing determination, one hand looped possessively through your arm, the blue ribbon still tied around his wrist like a ridiculous trophy of his own vanity.

“Pierre,” he murmured, his voice dipping too low again, “I believe that woman has cinnamon.”

“You believe every woman has something you want.”

His mouth twitched behind the fan. “That was unkind.”

“It was accurate.”

“Accuracy is often unkind. That is why ministers are so depressing.”

“You employ them.”

“I must. Someone has to make numbers miserable.”

You nearly smiled, but then something else caught your attention.

A burst of laughter rose from the far end of the square, louder than the ordinary market noise, followed by the brash trill of a pipe and the slap of a drum. Children darted past you, shrieking with delight, ribbons and crumbs clutched in their fists. A few women abandoned a cloth stall. Men turned from their cups. Even the chestnut seller leaned around her brazier, eyes narrowed with curiosity.

At the crossing between two narrow streets, someone had raised a little wooden platform.

Not a proper theatre. Nothing courtly. Nothing polished. Just boards balanced on barrels, a painted cloth backdrop flapping in the wind, and a handful of actors dressed in exaggerated costumes. One wore a cardboard crown coated with yellow paint. Another wore an absurdly wide skirt and a mantilla made of black netting. A third had stuffed his shirt and cheeks until he resembled a swollen courtier with gout.

You slowed.

Louis tugged lightly at your arm. “No.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“No,” he repeated, with immediate suspicion. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The look you get before danger.”

“I am watching a play.”

“Exactly.”

You pulled your arm from his and moved toward the crowd.

Louis exhaled through his nose, long-suffering and already annoyed, but he followed. Of course he followed. He stayed close, skirts gathered in one hand, fan in the other, black wig hidden badly beneath his kerchief, hazel eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced vigilance of a man who knew how quickly amusement could turn into threat. He positioned himself beside you, slightly behind, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

At first, it was harmless.

The puppet-faced actor in the cardboard crown strutted across the platform with an exaggerated limp, waving a wooden sceptre and declaring in a booming imitation of royal arrogance, “I am the Sun, and therefore I need not pay the candle-maker!”

The crowd roared.

Louis’s mouth tightened.

You glanced at him, amused despite yourself. “Historically accurate?”

“I pay my candle-makers,” he muttered.

“Eventually?”

He gave you a look.

Onstage, the fake king flung his cloak over one shoulder and posed, chin lifted, one leg extended in a grotesque mockery of royal portraiture. “Bring me mirrors!” he cried. “Bring me jewels! Bring me fountains! Bring me another mistress, this one has started asking questions!”

The crowd laughed harder.

Your gaze flicked to Louis.

His expression had gone very still.

Not angry exactly. Not yet. But narrowed. Contained. The fan stopped moving.

The swollen courtier character waddled forward and bowed so low that his padded stomach nearly knocked him over. “Sire,” he said, in a nasal whine, “the people are hungry.”

The false king waved him away. “Then let them eat admiration. It is cheaper than bread and lasts longer in portraits.”

More laughter.

This time, you did not look at Louis.

Because that one hurt somewhere you did not want to admit. Not because it mocked him, but because beneath the painted cruelty was something too close to truth.

Louis noticed anyway.

He always noticed when you tried to hide a wound from him. It was one of his more inconvenient talents.

His hand brushed the back of yours. Not taking it. Not claiming. Just there.

You kept your eyes on the platform.

Then the actress in the wide skirt stepped forward.

She wore black lace over her hair in a grotesque imitation of Spanish fashion, a painted fan clutched in one hand, her face powdered too pale except for two red circles on her cheeks. Her accent was monstrous, exaggerated beyond recognition. She rolled her r’s like a drunken soldier mocking a foreign song and pressed one hand dramatically to her bosom.

“Ay, ay, ay,” she cried, staggering across the stage. “I am the poor Spanish Queen, cold as a church wall and twice as dull!”

The crowd erupted.

Something inside you stopped.

Louis’s head turned slowly toward the stage.

The actress continued, encouraged by the laughter. “I come from Spain with my saints, my oranges, and my long face. I pray all day, eat garlic all night, and wonder why my beautiful husband runs from my bed!”

A man in the front shouted something obscene.

More laughter.

Your fingers curled into your borrowed vest.

Louis went completely silent beside you.

The false king strutted toward the mock queen and covered his nose with two fingers. “Madame, have the priests taught you nothing? In France, even sin smells better than Spanish virtue.”

The actress wailed theatrically and dropped to her knees. “But, my lord husband, I have brought you a dowry of boredom and a womb full of disappointment!”

The words struck harder than the laughter.

You did not move.

You could not.

The crowd’s amusement swelled around you like dirty water. Men slapped their thighs. Women hid smiles behind their hands. Children, not understanding, laughed because their parents laughed. The actress began miming prayer, crossing herself again and again while the fake king tiptoed away behind her toward a painted mistress with an enormous bosom and a powdered beauty mark.

“Do not,” Louis said.

You were not sure whether he was speaking to you, to the actors, or to himself.

His voice was still low. Too low. The baritone had lost Marguerite entirely. It had become Louis again, velvet over steel.

You tried to answer, but your mouth was dry.

The actress onstage clasped her hands. “Where is my husband? Where is my love? Perhaps he has gone to another woman because I am Spanish and therefore born with vinegar in my blood!”

The false king leapt into the arms of the painted mistress.

The crowd howled.

The actress turned to them, widening her eyes. “Do not blame him! A French king needs beauty, wit, perfume, and women who do not smell of chapel dust!”

You looked down.

It was stupid.

You knew it was stupid.

Street theatre. Cheap mockery. Crude voices in a market square. You had been raised around sharper insults than this. At court, hatred wore silk and smiled with better teeth. This should not have mattered. These were not ministers, not ambassadors, not Montespan’s circle murmuring behind fans. These were common people laughing because a man in a cardboard crown and a woman in bad lace had made your pain easy to digest.

But perhaps that was why it hurt.

Because they were his people.

Not yours.

France had dressed you in gold, crowned you, displayed you, used your Spanish blood when it suited diplomacy and mocked it when it needed laughter. You had learned its prayers, its dances, its court rhythms, its endless rules of precedence and vanity. You had carried his child. Buried it. Smiled until your cheeks ached while women with French names and French perfumes slid between you and your husband.

And still, to them, you were garlic, chapel dust, cold Spanish blood, disappointment wrapped in black lace.

Your vision blurred before you could stop it.

You blinked hard.

Louis saw.

The transformation in him was instant.

One moment he stood beside you as Marguerite, ridiculous and overdressed in poverty, fan half-raised, brown wool skirts brushing the dust. The next, all theatre vanished from him. His spine straightened. His chin lifted. Something cold and ancient entered his hazel eyes, something that belonged not to the man who had been dragged screaming from a bath, nor the lover who had wept in your bed, but to the monarch whose displeasure could empty rooms and ruin bloodlines.

His hand moved to his waist.

You noticed only because you knew him too well.

Beneath the apron, beneath the coarse wool, hidden flat against his body, was the small dagger he had insisted on bringing before you left Marly.

“For safety,” he had said.

“For melodrama,” you had corrected.

Now his fingers closed around the hilt.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The actor playing the king pranced back to center stage, one arm around the mistress, the other pointing at the mock queen. “Take her away!” he cried. “Send her back across the mountains with her priests and sour oranges! France needs pleasure, not penance!”

The crowd cheered.

Steel flashed in the shadow of Louis’s skirts.

Not much.

Just enough.

Your heart lurched.

“Louis,” you whispered.

He did not look at you.

His eyes were fixed on the stage.

The dagger slid another inch free.

“I already,” he said, voice so quiet it chilled you. “I already showed one fool today what happens when he oversteps around you.”

“They don’t know,” you whispered quickly.

“They know enough to laugh.”

“They don’t know it’s me.”

“I do.”

The actress onstage began a grotesque little dance, stomping her feet in a clumsy imitation of Spanish rhythm while the fake king clapped and shouted, “Careful, my frigid bride! Move too fast and the rosary will fall from between your legs!”

Something broke in Louis’s face.

Not patience. Not restraint.

Something older. More violent.

He stepped forward.

You caught his wrist.

He stopped, but only because your fingers were on him.

The dagger was half-drawn now, hidden by the fall of the brown skirt and your bodies pressed close in the crowd. His hand was rigid beneath yours, tendons sharp, pulse hammering. The blue ribbon still circled his wrist, absurdly bright against the knuckles of a man ready to spill blood in a market square.

“Do not,” you said.

His gaze snapped to yours.

For one terrible instant, you saw no husband there. No ridiculous Marguerite. No bath-fearing Bourbon. Only king. Offended divinity. A man who had been taught that insult to what belonged to him must be answered with punishment.

His voice came low, shaking with fury. “They will not make a sport of you.”

“They already have.”

“Then I will make them regret it.”

“You will expose us.”

“I will carve regret into their mouths before they can say my name.”

“Louis.”

“They called you disappointment,” he hissed, and the word seemed to poison him as it passed his lips. His hazel eyes burned, bloodshot now in a different way. “They called you cold. They mocked your blood. Your grief. Your body. Your place beside me. I should cut out every tongue on that platform and leave them pinned to the boards for crows.”

You tightened your grip on his wrist.

Around you, the crowd laughed again.

No one looked at you.

No one knew the King of France stood among them in a brown dress with a dagger in his hand.

No one knew how close comedy had come to execution.

“You would kill them for repeating what your court believes?” you asked softly.

That struck him.

His breath caught.

You saw it land, saw the fury falter not because it lessened, but because shame entered it like a blade slipped between ribs.

The actors continued behind you.

The false mistress now strutted across the platform, hips swaying, announcing, “Fear not, good people! While the Spanish Queen freezes beside her saints, I shall warm the King for France!”

More laughter.

Louis’s jaw clenched so hard you thought he might crack a tooth.

You leaned closer, voice barely audible beneath the noise. “If you cut out their tongues, will you cut out Montespan’s too?”

His eyes flickered.

There.

You pressed harder.

“Will you cut out every courtier’s tongue? Every priest who called me barren in whispers? Every noblewoman who smiled when I suffered a stillbirth? Every man who bowed to me in the morning and praised your mistress at night?”

Louis looked as if you had slapped him.

Good.

You wanted him awake.

“Will you punish them,” you continued, “or only these people because they are poor enough for you to reach without consequence?”

His face changed again.

The rage did not disappear. It folded inward, becoming something uglier. Something wounded.

His fingers remained locked around the dagger.

But he did not move.

Onstage, the fake king announced, “Bring me another mistress! Preferably French, fertile, and less fond of confession!”

The crowd roared.

Louis closed his eyes.

Not gently. Not in pain alone. He shut them as if the sight of the platform, the sound of the crowd, the ugliness of that laughter had become something physical that might blind him if he looked too long. His fingers remained locked around the hidden dagger beneath Marguerite’s skirts, his pulse hammering hard against your grip, the blue ribbon trembling at his wrist like some obscene little festival prize tied to a hand ready for murder.

For a moment, you thought he might still do it.

You knew that stillness in him. That awful, composed pause before command became consequence. Men at court mistook Louis’s silences for mercy because they were fools. You knew better. His rage was at its most dangerous when it became elegant. When the baritone dropped low. When the hazel eyes emptied of heat and filled instead with that royal distance that allowed him to sign away lives without smudging the ink.

But then his breath moved through him, slow and rough.

Once.

Twice.

His jaw flexed.

When he opened his eyes, the fury had not gone anywhere. It had only been forced behind the gates.

“My court,” he began, voice low, tightly controlled, “does not think—”

He stopped.

Because you were no longer looking at him.

You were staring past his shoulder.

Not at the stage. Not at the actress in the grotesque Spanish mantilla. Not at the false king capering beneath his cardboard crown.

At someone in the crowd.

Louis followed your gaze.

And there, half-hidden near the awning of a spice seller, stood one of his own courtiers.

Marquis de Vardes.

Powdered, perfumed, dressed plainly enough for town but not plainly enough to be invisible, with a walking stick tucked under one arm and an amused little smile curving at the corner of his mouth. Not laughing openly. No, never that. Men like him did not roar with crowds. They smiled discreetly. They watched cruelty unfold from a distance and called it wit. He stood with another gentleman, both of them turned slightly toward the platform, their faces arranged into that careful, poisoned politeness that Versailles had mistaken for civilization.

De Vardes was smiling.

At the mock queen.

At the false Spanish accent.

At the jokes about your womb, your blood, your bed.

Louis went utterly still.

The dagger slid fully into his palm.

“Ah,” you whispered, so softly that only he could hear. “There is your court, Louis.”

His eyes did not leave the man.

All the blood seemed to drain from his face beneath the rough powder someone had smeared on him for the disguise. The ridiculous brown dress, the apron, the kerchief, the black wig hidden beneath it—all of it vanished again. There was no Marguerite now. There was not even the husband who had cried into the dark and begged not to lose you.

There was only a king seeing proof.

Seeing that your accusation had not been cruelty.

Seeing that the rot had names.

His mouth moved once.

No sound came.

Then, very quietly, in a voice like velvet dragged over a blade, he said, “Vardes.”

You tightened your hand around his wrist. “No.”

He did not look at you. “He is laughing.”

“He is smiling.”

“That is how cowards laugh at court.”

“Louis.”

His hazel eyes shone with such cold violence that, for one dreadful instant, you thought even your touch would not hold him.

“He has eaten at my table,” Louis whispered. “He has bowed to you. He has kissed your hand. He has accepted offices from me, money from me, favor from me—”

“And learned from you,” you cut in.

His gaze snapped to you then.

The words struck him harder than the street play.

You did not soften them.

“You taught them what a queen could endure,” you said, voice low and trembling now, not from fear, but from fury so old it had turned clean. “You taught them that my humiliation was survivable. You taught them Montespan could glitter beside you while I stood in shadow and still be expected to smile. Do not act shocked that they learned the lesson.”

Louis stared at you as if you had opened his chest with one hand.

Behind him, the stage laughter swelled.

De Vardes tilted his head toward his companion and murmured something.

The companion covered his smile with his glove.

Louis saw it.

The dagger shifted in his hand.

Then, from the far side of the square, a shout cut through the noise.

“Make way!”

The sound came again, sharper this time.

“Make way for the King’s guard!”

The effect was immediate.

Not panic at first. Confusion. Then the kind of nervous ripple that passed through common crowds whenever uniforms appeared in numbers. Heads turned. Bodies shifted. The musicians faltered. The pipe gave one last awkward squeal before falling silent.

The actors saw them first.

Three royal guards in blue and silver were pushing through the street from the eastern arch, followed by two more on horseback. Their faces were stern, their boots striking the stones with official purpose. The sun flashed over polished hilts.

On the platform, the false king froze mid-pose.

The actress in the Spanish mantilla went pale beneath her painted cheeks.

The padded courtier whispered, “Merde.”

Then theatre dissolved into survival.

The fake king tore off his cardboard crown and leapt from the platform so quickly that his cloak snagged on a nail and ripped in half. The mistress shrieked, kicked over a basket of props, and vanished behind the painted backdrop. The mock queen gathered her enormous skirt in both hands and fled in the opposite direction, her mantilla flying loose behind her like a black flag of surrender.

The crowd burst into shouts.

Not laughter now.

Alarm.

“Run!”

“The guards!”

“They saw!”

“Hide the box!”

Someone knocked over a tray of pears. A child began crying. The offended chicken, apparently cursed to witness every major scandal of the day, shot once more across the square and disappeared under a cart.

Louis did not move.

His eyes remained fixed on de Vardes.

De Vardes, for the first time, stopped smiling.

He had seen the guards too—but worse, perhaps, he had seen Marguerite staring at him with the eyes of his sovereign.

Recognition did not fully enter his face. Not yet. The disguise held by threads and absurdity. But something troubled him. Something in the height. The posture. The stillness. The terrible attention.

His smile died.

Louis took one step toward him.

You stepped in front of him.

“No,” you said.

His face lowered toward yours, fury blazing beneath the kerchief. “Move.”

“No.”

“He heard them. He smiled.”

“Yes.”

“He will answer for it.”

“Not here.”

Louis’s nostrils flared. “You ask restraint of me while he stands there breathing?”

“You prayed for this, remember?”

His mouth twitched, but not with humor.

Around you, the crowd began dispersing in every direction. Stalls were being shuttered. People slipped into alleys, dragged children away, gathered baskets in haste. The guards were closer now, their voices rising above the commotion as they demanded order.

You looked toward them, heart suddenly thudding for an entirely different reason.

“Why are your guards here?”

Louis’s answer did not come at once.

For one terrible second, you thought he would say something dreadful. That he had summoned them. That some hidden royal instinct had sent word ahead the moment insult touched the air. That even dressed in brown wool and calling himself Marguerite, he had somehow managed to drag the machinery of monarchy into the square with him.

But Louis only stared toward the approaching guards, his hazel eyes narrowing beneath the crooked kerchief.

“I don’t know,” he said.

You looked at him. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

“You are the King.”

“And yet, astonishingly, men sometimes move without first asking me where to put their feet.”

“That must be very hard for you.”

“It is a national affliction.”

The guards were nearer now, their voices cutting through the square as people scattered around them. A cart rolled hastily away. A woman snatched up her basket of onions. Somewhere behind the platform, the mock queen had become trapped in her own skirt and was whispering desperate prayers to every saint she had just finished insulting.

You grabbed Louis’s sleeve. “Why would royal guards be here?”

He glanced down at your hand on him, then at the soldiers.

Then, with a seriousness that made the sentence worse, he said, “Perhaps they are after one of the peacocks.”

You stared at him.

The square roared around you. The actors fled. De Vardes vanished behind the awning of the spice seller. Royal guards in blue and silver pushed through the crowd with the grave purpose of men arriving at a murder, a riot, or a treasonous pamphlet.

And Louis had said peacocks.

“Peacocks,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“You think the King’s guard came into town because of a bird?”

Louis’s face hardened in immediate offense. “Not just any bird.”

“Oh, forgive me. A noble bird.”

“A very expensive bird,” he corrected, catching your wrist and pulling you sharply into the moving crowd before one of the guards could glance too long in your direction. “Do not stand there gawking like a provincial. Walk.”

“I am not gawking. I am trying to understand why France’s military resources are being used to chase ornamental poultry.”

“They are not poultry.”

“They have feathers.”

“So do angels. I would not call Saint Michael a chicken.”

“You would if he cost too much and screamed in your garden.”

Louis shot you a look over his shoulder, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the kerchief slipping sideways over the hidden black wig. “My peacocks are the pride of Versailles.”

“They scream like women being murdered.”

“They add atmosphere.”

“They attack gardeners.”

“The gardeners should develop courage.”

You stumbled after him as he dragged you between a bread stall and a woman selling ribbons, his grip firm around your wrist, the fan clutched absurdly in his other hand. He moved too quickly for Marguerite now. The disguise was failing in every line of him. The stride was too long. The shoulders too straight. The air of command too unmistakable. People made way instinctively, not knowing why they were moving aside for a very tall woman in brown wool who walked like war in skirts.

You yanked your wrist. “Louis, slow down.”

He slowed, but only enough to keep you from tripping over your borrowed boots.

“Do you understand,” he said in a low, urgent baritone, “how much one of those birds costs? The plumage alone—”

“I cannot believe we are discussing peacock accounting during a near-arrest.”

“The gardener will be in a panic.”

“The gardener?”

“Yes. Poor man.”

You glanced at him sharply. “Poor man? You just said your gardeners should develop courage.”

“They should. But in an organized fashion.”

The guards shouted again behind you. “Close the western lane! Check the market road!”

You tensed.

Louis heard it too. His fingers tightened around your wrist, and he pulled you under the shade of an overhanging cloth awning, pressing you close to a wall where sacks of grain were stacked high enough to shield you from the main square. He stood in front of you instinctively, brown skirts brushing your knees, his ridiculous fan half-lifted as if it could defend you from discovery by sheer theatrical force.

You peered past his shoulder. “They’re looking for someone.”

“They may still be looking for the peacock.”

“They said close the lane.”

“Peacocks run.”

“They do not organize sedition.”

“You underestimate them.”

You looked at him.

He looked back, maddeningly solemn.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused.

“I am not.”

“You are. Your face is glowing.”

“That is exertion. These stays are barbaric.”

“You chose them.”

“For the silhouette. Not the suffering.”

One of the mounted guards passed near enough that the horse’s hooves struck sparks from the stone. Louis turned his face away slightly, lowering the fan to hide the shape of his nose, but you still saw the tension in him. Not fear exactly. Louis did not fear discovery the way ordinary people feared discovery. If someone recognized him, the world would simply rearrange itself around the truth, kneeling and apologizing. What he feared was losing the afternoon. Losing the laughter. Losing the fragile, impossible pocket of unreality in which he could be Marguerite and you could be Pierre and no one could point at you from a wooden stage and call your grief a joke without the King of France reaching for a blade.

His eyes flicked back toward the square.

De Vardes was gone.

You knew Louis had noticed.

The silence between you sharpened.

“Do not follow him,” you said quietly.

Louis’s mouth tightened. “I did not say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

His gaze remained fixed beyond the crowd. “He will answer.”

“Yes,” you said. “But not while you are dressed as a washerwoman and smelling faintly of pear tarts.”

“I do not smell of pear tarts.”

“You were leaning over them with longing.”

“I was evaluating them.”

“You were coveting them.”

“I am the King. I do not covet. I acquire.”

“Marguerite covets.”

That brought his eyes back to you.

A faint, unwilling smile tugged at his mouth despite the fury still burning under it. “Marguerite is complex.”

“Marguerite is about to get us both dragged before the guards because she cannot resist either revenge or pastry.”

“She contains multitudes.”

“She contains a dagger.”

His smile vanished.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The dagger remained hidden in his hand, half beneath the fall of his skirt. You reached down slowly, your fingers wrapping around his wrist once more—not harshly, not pleadingly, but with a firmness that reminded him you knew exactly what he was capable of.

“Put it away,” you said.

Louis stared at you.

The old battle returned to his face: authority against restraint, pride against love, the King against the man who had prayed that morning not to become a monster in front of you again.

Then, slowly, he slid the dagger back into its concealed sheath.

It was a small sound.

A whisper of steel.

But it felt larger than the square.

You released his wrist.

Louis looked down at the place your hand had been as if your fingers had left a brand.

“Thank you,” you said, almost reluctantly.

His baritone softened. “Do not thank me yet.”

“Why?”

“Because if that truly is my peacock, I may still have to commit violence.”

You stared at him.

He stepped back from the wall, peering past the awning with renewed attention. “The blue one is particularly arrogant. If it has escaped again, I shall know. It walks like a bishop with unpaid debts.”

Despite yourself, you made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Too dangerous to be laughter.

Louis heard it and seized on it instantly.

“You doubt me,” he said. “But the last time one of them escaped, it took four guards, two gardeners, a laundress, and a boy with a cabbage to retrieve it.”

“A cabbage?”

“It was bait.”

“Peacocks eat cabbage?”

“This one did. It also bit a priest.”

You pressed your lips together.

Louis leaned closer, hazel eyes glinting now beneath the kerchief. “The priest said it was possessed.”

“Was it?”

“It was Spanish.”

You hit his arm.

He winced theatrically. “Abuse. In public. Pierre is cruel.”

“You deserved that.”

“I said the bird was Spanish, not you.”

“You implied a resemblance.”

“I implied passion. Temperament. A certain elegance of fury.”

“You are trying to survive.”

“I am succeeding.”

The absurdity should not have soothed you. It should not have pulled you back from the sharp edge of humiliation still lodged beneath your ribs. But Louis, damn him, had always known how to turn danger sideways at the last possible moment, how to make the room bend not only through power, but through charm. It was one of the reasons people forgave him things they should not have forgiven.

It was one of the reasons you hated remembering that you had once forgiven him too.

The guards continued spreading through the square, but their attention seemed focused away from the market stage now, toward the lane leading to the stables. A young soldier hurried past carrying a length of netting.

You blinked.

Louis followed your gaze.

His face brightened with vindication.

“Ah.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That could be for anything.”

“It is netting.”

“People use netting for many things.”

“For peacocks,” he said, deeply satisfied.

A second guard rushed by holding what appeared unmistakably to be a basket of grain.

Louis lifted one brow.

You closed your eyes. “Do not look smug.”

“I am not smug.”

“You are radiating smugness through the dress.”

“I told you. It is not just a bird.”

A shriek erupted from the far lane.

Not human.

High, metallic, outrageously dramatic.

The entire market turned.

A flash of iridescent blue shot between two carts, followed by three guards, a groom, a red-faced man in gardener’s clothes, and a small boy waving a cabbage with the solemn determination of a knight carrying a holy relic.

The peacock exploded into the square.

There was no other word for it.

It came tearing through the street in a storm of blue, green, and offended majesty, tail streaming behind it like a torn royal banner. People screamed and scattered. The bird darted beneath a table, knocked over a basket of pears, emerged from the other side with a piece of lace tangled around one foot, and shrieked again as if France itself had insulted its lineage.

Louis froze.

Then whispered, with horror and recognition, “Philippe.”

You turned slowly to look at him.

“The peacock’s name is Philippe?”

“He came with that name.”

“You named a peacock after your brother?”

“No. I named my brother after the peacock.”

“Louis.”

“That was a joke.”

“Was it?”

His silence was not reassuring.

The gardener chasing the bird looked moments from collapse. His face was crimson, his wig gone entirely, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. “Catch him!” he shouted, voice cracking. “For the love of God, catch him!”

The peacock shrieked again and launched itself onto the edge of the pastry stall.

The pear tarts trembled.

Louis inhaled sharply.

“Not the tarts,” he said.

“Of course that is your concern.”

“Those were excellent tarts.”

“You didn’t even taste them.”

“I had plans.”

The bird stepped directly into one.

Louis made a wounded sound.

The gardener saw it and nearly wept.

“Majesty will kill me,” he gasped to one of the guards. “He will kill me. He already dismissed me last time. I only got my place back because I wept into his robes.”

You turned to Louis very slowly.

Louis suddenly became fascinated by the fan.

“You fired him,” you said.

“He lost an expensive bird.”

“And rehired him because he cried on you?”

“He was very damp.”

“You are a ridiculous man.”

“He clutched my robes. In front of courtiers. There was mucus.”

“So you gave him his job back?”

“I am not made of stone.”

“You threatened to cut out actors’ tongues five minutes ago.”

“That was different. They insulted you. He only ruined velvet.”

The peacock hopped from the crushed pear tart onto a barrel, flared its tail half-open, and screamed into the face of the guard holding the net. The guard stumbled backward. The boy with the cabbage advanced bravely and was immediately chased in a circle.

You stared.

Louis stared too, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Then he murmured, “He has grown bolder.”

“Your bird is terrorizing the market.”

“He is a royal bird.”

“He is a menace.”

“Most royal things are.”

That should not have made you laugh.

But it did.

A small laugh. Brief. Almost strangled. But real enough that Louis looked at you at once, all the violence and anger in him briefly forgotten.

You saw the way he watched you when you laughed.

As if he had been starving.

You looked away quickly.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to look sentimental.”

“I would never.”

“You always do it after surviving one of your own disasters.”

“This disaster has feathers. I refuse responsibility.”

Philippe the peacock chose that exact moment to leap from the barrel, land on the edge of the ring toss table, and send every wooden ring skittering into the dust. The stallkeeper shouted in outrage. The guards closed in. The bird darted left, then right, then made directly for the narrow space beneath your awning.

Louis’s eyes widened.

“No,” he said sharply, forgetting himself. “Not here.”

The peacock came straight toward you.

You had time only to step back before Louis moved in front of you.

It was instinctive.

Ridiculous, given that the threat was a bird.

But instinctive all the same.

Brown skirts flared. His arm came across your body. The fan snapped open like a shield. He stood between you and the incoming storm of feathers with the grim resolve of a man facing cavalry.

The peacock skidded to a halt.

Louis stared down at it.

The bird stared up at Louis.

For a suspended heartbeat, king and peacock regarded one another with mutual, ancestral contempt.

Then Louis lowered his voice, baritone deep enough to make the air seem to vibrate.

“Philippe.”

The peacock’s head tilted.

You stared between them, incredulous. “Are you speaking to it?”

“Hush.”

“You know the peacock personally.”

“I said hush.”

The bird took one delicate step forward.

Louis lifted the fan higher.

“Do not embarrass me,” he said, still in that dangerously low voice.

Philippe screamed.

Louis flinched.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

The gardener rounded the corner and froze at the sight of Marguerite apparently locked in diplomatic relations with the escaped peacock. The guards stopped behind him, panting.

The boy with the cabbage whispered, “Madame, don’t move.”

Louis did not take his eyes off the bird. “I am not moving.”

The peacock looked at the fan.

Louis looked at the peacock.

Then, slowly, Louis extended the fan sideways.

The bird followed the motion.

Louis flicked it once.

Philippe lunged.

Louis stepped aside with startling grace, the bird charging toward the fluttering object just as one of the guards threw the net.

Chaos exploded.

The net landed half on the bird, half on Louis’s skirt. Philippe screamed. Louis cursed. The gardener shouted. You grabbed Louis by the back of the dress before he could trip and fall face-first into grain sacks. The boy with the cabbage threw himself heroically at the bird’s tail and missed entirely.

For several seconds, everyone was feathers, netting, skirts, and profanity.

Then the guard managed to pin the net properly.

Philippe was captured.

The square burst into applause.

Louis stood frozen, chest heaving, one side of his dress caught under the net, fan broken in half, kerchief slipping low over one eye.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

Then you said, “Marguerite is very brave.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not one word.”

“You saved France.”

“Not one word.”

“From Philippe.”

“Pierre.”

“The royal bird.”

“I will divorce you.”

“You are my sister.”

“I will divorce you anyway.”

The gardener dropped to his knees beside the captured peacock, nearly sobbing with relief. “Thank God. Thank God. His Majesty will not hear of this. Please, all of you, please, say nothing. If the King learns Philippe reached the market again, I am ruined.”

Louis, still trapped partially beneath the net, looked down at him.

The gardener did not recognize him.

Of course he did not.

Why would he? No man in his right mind would expect Louis XIV to be standing in a market square in a brown dress, smelling faintly of rose soap, pastry, and rage.

Louis’s expression shifted.

You saw the temptation before he spoke.

“No,” you whispered.

He ignored you.

With slow, theatrical dignity, he lifted the remaining half of his broken fan, lowered his voice into Marguerite’s most atrocious feminine register, and said, “Perhaps His Majesty would be merciful.”

The gardener looked up, miserable. “You don’t know him.”

Your mouth twitched.

Louis’s brows lifted.

The gardener wiped sweat from his forehead. “He is terrible about the birds. Terrible. Last time, he stood in the garden with that black wig and those eyes, staring at me as if I had personally sold France to Spain. Then he dismissed me in front of everyone. Everyone.”

Louis’s face changed.

You put a hand over your mouth.

The gardener continued, voice trembling with the trauma of memory. “I had to chase him through the south gallery. I cried into his robes. I am not proud of it. But I have six children and a wife who says peacocks are the devil’s chickens.”

Louis blinked.

You lost the battle and laughed.

Not softly. Not discreetly. You turned into the wall and laughed until your shoulders shook.

Louis shot you a murderous look.

The gardener stared at you, offended. “It was a difficult day.”

“I’m sure,” you managed.

Louis cleared his throat. “And did His Majesty rehire you?”

The gardener sighed deeply. “Yes. Eventually. After I ruined the velvet. He was angrier about the velvet than the tears.”

You laughed harder.

Louis’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps His Majesty has a complicated relationship with textiles.”

The gardener nodded gravely. “That is true.”

You wheezed.

Louis turned his face toward you, whispering through clenched teeth, “You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I have never enjoyed anything more.”

“I can still have you arrested.”

“For laughing at peacock treason?”

“For marital cruelty.”

“We are siblings today.”

His eyes flashed. “Conveniently.”

The guards finished securing Philippe into the netted basket, though the bird continued screaming with the moral outrage of a dethroned prince. The gardener rose, bowed quickly to Marguerite and Pierre as if gratitude required some gesture, and hurried away with the guards, the boy, the cabbage, and the captured royal menace.

The market slowly exhaled.

People returned to stalls. Someone righted the pears. The actors, seeing that the royal guards had come for a bird rather than satire, began emerging cautiously from hiding. The fake king’s cardboard crown peeked from behind a barrel.

Louis remained under the awning, one half of his broken fan still in hand, his brown skirt muddy at the hem and torn slightly where the net had caught it. The kerchief had slipped again, exposing the edge of the black wig underneath, which sat upon his head with the tragic imbalance of a defeated empire. His hazel eyes were narrowed, not at the actors now, nor at the guards vanishing down the lane with Philippe shrieking from his basket, but at you.

“You may stop laughing,” he said.

You tried. Truly, you did. But the image of Philippe the peacock staring down the King of France disguised as a washerwoman had imprinted itself too deeply into your soul.

“I cannot,” you wheezed, one hand braced against the wall, your cap crooked over your hair. “You called the peacock Philippe.”

“He is called Philippe.”

“You spoke to him like a minister.”

“He has more discipline than some ministers.”

“He screamed in your face.”

“So do some ministers.”

That only made it worse. You bent forward, laughing again, shoulders shaking, breath catching in your throat as Louis stood before you in all his wounded royal magnificence, smelling faintly of rose soap, pastry sugar, market dust, and humiliation. He tried to look offended. He nearly succeeded. But there was something in his mouth that betrayed him, a reluctant twitch at one corner, a softening he could not quite command back into severity.

He loved it.

You saw it before he could hide it.

Not the mockery, not his own embarrassment, but the sound of you. Your laughter. Real laughter. Ridiculous, unguarded, free. Not the brittle court laugh you used like a fan to strike people without touching them. Not the cold laugh you gave him when you wanted him to bleed. This was helpless. Human. Alive.

Louis looked at you as if he had stumbled upon a chapel in the woods.

Then, because he was Louis, he ruined it by muttering, “Pierre is cruel to his wife.”

“You are my sister today.”

His eyes sharpened. “You denied the marriage first.”

“I saved us.”

“You abandoned Marguerite to libertines.”

“You showed a stranger your royal cock in a public square.”

His expression became pained. “Must you say royal?”

“Would you prefer humble?”

“Never.”

You laughed again, though softer now, wiping at the corner of one eye. “God, Louis.”

His face changed slightly at his name. Not much. Only enough for you to notice. He was still in disguise, still ridiculous, still Marguerite in brown wool beneath a crooked kerchief, but the sound of his real name in your laughing mouth seemed to touch him somewhere bare.

He opened his mouth, perhaps to make some insufferable remark about the dignity of kings, when your gaze drifted beyond his shoulder.

And stopped.

At first, you thought you were mistaken.

No. Surely not.

The man from earlier—the red-cheeked turnip with boots, as Louis had so poetically christened him—had returned.

But not as he had fled.

No, this time he came with preparation.

His hair, previously wind-tossed from terror and lust, had been combed back with visible effort, though one stubborn curl had sprung loose near his temple. His coat had been hastily brushed. His hat was tucked beneath one arm. In his hands, clutched with absurd courage, was a small bouquet of flowers: cheap, bright, slightly wilted from market heat, but arranged with something almost like hope.

He searched the square.

Then he saw Louis.

And smiled.

You stared.

Then covered your mouth.

Louis noticed immediately.

“What?” he demanded.

You shook your head, already losing the fight.

His hazel eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

You pointed.

Louis followed your gaze.

For one rare, perfect moment, the King of France looked genuinely horrified.

Not politically displeased. Not theatrically wounded. Horrified. His mouth parted. The broken fan lowered. His eyes widened beneath the slipping kerchief as the man began walking toward him with flowers and renewed romantic purpose.

“No,” Louis said.

The man lifted the bouquet slightly.

Louis took one step back.

“No.”

You made a strangled sound.

“He came back,” you whispered.

Louis stared as if watching France collapse in real time. “Impossible.”

“He came back after seeing—”

“Do not say it.”

“After seeing Marguerite’s secret.”

“Do not.”

You were laughing again now, helplessly, one hand over your stomach. “He brought flowers.”

Louis turned on you, offended past speech. “This is not amusing.”

“It is the funniest thing that has ever happened to either of us.”

“He saw the truth!”

“And apparently reflected upon it.”

“He screamed witchcraft!”

“And then combed his hair.”

Louis looked back. The man was closer now, expression nervous but determined, bouquet held forward like a peace offering to a pagan goddess with unexpected anatomy.

Louis’s baritone dropped into a scandalized hiss. “What is wrong with these people?”

You leaned against the wall, laughing so hard your cap nearly fell off. “He is French, Louis.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“It is exactly an explanation.”

“It is a national insult.”

“It is a national pattern,” you gasped. “I have learned many things since coming here. Your people enjoy sauces, arguments, impractical shoes, and apparently they are willing to appreciate both sides of creation.”

Louis blinked. “Both sides of—?”

You gestured vaguely, unable to speak for a moment.

His face darkened with realization.

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“Madame,” the man called, still approaching, “forgive me!”

Louis seized your wrist at once.

“No.”

“You should answer him,” you wheezed. “Marguerite has an admirer.”

“Marguerite is leaving.”

“But he brought flowers.”

“Marguerite is widowed by necessity.”

The man hurried closer. “Madame, wait! I judged too quickly!”

Louis’s face became a mask of royal despair. “He judged too quickly.”

You could barely breathe. “He has grown as a person.”

“He has become worse.”

“Perhaps he spent five minutes thinking and decided love is love.”

“Stop laughing.”

“I physically cannot.”

The man was close enough now that you could see the hope in his eyes, the sweat at his temples, the tragic sincerity of his bouquet. “Madame,” he said, slightly breathless, “I have reconsidered.”

Louis clutched your hand tighter.

“Have you,” he said, and although he attempted Marguerite’s voice, outrage dragged it straight back into that velvet baritone.

The man faltered only slightly. Then, astonishingly, blushed.

You made a noise so undignified that Louis shot you a look promising future punishment.

The man held out the flowers. “I reacted poorly.”

“You reacted accurately,” Louis said.

“No,” the man insisted. “I was frightened. Surprised. But I am a man of Paris. I have seen many things.”

Louis stared at him.

You whispered, “Apparently.”

Louis tugged your wrist. “We are leaving.”

“Marguerite,” the man pleaded.

“Come, Pierre.”

The man followed one step. “Madame—”

Louis looked back over his shoulder, hazel eyes flashing.

“I said no.”

This time, the voice was not Marguerite’s. Not even close. It was the voice of the man who had ordered armies, dismissed ministers, built palaces, and terrified gardeners into weeping over peacocks. It struck the air with such quiet finality that the man stopped dead, bouquet drooping in his hands.

Louis turned away again and marched forward, dragging you with him through the market crowd.

You stumbled after him, still laughing. “You cannot blame him. You are very beautiful and spoiled.”

“I am not discussing this.”

“You said Marguerite was irresistible.”

“I was wrong.”

“You were right.”

“Do not encourage Frenchmen.”

“You are a Frenchman.”

“I am the Frenchman. That is different.”

“He brought flowers, Louis.”

“He brought madness.”

“They were almost the same color as your ribbon.”

Louis glanced down at the blue ribbon still tied around his wrist, then scowled as if it too had betrayed him. “I am beginning to hate this town.”

“Marguerite, I’m going to write to you!”

“Mon Dieu, non!”

You laughed, grabbed Louis by the arm and dragged him away this time.

He came willingly, laughing under his breath as you fled with him through the market, both of you ridiculous, compromised, dust-streaked, no longer quite king and queen, not forgiven, not healed, not safe from the ending of nine days.

But laughing.

And Louis, who had been worshipped by France and still starved in ways no one could see, held the sound of you beside him like something rarer than jewels.

Like grace.

Temporary.

Conditional.

But real.

[coldkidcookieneck]

should have guessed that once everything started going smoothly, something would go wrong when Louis and the Queen were finally having a nice moment🥺But the moments afterwards definitely helped lift the mood again🤭Go read it, guys!!!

[muiitoloko]

A Garden for Widows

Summary: What begins as a royal apology becomes something far larger when the Queen demands the garden serve the people. For once, Louis listens—and surprises them both.

Pairing: Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: The big winner of the poll was Gilded Defiance, and here’s the new chapter! And there’ll be another one very soon. In fact, this was originally supposed to be one huuuuuge chapter, but I just discovered that Tumblr refuses to accept posts longer than 10,000 words. 😭 So, congratulations, Tumblr. You’ve accidentally turned one giant chapter into two. 😅

First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth part here

Also read on Ao3

When you woke the next morning, the sun was already brushing pale streaks across the damask curtains. The hunting lodge was quiet—eerily so. For a moment, you thought perhaps you’d dreamt the chaos of yesterday. That Louis hadn’t bargained for your forgiveness with baths and flowers. That he hadn’t cried in your bed, pressed trembling kisses to your fingers, and begged with the desperation of a dying man.

But then you reached across the sheets.

And he wasn’t there.

No wig. No scent. No warmth.

Just a faint indentation on the mattress.

He had risen before you.

You sat up slowly, rubbing the back of your neck, the weight of the silence pressing into your shoulders. Before your thoughts could spiral, the soft rustle of skirts at the door drew your attention.

Your ladies-in-waiting had already assembled.

Marie. Béatrice. Solène.

All of them neatly dressed, their hair pinned, their hands folded like birds on a perch. Not one of them commented on your expression. Not one asked if the King had slept beside you. But they saw the redness at the edges of your eyes. They saw the tired grace in your limbs as you rose.

None of them spoke of it.

Instead, they drew your bath.

Steam lifted in curling ribbons as you stepped into the copper tub, jasmine still lingering faintly in the air from Louis’s punishment-bath the day before. You bathed quietly, scrubbed your arms, shoulders, and legs, and—like always—used the linen cloth soaked in vinegar to clean your teeth. Sharp. Astringent. Comforting.

You sat still as Béatrice brushed out your hair and began weaving it into something respectable—nothing too formal, but elegant enough for court eyes.

By the time you were dressed, the summer sun had climbed higher, spilling gold across the stone floor. You chose a modest gown in soft green silk, adorned with cream lace, and no jewelry save for the ring Louis had given you the year of your marriage. You wore it today not for sentiment.

But for theatre.

When you arrived in the breakfast chamber, you expected silence. Perhaps Louis alone, sulking behind a goblet. Or waiting for you, brooding with that storm in his eyes.

Instead—you found company.

The man rose at once when you entered, bowing low in deference. He was older, with clever eyes and hands that looked more accustomed to soil than ink.

Louis stood beside him, perfectly composed, dressed in a crisp morning coat of blue and gold, black wig freshly powdered and perched askew as always. He held a teacup with imperial laziness, and his expression—when he looked at you—was bright. Smiling.

As if the previous night hadn’t happened.

“As promised,” he said, his baritone warm and effortless, “I have summoned the very man who will build your orchard.”

The man bowed again. “Jean de La Quintinie, Majesty. At your service.”

You arched one brow.

Orchard?

Louis gestured to the chair beside him. “Come, ma rebelle. Sit. We’ve begun without you, but I’m told the soil will wait.”

You obeyed—not because he asked, but because you needed to know what game he was playing. You took your seat beside him, your spine straight, your eyes fixed on the stranger.

Louis poured you tea as if nothing had happened. “Monsieur de La Quintinie is the finest gardener in France. I’ve tasked him with creating a fruit garden worthy of the Crown.”

“A potager, Majesty,” Jean corrected gently, his voice eager. “A formal kitchen garden, to be exact. But one with elegance. Harmony. I envision a space that marries nourishment with beauty.”

You turned to Louis slowly. “A potager.”

“Oui,” Louis said, grinning, as if this were his idea and not something ripped straight from your arguments. “A personal one. I will no longer tolerate the disgrace of linens-flavored peaches on your breakfast tray.”

Jean smiled with pride. “The King has instructed that we grow peaches, above all. His favorite.”

You looked at your husband.

His expression was insufferably smug.

You blinked once. Slowly.

“You’re serious?” you asked.

Louis leaned closer, his voice pitched intimately low. “Utterly.”

Then, to Jean, louder: “The Queen wishes to know what else we might grow. Enlighten her, monsieur.”

Jean brightened. “Tomatoes, of course, though they remain a novelty. Strawberries. Figs. Aubergines. Lettuce. Cress. Even medicinal herbs—lavender, rosemary, hyssop.”

You tilted your head. “Could we grow oranges?”

La Quintinie smiled. “If there’s a greenhouse, Majesty. Or a well-positioned wall to shield them. But yes.”

You smiled despite yourself. “And cherries?”

“Certainly. Though we must protect them from the birds.”

Louis nodded, folding one leg over the other. “What of the placement? I want it where the Queen can see it. Right in front of her windows.”

You froze.

La Quintinie hesitated. “Sire, that depends on the terrain. I must study the light, the soil, the water access. If the ground is not fertile, we would waste months—perhaps years.”

You opened your mouth. “There’s no need to build anything in front of my windows—”

“There is,” Louis said firmly, reaching for your hand.

You blinked down at your fingers. His were warm. Steady.

“I made a promise,” he said, not looking at Jean now. Just you. “And I intend to keep it. Even if I have to move the trees myself.”

You didn’t speak.

You stared at him—wig crooked, hands still faintly damp from rosewater, eyes heavy with everything left unsaid from the night before.

He smiled.

Not charming. Not imperial.

Just soft.

“I told you I would bring you fruit,” he murmured. “And I will.”

You slowly withdrew your hand from his, careful and deliberate, like pulling away from something hot.

Louis didn’t stop you.

He watched the motion in silence, the faintest crease forming between his brows. His fingers lingered where yours had been, as if holding the ghost of your touch.

Then you spoke—quietly, but without softness.

“This isn’t the promise I asked you to keep.”

The words settled in the chamber like falling dust—light, but impossible to ignore.

Louis didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue.

He only lowered his gaze for a moment, the lashes of his tired hazel eyes casting faint shadows against his cheeks. Then he exhaled through his nose and said, baritone voice calm and composed:

“I will keep this one, too.”

You looked at him—truly looked. He met your gaze evenly, the smile now gone from his lips, the theatre stripped away. He wasn’t trying to charm you. He wasn’t pleading, bargaining, groveling, not this time.

“I swear it,” he continued. “When we return to Versailles, the first thing I do will be to send her away.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not because you didn’t want to believe him—but because hope was a dangerous thing in the hands of men like Louis.

Instead, you turned your attention away, your gaze drifting to Jean de La Quintinie, who had wisely busied himself with his plate, his knife moving through a poached pear with delicate precision, as though it were the most fascinating object in all of France.

You studied him for a moment.

Then asked, “How much do you think the Potager will cost the crown, monsieur?”

Jean blinked, startled, his fork pausing mid-air. “Majesty?”

“The construction,” you said. “The walls, the irrigation, the greenhouses, the seasonal labor. What will it cost?”

Jean opened his mouth to answer, but Louis interrupted—casual, dismissive, waving one gloved hand as if brushing away smoke.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “The taxes will cover it.”

You turned back to him, sharply. “You already take too much from the people of France.”

Louis’s smile thinned. “They’ve always paid for the glory of their kingdom.”

“And what glory do they eat at night?” you shot back. “What use is an orchard outside my window when children in Paris dig through gutters for bruised fruit?”

He tilted his head, tone still calm, though his jaw tensed faintly. “You’ve already done more for them than most queens have. The twelve wells in the city—your wells—have changed lives. I heard it myself. They praise you for it. And that hospital for war widows—”

“Is only one,” you cut in. “One building. For one kind of suffering.”

Louis sighed, setting down his teacup with care. “You expect me to fix all of France before breakfast?”

“I expect you to remember them,” you said, your voice quiet now. “When you order gardens built and marble shipped and wigs powdered with silver. I expect you to remember them. That’s all.”

Silence fell between you.

Not hostile. Not cold.

Just quiet.

Louis leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping the table once—twice—then stilling.

He studied you.

Hair braided, gown simple, posture regal but tired. Not defeated. Just… guarded. Fortified. Like a fortress that had once been a palace.

His voice, when he spoke, was lower.

Steadier.

“I remember them more when you’re near.”

You didn’t look at him.

Jean de La Quintinie cleared his throat discreetly. “The costs, Majesty,” he said carefully, “can be managed if we reuse the old stone from the collapsed east wall at Saint-Cloud. The scaffolding will need reinforcing, but if we begin in autumn…”

Louis listened.

You stared at the steam curling from your teacup, hands still.

The garden would be beautiful.

But it was not the thing you needed.

Not yet.

And Louis—well, Louis was learning.

Slowly. Painfully.

Like a man dragging himself through every inch of the orchard he promised to build.

Fruit by fruit.

Lie by lie.

Bath by bath.

Jean de La Quintinie spoke for nearly an hour.

He spoke of walls and soil and sun exposure. Of espaliered pear trees trained against warm stone, of peaches coaxed into sweetness by clever placement and patience, of herbs that could be both useful and beautiful if planted in ordered beds. He spoke with the fervor of a priest describing paradise, hands moving over the table as though already shaping the earth between his fingers.

Louis listened with the kind of grand, regal attention he gave to men who interested him. Chin lifted, one hand resting near his cup, black wig sitting with more confidence than accuracy upon his head. Every so often he would ask a question—sharp, practical, unexpectedly informed—and Jean would light up, delighted to be understood by a king whose vanity, for once, had found something useful to attach itself to.

You listened too, but more quietly.

You watched Louis more than you watched the gardener.

He seemed almost peaceful when discussing fruit.

It irritated you.

Not because peace looked unnatural on him, but because it suited him too well. Because under the powdered grandeur, beneath the ridiculous black wig and the royal stiffness and the stubborn refusal to bathe without threats of exile, there was still the man you had once loved. The man who could look at a map of a garden as if it were a kingdom kinder than the one he already possessed. The man whose hazel eyes softened when Jean described cherries ripening under netting, whose mouth curved slightly when oranges were mentioned, as if he remembered Spain because he remembered you.

That was the cruelty of it.

Louis was never only the villain of your grief.

He was also the hand that had once steadied yours when you first crossed the threshold of Versailles. The voice that had read to you in the dark when storms shook the windows. The man who had sent musicians away because their playing gave you a headache, then pretended it had been his own displeasure, not tenderness, that moved him.

He was the wound and the memory of the bandage.

And now he sat across from you, speaking of soil.

“It must not be ornamental only,” you said at last, interrupting Jean’s discussion of drainage channels.

Both men looked at you.

Louis tilted his head. “What must not be ornamental?”

“The garden.” You folded your hands in your lap. “If you build it, then it must feed more than my vanity.”

A faint line appeared between Louis’s brows.

Jean, wise enough to sense the ground shifting beneath his feet, lowered his eyes to his notes.

You continued, your voice calm. “If the Crown is to spend money on walls and fruit trees and clever irrigation, then part of the yield should go to the hospital. The widows’ hospital. Fresh herbs, vegetables, fruit in season. Not scraps after the court has eaten. Not bruised fruit. A proper portion.”

Louis stared at you.

For a moment he said nothing, and you thought he would dismiss it. You were ready for the familiar gesture, the elegant hand wave, the paternal little sigh that reduced suffering to numbers and numbers to inconvenience.

But he did not wave you away.

Instead, he leaned back slowly in his chair, his fingers resting against the carved arm. The morning light touched his face at an angle that made him look older than his portraits ever dared. There was gray at his temples beneath the wig, a tired heaviness around his eyes, a faint looseness at the mouth that had nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with years spent performing strength.

“A royal potager,” he said thoughtfully, “that feeds widows.”

“And children,” you added.

His gaze flicked back to yours.

“The children of soldiers,” you said. “If their fathers die for your wars, they can at least taste peaches from your gardens.”

Jean’s fork stopped against the porcelain.

Louis’s expression did not change, but his hazel eyes darkened.

For one sharp second, you wondered whether you had gone too far. Then you remembered the tax carts. The hunger. The silk gowns paid for by cracked hands. The war widows with infants at their breasts and nothing but prayer between them and starvation.

No. Not far enough.

Louis took a breath.

“That,” he said slowly, “would be good theatre.”

Your face hardened.

His hand lifted before you could speak. “And good policy,” he added, softer. “And perhaps, even, good mercy.”

You looked at him warily.

He turned to Jean. “Can it be done?”

Jean blinked. “Majesty?”

“The Queen’s proposal. Can the garden be designed with distribution in mind? Proper storage? A place for washing and packing the produce. A record kept of what leaves the grounds and where it goes.”

Jean’s face changed at once, calculation replacing surprise. “Yes, Sire. It would require planning. A separate entrance, perhaps. Somewhere carts could arrive without disturbing the formal paths. Storage cellars. Drying racks for herbs. If we include medicinal plants—”

“Include them,” Louis said.

You said nothing.

Jean bowed his head. “Then yes. It can be done.”

Louis nodded once, as if he had just ordered a fortress built. Then he looked at you again.

“There,” he said quietly. “A garden that feeds.”

You hated the small flicker of warmth that moved through your chest.

So you crushed it.

“A promise written over breakfast is not yet a deed,” you said.

Louis’s mouth twitched, but there was no amusement in it. “No. It is not.”

Jean, sensing that the conversation had become less about gardens and more about a battlefield he had not been paid enough to enter, began gathering his papers with careful dignity.

“I shall inspect the grounds this afternoon,” he said. “With Your Majesties’ permission.”

“You have it,” Louis said.

“And I will prepare sketches. Several possibilities.”

“Good.”

Jean bowed to you first, then to Louis. “Majesty. Sire.”

When he left, the chamber felt larger.

Too large.

The remaining servants retreated without being asked, closing the doors behind them with the quiet skill of people who had survived court by knowing when not to exist.

You reached for your cup.

Louis watched you.

You could feel his gaze like heat across the table.

“Don’t,” you said.

He blinked, all innocence. “Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

His voice dropped, baritone and smooth. “How am I looking at you?”

“As if you have earned something.”

His eyes lowered.

For once, he accepted the blow without flinching theatrically.

“I know I haven’t.”

The admission was quiet enough that you almost disliked him for it. You preferred him arrogant. It was easier when he was impossible. Easier to hate the Sun King than the tired man whose hair curled gray beneath a badly placed wig and whose hands trembled when he thought you were not looking.

You set your cup down. “Where were you this morning?”

“In the chapel.”

That surprised you.

Louis saw it and gave a faint, humorless smile. “You did not think me capable of prayer?”

“I think you capable of performance.”

“As do I.” He looked toward the window. Beyond the glass, the trees of Marly moved under the wind, green and gold and indifferent. “But this morning I prayed.”

“For what?”

His fingers tightened once on the arm of the chair.

“For restraint.”

You studied him.

He did not look at you as he said it.

“For restraint,” he said again, when you did not answer.

The word sat between you strangely. It did not sound natural in his mouth. Louis XIV had been raised to believe the world was a thing meant to bend around him: men, armies, churches, borders, women, weather if he could find a minister foolish enough to promise it. Restraint, for him, had always seemed less like virtue and more like an insult invented by people with no power.

You tilted your head. “Restraint from what?”

Louis’s mouth opened.

For one treacherous instant, the truth rose so quickly in him that you saw it almost form on his tongue.

Not to kill your lover.

His hazel eyes flashed. His jaw tightened. The tendons in his throat moved once, hard. He almost said it. Almost spat Henri’s name across the table like blood. Almost dragged the night back into the room, with all its silence and jealousy and the image of another man’s hands where his had once belonged.

But then he stopped.

A small miracle.

Or perhaps only strategy.

He turned his face slightly toward the window, fingers smoothing the cuff of his sleeve with exaggerated care. “From speaking too quickly,” he said instead. “From saying something that cannot be unsaid.”

You watched him.

“That sounds almost mature.”

He gave you a wounded look. “Do not insult me before noon.”

“I thought kings enjoyed praise.”

“That was not praise.”

“It was close enough for you.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, brief and unwilling. Then it faded, and for a moment he looked toward the trees beyond the glass as if he had forgotten the chamber entirely. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted—lighter, too casual, the voice of a man turning a knife into a ribbon before anyone noticed the blood.

“Come into the city with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The city,” he repeated, turning back to you, and now there was something almost boyish in his face. Dangerous, because boyishness in Louis was rarely harmless. “Paris. Or the nearest market town, if Paris is too far for your royal patience. You have never properly seen it.”

You did not correct him.

You did not tell him that you had gone once.

But you did not tell Louis that.

Instead, you lifted your cup with regal composure and asked, “How, exactly, do you propose we go to the city? We are king and queen. We cannot simply wander through the streets as if we are two bored merchants looking for ribbon.”

Louis’s entire face changed.

It was immediate. Alarming. Like you had handed him a battlefield and permission to enjoy himself.

“Ah,” he said, leaning forward. “But that is where you underestimate me.”

“I rarely underestimate you. I usually prepare for the worst and am still surprised.”

“I am excellent at disguise.”

You stared at him.

He looked offended. “I am.”

“You are Louis XIV.”

“Yes.”

“You wear heels, jewels, embroidered coats, and a black wig that announces your presence three rooms before your body arrives.”

He raised a finger. “Which is precisely why no one suspects me when I am not wearing them.”

You lowered your cup slowly. “You have done this before.”

His silence was far too elegant.

“Louis.”

“A king must know his people.”

“A king must not sneak through taverns in borrowed shoes because he is restless.”

“I have never borrowed shoes.”

“Of course not. You have probably stolen them from a footman and called it taxation.”

He smiled, pleased despite himself. “You wound me.”

“You deserve it.”

“I do it often enough that it has become a skill,” he said, ignoring you with magnificent enthusiasm now. “A true skill. I know how to lower my voice, how to walk without command, how to keep my hands hidden so no one sees the rings. The trick is not to look humble, you understand. A man trying to look humble is always suspicious. You must look tired, slightly annoyed, and concerned about the price of onions.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a warm laugh. Not entirely. It had disbelief in it, exhaustion, a thin silver thread of the absurd. But it was still laughter, and Louis heard it. His eyes caught on your mouth as if he had found something alive in a burned house.

“You are serious,” you said.

“Utterly.”

“You have costumes?”

“Not costumes,” he corrected, deeply affronted. “Fantasies.”

“Fantasies?”

“Disguises,” he amended quickly. “Though technically both.”

You closed your eyes. “God preserve France.”

“He has so far, though I admit the arrangement has required effort on both sides.”

“Louis.”

“I already have the perfect ones.”

That should have warned you.

It did not warn you enough.

Less than an hour later, you stood in a private dressing room at Marly, staring at the King of France as he twirled.

Twirl was the only word for it.

He did not turn. He did not test the hem. He did not examine the stitching with sober interest. He twirled.

The low-class dress was brown wool, coarse at the sleeves, patched at one elbow and cinched too tightly at his middle in a way that made his waist look both theatrical and deeply unconvincing. A faded apron hung over the front. A kerchief covered the infamous black wig, though he had insisted on keeping the wig beneath it because “no one respects a woman with insufficient volume.” The effect was not peasant. The effect was a widowed tavern keeper who had once seduced a bishop and was waiting for him to apologize.

Louis lifted his skirts slightly and looked down at himself with open admiration.

“Well?” he demanded.

You blinked once.

Then again.

“You look insane.”

“I look poor.”

“You look like poverty as imagined by a man who has never touched a broom.”

He turned to the side, examining the fall of the dress in the mirror. “The hips are good.”

“The hips are a national emergency.”

He smiled, smoothing both hands over his waist. “You are jealous because I am beautiful.”

“You are wearing a tablecloth.”

“A flattering tablecloth.”

“You are the King of France.”

“Not today.” He turned to you then, hazel eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of the kerchief, his baritone lowering into wicked satisfaction. “Today, I am your wife.”

You looked down at yourself in horror.

They had put you in boy’s clothes. Low-born boy’s clothes, to be exact: plain breeches, a loose shirt, a worn vest, stockings slightly too large at the ankle, and a cap meant to hide your hair. Your shape had been flattened with linen binding, your sleeves rolled up, your face scrubbed clean of royal polish. You looked younger, sharper, less like a queen and more like a narrow-shouldered apprentice who might steal pears and lie badly about it.

Louis circled you once, assessing.

You hated that he looked delighted.

“No,” you said.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“I refuse.”

“You already agreed to the city.”

“I did not agree to become your husband.”

“History will applaud your sacrifice.”

“I will push you into a ditch.”

“And I will scream as any respectable wife would.”

You pointed at him. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

He lifted his chin, every inch the monarch even in brown wool and an apron. “Because I understand theatre.”

“You understand lunacy.”

“Same family.”

You crossed your arms, but the gesture looked irritatingly boyish in the clothes. Louis’s mouth twitched.

“Do not laugh,” you warned.

“I am not laughing.”

“You are glowing.”

“I am radiant by nature.”

“You look like a spoiled washerwoman.”

His expression brightened. “Exactly.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“It should have been.” He stepped closer, the hem of his dress brushing your boots. “Listen carefully. For this to work, we must have names.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mine is Marguerite.”

You stared at him.

He continued gravely, “A beautiful woman. Spoiled, yes, but misunderstood. Born for finer things. Married beneath her station to a thin, irritable husband with limited intelligence but occasional usefulness.”

Your mouth fell open. “Limited intelligence?”

He gestured toward you. “You must commit to the role.”

“What is my role?”

“Your name is Pierre.”

“Pierre?”

“Yes. Skinny. Somewhat retarded. Loyal in the way a dull dog is loyal.”

You stared at him so long the silence became almost religious.

Then you said, very softly, “I am going to kill you before dinner.”

Louis placed one hand dramatically over his bodice. “You see? Brutish. Very Pierre.”

“I am not playing your skinny, retarded husband.”

He leaned closer, his eyes glittering with mischief. “You must. Otherwise no one will believe I married you.”

“Why would anyone believe I married you?”

His mouth curved. “Because I am beautiful and spoiled.”

“You are deranged.”

“And you are Pierre.”

“I am the Queen of France.”

“Not in those trousers.”

You glanced down at yourself again and felt the immediate, irrational urge to kick him in the shin. “Why can’t you be the husband?”

Louis looked genuinely scandalized. “Dressed like this?”

“You chose the dress!”

“Yes, because I have range.”

“You have vanity.”

“I have artistry.”

“You have several lovers and no shame.”

That struck closer than you intended.

For a heartbeat, the brightness in his face dimmed.

Not fully. Louis was too practiced a performer to drop a mask completely. But the smile paused, caught at one corner, and his hazel eyes shifted from playful to watchful.

The room cooled.

You regretted it, then hated yourself for regretting it.

Louis looked down, adjusting the rough cuff of his sleeve with needless care. “Today,” he said quietly, “I have one wife.”

You swallowed.

The words should not have moved you. They were too little, too late, too easily spoken in a borrowed dress, far from Versailles, far from Montespan’s perfume and the gilded corridors where promises went to rot. Still, something in his voice—low, baritone, stripped of its usual flourish—settled uneasily beneath your ribs.

You looked away first.

“Your kerchief is crooked,” you muttered.

His eyes lifted.

A smile returned, softer this time. “Fix it, then.”

You hesitated.

Then, with a sigh sharp enough to preserve your dignity, you stepped close and reached up. The kerchief was indeed crooked, tied badly over the black wig he refused to abandon. You tugged it into place, fingers brushing the edge of his temple where, beneath all that theatrical darkness, you knew gray hair curled close to his skin.

Louis held very still.

Too still.

His gaze rested on your face with a kind of aching attention that made your hands clumsy.

“There,” you said, pulling back too quickly. “Now you look like a woman who overcharges for eggs.”

His smile widened. “Perfect.”

“You cannot use your real voice.”

“I know.”

“Your voice sounds like a king trying to seduce a courtroom.”

“A courtroom would be fortunate.”

“You need to sound ordinary.”

He straightened, cleared his throat, and produced in the same unmistakable deep baritone, “Good day, sir, might I trouble you for the price of onions?”

You stared.

He stared back, waiting.

“That is the exact same voice.”

“It is not.”

“It is. You just added onions.”

He tried again, slightly higher. “Good day, sir—”

“No.”

“Madame—”

“No.”

He frowned. “I cannot make myself sound like a goose.”

“I am not asking for goose. I am asking for peasant.”

“French peasants vary widely in tone.”

“You would know, apparently, from all your secret onion research.”

Louis’s expression became solemn. “Precisely.”

You covered your face with one hand.

He reached for your wrist, gently lowering it. “Come with me.”

You looked at him.

The humor was still there, but beneath it something else waited. Not command. Not even pleading. An invitation, foolish and dangerous and absurd. A door cracked open where there had only been walls.

“I want to show you,” he said. “Not as King. Not as Queen. Just… come.”

“You cannot stop being king by putting on a dress.”

“No.” His thumb brushed once over your wrist, then withdrew before you could pull away. “But perhaps I can stop being obeyed long enough to hear something true.”

You did not know what to do with that.

So you chose irritation. It was safer.

“If we are caught, I will tell them you forced me.”

“If we are caught, I will faint delicately.”

“You will not.”

“I shall collapse into your arms, Pierre, and cry that my cruel husband led me astray.”

“I hate Pierre.”

“Pierre loves me.”

“Pierre is considering annulment.”

“Pierre cannot afford it.”

Despite everything, the laugh escaped you again.

Louis brightened at once, greedy for it.

You pointed at him. “Do not look pleased.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am merely appreciating my wife’s effect on my husband.”

“That sentence alone should have you excommunicated.”

He swept into a clumsy curtsy, skirts rustling. “Then let us go before the Church catches up.”

You stared at him: Louis XIV, King of France, disguised badly as a low-born woman named Marguerite, still wearing his black wig under a crooked kerchief, smelling faintly—miraculously—of rose soap rather than rot, his hazel eyes alive with mischief and melancholy both.

Then you looked down at yourself: breeches, vest, cap, the absurd skinny husband Pierre.

Nine days, you reminded yourself.

This was only day two.

God help France.

[coldkidcookieneck]

I know Louis is far from perfect, but something about this man trying absolutely everything to win his queen back gets me every time 😔Go read it, guys!!!🫶🏼

[muiitoloko]

The Judge at Home

Summary: Behind the severity of London’s most feared magistrate lies a husband who blushes under kisses and a father slowly learning how to love his children out loud.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, funny, hurt/comfort

First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth and Sixth part here

Also read on Ao3

The hallway outside Richard Turpin’s chambers was quiet save for the faint strains of piano drifting from the music room below.

Clara was stumbling through scales again.

Margery, judging by the loud and irregular banging of keys between notes, had likely abandoned instruction entirely in favor of violence.

Annabelle walked slowly past the portraits lining the corridor, one hand brushing lightly along the wallpaper as she moved. The afternoon sunlight slanted pale through the tall windows at the far end of the hall, catching dust motes in gold ribbons.

As she passed her father’s door, she noticed it was open.

Just slightly.

She slowed.

Then peeked inside.

Richard Turpin stood before the mirror in shirtsleeves, broad shoulders squared, dark waistcoat unbuttoned and hanging open. A white towel rested around his neck, and his hooked nose cast a sharp shadow across the severe lines of his face as he spread shaving foam across his chin with slow, practiced movements.

The room smelled faintly of soap and tobacco.

Annabelle pushed the door a little wider.

Turpin saw her immediately in the reflection.

His hazel eyes flicked toward her without surprise.

“Why are you not at piano lessons?” he asked, baritone steady as he dipped the brush once more into the ceramic bowl.

Annabelle hesitated in the doorway.

“I finished them,” she said quietly.

Turpin paused.

The shaving brush stilled against his jaw.

“You what.”

She clasped her hands together in front of her dress. “A week ago, Father. Mr. Hargreaves said there was nothing more to teach me for now.”

Turpin frowned faintly and finally turned from the mirror to face her fully.

“And why was I not informed of this?”

Annabelle lowered her eyes at once.

A familiar gesture. One inherited directly from her mother.

“I did tell you,” she murmured.

Turpin’s brow furrowed deeper. “When.”

“At supper. Last Thursday.”

“I do not recall such a conversation.”

“You were speaking to Clara about her arithmetic.” Her fingers twisted tighter together. “And Margery spilled gravy on the tablecloth. Then Beadle Bamford arrived with papers from the courthouse.”

Turpin stared at her.

Annabelle swallowed.

“You never really listen to me,” she admitted softly. “Not the way you listen to the others.”

The room went still.

Even the distant piano seemed suddenly muted beneath the weight of the words.

Turpin said nothing at first.

His expression did not visibly soften. If anything, the crease between his brows deepened further, sharpening the severity of his face. But something moved behind his eyes—brief and unpleasant, like a man discovering a crack in stone he had believed impenetrable.

Annabelle immediately regretted speaking.

“I did not mean—” she began quickly.

“Quiet.”

His voice was not cruel. Merely firm.

He turned away from the mirror then and crossed the room toward the hearth, where a straight-backed chair sat beside the washstand. He dragged it forward across the carpet with a low scrape and lowered himself into it heavily.

Then he looked at her.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Annabelle blinked.

Turpin gestured toward the shaving razor resting beside the basin.

“You will help me shave.”

Her eyes widened immediately. “Father, I—”

“You possess hands, do you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then use them.”

Annabelle stared at the polished razor as though it were an executioner’s blade.

“I’ve never done such a thing before,” she admitted nervously. “I might hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“But—”

“You are exhausting my patience, Annabelle.” His tone sharpened slightly. “Come here.”

She obeyed at once.

Of course she did.

Annabelle crossed the room carefully, her soft slippers barely making sound against the carpet. Up close, her father seemed even larger seated there—broad shoulders filling the chair, dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, foam spread stark white along the hard line of his jaw and chin.

He looked severe even half-shaven.

Turpin picked up the razor and offered it to her handle-first.

“Hold it properly.”

Annabelle accepted it with visible caution, fingers trembling slightly around the polished handle.

“It’s sharp,” she whispered.

“It is a razor,” Turpin replied dryly. “That is rather its purpose.”

She flushed.

Turpin leaned back in the chair, tilting his head slightly to expose the side of his throat.

“Short strokes,” he instructed. “With the grain first. Do not hack at me like a butcher.”

Annabelle nodded quickly, though she looked faintly ill.

Very slowly, she raised the blade toward his face.

Her hand trembled.

Turpin watched her silently for a moment before speaking again.

“Steadier.”

“I’m trying.”

“You are panicking.”

“I am holding a knife to your throat.”

“A razor.”

“That does not improve matters.”

One corner of Turpin’s mouth twitched faintly.

Not quite a smile.

But dangerously close.

Annabelle blinked at it in surprise.

Carefully—painfully carefully—she dragged the blade down along the edge of his jaw. The shaving foam collected against the razor in uneven white streaks.

Turpin did not move.

Did not flinch.

The trust of it unsettled her more than his temper ever had.

After another nervous pass, she swallowed and asked quietly, “Why don’t you go to a barber?”

Turpin grunted.

“Most gentlemen do.”

“Most gentlemen are fools.”

Annabelle glanced at him uncertainly. “You truly trust no one?”

“Very few people.”

The razor trembled again in her hand.

Turpin’s eyes lifted to hers briefly.

“But I trust you.”

The words landed heavily.

Annabelle froze altogether this time.

Her father trusted her.

Richard Turpin—the man who trusted judges less than criminals, who inspected every lock himself before bed, who counted silver after dinners and read legal contracts three times before signing them—trusted her enough to place a blade in her hand against his throat.

Something warm and painful bloomed inside her chest.

She looked back down quickly before he could see it.

“Yes, Father,” she whispered.

This time her hand steadied.

The razor slid more smoothly along his jaw now, careful little strokes removing the foam inch by inch. Turpin remained still beneath her touch, hazel eyes half-lidded as he watched her through the mirror.

She looked so much like her mother like this.

Quiet concentration. Gentle hands.

That same crease between the brows whenever she worried she was disappointing someone.

Of all his daughters, Annabelle had inherited your softness most completely.

And perhaps because of that, Turpin often overlooked her without meaning to.

Clara demanded attention naturally. Margery stole it by force. The twins cried for it.

But Annabelle merely waited.

And children who waited quietly were too easily forgotten.

The realization sat unpleasantly in his chest.

Another careful stroke.

Another.

Then the blade paused again.

Turpin frowned faintly. “Well?”

Annabelle bit her lip. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what.”

“Cutting you.”

“You’re barely touching me.”

“I know.”

Turpin sighed heavily through his nose and finally reached up, taking the razor gently but firmly from her hand.

“You are timid,” he muttered. “Like your mother.”

The words were careless.

Thoughtless.

But the effect was immediate.

Annabelle’s shoulders dropped.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

Her hands clasped tightly in front of her dress again as she lowered her gaze to the carpet. “I’m sorry.”

Turpin stilled.

The apology struck him like a slap.

Because he recognized that tone.

He had heard it from you before.

That same small voice people used when they believed they had disappointed him simply by existing incorrectly.

Damn it.

Turpin looked down at the razor in his hand with growing irritation—not at her, but at himself. Words had never sat properly in his mouth unless sharpened for judgment. Tenderness felt clumsy there. Ill-fitted.

He did not apologize.

Could not.

The habit was too deeply buried beneath pride and old cruelty.

Instead, with a grunt, he set the razor aside altogether.

Then reached out suddenly and caught Annabelle by the waist.

She startled with a gasp as he hauled her sideways into his lap.

“Father—!”

“Hold still.”

Before she could protest further, Turpin scooped a thick stripe of shaving foam onto his fingers and smeared it directly across her cheek.

Annabelle froze in shock.

Then another stripe landed on her nose.

“Father!”

Turpin ignored her entirely, expression severe as he added a ridiculous little curl of foam atop her upper lip.

“There,” he declared flatly. “Now you look like a French magistrate.”

Annabelle stared at him.

Then laughed.

The sound burst out of her before she could stop it—bright and startled and utterly genuine.

Turpin’s chest tightened unexpectedly at the sound.

God.

She sounded so little when she laughed.

“You’ve made me absurd,” she giggled, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the foam away while he caught her wrist.

“You were doing an admirable job of solemn martyrdom before. This is an improvement.”

“That tickles!”

“It is soap, not torture.”

“It feels like torture.”

“That is because you are dramatic. Like your sisters.”

She laughed harder when he added another streak of foam to her chin.

Turpin’s large hand steadied her easily against his chest as she squirmed, her laughter filling the previously silent room. The sound softened something old and sharp inside him in ways he neither understood nor particularly wished to examine.

“You pout exactly like your mother,” he informed her gruffly.

Annabelle smiled shyly through the foam. “Mama says I think exactly like you.”

Turpin grunted.

“Poor child.”

That earned another laugh.

Then, quieter now, Annabelle looked down at her hands resting against his waistcoat and whispered, “I don’t mind being like Mama.”

Something in Turpin’s expression shifted.

His gaze settled on her properly then—not as another child to discipline or instruct, but as Annabelle. His eldest girl. Quiet little shadow lingering politely at doorframes while louder personalities filled rooms around her.

Timid.

Observant.

Obedient.

Too easy to overlook.

Turpin reached up slowly and wiped a smear of foam from beneath her eye with his thumb.

“No,” he said at last, voice low and rougher than before. “Nor should you.”

The laughter reached you halfway down the corridor.

Not Clara’s shrill cackling. Not Margery’s explosive little shrieks of chaos.

This laughter was softer. Brighter. Uncertain in its own existence, as though the child making it had forgotten she was allowed.

Annabelle.

You slowed at once.

For a moment, you simply stood outside the partially open door of Richard Turpin’s chamber, one hand still resting lightly against the wallpapered corridor wall. The sound came again—genuine this time, bubbling helplessly from deep in your eldest daughter’s chest.

You had not heard her laugh like that in months.

Curious now, you stepped closer and pushed the door wider.

And stopped dead.

Annabelle was sitting in her father’s lap.

Not perched stiffly. Not enduring discipline. Not quietly listening to instruction.

Laughing.

Laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

White shaving foam streaked her cheeks and nose in crooked smears, a ridiculous curl painted above her lip like some absurd little moustache. Her bonnet had slipped halfway off her head, ribbons dangling loose against her shoulder, and she was clutching at Turpin’s sleeve with both hands as though she might fall from the chair entirely.

And Richard—

Richard Turpin, stern magistrate of London, terror of the courtroom, scourge of joy itself—

had shaving foam on his own face.

A streak remained along the sharp line of his jaw, another caught near the corner of his mouth, and one silvering brow had been dusted accidentally white. The severe lines of his face had loosened enough that the ghost of amusement lingered there still, visible beneath the furrow of his brow.

For one impossible instant, they looked almost ordinary.

Like a father.

Like a daughter.

Annabelle saw you first.

“Mama!” she gasped through laughter, immediately trying—and failing—to compose herself. “Father says I resemble a French magistrate!”

Turpin’s hazel eyes snapped toward the doorway.

The change in him was immediate.

The softness vanished so quickly it was almost violent.

His spine straightened at once. His jaw hardened. The severe lines of his face returned like armor slamming back into place. And before Annabelle could even finish giggling, he was already hauling her rather unceremoniously from his lap onto her feet beside the chair.

“Enough noise,” he muttered gruffly.

Annabelle blinked, startled by the sudden shift.

Turpin rose at once.

Quickly.

Too quickly for a man supposedly unconcerned.

He seized the towel from around his neck and scrubbed sharply at the remaining shaving foam along his face, avoiding your eyes entirely. His broad shoulders seemed oddly tense beneath the open waistcoat, and the hooked line of his nose cast a sharp shadow across his cheek as he turned half-away from you.

As though he did not wish to be caught looking foolish.

Or worse—

gentle.

“What,” he said at last, voice dropping back into its familiar baritone severity, “is the meaning of lurking outside doorways?”

You lingered in the doorway a moment longer, watching the aftermath settle awkwardly across the room.

Annabelle stood beside the chair with soap still streaked across her cheek, her laughter fading into uncertainty as she looked between the two of you. Richard had already turned half-away, shoulders squared too rigidly beneath his open waistcoat, one hand occupied far too aggressively with the towel in an effort to erase every trace of softness from his face.

But you saw it now.

You understood him better than you once had.

The stiffness in his posture was not anger.

It was exposure.

And Annabelle—poor darling—looked as though she feared she had somehow caused it.

You crossed the room slowly.

The carpet muffled your footsteps, though Turpin clearly heard every one of them. His shoulders tightened further as you approached, hazel eyes fixed stubbornly on the washstand as though the shaving bowl had suddenly become a matter of legal significance.

Annabelle glanced nervously toward you. “Mama, I didn’t mean to distract Father from—”

“You did nothing wrong,” you interrupted gently.

Turpin’s jaw flexed.

You stopped directly beside him.

Up close, you could still smell the soap on his skin beneath the faint traces of tobacco and starch. A streak of shaving foam remained stubbornly near the edge of his jaw despite his efforts to remove it. His silvering hair was still slightly mussed from Annabelle’s hands tugging at him moments earlier.

He looked severe.

Embarrassingly so.

You rose onto your toes.

And kissed his cheek.

The room went still.

Turpin turned sharply toward you at once, visibly startled. Truly startled. His hazel eyes widened the slightest fraction beneath the heavy line of his brow, and for one absurd instant he looked almost robbed of speech.

You smiled softly.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His brow furrowed immediately. “For what.”

“For making our daughter laugh.”

The words landed harder than you intended.

You saw it happen in real time.

Something shifted sharply behind his eyes before he looked away almost at once, turning back toward the mirror with a low grunt that sounded suspiciously like retreat.

“It was soap,” he muttered gruffly. “Not a theatrical performance.”

But the tips of his ears had gone red.

Bright red.

Against the silver thread, the color was impossible to miss.

And Annabelle noticed it too.

Her eyes widened.

Then narrowed with dawning delight.

“Papa,” she said slowly.

Turpin froze.

Annabelle looked openly fascinated now, foam still smeared across her nose as she leaned slightly forward.

“Are you blushing?”

Turpin turned with the full dreadful weight of his judicial stare.

“No.”

“You are,” Annabelle insisted immediately, pointing. “Your ears are red.”

“They are not.”

“They are absolutely red,” you said calmly.

His glare snapped toward you at once—a look sharp enough to convict lesser people of treason.

You turned to Annabelle first, softening your expression before the poor girl could mistake her father’s retreat into severity for rejection.

“Go on, darling,” you said gently. “Stay with your sisters a while. I need to speak with your father.”

Annabelle glanced uncertainly between the two of you, one cheek still streaked with soap, her bonnet hanging crookedly against her curls. Then she nodded at once.

“Yes, Mama.”

She turned toward the door—

“Annabelle.”

Turpin’s baritone stopped her midway.

She froze instantly and looked back.

His hazel eyes swept over her face with stern disapproval. “You look like a half-lathered parliamentarian. Wash your face before you parade through the house.”

Annabelle blinked once.

Then a small smile tugged at her mouth.

“Yes, Papa.”

She crossed quickly to the washbasin, dipping the cloth into the water with careful hands before scrubbing at the shaving foam still clinging stubbornly to her cheeks and nose. Turpin watched with the severe concentration of a magistrate overseeing state business. When she finished and turned back toward him, face pink and damp but properly clean, he gave one curt nod of approval.

“Better.”

Annabelle beamed faintly at that—at the praise hidden beneath the gruffness—and slipped from the room at last, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Silence settled.

Only then did Turpin exhale through his nose and turn back toward the mirror.

The brief warmth that had existed moments ago folded itself neatly away again beneath discipline and habit. He dipped the shaving brush back into the bowl, gathering fresh foam before spreading it along the sharp line of his chin with practiced, efficient strokes.

His voice came low and rough through the quiet.

“What did you want?”

You leaned lightly against the edge of the washstand, fingers folded together. “Nothing terribly important.”

He grunted.

“I only came to ask what you wanted for dinner,” you continued. “Cook wished to know before the butcher’s boy returns.”

Turpin dragged the razor carefully down the edge of his jaw before answering.

“Rabbit.”

You blinked. “Rabbit?”

“I’m craving it.”

You smiled faintly. “I can have some ordered.”

“No.” His baritone sharpened slightly. “The meat tastes better when it’s hunted properly. Half the butchers in London sell stringy rubbish that’s been hanging too long.”

He rinsed the razor with a flick of his wrist, droplets scattering into the basin.

“I’ll shoot it myself.”

You looked at him through the mirror. “Shoot it?”

Turpin grunted again, scraping another clean path through the foam along his throat.

“When we go to the country house next month.”

Your brows lifted slightly.

“The girls’ school closes for holiday,” he said. “Bamford reminded me yesterday. We’ll leave London for a fortnight.”

The country house.

The words settled strangely inside your chest.

It had been months.

Your gaze drifted slightly, unfocused now, as memories rose unbidden from somewhere warm and dangerous. The old stone manor in the countryside. Thick ivy climbing the walls. The smell of rain and cedarwood. Vast empty halls muffled by heavy carpets and thicker silence still.

You pressed your fingertips lightly against your cheeks.

Warm.

Oh dear God.

The last time you had gone there was—

Your breath caught faintly.

When you conceived the twins.

Turpin had been almost feral in those days.

Wild with possessiveness and appetite in a way that London rarely permitted. The country house had changed him somehow. Perhaps it was the isolation. The endless fields. The heavy oak doors and thick stone walls that swallowed every sound whole. No servants lingering nearby. No daughters sleeping only corridors away. No fear of scandalized ears beyond the bedchamber.

And perhaps—

You swallowed.

Perhaps you had encouraged it.

More than encouraged it.

You remembered moonlight spilling across dark sheets. His baritone growling low against your throat. The bruises on your thighs that lingered nearly a week. The way he had kept you pinned beneath him before the fire, fingers digging into your hips while he muttered filthy things against your mouth in Latin and English alike. The long mornings you’d spent too sore to walk properly, while he looked smug and entirely unrepentant over breakfast.

Your cheeks burned hotter.

Turpin, oblivious to the direction of your thoughts, dragged the razor beneath his jaw with one steady stroke.

Then his eyes flicked upward suddenly in the mirror.

And narrowed.

“What are you thinking about.”

You startled. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

His baritone rumbled low with suspicion as he wiped the blade clean against the cloth. “You’ve gone pink.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

You turned away slightly, pressing your fingers harder to your cheeks as though you might cool them by force alone.

Turpin watched you through the mirror for another long moment.

Then, abruptly:

“And do not kiss me like that again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“In front of the girls.”

He sounded deeply offended by the very notion.

Turpin turned slightly now, razor still in hand, hazel eyes sharp beneath the heavy line of his brow.

“It is indecent.”

Your mouth parted in disbelief.

“A kiss on the cheek is indecent?”

“When performed before one’s daughters, yes.”

You stared at him.

Richard Turpin—who had bent you over furniture in three counties, bitten your throat until you couldn’t hide the marks, and once pulled your chemise open with his teeth beside a locked chapel door at the country estate—

was scandalized by a chaste kiss on the cheek.

You felt laughter threatening somewhere deep in your chest.

Turpin caught it immediately.

“Do not start.”

“But Richard—”

“A husband and wife ought to maintain a degree of dignity before children.”

You folded your arms slowly. “You were blushing.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I had hot water on my face.”

“You nearly dropped the towel.”

“I did no such thing.”

You smiled despite yourself, watching his growing irritation with dangerous amusement.

Turpin pointed the razor toward you accusingly.

“And furthermore,” he continued, voice stern and judicial now, “Margery already speaks like a dockworker with opinions on marital relations. I will not encourage further commentary from the household.”

That did it.

You laughed.

Softly at first—but genuinely.

Turpin scowled at once, though the tips of his ears began threateningly reddening again beneath the silver threaded through his dark hair.

“You find this amusing.”

“A little.”

“It is not amusing.”

“You looked horrified.”

“I was horrified.”

You pressed your lips together, trying—and failing—to compose yourself.

Turpin watched you for a long moment, razor still poised near his throat, his hooked nose casting that familiar severe shadow across his face.

Then, despite himself—

despite every instinct toward severity and control—

his mouth twitched faintly at the corner.

Small.

Brief.

But real.

And somehow that tiny crack in his sternness felt far more intimate than the kiss itself.

You lingered by the washstand a moment longer, watching him through the mirror while he resumed shaving with those sharp, economical movements that seemed carved into his bones. The razor glided beneath the hard line of his jaw, scraping away the last traces of foam while his hazel eyes remained fixed stubbornly on his own reflection, as though refusing to acknowledge the laughter still threatening at the corners of your mouth.

“You still haven’t answered me properly,” you said at last, smoothing your hands over the front of your skirts. “What would you like for dinner, if not rabbit?”

Turpin grunted low in his throat.

Another scrape of the blade.

Then, finally:

“Pheasant.”

You blinked. “Pheasant?”

“I saw three of the damned things near the south hedges yesterday morning,” he muttered. “Fat creatures. Arrogant. Practically begging to be shot.”

You smiled faintly. “You speak of them as though they’ve insulted you personally.”

“They exist offensively.”

The answer came so flatly that you laughed again despite yourself.

Turpin shot you a dark look through the mirror.

“You encourage insolence in this household.”

“And yet you remain terribly outnumbered.”

His mouth twitched once more before he caught himself and dragged the razor sharply beneath his chin with unnecessary severity.

“I’ll have Bamford bring one down before supper,” he said. “Cook can roast it.”

You nodded. “Very well. I’ll inform the kitchen.”

You moved toward the door then, pausing only briefly when you reached it. Your gaze flicked once more toward his reflection—the stern hooked profile, the silver beginning to thread through his dark hair, the faint redness still lingering traitorously near the tips of his ears.

Softness still embarrassed him.

Perhaps it always would.

“Richard?”

His eyes lifted again.

“Yes.”

You smiled gently. “Try not to terrify the piano instructor before luncheon.”

His brow furrowed immediately. “If the man possesses sense, he’ll terrify himself.”

Then you were gone, skirts whispering softly across the corridor as the door clicked shut behind you.

Turpin stood motionless for a moment afterward.

Then scowled at his own reflection.

“Hopeless,” he muttered to himself.

Whether he meant you, the children, or his own household entirely was unclear.

Perhaps all three.

By the time Turpin descended the staircase half an hour later, the house had fully awakened.

Sunlight spilled pale and watery through the tall front windows, catching against polished banisters and dark paneling. Somewhere below, silver rattled faintly in the dining room as luncheon preparations began. The scent of beeswax polish and brewing tea drifted through the corridors.

And from the music room came the unmistakable sound of catastrophe.

A piano chord crashed violently out of tune.

Then another.

Then Margery’s voice:

“It sounds better loud!”

“It sounds criminal,” came the strained reply of Mr. Hargreaves.

Turpin’s expression darkened immediately.

He crossed the hallway in long, deliberate strides and stopped just outside the open music room doors.

Inside, the scene before him was precisely the sort of domestic chaos he disliked witnessing before noon.

The great pianoforte sat open beneath the windows, black lacquer gleaming in the afternoon light. Clara occupied the bench properly—back straight, fingers poised carefully above the keys while attempting scales with visible concentration.

Margery, meanwhile, had abandoned all pretenses of instruction.

She was kneeling sideways atop the bench in her wrinkled pinafore, pounding random keys with alarming enthusiasm while Mr. Hargreaves stood over her looking one heartbeat away from spiritual collapse.

The piano instructor was a thin, nervous man in his forties with prematurely greying hair and spectacles that perpetually slid down his nose whenever the girls exhausted him—which was often.

At present, they were practically dangling from despair.

“No, Miss Margery,” he said tightly, trying for patience. “Middle C. Again.”

Margery smashed three unrelated notes with both fists.

Mr. Hargreaves inhaled sharply through his nose.

“No. No—not all of them simultaneously.”

“But they were lonely.”

“Notes cannot be lonely.”

“They can if nobody plays them.”

Clara sighed heavily beside her. “You’re ruining the piece.”

Margery gasped. “I’m improving it.”

“You are assaulting Mozart.”

Turpin stepped silently into the doorway.

Mr. Hargreaves did not notice immediately.

Unfortunately.

“Miss Margery,” the instructor said, voice thinning dangerously, “if you continue striking the instrument like a blacksmith, I shall be forced to—”

Margery hit another violent chord.

Mr. Hargreaves closed his eyes.

Then, finally losing patience:

“For Heaven’s sake, child, stop bludgeoning the pianoforte!”

The room went still.

Because at that precise moment, Mr. Hargreaves looked up—

—and saw Richard Turpin watching from the doorway.

The instructor visibly blanched.

Turpin said nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

But his hazel eyes narrowed with terrible slowness beneath the heavy shadow of his brow, and somehow that silence proved infinitely worse than shouting ever could have been.

Mr. Hargreaves swallowed hard.

When he spoke again, his tone transformed so abruptly it bordered on miraculous.

“Miss Margery,” he said gently, almost tenderly, “perhaps… perhaps we shall approach the keys with a lighter hand.”

Margery squinted suspiciously. “You sound scared.”

“I am encouraging refinement.”

“You sound constipated.”

Clara choked violently trying not to laugh.

Turpin moved at last.

Slowly.

He crossed the room with the measured gait of a magistrate approaching the bench, his dark coat falling sharply around him, one gloved hand resting atop the silver head of his cane. Every inch of him radiated restrained authority.

Mr. Hargreaves straightened so quickly his spectacles nearly flew off.

“My lord.”

Turpin gave one curt nod.

Then seated himself silently in the armchair near the hearth.

And observed.

That was all.

No greeting. No instruction.

Only observation.

Which somehow proved far more unnerving.

Margery noticed immediately.

Her eyes widened slightly as she turned on the piano bench.

“Papa,” she announced, “Mr. Hargreaves thinks I’m violent.”

“I think you are enthusiastic,” Mr. Hargreaves corrected quickly, sweat practically forming at his temples.

Turpin’s baritone rolled low through the room.

“She is violent.”

Margery looked delighted by this confirmation.

Mr. Hargreaves laughed weakly in a manner suggesting hostage negotiations.

Clara resumed her scales carefully, shoulders stiff with concentration now that her father watched from across the room. The notes rose cleaner this time, measured and deliberate.

Margery attempted to imitate her.

The result sounded vaguely like a horse falling down stairs.

Mr. Hargreaves flinched.

Turpin’s eyes narrowed again.

“Miss Margery,” the instructor said cautiously, “perhaps fewer wrists.”

“I need wrists to live.”

“Yes, but not necessarily to strike the keyboard with the strength of a dockworker.”

Margery considered this.

Then lowered her hands dramatically and pressed a single key with exaggerated delicacy.

The soft note rang out beautifully.

Mr. Hargreaves nearly wept with relief.

“There,” he said warmly. “Perfect.”

Margery beamed.

Turpin watched from the chair in silence, one finger tapping slowly against the head of his cane.

Then, after a long pause:

“She improves under fear.”

Mr. Hargreaves froze again.

Clara buried her face briefly against her shoulder to hide another laugh.

That night, the manor had gone quiet in the peculiar way old houses sometimes did—never truly silent, but hushed beneath layers of breathing wood and distant settling pipes. Wind brushed softly against the windows. Somewhere far below, a servant latched the final kitchen door for the evening. The clocks ticked.

Margery stood barefoot in the corridor outside her father’s bedchamber, clutching the front of her nightdress in one fist.

Then knocked.

Three sharp little raps.

No answer.

She frowned and knocked again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

A door further down the corridor opened with a soft creak, and Annabelle emerged carrying a folded shawl against her chest. Her braid hung loose over one shoulder, slightly unraveled from sleep.

She blinked at Margery. “What are you doing?”

Margery looked offended by the question. “I’m looking for Father.”

Annabelle glanced toward the judge’s door, then back at her sister with mild confusion. “He’s not there.”

Margery frowned harder. “What do you mean he’s not there?”

“He hasn’t been sleeping there.”

A pause.

Margery stared.

Then, very slowly: “What.”

Before Annabelle could answer, Clara’s bedroom door swung open too.

Clara leaned against the frame in her night rail, curls disheveled around her face, looking deeply unimpressed with the entire world.

“She didn’t know?” Clara asked flatly.

Annabelle shook her head.

Margery looked between them both, scandalized. “Know what?”

Clara crossed her arms. “Father’s been sleeping in Mama’s room for days.”

Margery gasped so violently it bordered on theatrical injury.

“He has not.”

“He has,” Clara replied smugly. “I discovered it.”

“You discovered it,” Annabelle repeated cautiously, “because you climbed into Father’s bed at midnight.”

Clara ignored this. “He wasn’t there. So I checked Mama’s room.”

Margery’s eyes widened to impossible proportions.

“Were they kissing?”

Annabelle choked softly. “Margery!”

“What?” Margery demanded. “That’s how babies happen.”

Clara grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”

“You literally asked Mama if she and Father shared a bed because he looked constipated all the time.”

“That was different.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Annabelle pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please lower your voices.”

Margery looked back toward the closed door of your chamber at the far end of the corridor. Candlelight glowed faintly beneath it.

Her mouth slowly fell open.

“Oh my God,” she whispered with reverent horror. “They’re probably kissing right now.”

Clara made a face like she’d bitten into something rotten. “I hope not.”

“I hope yes,” Margery countered. “Otherwise what’s the point of sharing a room?”

Annabelle looked ready to perish.

Clara squinted at Margery. “Why do you even want Father?”

Margery answered without a shred of shame.

“I need him to take me to the privy to poop.”

Clara recoiled instantly. “Christ.”

“I asked Mama yesterday and she screamed because a rat moved near the basin.”

“Richard,” came your muffled voice faintly through the wall.

All three girls froze.

Then slowly turned toward your bedchamber door.

Inside—

Turpin’s hand tightened around the back of your neck.

“Quiet,” he growled against your mouth.

The word came low and rough in that unmistakable baritone, half-command and half-warning, as he dragged you into another kiss before you could make another sound.

You whimpered anyway.

It vanished against his lips.

The heavy curtains around your bed muted most of the candlelight, leaving the chamber drenched in amber shadows and heat. The coverlet had long since been kicked down toward the foot of the bed, tangled around your calves while you sat astride him in only your shift, the thin linen shoved halfway up your thighs.

Turpin lay beneath you broad and solid against the mattress, one hand gripping your waist hard enough to leave bruises by morning while the other remained buried in your hair, fingers tight at the base of your skull.

His cock drove deep inside you with each movement of your hips.

Slow.

Heavy.

Possessive.

The headboard knocked softly against the wall in uneven rhythm.

Outside, Clara’s horrified whisper drifted faintly through the corridor.

“Oh God. They are kissing.”

Turpin heard it.

Of course he did.

His hazel eyes shut instantly in utter fury.

You nearly laughed.

That proved fatal.

The laugh broke into a moan instead as he suddenly thrust upward hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Richard—”

His mouth crushed yours again before the sound could escape properly.

“You little menace,” he muttered against your lips, though whether he meant you or the child outside remained unclear. “If they hear you—”

Margery banged on the door with the full conviction of a child announcing plague upon a kingdom.

“PAPA!” she howled through the corridor. “I NEED TO SHIT!”

Richard Turpin froze in absolute horror.

Not metaphorical horror.

Not judicial displeasure.

True, soul-deep exhaustion.

Beneath you, every muscle in his body locked solid. His hand remained clamped around your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, while his forehead dropped briefly against your shoulder as though the weight of fatherhood had finally broken his spine.

Outside the door came another furious pounding.

“RIGHT NOW!”

Turpin shut his eyes.

“What,” he asked the ceiling in a low, devastated baritone, “have I done to deserve this.”

You bit down hard on your lip.

It didn’t help.

The laugh escaped anyway—soft and breathless against his shoulder, your body trembling with helpless amusement where you still straddled his lap.

Turpin opened one hazel eye and glared at you with the full bitterness of a betrayed man.

“Do not laugh.”

Another knock rattled the door.

“I’M SERIOUS!”

You laughed harder.

Turpin exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound long and suffering, before his hands slid from your waist at last. Reluctantly. Painfully reluctantly.

The movement pulled him free of you inch by inch, and despite the absurdity of the moment, your breath still caught faintly at the sensation. His cock twitched against your thigh before he withdrew completely, hard and flushed and entirely furious with fate.

“Christ,” he muttered darkly.

You covered your mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking.

Turpin sat upright heavily, dragging both hands over his face in exhausted disbelief. His silver-dark hair stood mussed and unruly where your fingers had tangled through it, and the heavy muscles of his shoulders flexed beneath the dim amber candlelight as he pushed the bed curtains aside with more violence than necessary.

Outside:

“FATHER!”

“I heard you the first seven times!” he barked back instantly.

Silence followed.

Then Margery’s muffled voice:

“Well don’t sound angry about it!”

Turpin stared into the darkness for one long moment as though contemplating whether drowning himself in the Thames remained a viable option.

Then he rose from the bed.

Barefoot. Disheveled. Deeply offended by existence itself.

The enormous nightshirt lay crumpled near the hearth where it had been discarded earlier with significantly better intentions. Turpin snatched it from the floor and dragged it over his head with sharp, irritated movements, muttering under his breath the entire while.

You remained half-curled among the tangled sheets, cheeks pink, hair loose around your shoulders as you watched him stalk toward the door like an aging king marching toward execution.

Another pound rattled the wood.

“I THINK IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”

“You announce your bowels like Parliament announcing war,” Turpin growled.

He unlocked the door with a violent twist and yanked it open.

All three daughters stood there.

Margery bounced anxiously from foot to foot clutching the front of her nightdress. Clara stood beside her looking deeply scandalized by everything she had overheard. Annabelle remained furthest back, shawl wrapped tightly around herself, already wearing the expression of a child preparing to apologize for crimes she had not committed.

Turpin stared at them in silence.

The girls stared back.

His hair was disordered. His nightshirt hung crookedly over one broad shoulder. There was a bite mark visible just above the collarbone where his collar gaped open.

Clara’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

Annabelle looked at the carpet.

Margery squinted up at him suspiciously.

“Why are you sweaty?”

“Margery,” Annabelle hissed.

Turpin pinched the bridge of his hooked nose between two fingers.

Again.

“What,” he asked heaven in a low rasp, “have I done to deserve daughters.”

Margery tugged on his sleeve urgently. “Papa, I really need the privy.”

“Yes,” Turpin said flatly. “And I distinctly recall telling you at dinner not to consume half the mashed potatoes in England.”

“They were fluffy.”

“They were excessive.”

“You had three helpings too.”

“I am a grown man.”

“You’re also sweaty.”

Clara made a choking sound.

Turpin’s hazel eyes narrowed dangerously. “One more observation from this hallway and I shall begin sentencing people.”

Margery tugged harder. “Please hurry.”

He looked down at her grimly. “If this child kills me with potatoes, tell the coroner I died in service to my country.”

“Papa,” Clara muttered, horrified, “that isn’t how cor—”

“Enough.”

Turpin scooped Margery abruptly into his arms with the air of a man hauling artillery shells to battle. She wrapped around him instantly, uncaring about his foul mood, her curls crushed against his shoulder while he turned toward the staircase.

Halfway down the corridor, he stopped.

Slowly.

Then looked back toward Clara and Annabelle still lingering outside the bedchamber door.

His eyes narrowed.

“Why,” he asked dangerously, “are you both still standing there.”

Clara flushed scarlet.

Annabelle looked ready to evaporate.

“We were just—”

“If either of you says listening,” Turpin interrupted darkly, “I shall lock you in separate convents by sunrise.”

Clara’s mouth snapped shut instantly.

Annabelle grabbed her sister’s wrist at once. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight,” Clara squeaked.

Turpin grunted.

Then disappeared down the staircase carrying Margery toward the privy with the grim resignation of a man personally escorting doom itself.

Silence settled again in the corridor.

For approximately three seconds.

Then Clara turned slowly toward your still-open bedchamber door, eyes enormous.

“Mama,” she whispered faintly.

From inside the room, you pulled the blankets higher with whatever dignity remained available to you.

“Yes?”

Clara hesitated.

Then:

“Why was Father breathing like a dying horse?”

You buried your burning face in the pillow.

And somewhere downstairs, echoing through the sleeping manor, Richard Turpin’s baritone roared:

“MARGERY, STOP SINGING WHILE YOU DEFECATE!”

The nursery lamps had already been extinguished for the night, leaving the upper floor wrapped in soft darkness and long blue shadows. But the instant Sophie’s cries pierced through the manor, sharp and startled, Belladonna answered in kind.

Two infants crying together sounded less like babies and more like some tiny apocalypse descending upon the household.

You closed your eyes briefly.

Downstairs, somewhere near the servants’ staircase, Richard could still be heard barking at Margery to “finish the business and cease performing sea shanties while doing it.”

Clara looked mortified.

Annabelle looked ready to dissolve into the wallpaper.

You pressed your fingers briefly against your brow. “Enough excitement for one evening. Off to bed. Both of you.”

“But Mama—” Clara began weakly.

“No.” Your tone softened, though exhaustion lingered heavily beneath it. “Not another word tonight.”

Annabelle, blessed child, obeyed immediately. She caught Clara gently by the sleeve and began tugging her toward their rooms despite Clara’s lingering horror.

“But they were making noises—”

“Goodnight, Clara,” you interrupted firmly.

Clara flushed scarlet all the way to her ears.

“Yes, Mama.”

You watched until both girls disappeared down the corridor. Only then did you exhale and turn toward the nursery as the twins’ cries grew louder.

The nanny arrived at nearly the same moment you did, tying the sash of her robe hastily around her waist as she hurried up the corridor stairs. Mrs. Ellery was a broad, capable woman in her late thirties with calm hands and the sort of practical sturdiness that soothed children by mere proximity.

“Poor lambs,” she murmured at once as another cry rang out from inside the nursery. “They’ve frightened themselves awake.”

You pushed open the nursery door together.

The room smelled faintly of lavender water, lamp oil, and milk.

The twins’ bassinets stood side by side near the hearth where the embers still glowed softly red beneath the grate. Sophie was crying in short, offended bursts, tiny fists waving furiously above the blankets. Belladonna’s cries, meanwhile, had already escalated into full tragedy—loud, breathless wails that shook her entire tiny body.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered immediately, crossing toward Sophie.

The moment you lifted her, she quieted somewhat, little body curling instinctively against your chest. Her cries softened into hiccuping whimpers as you settled into the rocking chair near the fire.

“There now,” you murmured, brushing your lips over the soft crown of her head. “You’re safe. It was only noise.”

Sophie had always been the easier twin.

Gentler.

Softer in temperament.

Belladonna inherited storms.

Mrs. Ellery lifted Belladonna carefully from the bassinet, bouncing her against one shoulder with practiced ease, but the baby only cried harder, face reddening furiously as tiny fists beat against the woman’s collarbone.

“Oh dear,” the nanny muttered softly. “She’s worked herself up proper.”

Belladonna screamed again.

Down the corridor came the faint sound of Richard’s baritone:

“MARGERY, IF YOU FALL INTO THE PIT I SHALL NOT RETRIEVE YOU.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

Belladonna wailed louder.

Mrs. Ellery sighed knowingly. “Hungry now, are we?”

The nanny loosened the front of her robe and settled herself carefully into the chair opposite yours. Belladonna rooted instinctively at once, frantic little cries dissolving into desperate snuffling as Mrs. Ellery guided her gently to her breast.

The room quieted almost immediately afterward.

Only the soft crackle of the fire remained.

And the slow, rhythmic suckling sounds of a hungry infant.

You rocked Sophie gently in your arms, watching the scene in silence.

It was still strange sometimes.

Not shocking. Not scandalous. Wet nurses were common among wealthy households. Perfectly respectable. You yourself had been nursed by another woman. Your own mother had considered breastfeeding inelegant, inconvenient, vaguely animalistic. She had once remarked at dinner that “God invented servants for a reason.”

You remembered hating her for that.

Because you had wanted differently.

When girls were born, you had wanted to nurse them yourself. To hold them through the night and feed them from your own body like ordinary mothers did. You remembered the ache in your breasts after the birth, the desperate heaviness of milk coming in, the instinctive pull every time the babies cried.

And Richard—

Richard had refused.

Not cruelly, exactly.

Simply absolutely.

“You will have a wet nurse,” he had informed you in that deep judicial baritone while standing beside your bed with Annabelle sleeping nearby. “The matter is settled.”

You had obeyed him.

Of course you had.

At the time, you believed it another act of control. Another quiet theft. He had already governed so much of your life—your movements, your household, your daughters, your body. Denying you even this had seemed merely another expression of his possessiveness.

Though he had permitted you occasionally.

Sometimes late at night.

Sometimes when the twins were restless and Mrs. Ellery unavailable.

You remembered the way he used to watch.

God.

You understood it now.

Heat crept slowly up your throat at the memory.

Across from you, Belladonna had finally quieted entirely against Mrs. Ellery’s breast, tiny fingers flexing sleepily against the woman’s skin.

The nanny smiled faintly. “There now. Much better.”

You nodded quietly.

Your gaze lingered on Belladonna nursing peacefully.

Then dropped to Sophie in your own arms.

You brushed one fingertip lightly along her cheek. “I used to think he denied me this to be cruel.”

Mrs. Ellery glanced up curiously.

You smiled faintly to yourself. “Turns out the man was simply jealous of his own children.”

The nanny blinked.

Then, slowly, one corner of her mouth twitched upward with dangerous understanding.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Heat flooded your face instantly.

“Yes,” you muttered weakly.

Mrs. Ellery wisely pretended not to notice your embarrassment.

The nursery fell quiet again after that.

Until footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Heavy.

Barefoot.

Resigned.

Richard appeared in the doorway looking like a man dragged through warfare.

His dark hair hung slightly disordered around his silvering temples. The collar of his nightshirt sat open and crooked. One sleeve remained half-rolled from his battle with Margery and the privy. Exhaustion sat heavily beneath his hazel eyes.

And in his arms—

Margery.

Fast asleep.

Her curls were crushed against his shoulder, mouth hanging slightly open, utterly untroubled by the destruction she’d caused.

His hazel eyes swept once across the room.

Over the crackling hearth.

Over Mrs. Ellery seated quietly with Belladonna at her breast.

Then finally—

to you.

And there they remained.

Not on the wet nurse.

Not on the twins.

Only you.

Turpin’s expression darkened faintly, the crease between his brows sharpening as Belladonna suckled sleepily against Mrs. Ellery’s breast with soft, contented noises.

You recognized the look immediately.

God help you, you recognized it immediately.

Mrs. Ellery recognized it too.

The woman lowered her gaze at once with the sort of professional discretion earned only through long employment in wealthy households.

Turpin stepped fully into the room.

The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet. His nightshirt hung crooked from one shoulder, exposing the hard line of his collarbone and the fading mark your mouth had left there earlier that evening. He looked exhausted. Dangerous. Deeply inconvenienced by domestic life.

And absurdly handsome for it.

Margery snored softly against him.

Turpin’s eyes never left yours as he spoke.

“I have decided,” he declared in that deep judicial baritone, “that however much it costs, I shall build a damn toilet inside this house.”

Mrs. Ellery coughed violently into her sleeve.

You blinked.

Turpin continued grimly, rocking Margery absently against his shoulder as though unaware he was doing it.

“I do not care if it requires tearing out walls. Or bribing Parliament. Or dragging modern plumbing into this wretched part of London by force.” His hooked nose wrinkled with visible disgust. “I am finished marching through the garden at midnight while that child announces her bowels like a town crier.”

At the mention of her bowels, Margery stirred faintly in his arms.

“M’not done anythin’ wrong,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You’ve committed crimes against civilization,” Turpin muttered darkly.

Belladonna made a soft snuffling noise against Mrs. Ellery’s breast.

Turpin’s gaze flicked there instinctively.

Then immediately returned to you again with renewed irritation.

“You,” he informed you flatly, “will cease fearing the indoor commode.”

Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks. “Richard—”

“No,” he interrupted, voice low and absolute. “I have reached the limit of my endurance.”

Mrs. Ellery lowered her head further, shoulders trembling suspiciously.

You pressed your lips together hard.

It did not help.

The laugh escaped anyway.

Soft at first.

Then helpless.

Turpin stared at you with the full bitterness of a man abandoned by God and modern engineering alike.

“You find this amusing.”

“A little,” you admitted weakly.

“A little,” he repeated with deep offense. “I spent twenty minutes listening to Margery sing sea shanties about potatoes while sitting over a cesspit.”

Mrs. Ellery made a strangled sound that might once have been dignity.

You looked toward the poor woman and found her staring fixedly into the fire with the rigid concentration of someone fighting for her life.

Turpin noticed too.

His hazel eyes narrowed.

“You may laugh if you wish, Mrs. Ellery.”

The wet nurse looked up immediately, horrified. “My lord, I would never—”

“You already are,” he said flatly.

That finished it.

Mrs. Ellery abruptly buried her face against Belladonna’s blanket with a wheezing sound of suppressed laughter while your own shoulders shook helplessly around Sophie.

Turpin looked between the two of you in utter betrayal.

“This household,” he muttered darkly, “is a conspiracy against me.”

Then, without waiting for reply, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked back toward the corridor carrying Margery like a weary soldier transporting wounded comrades from battle.

His broad bare feet thudded heavily against the floorboards.

At the doorway he stopped once more.

Without turning, he growled:

“And if Bamford cannot find a plumber, I shall build the damned pipes myself.”

Then he disappeared down the corridor toward Margery’s bedroom with the grim gait of a man who had witnessed the horrors of war and found them preferable to fatherhood.

Silence settled over the nursery.

For exactly one heartbeat.

Then you looked toward Mrs. Ellery.

Mrs. Ellery looked toward you.

And both of you dissolved into helpless laughter.

Belladonna startled faintly at the sound before settling again with an indignant little grunt against the wet nurse’s breast.

“Oh dear Lord,” Mrs. Ellery gasped at last, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes with one hand. “He looked ready to declare war on sanitation itself.”

“He means it,” you laughed softly, adjusting Sophie higher against your shoulder. “By tomorrow he’ll be interrogating plumbers like criminals before the bench.”

Mrs. Ellery smiled knowingly now, rocking Belladonna gently as the baby drifted toward sleep.

“He’s changed.”

The words were quiet.

Simple.

But they settled warmly into the room.

You looked down at Sophie’s sleepy face, brushing your lips against the soft curls atop her head.

“Yes,” you admitted softly.

Down the corridor came the faint sound of Turpin’s baritone again—lower now, roughened by exhaustion.

“Margery, stop hiding crusts beneath your pillow.”

A sleepy giggle answered him.

Then the deep murmur of his voice again.

Gentler this time.

And your heart ached with it.

[coldkidcookieneck]

I just know these girls are peeling away that cold, terrifying mask little by little with love and their constant shenanigans, and Turpin doesn’t even realise it 🥹Go read it, guys!!!🫶🏼

[muiitoloko]

Author's Notes: Draft with Dub-con.

Antoine Richis had no intention of marrying again.

Not at his age.

He had already done his duty: married well, produced an heir, buried a wife. The rest of his life, as far as he saw it, was meant to be spent preserving what he had built—protecting Laure, overseeing his business, maintaining appearances. He was too old for the courtship rituals of young men, too wise to be swayed by soft eyes and sweeter mouths, and too bitter to believe in companionship for love’s sake.

But Laure was growing. She had turned seventeen that spring, and though she was clever and precocious and independent in her own way, she was still a girl. A girl who spent her days among governesses and servants, who rarely spoke to women of her own class, and who—God help her—would soon be ripe for marriage herself. It unsettled Antoine more than he let on. He needed another presence in the household. Someone female, yes, but not frivolous. Someone Laure might observe, might learn from—not some silken debutante concerned with nothing but rouge and ribbons. Someone real. Grounded. Useful.

And, if he was being honest, someone warm.

He missed that. The weight of another body in bed. The simple intimacy of it—not love, not romance, but the comfort of breath beside his own. It had been years since he’d had that, and Antoine, though a man of control and reserve, was not without appetites.

So he took matters into his own hands.

Antoine began to inquire discreetly—among merchants, among priests, among old allies—about young women of respectable background who might be… available. Not for a whirlwind romance. Not for parties and performances. But for marriage. Practical, quiet, mutually beneficial. He’d pay no mind to youth alone; he wanted someone educated. Someone who understood the world, or at least the edges of it.

Which is how he found you.

You were the eldest of five daughters born to a wealthy wine merchant in Bordeaux—older than Laure by seven years, plain in appearance but well-mannered, sharp-tongued, and once highly sought after by many. Antoine raised a brow when he learned you had not yet married, though most of your sisters had. That, to him, was always a red flag.

He disliked questions without answers.

But the gossip filled in the gaps soon enough.

You had lost your virtue.

To a servant, no less.

A groom, they said. A boy who polished boots and saddled horses. Young, sun-browned, unremarkable. You had tried to run away with him, scandalously so, escaping through a pantry door in the middle of the night. The story spread like wine across a white cloth: your father found you on the road to Libourne and dragged you back in disgrace. You were locked away, kept indoors for months, until your shame faded just enough to be hidden under a well-cut dress.

No one would marry a tainted woman.

At least, not until Antoine Richis came along.

It wasn’t that he wanted a spoiled wife. Quite the opposite. But Antoine had always been clever, and clever men didn’t see scandal—they saw leverage.

He made the trip to your father’s estate himself, arriving in his black carriage, his coat dark and spotless, cravat tied with perfect severity. The elder Monsieur Vaillancourt greeted him with sweat on his brow. Of course, he recognized Richis immediately—everyone in the region did—and welcomed him in, nervous, curious, hopeful.

They drank wine in the study. Business was discussed first. Then family. Then daughters.

“You have five, I believe?” Antoine said smoothly, sipping from his glass.

“Four married,” Vaillancourt nodded. “The fifth…” He cleared his throat. “Still waiting.”

Antoine let the silence hang for a moment.

And then he struck.

“I’ve heard the story,” he said simply, his baritone voice like cold iron on velvet. “You needn’t pretend otherwise.”

Vaillancourt paled. “Monsieur Richis, I assure you—”

“I’m not concerned with assurances,” Antoine interrupted, eyes sharp and steady. “I’m concerned with numbers. A girl in her twenties with a stain on her virtue will never be worth what her sisters were. You know that. I know that. So let’s not waste each other’s time.”

Vaillancourt swallowed hard. “You would… consider her, then?”

“I would,” Antoine said, setting down his glass. “But not without compensation.”

The room felt ten degrees colder.

“I could have any girl in Grasse,” Antoine continued. “Any daughter with unbroken lineage and a dowry to match. But I’m offering you a way out of disgrace. I’ll take her. I’ll clothe her, house her, raise her status. I’ll make her Madame Richis, and no one will dare whisper a word against her again.”

He leaned forward, hazel eyes narrowing.

“But for that, I expect her dowry in full. Perhaps more. Consider it the price of forgetting what she’s done.”

Vaillancourt was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, he nodded.

And just like that, you were sold.

You didn’t like it. As your father had expected.

But your dislike didn’t matter. Not to him, not to the world you lived in, and certainly not to the papers being drafted in the study while you were summoned like an afterthought. You had no voice there—women rarely did. You were a failed investment to be salvaged, a bruised peach rearranged on the merchant’s shelf and sold under dimmer light.

But that didn’t mean you were quiet.

When you first met Antoine Richis, he greeted you with all the calculated politeness of a man sealing a trade route. He stood tall and severe in his fine coat and gloves, his hazel eyes cool beneath neatly combed silver hair. He looked at you as one might a rare object: with appraisal, not affection. You curtsied, shallow and unimpressed.

“I trust you’re aware of the arrangement,” he said, his baritone steady.

You tilted your head, lips tight. “I was told a man was coming to inspect the damage.”

Antoine’s brow arched faintly. “And have I passed inspection?”

You smiled—sharp as glass. “You’ll do. I suppose.”

He stared at you then, longer than was polite. Your tongue, he realized, was far too sharp for a girl so supposedly ruined. It gave him pause. Was this the kind of influence he wanted in Laure’s life? You were clever. Prideful. Angry. That much was clear.

But Antoine Richis did not turn from challenges. He was a merchant, and merchants did not discard goods over a scratch. Especially not when they came at a discount.

“Do you prefer to remain here?” he asked coolly. “Trapped in your father’s house, hushed when guests arrive, walking corridors like a ghost?”

You said nothing. But your eyes didn’t waver.

Antoine continued, voice softer now but no less firm. “If I were in your place, I would take what was offered.”

Still, you gave no reply. But silence was not always surrender. Sometimes, it was calculation.

And so, a courtship followed—formal, brief, meant more for appearances than affection. He visited once a week, bringing fine tea, a book of sonnets, a bracelet you refused to wear. You walked the gardens. Spoke in riddles. He studied you like a ledger he couldn’t quite balance. You rarely smiled. He never touched you.

Until the wedding night.

The house in Grasse had been dimmed, Laure long since asleep, and Antoine, tired but composed, waited in the marital chamber. He had prepared himself for the typical duties—a perfunctory bedding, perhaps some awkward hesitation—but he had not prepared for you.

You came to him in your nightgown.

Hair loose, feet bare, expression unreadable.

Antoine had been sitting at the edge of the bed, his cravat removed but the rest of his attire untouched, a candle burning low beside the decanter of wine he hadn’t touched. He was not a man given to nerves, but there was a solemnity to the night that held him still—like a merchant on the edge of a transaction he could not entirely predict.

You said nothing as you entered. No shyness, no greeting, no girlish hesitation. Just the faint brush of linen across your ankles and the sharp glint of intention in your eye. Your nightgown was plain—no lace, no silken trim—but it clung to the shape of your body with a quiet defiance that made Antoine’s jaw tighten.

He watched as you approached, his hazel eyes flicking once to the modest swell of your breasts beneath the fabric, then back to your face. There was no veil, no blushing bride performance. You stood before him like a negotiator, not a virgin. Like a woman who understood the terms of her purchase, and intended to make herself known.

And then you climbed onto the bed.

Not nervously. Not delicately.

You mounted him—legs parting, knees bracketing his hips—as if this were not your first time. As if you’d done this before. Many times.

Antoine stilled.

His hands hovered at your waist, not gripping, not guiding. Just resting. His back was straight, spine rigid against the headboard, his white shirt still buttoned. He looked at you as one might look at a candle burning too close to parchment. Cautious. Curious. Waiting to see if it would catch fire.

Your thighs were warm around him. Your breath was calm. You reached down and began to hike your gown up slowly—inch by deliberate inch—until it was bunched at your hips, revealing the soft curve of your inner thighs and the bare slit above his lap. No underthings. No pretenses.

Antoine exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes sharp beneath the faint candlelight. His hooked nose twitched as if scenting something. And then the thought struck him—

The groom.

Was it him who had taught you this?

Taught you how to ride a man like this? With such purpose? With such quiet, practiced control?

Or had there been others?

Other men between then and now, hidden from your father’s knowledge, pulled into pantry shadows and behind locked doors, never spoken of?

The thought unsettled him—deeply.

Antoine was not a jealous man. But he was a careful one. He did not like unknowns. Did not like finding himself beneath a woman who looked at him not with awe, or submission, or even curiosity—but with the unsettling calm of experience.

He wanted to ask you. He nearly did.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his gaze dropped to where your body hovered above his own—close, but not touching—and saw the problem.

You were dry.

Of course you were. The body can be willing, but the mind... well. You had not come to him in desire. You had come in duty. Maybe defiance.

So he shifted.

Antoine reached between your bodies with one hand and pressed the flat of his fingers against your slit. You tensed—not from fear, but from surprise.

Then his hand moved. Slow, methodical, unfazed.

Two fingers slid through your folds, seeking, circling. Not deep. Just enough. Enough to find your clit and rub it, carefully at first, then with increasing pressure. He did not look at your face as he did it. He looked down, observing the movement of his hand, the way your hips subtly shifted forward despite yourself.

He was trying to help.

Trying to coax the body into cooperation.

To persuade your cunt into softening. Slickening. Welcoming him.

Not because he sought your pleasure—not yet—but because the idea of pushing into you dry, like some rutting peasant in a barn, offended him. Antoine Richis was a man of precision, of standards. And if you were to be taken—used—claimed—it would be properly.

It would be done well.

And so he rubbed.

Not tenderly, but with a calm deliberation that mirrored his business dealings: unhurried, goal-oriented, pragmatic. He felt your body begin to respond—just barely. A soft bloom of warmth under his fingers. A twitch of your hips. A breath that caught on your lips.

“There,” he murmured, his baritone like smooth stone. “That’s better.”

Still, he didn’t smile. He didn’t flatter you. He simply removed his hand, brought it to his mouth, and tasted the wetness on his fingers. Not lewdly—just a test. As if sampling the quality of a rare vintage.

Damn.

You had a sweet treat.

Antoine knew it the moment his fingers came away slick and shining with your arousal. He could smell it now—rich and heady, the scent of you rising like steam off a wine barrel in summer. It clung to his fingers, delicate and wild, and it did something to him. Something base. Something utterly unmerchantlike.

He wanted more.

Without a word, he easily pulled you off his lap, his strength effortless as he shifted your weight. You made a small sound—half protest, half surprise—but he ignored it, guiding you onto your back with a firm grip beneath your thighs. Your nightgown bunched awkwardly around your waist, baring your legs to the candlelight. You barely had time to blink before his hands were on your knees, spreading them apart with quiet authority, settling himself between them like a man who had every right.

“Wait—” you gasped, your voice cracking with disbelief as you felt his breath ghost over your cunt. “What are you—stop—”

But your hips rose toward him anyway.

And Antoine Richis, composed and stately and always in control, did not stop.

He lowered his face between your thighs and buried his mouth in your sweetness like it was a feast he’d been long denied.

You jolted.

His tongue was hot and certain—none of the hesitation of a younger man, none of the clumsy eagerness of your groom. This was something else entirely. Something deliberate. Decisive. Antoine licked you like he was seeking proof of something—his tongue parting your folds and pressing firmly against your clit, then flicking upward in precise strokes that made your spine arch against the mattress.

You reached down instinctively to push at his shoulders. “No—stop, you can’t—!”

But he could. And he did.

He caught your hands and pinned them to your thighs with one broad palm, keeping your legs splayed open as he worked. His other hand slid under your knee and lifted it higher, anchoring you in place. You felt his tongue again—circling now, then flattening, then sucking—his mouth soft and hot and unrelenting as he drew every drop from you like he was tasting the truth of your body.

“Please—” you whimpered. But it wasn’t pleading. Not really.

Because your hips wouldn’t stop moving. Tilting. Offering.

You didn’t know where to put your hands. You were gasping now, wide-eyed and breathless, thighs trembling under his grip as he devoured you. His gray hair brushed your belly, his hooked nose nudging gently against your clit with each pass of his tongue, and his hazel eyes—when they flicked up—were half-lidded, focused, glazed with something feral.

It was too much.

Too much heat, too much skill, too much him.

You had expected coldness. Transaction. Duty. Not this.

Certainly not a man nearly twice your age lapping at you with the hunger of someone starved for years.

“Why—” you gasped, nearly breathless, “—why are you doing this?”

Antoine didn’t answer with words.

He pressed two fingers inside you instead.

Slow. Thick. Inescapable.

You cried out, legs straining against his hold, but he only grunted softly in satisfaction, feeling the way you clenched around him, the wetness coating his hand now unmistakable.

“You taste better than I expected,” he said, his voice low and calm between your thighs. “Like fruit left to ripen just a bit too long. Overripe. Dangerous.”

His mouth returned to your clit, tongue flicking against it with cruel precision as his fingers curled inside you—stroking deep, methodical, pushing at places that made your vision spark.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t think.

All you could do was feel.

Your body trembled, shuddering under his mouth, your hands fisting the bedsheets as your cries grew louder. Shame bloomed across your face—humiliation and arousal in equal parts. You were supposed to hate this man. He had bought you. Reduced you to a number in a ledger. And yet—

And yet you were coming apart for him.

“Antoine—!” you gasped, your voice cracking.

He didn’t stop.

His tongue moved faster, relentless, matched by the steady thrust of his fingers until your whole body tensed—tight, taut, trembling—and then broke. You came with a cry, raw and sudden, your hips jerking beneath him as the orgasm crashed through you like a summer storm.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it. Slower now. Lazier. Drawing out every aftershock, every shiver. His mouth gentled only when your legs began to shake too hard to hold still.

Only then did he rise.

Antoine leaned back on his haunches, fingers glistening, mouth slick with you, his chest rising and falling beneath his still-buttoned shirt. His face was unreadable. Sharp. Intense.

You stared at him, dazed. Betrayed by your own body.

He said nothing.

Just wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief, as neatly as if he’d just finished dinner.

Then, calmly, he reached for your chin and tilted your face toward his.

“You’ll learn something very important in this house,” he murmured, voice like poured wine. “I may have bought you. But you are mine now.”

His eyes burned into yours, not with cruelty—but with possession.

Measured. Controlled. Absolute.

“You exist,” Antoine said, brushing his thumb over your trembling lower lip, “to be useful.”

He released your chin with a final, possessive touch and rose from the bed, slow and composed, as if undressing for a bath, not a woman. He said nothing as he began to unbutton his waistcoat, his fingers methodical, each motion practiced with quiet elegance.

You lay there trembling, legs drawn together, arms curled protectively around your middle. Your nightgown clung to your skin in wrinkled folds, still bunched at the waist, and the sheets beneath you were damp where your body had arched and spilled.

You shifted slightly—closed your legs tighter, your thighs slick with the remnants of his mouth, and turned your face away, ashamed of how hard you’d come. Writhing softly, trying to pull the gown back down, trying to reclaim even the smallest scrap of modesty.

But Antoine Richis wasn’t finished with you.

He removed his shirt with crisp efficiency, baring a torso far leaner than you expected—aged, yes, but solid. Maintained. The body of a man who still believed in control. His gray hair glinted in the candlelight as he draped his garments neatly over the nearby chair, not rushing, not fumbling. Even naked, he moved with restraint.

And when he returned to the bed, he did not hesitate.

He climbed on top of you.

His knees pressed into the mattress on either side of your hips, his strong, bare hands gripping your thighs and pulling them apart again, slow and firm. Your breath caught in your throat, fingers scrabbling at the sheets, but his hands didn’t falter.

“No,” he said calmly, voice low and sure. “Don’t hide now. You wanted to be taken seriously—so I will take you seriously.”

You gasped as his bare cock, thick and flushed, brushed against your inner thigh.

“Your maidenhead is gone,” Antoine continued, voice like cold iron wrapped in velvet. “So I see no reason to go slow.”

You flinched as the blunt head of his cock slid along your slit—still slick from your climax, but not enough to ease the stretch you knew was coming.

His hazel eyes bore into you, steady and grave.

“Bite the pillow,” he said plainly. “Or use your hand. I don’t care which. But you will keep quiet.”

You blinked up at him, your lips parting in disbelief.

“I will not have Laure woken by the sounds of her new stepmother being fucked like a common whore.”

The words hit you like a slap.

And then he thrust in.

You cried out—muffled instantly by the pillow you bit, as ordered—your body arching beneath him, legs straining. He was large, and he didn’t ease in gently. There was no lingering tenderness, no time to adjust. Just the thick, deliberate force of him pressing deep, dragging a broken whimper from your throat as he bottomed out inside you.

Antoine groaned low in his chest, his eyes fluttering briefly shut at the feel of you clenching around him.

“So tight,” he hissed. “Even after being ruined.”

You moaned against the pillow, hands fisting in the sheets as he began to move.

His pace was controlled—but not slow. Measured, like every other part of him. The slap of his hips against your thighs echoed quietly in the chamber, each thrust driving the air from your lungs, each push sending you deeper into the mattress.

You tried not to make noise.

You tried to obey.

But it was impossible.

Because he was fucking you with purpose. With ownership. With the calm violence of a man correcting a mistake.

“This body belongs to me now,” he murmured, leaning down, his breath hot against your ear. “Whatever you gave to that boy—it’s mine now. All of it.”

You whimpered, legs trembling as he thrust harder, deeper, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your chest to tug the nightgown down and bare your breasts.

“I will not be disrespected in my own bed,” he growled, his baritone voice low and dangerous. “If you scream, you’ll wake Laure. If you fight, I’ll tie you down. But if you take this properly—if you behave—I might make it good for you.”

You bit your hand this time—hard.

Because it was good.

God help you, it was.

Despite the cruelty of his words, despite the force of his thrusts, there was something underneath it—some heat, some hunger, some buried craving that made your blood sing. He was claiming you not just as property, but as possession. As something his.

And your body… betrayed you.

You were growing wetter again.

Clenching.

Welcoming.

And Antoine knew it.

His hips slammed into you with growing urgency, his mouth now on your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin as he panted into your neck.

“I’ll fuck you quiet,” he muttered, “if I have to do it every night until you learn to behave. You’ll thank me before long.”

You sobbed into the sheets, your body shivering, your cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say who you belong to.”

You choked on your breath, your voice hoarse against the linen.

But despite the pleasure—

Despite the way his cock split you open, deep and practiced, each thrust dragging sparks behind your ribs—

You didn’t give in.

Your pride wouldn’t let you.

Your body might respond to him, but your soul would not yield. Not to this man. Not to his baritone commands or his merchant’s hands. You were panting, trembling, your nipples raw from the cold air and his mouth, but even as your cunt clenched around him, slick and traitorous, your jaw was tight.

Because you didn’t belong to him.

You belonged to yourself.

And to Louis.

Antoine stilled.

Just for a moment—but you felt it. The snap of stillness, like a blade sliding home.

His hazel eyes narrowed, his fingers flexing on your hips. “What did you say?”

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Hadn’t even realized you had. The name had slipped from your mouth like a sob, like a breath you’d been holding since Bordeaux. But now it hung in the air between you, thick as incense.

Louis.

Antoine repeated it silently. Once. Twice. And then said it aloud, voice cold.

“Louis.”

The word came out like something bitter in his throat. “Is that his name?” he asked, the calmness in his baritone now too precise, too level to be real. “The groom. The one who ruined you.”

You said nothing.

But your silence was answer enough.

Antoine’s breath left him in a sharp, dry exhale. He resumed moving—slower now. More controlled. Not out of mercy. But because he was thinking.

Louis.

A king’s name.

How ironic that a stablehand would carry it.

A lowborn boy who stole you away under cover of night and vanished at the first consequence. That was the man who still lived in your chest? That was the name you cried—not in fear, not in pain, but in longing—while Antoine had you pinned, your slick thighs trembling under his weight?

He could feel it now. The resistance. Subtle, but there.

You weren’t fully present. Not for him. Not entirely.

He could have your body. He could command your obedience. He could fuck you until you moaned beneath him. But Louis—

Louis would always have your heart.

And that was unacceptable.

Antoine slammed into you suddenly, brutally, knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands curled harder around your hips, and this time there was no pretense of restraint. Only anger, reined in by pride. Fury, disguised as composure.

“Louis,” he said again, quieter this time, his baritone voice tightening. “The coward who left you to rot. Who let your father barter you off like bruised fruit. That is the man you carry inside you?”

You winced, your cheek still pressed to the mattress, one hand fisting the sheets. You didn’t answer. Not aloud. But your silence was still defiant.

Antoine’s voice darkened. “You would give him your heart, and give me your silence.”

He pulled out—slowly—his cock dragging against your walls with maddening friction.

He looked at you—really looked.

And saw it.

The refusal in your eyes.

The flame that hadn’t gone out.

“You think I’ll be content with your body alone?” he asked softly, dangerously. “That I’ll play the generous husband while your thoughts drift to him?”

You swallowed. But didn’t speak.

“Do you love him?” Antoine asked, his voice now a thread of silk. “The boy?”

Still, you didn’t answer.

But your silence this time wasn’t defiance. It was grief.

And that was worse.

Antoine leaned down slowly, bracing himself on his forearms, his bare chest brushing yours. His breath ghosted over your face, warm and wine-tinted, his baritone so low it rumbled through your bones.

“I could have you whipped for that.”

You stared up at him.

“I could have his name struck from your lips with birch and leather. I could break you until even his memory fades.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But your lip trembled—just barely.

And Antoine paused.

Because he realized, in that moment, what Louis had given you.

Not jewels. Not status. Not even protection.

But love.

Unforgivable.

He kissed you then—not gently. Not cruelly. But with a calculated pressure, claiming your mouth the same way he had claimed your body. He devoured your breath like it offended him. Bit your lower lip as if it would make you forget the other man’s kiss.

Then he slid back inside you.

Not fast.

Not slow.

But deep.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands rising instinctively to his shoulders, your nails dragging faint, angry lines down his back.

He groaned. Not in pleasure. In possession.

“I’ll replace him,” he said roughly, driving into you again. “Every night. Every morning. Until your cunt forgets his name.”

You whimpered, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Until your heart,” he rasped, “learns who truly owns you.”

And that night, Antoine Richis didn’t fuck his wife.

He erased a ghost.

Or tried to.

Because ghosts don’t die easily.

Especially not the ones who ride horses barefoot through the dark and leave the taste of wild fruit on your tongue.

And as Antoine thrust deeper, harder, chasing dominance through sweat and silk and candlelight, he knew—

Louis was still in the room.

And he was losing.

__________

The next morning, Antoine Richis did exactly as he swore he would.

You woke not to the rustle of birdsong or the creak of shutters, but to the weight of him behind you—warm, heavy, already half-hard beneath the linen sheets. His chest pressed flush against your back, one broad arm cinched tightly around your waist, the other sliding between your thighs, already coaxing them apart.

You were still sore.

Your thighs ached. Your hips ached. The inside of your cunt felt raw, stretched and tender from what he’d done to you the night before. And yet—his hand was already cupping your sex with quiet possession, feeling the heat still there. Testing.

You stirred with a soft sound, blinking into the pillow, your body instinctively trying to squirm away. But Antoine’s arm only tightened, his baritone voice already at your ear.

“Lie still,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “I’m not finished with you.”

You tried to speak—but then you felt it: the firm pressure of his cock pressing between your thighs, nudging at your entrance with quiet insistence.

“You’ll take me,” he said, voice calm and grave, as if discussing contracts. “Just like you did last night.”

You let out a breath—half whimper, half protest—but you didn’t fight. Not really. Because part of you already knew resistance only sharpened his focus. He wasn’t cruel. But he was relentless.

Antoine adjusted behind you, curling closer, pulling your thigh over his own so your legs parted just enough for him to slot himself in from behind. He didn’t wait for wetness. Didn’t need to. You were still slick from last night, your body traitorously open to him even now.

He pushed in slowly.

You buried your face in the pillow.

Even soft, even slow, the stretch was painful. You bit down hard into the linen, stifling the gasp as his cock slid inside—thick and deep and intrusive, filling the raw space he’d carved into you the night before.

Antoine groaned softly behind you, one hand splayed over your belly now, keeping you anchored against him as his hips began to move—slow, deep, measured thrusts, fucking you sideways into the mattress.

You couldn’t breathe.

You bit the pillow harder, tears springing to your eyes from the sensitivity, the burn. Your fingers curled into the sheets. Your whole body trembled with each deliberate stroke.

“Still so tight,” he muttered, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “You’d think I hadn’t fucked you half the night.”

You whimpered.

He didn’t stop.

And then came the knock.

A gentle rap rap at the door, hesitant but clear.

You froze.

Antoine’s hips didn’t.

“Papa?” came a voice—soft, feminine, young. Laure. “Papa, are you awake?”

Your breath hitched sharply, your eyes flying wide in panic. Antoine’s hand instantly covered your mouth.

He stilled for half a second. Then kept going.

Steady. Deep. Just slow enough not to make noise.

“I wanted to ask if you’d take breakfast with me,” Laure’s voice came again, light through the wood. “I’ve already dressed, and—”

“Do not come in,” Antoine barked, voice suddenly loud and firm, the full weight of his baritone filling the room like thunder. You jolted against him.

A pause.

“I’m—” he continued, clearing his throat, voice lowering now to something more level, more fatherly. “I’m not dressed appropriately.”

Another beat of silence. Then Laure’s voice, sounding slightly abashed. “Oh. Of course. I—I’ll wait for you at the table, then.”

“Good girl,” he said, quieter now. “Wait for me.”

You heard her footsteps retreating down the hall.

And only then did Antoine lean over you, his breath hot against your cheek, his hips thrusting slow and hard again, never having stopped fully.

“You see?” he whispered, his voice low, gravel-rich. “This is what your defiance earns you.”

You shoved his hand off your mouth the moment Laure’s footsteps faded, turning your face sharply toward him, your voice low but venomous.

“Disgusting,” you spat.

Antoine didn’t flinch.

His cock was still inside you.

Still thick, still deep.

Still throbbing slightly from the effort of holding back his release.

He looked down at you—hair mussed, jaw tense, hazel eyes gleaming with something far colder than anger.

He leaned in, pressing his weight more fully against you until you were half pinned to the bed, your bare thigh draped over his, your wrists caught under the cradle of his body.

“I’m disgusting?” he murmured, baritone voice silk over steel. “Is that the word you’re going with this time?”

You bared your teeth, still panting, your nails digging into the sheets beneath you.

“You fucked me with your daughter at the door.”

His brows arched, slow and deliberate. “And you came apart in my arms the moment she knocked.”

Your breath caught.

Antoine smiled—not kindly.

“No denial this time?” he said softly, his voice smooth and dangerous. “Not even a clever lie?”

He began to move again.

Not fast.

Not rough.

But slow—so slow it felt cruel. His hips shifted, driving his cock deeper inside you with the kind of restraint only older men could afford. The kind that wasn’t about needing release, but proving a point.

“Tell me again how I disgust you,” he whispered against your ear. “While your pussy tightens around me like it’s begging for more.”

You tried to shove him back, but your muscles betrayed you. The tension in your thighs, the shudder in your belly—it was all too transparent. You could taste your shame. Feel it between your legs. The sticky warmth of it. The ache.

Antoine leaned over you fully now, his breath hot against your temple.

“You liked it,” he said flatly. “The thrill. The risk.”

“No—”

“You liked knowing she was just on the other side of the door. That I could answer her in one breath, and fuck you with the next.”

You turned your face away, tears burning at your eyes now—not from pain, but rage.

Rage that he saw you so clearly.

Rage that he was right.

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered again, voice weaker now.

Antoine’s hand cupped your chin. Not roughly. But firmly.

He turned your face back to his, and his expression had gone colder—more serious. The weight of it struck something in you that had nothing to do with sex.

“I’m not the one who moaned into my hand while her voice filled the room,” he said. “You did that. You soaked the sheets, and you clenched around me so hard I nearly spilled inside you.”

His eyes narrowed, dangerous now.

“So let’s not pretend you’re some innocent caught in my corruption.”

He withdrew slowly, then thrust back in, hard enough to make your back arch off the bed.

“You knew exactly what this was when you agreed to marry me.”

You cried when he said it—silent at first, then sharper, raw. Not out of physical pain, though that lingered, throbbing dully between your thighs as he drove into you again, but from the humiliation, the helplessness of being reduced to this. To a body. To the bruising rhythm of his hips. To a name scrawled on parchment, traded like coin.

Your hand rose to your face, palm over your mouth as if to muffle the sounds that wanted to tear out of you. He was still inside you—thick, unrelenting—his body flush against your back, the heat of him unforgiving, ever-present. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Especially not now.

But you couldn’t stop it.

“Disgusting,” you choked again, voice muffled by your fingers. “You’re disgusting.”

Antoine didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue.

He pressed forward again—slow and deep—and leaned over you, his voice a quiet growl against your ear.

“Yes,” he said.

You stiffened.

“Yes,” he repeated, baritone steady, deliberate. “I am. I’m a disgusting man. A man who bought a ruined girl. A man who fucks her raw with his daughter outside the door. A man who spreads her thighs before sunrise and leaves her too sore to walk without shame.”

He thrust again—just once, but hard enough to knock your breath from you.

“And you know what else I am?” he said, hazel eyes blazing above you, his hand gripping your hip tighter now.

You tried to turn away. Tried to shut it out.

But he didn’t let you.

He caught your jaw in one hand and turned your face toward him, slow and commanding, until your tearstreaked eyes met his.

“I’m the disgusting man who’s going to get you pregnant.”

You stared at him—eyes wide, breath hitching.

“Say it,” he murmured, voice thick and heavy. “Say it back to me.”

“No—”

He rolled his hips into yours again, deeper this time, grinding.

“Say it.”

You whimpered, the air trembling in your lungs. “You’re going to get me pregnant.”

He groaned low in his throat, the sound curling in his chest like smoke.

“That’s right.”

His hand slid lower now, fingers splayed across your belly, palm hot against your skin.

“I’m going to fill this body with my child,” he said, slow and deliberate, like a priest delivering a vow. “Breed the boy right out of you. Erase him. One fuck at a time.”

You sobbed—sharp and breathless, shamed by the heat that flared low in your stomach even as your heart twisted.

“You’ll carry my name, my seed, my legacy,” Antoine growled, rutting into you harder now, his control finally slipping, just slightly. “And when your belly swells with my heir, you’ll look in the mirror and remember this morning—remember who did it to you.”

You whimpered something—garbled, pleading—but he swallowed it with a kiss, biting down on your lower lip until you gasped.

“Because I will mark you,” he said darkly. “Not with bruises. Not with rings. But with blood. With birth. With ownership.”

His thrusts turned erratic now, rougher, his breath shuddering near your ear as he rutted against you like an animal, all elegance gone, the illusion of restraint melting into heat and fury and unbearable hunger.

“I’ll fuck you every night,” he panted, “until there’s no room left in you for anyone else. Not even memory.”

You were shaking now—limp beneath him, your body too overwhelmed to resist, too stretched to fight, your cries reduced to broken breaths and ragged moans.

“And when the child comes,” Antoine rasped, voice hoarse with the edge of release, “you’ll look at it and know—Louis never left anything behind.”

His cock jerked once, then again, and then he came—deep and thick, pulsing inside you with a groan that was more breath than sound, his face pressed against your neck, teeth bared as he emptied himself into your womb.

You could feel it.

Hot.

Claiming.

Final.

Antoine didn’t move for a long moment. Just stayed there, buried inside you, panting against your skin like a man who had survived some long winter. Then, slowly, he kissed your temple. Once. Soft.

Cruel.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “You’ll need the rest. We’ll try again tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

You just lay there—eyes open, legs trembling, the wet warmth of his release seeping from between your thighs and staining the sheets beneath you.

But even as your body broke…

Your mind did not.

Not yet.

Because deep inside you, somewhere far from his reach, you still saw him.

Louis.

Barefoot. Laughing. Sunlight in his hair.

And for now… that was enough to survive the morning.

[coldkidcookieneck]

should’ve stopped at one Antoine Riches moment… my brain is way too fried to process all this 🤯🥵

[smilingformoney]

Une Nouvelle Vie

Perfume | Antoine Richis/Reader

Summary: You don't speak French; Antoine doesn't speak English. Somehow, you need to make this arranged marriage work.

Word Count: 4.4k

Content: arranged marriage, language barrier, smut, cunnilingus, piv

AN: Thanks to @ladydisdain1214 for the help with the French!

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

You had never imagined your wedding day would be more of a business transaction than a celebration.

And yet, that was exactly what it was. 500 francs, a handshake, some paperwork and an order from your father to behave.

You had never even met your husband before — all you knew was that he was some wealthy merchant from some French town in the middle of nowhere. You didn't speak French, and he didn't speak English. Your father told you what to say and where to sign, and you obeyed, because you knew as well as he did what dire straits your father's business was in, and this was all you could do to salvage it.

The 'ceremony' — if one could call it that — took place in your new husband's manor, and you had to admit, it wasn't a bad place to move to… if only you knew how to communicate with your husband, or with the staff, or with anyone at all once your father left with his coinpurse significantly heavier than it had been on arrival.

Antoine was polite enough, so far as you could tell. He smiled at you when you met, and kissed your hand with a murmured "enchanté" before paying your father for the privilege of said hand.

He was handsome, too, in a way. He was a lot older than you, his hair grey and his body soft. When he turned away from you, you saw that the back of his waistcoat had been torn with the expansion of his torso and held together with threads. His eyes were kind, if a little distant, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and soothing, even if you had no idea what promises he was making to you before God.

After your father left, you expected to be led to the master bedroom, to be instructed to remove your clothing and lay back and think of England.

That was why you were there, after all. Your father had made that very clear. Antoine Richis had lost his wife and his only daughter, and he needed an heir — which you were to provide.

But those instructions never came. A portly maid led you, not to the master bedroom, but to a second bedroom nearby, recently cleaned but clearly never lived in. The bedsheets were freshly pressed, the chamberpot never used, and when you looked inside the wardrobe, you saw only your own clothes waiting for you.

You wondered if Antoine would let himself in and expect you to do your duty, but you didn't see him again until the maid reappeared and said something about "le dîner," which sounded enough to you like dinner that you hoped it meant you would be able to eat.

The maid led you downstairs and into a dining room, where Antoine was already sat down, a place made opposite him waiting for you. He had been looking out of the window with a faraway look in his eyes, but when you walked in, he turned his attention back to you and smiled politely.

"Bonsoir, ma chère," he said as he stood up to pull your chair out for you.

"Bonsoir, monsieur," you replied in your best attempt at French as you sat down — you knew enough to say that, at least.

"J'espère que votre chambre vous plaît."

You looked at him blankly as he returned to his own seat. He saw your expression, then chuckled.

"Désolé."

You bit your lip. You knew that meant sorry. At least, you hoped, he understood the difficult position you were in. He may not speak English, but at least he shared a tongue with his staff, his neighbours — you shared yours with nobody but the father who'd left you behind some hours earlier.

Le dîner was served, and you ate in silence.

You wished he would stop staring at you.

Or, if he was going to stare at you, he could at least have the decency not to pretend he wasn't by quickly looking away whenever you raised your eyes from your plate to look back at him.

You had so many questions to ask. Why had you been given a separate bedroom? What did he expect from you, if you couldn't even speak to each other? Why on earth would he pay 500 francs for a wife he couldn't communicate with? What was in this soup you were eating?

He finished eating before you, and while you continued, he sat back in his chair and watched you, which did nothing but unnerve you further.

"Demain, j'irai en ville et je trouverai un domestique qui parle anglais."

You thought you heard anglais, which meant English.

The language barrier was troubling him too, then.

"Désolé," he said again, before standing up and giving you a small bow before leaving.

You went to bed alone that night. The house was quiet, silent even; it felt far too big for two people. You wondered how many children Antoine Richis and his late wife had expected to fill the halls when he had first bought this house. You wondered what had killed her and their daughter — the same thing, an illness perhaps, or two separate tragedies?

Whatever it was, it had left an emptiness in the house, and a distance in Antoine's eyes that you didn't presume to think you could fill.

----

The next morning, you ate breakfast in a similar silence, and Antoine departed. "La ville," he had told you, pointing to himself and then the door, presumably trying to tell you that he was going to la ville, whatever that was.

You nodded to show you understood that he was going somewhere, even if you had no idea where that was, and he seemed to be satisfied with that response.

While he was gone, you wandered around the house. Perhaps you couldn't speak to your husband, but you could try to learn what you could about him from his house. It was neat and clean, and the walls were mostly bare, although you did find a couple of paintings of landscapes hanging up. You recognised the hills you had passed by on your approach, and peering at the signature in the corner, you saw that the paintings were signed by Laure Richis.

A family member, then. The dead wife, or the dead daughter? Or perhaps a dead ancestor? Whoever it was, you knew that though she was long gone, Antoine held a piece of her spirit in the art she had left behind.

You found a library, and although your heart rose to see so many books in one place, you reminded yourself that they would all be in French, and you had no chance of being able to read any of them.

The thought filled you with a fresh wave of frustration at the situation you found yourself in. Books were a comfort, an escape, and you didn't even have those anymore. Not just that — you were surrounded by books you could never read. That, to you, was worse than not having any books at all.

After the staff had served you "le déjeuner" — lunch — you went outside to explore the kind of garden a widower merchant like Antoine Richis kept.

You had expected it to be plain, nothing but functional greenery — to your surprise, you found rows and rows of well-kept flowers, colourful and blooming in the spring sunshine, and in the centre of it all, you found two headstones, side-by-side: Thérèse Richis and Laure Richis.

Judging by the dates, Laure was the daughter, and likely the artist of the paintings you had seen earlier — it was possible, of course, that the artist was another Laure of the family, but you suspected that, in a house so sparsely decorated, the only two paintings hung on the walls would be those by Antoine's late daughter.

Two years had passed, the headstone told you, since Laure's death. She had been a grown woman, albeit a young one, and according to the inscription, she was "une beauté perdue."

It felt wrong to you, that you could stand in front of Laure's grave, married to her father, and know nothing of what her headstone was trying to tell you. If you were going to replace her as the woman of the house, the least you could do was read the message her father had chosen to immortalise her with.

You went back inside, and the French word for paper must have been close enough to the English, because the servant you spoke to seemed to understand what you wanted, and brought you a sheet of letterwriting paper and a pencil.

You went back outside and leant the paper against your knee as you copied down the lettering on each of the gravestones.

Antoine returned in the late afternoon accompanied by a man of a similar age to him, and they were both speaking rapid French when you entered the sitting room, having been told by a servant to suis-moi. She apparently expected you to follow her, so you did so, and she led you into the sitting room.

Antoine and his guest were standing by the fire, each holding a glass of wine, and Antoine paused whatever he was saying when he heard you enter. He gestured for you to come closer, and placed a hand on the small of your waist as you came to stand next to him.

The touch surprised you — apart from the kiss on your hand upon your initial meeting, he had never actually touched you — and you noticed his hand felt warm on your back.

"Ma femme, [Y/n]."

"Enchantée, monsieur," you said with a small curtsey.

"Enchanté, madame. J'espère que Monsieur Richis vous traite bien."

You glanced at Antoine nervously. Had he not told his friend you didn't speak a lick of French?

"Elle est anglaise, Louis. Elle ne parle pas français."

"Quoi? Pas un seul mot de français?" the man said — it sounded like Antoine had called him Louis, and by the tone of his voice, he seemed flabbergasted. "Je suis favorable à une épouse silencieuse, mais elle devrait au moins être capable de comprendre les ordres."

Louis turned to you with a sneering frown. "Young madam. Why you did not learn French?"

Great. The first English speaker you had met since stepping off the boat in Calais, and he was looking at you like you were a piece of dirt on his shoe for not speaking French.

"Nobody taught me," you replied truthfully.

Louis laughed. Antoine looked at him questioningly, and presumably Louis repeated the exchange in French. You saw the corner of Antoine's mouth twitch with a smile, and you wondered what was so amusing about the fact you'd never been taught to speak French.

"Remontez dans votre chambre, [Y/n]. Nous nous verrons au dîner," Antoine said to you.

You blinked at him.

"Your 'usband say go to up the stairs," Louis translated, still smiling with amusement. "You in bed is best — uhh — place you go."

The last word Antoine had said was dîner, so you suspected the comment about bed being the best 'place you go' was entirely Louis' own invention.

Even so, you curtseyed to them both with a "oui, monsiuers" and left, glad you weren't going to have to endure Louis' hackneyed attempt at English much longer.

The paper you had written on earlier was sitting on a writing desk in your bedroom. You picked up the pencil and wrote down:

Dinner — deenur

You wondered if you'd be able to communicate a request for a notebook to Antoine.

It was going to be a long and difficult road ahead.

----

Antoine was at a loss.

Your father had omitted to mention, when the arrangement was suggested, that you spoke no French whatsoever. It was only when you arrived, and looked at him blankly when he spoke to you, that Antoine realised there was a language barrier.

After a heated discussion with your father, the price had been negotiated down to 400 francs, and Antoine had married you without a word of English in his vocabulary and very limited French in yours.

He tried to find a servant to hire who spoke English, but very few people in Grasse spoke English, let alone a servant — after a week of struggling to communicate with his wife past "bonjour" and "bonne nuit," Antoine resigned himself to the fact that he would have to send word to Paris to seek out an English-speaking servant.

Until then, Antoine was stuck with a wife who might as well be a mute.

After your brief meeting with Louis, you had asked Antoine at dinner for a notebook. It had taken some miming for you to get your request across, but Antoine eventually understood that you were asking for un cahier, and gave you one from his own study. Your eyes had lit up when he handed it to you, both pleased to receive what you'd asked for and relieved that you had managed to communicate, and Antoine learned that evening that "thank you" meant "merci."

You carried the notebook around with you after that, and Antoine noticed that every time you managed to figure out what something meant, you wrote it down.

He, in turn, began to pick up some English. Taking inspiration from you, he also began writing words down, and you would sometimes manage to have a rudimentary conversation which heavily involved one or both of you findings words from your notebooks.

During one lunchtime, Antoine managed to say to you, "You walk garden today?"

"Oui," you replied, glancing out of the window to see the sun was shining. "Je marche jardin jour."

"Je me promène dans le jardin aujourd'hui," he corrected you. "I walk you."

You smiled. "D'accord."

After lunch, Antoine offered you his arm as he escorted you down the steps towards the large gardens of his manor. You walked in your usual silence, but the silence between you had become more and more comfortable over time. You had each learned to communicate with gestures and short words, and were teaching each other the best you could.

"Tulip," you said, pointing to the bed of red tulips as you passed them.

"Tulipe," Antoine replied.

"That's just 'tulip' in a French accent," you laughed. One thing you were both learning was that a lot of words were the same, just pronounced slightly differently. "Okay, what about the colour? Red." You pointed to the red tulips again, then to the yellow tulips behind them. "Yellow."

Antoine nodded in understanding. "Red. Rouge. Yellow. Jaune."

You repeated the words back, and he smiled. "Très bien," he said, which you knew meant you'd got it right.

"Rouge tulipe," you said, trying to piece the words together, but Antoine shook his head.

"Non. Nom, puis adjectif. Tulipe rouge."

"Tulipe rouge?"

"Oui."

"Tulipe jaune."

"Très bien!"

Antoine seemed genuinely impressed with you, despite the fact you probably sounded like a toddler learning to speak.

"Hmm, okay…" you looked thoughtfully at the next row of flowers. "Rose."

"Rose."

You both laughed.

"Oh, French is easy! Rose rouge."

"Très bien. Red rose."

"Yes! See, we're getting there. Daffodil." You pointed at the row of daffodils that came after the roses.

"Jonquille."

"Ah, that's a little different. Jonquille jaune."

"Très bien. Vous avez un talent inné."

You continued meandering through the gardens, each of you pointing at various flowers and naming them, until eventually, without either of you realising where you were going, you ended up at the two headstones.

Antoine hesitated when he spotted them. You looked up at him and saw how warily he was looking at them, as if he were afraid to be near them with you.

"It's okay. I've met them before. Laure, she was your daughter, wasn't she?"

Antoine glanced at you when he heard his daughter's name from your lips.

"Ma fille," he said, his voice much quieter now. "Thérèse était ma femme et la mère de Laure."

You looked down at Laure's headstone, which you still hadn't translated.

"I wish I knew what it said," you murmured thoughtfully.

You looked up at Antoine, who was staring at Laure's headstone with a faraway look in his eyes, a look you had seen before, when he seemed to suddenly be lost in thought.

"Une beauté perdue?" you said questioningly.

"Ah…"

Antoine gestured uselessly, struggling to translate for you when he didn't have the words in English.

"That's okay. I'll figure it out. I really need a book of translations or something." You placed your hand on his arm gently. "Désolée."

He looked at you and smiled sadly. "Thank you."

Without needing to say anything, you both began to walk back to the house, though the silence now was heavy with Antoine's grief, and neither of you tried to translate any more flowers that you passed.

That night, you went to bed in your own bedroom as usual, and you were trying to get to sleep when you heard the bedroom door open.

You sat up, blinking against the light of the lamps in the hallway, and saw Antoine's silhouette in the doorway. He stood there for a few moments, hand still on the doorknob, as if waiting for your permission to enter.

"Antoine? What are you doing here?"

He stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him, and you leaned over to the bedside table to light a candle.

"Vous êtes encore réveillée," he said, and although he spoke quietly, in the silence of the night you could hear him clear as day.

You sat up in the bed, looking at him, waiting for him to do or say whatever he had come in for.

Antoine seemed unsure of himself, so you patted the empty space at the side of the bed. He sat down, feet still on the floor, and turned to look at you, one hand raised to your face to gently stroke your cheek, as if he were only just examining his wife's face.

"Tu es très belle," he murmured.

You looked at him, uncertain what he was trying to say, or what he wanted, or why he was only just now coming into his wife's bedroom.

His eyes glanced down to your lips, as if he were daring himself to kiss you.

Why was he hesitating? You were his wife, you knew your duty. He could kiss you if he wanted to, and he could do a whole lot more too.

If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought he was looking for your permission.

You leaned forward, and that seemed to be what he was waiting for to close the gap between you and connect his lips to yours.

He was a more passionate kisser than you'd imagined. He was always so calm, so measured, so neat and orderly in everything that he did — you assumed he would be the same when he kissed you, but you were wrong. Antoine moved his hand to the back of your neck to hold you firmly, his lips practically forcing yours apart so his tongue could explore your mouth.

His other hand snaked around your waist as he moved you down the bed with ease, laying you down with your head on the pillows as he climbed on top of you.

Antoine grabbed at your breasts with both hands, nothing but the thin layer of your nightgown between you, and he parted his lips from yours to let out a shuddering groan as he filled his hands with your flesh and rolled your nipples between his fingers.

"Antoine…"

"Shh," your husband hushed soothingly. He kissed your neck, teeth grazing at your skin, as one hand let go of your breast and began moving, slowly, gradually, down your torso, sneaking ever closer to the hem of your nightgown. "Ma belle épouse…"

His hand reached the bare skin of your thigh, and you let out a small gasp as he slid under the fabric and began moving his hand back up your body, this time with no barrier between his skin and yours, his touch so featherlight you could hardly feel much more than the heat from his palm.

His hand reached your breast and cupped it fully, and you felt a tingle run through you to feel his palm pressed against your nipple.

Instinctively, your hips twitched beneath him, and you felt the outline of something between his hips that both frightened and excited you.

Antoine raised his head from your neck to look at you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Vous cherchez quelque chose?"

He kissed you on the lips again, then sat up, withdrawing his hands from you as he did so, and he placed them on your knees instead, prying your legs apart and causing you to shudder when the cold night air hit your private parts.

Antoine didn't say anything. He just stared at the soft mound between your legs, and he licked your lips. You began to feel self-conscious — why was he just staring? If he was going to do what he married you for, couldn't he just get on with it?

He released one knee from his grip and brought his hand between your legs instead. You could feel the heat radiating between the two of you, and when he gently slid his thumb into the hair to seek out the flesh beneath, you gasped.

"Ne t'inquiète pas, ma chère. Ça te fera du bien."

Of course, you had no idea what he was saying, but he spoke so softly, so soothingly, you could only ever feel comforted by his voice.

He pushed his thumb in further, exploring you slowly, as if mapping out every detail of your flesh with the pad of this thumb. Eventually, he reached the top, and you let out a very unladylike squeak when he found a spot that was particularly sensitive.

Antoine, his eyes up until now focused between your legs, glanced up at you, and his eyes seemed to have darkened.

"Good?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Oui. Good."

He withdrew his hand from you very suddenly, causing you to whine at the sudden absence, and he wrapped his lips around his thumb, eyes closing momentarily as he groaned, as if he'd just tasted a particularly sweet wine.

"Délicieuse…"

Antoine opened his eyes and looked at you for a long moment. Then, without warning, he leant down — and buried his face between your legs.

He lapped at you like a hungry dog, tongue seeking out every crevice of your flesh. You were making noises you didn't know you could make, and Antoine did nothing to stop you — in fact, he seemed to enjoy it, because when his tongue found the spot his thumb had earlier, you let out a shuddering moan that only spurred him on.

He stayed there, in that one spot, his tongue delicately tracing circles with a touch so featherlight, and yet so pleasurable, you thought that if he touched you any firmer, you would come undone right there and then.

You felt his finger pressing against your entrance, and when he slipped inside, he met no resistance at all, only an open and wet invitation for him to make himself at home betwen your thighs.

Another finger joined the first, and you realised, as he scissored his two fingers apart inside you, that he was purposely trying to stretch you out, to prepare you for… something else.

The thought frightened you, but not as much as you had thought it might. You thought him handsome, and although it might not be conventional, truth be told you liked the shape of his body, the way his waistcoat strained against his figure — and you had on more than one occasion gone to bed wondering what his lips would feel like to kiss, what his weight might feel like on top of you…

But even so, he was still a stranger to you. A few rudimentary words in one another's language did not a marriage make. If you were to bear his child, how on earth would you rear it together when you couldn't even speak to each other? How could you possibly be expected to know the man you were now entirely dependent on, to serve and pleasure him, when he couldn't tell you what he wanted from you?

Antoine withdrew his fingers from you, then his lips; he sat up, and his hands were suddenly busy with himself, fingers pulling at the lace of his britches as he hurried to pull himself out, as if he had only a few moments in which to do so.

You only got a glance of it before Antoine was sliding it inside you, the breach made easy by the wetness he'd extracted from you, and you gasped when you felt it stretching your insides, far more so than his fingers had.

Your nightgown was hitched around your waist, but Antoine was still fully dressed. He had only pushed down his britches far enough to expose himself — otherwise, the wig still sat on his head, the waistcoat still strained against his torso, and his arms were still covered by the sleeves of his shirt.

Antoine wrapped his hands around your thighs, holding them open as he thrust into you. He threw his head back, his eyes closed and his jaw slack with pleasure.

Although there was some pain, it subsided after a little while, and you were left with only the pleasure, the feeling of being stretched and full, and when Antoine adjusted your hips to angle them a little higher, his cock pushed up against your walls in a way that made you moan loudly.

Antoine's eyes snapped open when he heard you moan, as if he had forgotten you were there. He looked down at you, expression unreadable in the dark room, lit only by the soft orange glow of candlelight.

He murmured something in French, and you might have given everything you owned to know what it meant.

"Antoine… please…"

You had no idea what you were begging for, but it didn't seem to matter — because he knew.

He pressed his thumb against that spot again, his thrusts pistoning into you rhythmically, and you felt an explosion of pleasure overwhelm your every sense, stars bursting before your eyes as you screamed out, not with terror but with the sheer ecstasy of a pleasure you never knew was possible.

You thought, wished, it would never end, but eventually the feeling subsided, followed shortly by the stilling of Antoine's hips as he groaned through gritted teeth, and you felt a warmth inside you as his seed filled you up, finally sealing the pact between you in a way you didn't need to share a language to understand.

You were his now, and there was no going back.

[coldkidcookieneck]

arranged marriage + language barrier + french man energy??? yeah what a dangerous combination 🫠

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: Night Sins

Summary: You only meant to surprise and comfort Sinclair Bryant with a quiet evening by the fire, candlelight flickering softly around the library, but you didn’t expect it to become one of the most loving and sinful nights of your life… and the beginning of a future neither of you was afraid of anymore.

Author's note: Hey guys 🤍Okay, so apparently disappearing for months and then returning with candlelight, emotional damage, yearning, and Sinclair Bryant behaviour is just who I am now 😭 I swear, at this point it feels like I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with you guys. But after seeing all the love you guys have been giving Sinclair, I thought it was only right to launch him first, hehe. I hope you guys enjoy this soft/sinful little chapter, and let me know what you think! 😉

Warnings: Smut and Fluff

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader

Part 1 and Part 2 here

Cross-posted on AO3

================================================

After the under-the-desk incident with Sinclair, things didn’t rush forward the way you might have expected.

They softened instead.

Sinclair’s restraint didn’t disappear; it shifted. His affection found quieter ways to surface, gentler but more constant. Mornings began with longer kisses, the kind where he lingered just a second more than necessary, his forehead pressed to yours as if memorising you before the day stole him away.

When you walked together, his arm would settle around your waist without thought, his thumb tracing absent circles at your side. Sometimes his hand rested at your shoulder, grounding, protective. Sometimes he pulled you close in the kitchen, pressing a kiss to your hair as you worked.

He touched you more.

But he never pushed.

You felt it, the hesitation beneath the warmth that you thought was resolved. The carefulness. As though some part of him was afraid that if he took one step too far, one touch, everything might shatter.

And that was how you knew.

You were going to have to take the reins again.

Friday came quietly.

You woke to soft morning light filtering through the curtains, Sinclair already dressed for work, propped slightly against the headboard beside you. One hand idly caressed your hair while the other held a book, some car magazine he’d half-read, half-forgotten. When he noticed you stirring, his gaze softened immediately. He leaned down, kissing you slowly and familiarly, his palm cupping your cheek.

“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still husky with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”

You smiled, fingers curling into his sleeve. “Someone has to keep the house from missing you too much.”

He laughed softly and slipped out of bed, and you followed him downstairs, already moving in sync. Making his morning coffee had become a ritual, the exact grind he liked, the precise splash of milk, and the little spoon of sugar you pretended not to notice he needed. When you handed him the mug, he kissed your knuckles before taking a sip.

“I’ll be late,” he said gently. “Dinner with partners. Dreadful thing.”

You tilted your head, feigning seriousness. “Try to survive.”

“I’ll do my best.” Another kiss, longer this time. “Don’t wait up.”

You watched him leave with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, because you already had a plan.

The house felt different when Sinclair wasn’t in it.

Quieter. Bigger.

But still warm, still alive, thanks to Mrs Lora. The radio hummed softly through the halls as she baked, the scent of sugar and spice clinging to the air. You spent the morning together, sharing breakfast, laughter, and small, easy conversation. You helped her tidy the house, despite her protests; that was just who you were. You ate lunch together too, and when the afternoon settled, you began preparing dinner.

The library was your destination.

Sinclair’s favourite room — dark wood, leather-bound books, the fireplace waiting patiently beneath tall windows. You set up the candles carefully, one by one, placing them where the glow will soften the room rather than overwhelm it. Cushions were arranged by the hearth. A blanket folded neatly nearby.

Mrs Lora watched you from the kitchen doorway, drying her hands.

"So", she said gently, “you are planning something.”

You laughed under your breath. “Is it that obvious?”

She reached out and squeezed your hand. “He has carried his heart very carefully for a long time. He has suffered enough. I’m glad you’re here for him, honey.”

You thanked her softly, and when everything was ready, you sent her home with food packed neatly for her husband, one last small act of care.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy your evening.”

Once the door closed behind her, you finally let yourself breathe.

You showered, changed, and slipped into Sinclair’s long white shirt, the fabric hanging loose and familiar against your skin. By the time dusk fell, the house was ready.

And dark.

He had woken before you, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.

The light had not yet fully broken through the curtains, leaving the room in that soft grey-blue quiet where everything felt suspended, and you were curled toward him, breathing slow and even, one hand resting lightly against his ribs as though even in sleep you refused to let him drift too far.

He didn’t move.

He rarely did, not when you were like this, warm, unaware, close in a way the world never saw, because there was something quietly sacred about these moments, something he had come to value more than he ever expected.

Careful not to disturb you, his fingers moved gently through your hair, his thumb tracing the curve of your temple as though committing it to memory rather than simply touching it.

Something had shifted in him recently.

Not desire, that had always been there, but awareness. Of how deeply it ran. Of how easily you had become something essential rather than incidental since the under-the-desk incident.

It unsettled him.

Not enough to pull away, but enough to make him quieter about it.

When you stirred, he softened immediately, the instinctive guard slipping without resistance as he leaned down to kiss you slowly, letting it linger just long enough to say what he would not put into words.

Stay.

“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”

You smiled at him, and something in his chest tightened—not painfully, but with a kind of quiet certainty he was still learning how to carry.

He took longer than necessary getting ready, adjusting his cufflinks with unnecessary precision, lingering near the bed under the pretense of reading when in truth he hadn’t taken in a single word.

He only stayed because you were there.

Because leaving felt… less appealing than it should have.

Downstairs, he watched you move around the kitchen in that effortless rhythm you had built together, the way you measured the coffee without looking, the way your fingers brushed his when you handed him the mug, as though these small, ordinary moments held more weight than they had any right to.

He kissed your knuckles without thinking.

Grounding himself.

“I’ll be late,” he said gently, already knowing he disliked the sentence.

Obligations waited for him. Expectations. A version of himself that existed long before you softened its edges.

“Don’t wait up,” he added, though he didn’t mean it.

He never did.

Part of him always hoped you would.

When he stepped out the door, he glanced back once.

You were standing in the hallway light, watching him.

And for a brief moment, one he didn’t allow himself to dwell on—he nearly turned around.

Nearly stayed.

But instead, he carried the image of you with him.

All day.

The dinner had been tedious from the start.

Sinclair sat at the head of the polished table, a glass of amber liquor resting between his fingers as conversation moved steadily around him—contracts, numbers, projections, expansion. He contributed where necessary, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering precise and controlled input when required.

But his mind was elsewhere.

It kept drifting back to you.

To the way you had looked at him that morning—sleepy, warm, wrapped in his shirt. To the way your fingers had curled around his sleeve when he kissed you goodbye.

He checked his watch once.

Then again.

A partner laughed loudly at something trivial, and Sinclair offered a polite smile, lifting his glass to his lips, though he barely registered the taste.

Distracted.

Unsettled.

Wanting to leave.

He wondered if you were asleep already, or if you had waited up like you sometimes did, curled into the armchair with a book you weren’t really reading. He wondered if the house felt quieter without him.

The thought settled low in his chest.

When the evening finally began to wind down, he didn’t linger.

He excused himself with practised ease, shook hands, offered composed farewells, and the moment he stepped outside into the cool night air, he exhaled more fully than he had all evening.

He wanted to go home.

Not to the house.

To you.

The road home stretched dark and quiet before him, headlights cutting clean paths through the night as the steady hum of the engine filled the silence, and somewhere between one turn and the next, his thoughts arrived home long before he did.

He found himself imagining it without effort.

Slipping inside quietly so he wouldn’t wake you.

Setting his things aside with practiced care.

Pushing open the bedroom door just enough to see you there, asleep and undisturbed, your breathing slow and even beneath the covers.

He would brush the hair from your face.

He always did.

He would slide into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you gently against him just to feel your warmth, your presence, something real after a day that had felt increasingly hollow without it.

Even if you didn’t stir.

Especially if you didn’t.

There was something deeply grounding about holding you when the world wasn’t watching, when there were no expectations placed on him, no roles to perform, no versions of himself to maintain—just quiet, steady certainty.

He hadn’t realized, until recently, how much he had come to rely on that.

On you.

The gravel crunched softly beneath his tires as he turned into the estate, the familiar path unfolding before him—but almost immediately, something felt… off.

The house was dark.

Completely dark.

Not dim, not partially lit, but absent of even the smallest glow—no lamp left on in the hallway, no soft kitchen light, no quiet flicker behind drawn curtains.

He slowed instinctively, his gaze lingering on the windows as though expecting something to change.

Mrs Lora would have gone home by now, yes, but you?

You never left the house like this.

There was always something.

A light. A sign. A presence.

His fingers tightened slightly against the steering wheel before he consciously forced them to relax, pushing the unease aside even as it settled low in his chest.

Don’t be absurd.

And yet—

The stillness of the night pressed in around him as he stepped out of the car, the air quieter than usual, the estate holding that strange, suspended silence that made even the smallest sound feel out of place.

He approached the front door, keys cool in his hand, and unlocked it with measured ease before stepping inside.

“Y/N? Hello?”

His voice carried faintly through the hallway, brushing against polished wood and empty space, echoing just enough to remind him how quiet it truly was.

For a brief moment, there was nothing.

Then—

“Library, Sinclair.”

Your voice reached him from deeper within the house, calm and composed, not softened by sleep, not distant or distracted, but deliberate in a way that made him pause where he stood.

Something in the tone.

Something in the timing.

It wasn’t wrong.

But it wasn’t ordinary either.

And that alone was enough to sharpen his attention.

His gaze shifted toward the faint line of light spilling from beneath the library door, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he moved toward it, each step steady but more aware now, more attuned to the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

He reached the door and paused only briefly.

Then pushed it open—

And stepped inside.

You were sitting on the windowsill, book open in your lap, pretending to read while you waited for Sinclair.

When headlights suddenly swept across the room, your heart leapt.

You closed the book at once.

A quick glance around, everything in place.

Candles arranged, table set and fire ready.

As you were doing so, you heard the front door open.

“Y/N? Hello?”

His voice echoed faintly down the hallway.

From the shadows, you called back, calm and composed, “Library, Sinclair.”

You heard his footsteps approaching down the hallway, steady, unhurried, the familiar rhythm of leather soles against polished wood, and your pulse quickened despite all your careful planning.

Moving swiftly but silently, you slipped behind the library door, pressing yourself against the cool wall just as the handle turned.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the sound stretching in the quiet like a held breath, and the moment he stepped fully inside, you reached out without hesitation and turned the key behind him.

The lock clicked.

Soft.

Final.

He hadn’t noticed yet.

You didn’t speak.

Instead, slowly, deliberately, you stepped away from the door and crossed the room with unhurried grace, the hem of his shirt brushing against your thighs as you moved.

You paused beside the largest candle, the thick ivory pillar set at the centre of the table, taller than the rest, waiting.

You struck the match.

The flame flared briefly, bright and sharp in the dimness, before settling into a steady glow.

You held it to the wick.

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then—

It caught.

And the flame rose, tall, confident, golden, brighter than the others.

One by one, you moved to the remaining candles, lighting them in a slow procession, allowing their glow to build gradually until the entire room softened into warm amber.

Firelight bloomed outward in waves.

Across the towering bookshelves.

Across the polished wood floor.

Across the small table set neatly by the hearth, sandwiches arranged, tea waiting, glasses catching reflections like molten gold.

And finally,

Across you.

Standing calm. Certain. Unmistakably intentional.

His shirt hung loosely on your frame, the sleeves pushed back just enough, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. Your bare legs caught the candlelight, skin warmed by the glow and shadowed by flickering fire.

The windows had been left slightly ajar, just enough to let the cool night air drift inside, carrying with it the distant hush of the river and the quiet murmur of evening beyond the estate.

Only then did you see him.

Not directly.

But in the dark reflection of the window glass.

He had stopped moving, completely.

Frozen where he stood.

You could see his silhouette first — tall, still and then the way his head tilted slightly, trying to understand what he was looking at.

Trying to understand you.

Then you turned to face him.

Not abruptly but not shyly as well.

Slowly, as though you wanted him to see every second of it.

The firelight caught the curve of your cheek first, then your mouth, then the steady calm in your eyes. You let him look. Let him take in the sight of you standing there, composed and deliberate, wrapped in nothing but his shirt and candlelight.

His coat slipped from his fingers as though gravity had suddenly doubled. It slid from his shoulders, half-caught in his hand before falling carelessly against his arm, entirely forgotten.

For a moment, he simply stared.

You stepped toward him.

Not hurried but measured.

Each step soft against the wooden floor, the hem of the shirt brushing your thighs as you moved through the golden glow.

“Come here, Sinclair,” you said gently, your voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to the two of you. “Relax. Take off your coat. Let’s have some time together.”

He blinked, actually blinked like a man who had walked into something too carefully crafted to be accidental, too intimate to be coincidence.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he finished shrugging off his coat and placed it over the back of a nearby chair. His movements were controlled, but his eyes betrayed him.

They never left you.

Not once.

“I… wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual polish.

“I know,” you replied with a small, knowing smile. “That’s rather the point.”

You gestured toward the table beside the fire, where the candlelight shimmered against glass and porcelain.

“Mrs Lora helped me,” you continued lightly. “Grilled chicken sandwiches. Chamomile tea. I even packed some up for her and sent her home early. Thought you might be hungry after your night out with your partner bros.”

A faint, reluctant huff of laughter left him, warm and disbelieving.

“They are not my ‘bros,’ darling,” he corrected, straightening slightly out of habit. “They are associates.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, stepping a little closer. “Very serious. Very corporate. I’m sure you discussed spreadsheets and world domination.”

Sinclair's gaze swept the room, then slowed, assessing.

The candles, fire, carefully set table, the locked door.

And then it returned to you where something in his expression shifted with less confusion  and more awareness.

You closed the remaining distance between you until only inches separated your bodies. You could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Your hand lifted slowly between you, not rushed, not hesitant, but deliberate, until your fingers found the front of his shirt.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

You simply let your fingertips rest there, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid reality of him standing so close.

Then, you smoothed your hand downward, intentional in every inch.

Your palm flattened lightly against his chest, gliding over the fine cotton as though confirming he was real, as though grounding both of you in the weight of this moment.

He didn’t stop you and didn’t even flinch.

But you felt the subtle change in him, the way his breath deepened, the way his shoulders tightened just slightly beneath your touch.

“Think whatever you want,” you murmured, your voice no longer playful but steady,  layered with something quieter, something far more certain.

Your fingers traced absent patterns against his shirt, slow enough to be distracting, gentle enough to be dangerous.

Then you let the silence stretch.

Just long enough for him to feel it.

“But tonight…” you continued, softer now, your tone dipping lower as though the words themselves carried weight.

You lifted your eyes to his fully, not glancing, not shy, holding him there with your gaze.

“…you’re mine.”

The words did not leave you in a rush or with sharp insistence; they settled between you instead, warm and absolute, carrying a quiet certainty that did not need to be raised to be understood.

His breath faltered, not from surprise, not from protest, but from something far deeper and more intimate, a subtle yielding that seemed to unfold within him before you could even see it in his expression.

The air between you shifted almost tangibly, thickening as though the room itself had grown attentive to the moment that it wrapped itself around the two of you.

The way he looked at you, god.

Like you’d just stolen the ground from beneath his feet.

You both settled near the fireplace, close enough to feel its warmth but not quite touching at first. The food you had carefully prepared remained mostly untouched on the table beside you, the steam long since fading from the tea as it cooled unnoticed. Neither of you seemed to care. The world beyond that room had dissolved into something distant and unimportant.

Firelight flickered across Sinclair’s face, softening the lines that usually held authority and restraint. Without his coat, without his tie, without the weight of expectation pressing against his shoulders, he looked younger somehow. Gentler. Less like the man who commanded rooms, and more like the man who let you see him when no one else could.

Yours.

After a quiet moment, you rose and crossed the small space between you. He watched you carefully, almost reverently, as though you were something fragile—or something sacred.

You lowered yourself in front of him, kneeling slowly, your hands sliding over his thighs with deliberate intention, feeling the warmth of him even through the fabric. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though he wanted to touch you but wasn’t certain he had permission.

You reached for his hands and guided them upward, placing them firmly on your hips and holding them there.

“Sinclair,” you whispered softly.

He swallowed, his throat working under your gaze.

“You keep stopping yourself,” you murmured.

“I—” he began, but the words stalled.

“You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

The fire cracked behind you, and his thumbs tightened unconsciously against your waist. You leaned closer, brushing your nose lightly against his.

“Let me choose you,” you breathed. “The way you’ve been choosing me every single day.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the simple honesty of that hurt him more than anything else could. When he opened them again, they were glassy, unguarded.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart tightened.

“Of what?”

His voice came out rough, stripped of polish. “I’m afraid of wanting you this much.”

Oh.

Oh, Sinclair.

You cupped his face immediately, your thumbs resting gently along his cheekbones.

“How can you even think that?” you whispered. “Do you know I thank my lucky stars every day for that lunch we shared? For you? For getting a man like you?”

Your thumb brushed softly along his cheek.

“It’s me who worries I don’t deserve you. Not the other way around.”

His breath trembled faintly, and you softened further.

“I know someone hurt you,” you continued gently, “and I hate that she made you believe loving someone is something dangerous.”

You pressed your forehead to his.

“But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”

You guided his hands tighter against your hips, grounding him.

“Feel me. I’m yours. No one else. Just you.”

Then you kissed him.

Slowly. Warmly. Without demand.

There was no hunger in it, no urgency, just certainty. And that certainty was what undid him.

His hands finally moved of their own accord, sliding up your waist and pulling you closer as though he could not bear even an inch of space between you. His kiss deepened—not rough, not wild, but desperate in its tenderness, like a man who had starved himself of something essential and finally allowed himself to taste it.

When you shifted into his lap, he did not protest. He did not hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder and breathing you in like you were home.

For the first time since you had known him…

Sinclair stopped holding back.

Somewhere between breaths and soft, lingering kisses, his hands tightened slightly at your waist, not possessive but certain, as though something inside him had finally settled. Then he shifted, gently, carefully, as though you were something precious, and lowered you onto the thick rug before the fireplace, the wool warm from the heat and soft beneath your back.

“Sinclair—” you began with a soft, half-laugh, but the sound faded when you saw his expression.

The hesitation was gone.

What remained was want—raw, honest, and no longer hidden.

His knuckles brushed your cheek as though he needed to be sure you were still there.

“You make it very difficult to behave,” he murmured.

Your heart fluttered wildly. “Then don’t.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as though memorizing the shape of you. His mouth traced from your lips to your jaw, then down along the curve of your neck, never rushing, every kiss lingering like a confession.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms grazing your skin in a touch that was grounding rather than greedy.

“Still okay?” he whispered against your collarbone.

You nodded immediately. “More than okay.”

A quiet breath of relief left him, as though he needed to hear that more than he needed anything else.

The shirt slipped away somewhere between kisses, forgotten beside you, and the cool air against your skin made you inhale sharply—but his hands followed at once, warm and steady, reverent in their touch.

Not consuming.

Reverent.

Like he could hardly believe he was allowed to hold you this way.

“God…” he murmured softly, his voice almost breaking. “You’re…”

The words failed him.

Instead, he let his lips trace slow paths across your shoulder and down your stomach, every place he touched turning warm beneath his mouth. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close.

That was when you realized something important.

He wasn’t trying to take.

He was trying to give.

Always giving. Always careful. Always putting you first.

And so you smiled quietly to yourself.

With a playful shift of movement, you rolled, reversing your positions so that he lay beneath you, blinking up in mild surprise. You straddled his hips, leaning down just enough for your hair to fall around his face like a curtain.

“I think,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, “it’s my turn.”

His throat bobbed. “Your turn for what?”

You kissed him once, soft and deliberate.

“To take care of you.”

Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, unhurried and teasing as you eased the fabric from his shoulders along with his trousers. The reaction was immediate, he shivered beneath you, this man who commanded boardrooms and unsettled executives reduced to quiet vulnerability under your touch.

“I’d like to give back that massage you gave me,” you murmured.

His hands found your hips automatically. “Darling,” he said hoarsely, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That silenced him instantly.

You pressed a kiss to his chest, then another, your hands smoothing over his shoulders as your thumbs worked gently into the tension you knew he carried daily. He melted beneath you, a soft, helpless sound slipping from his throat as your lips followed the slow path your hands created.

You deliberately skipped the places he expected, brushing past instead of settling, teasing without cruelty.

“Cruel girl…” he murmured faintly.

“You’re tense,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m helping.”

“You’re doing the opposite,” he breathed, though he made no attempt to stop you.

By the time you lifted yourself to look at him again, he appeared utterly undone, hair disheveled, breathless, eyes dark and soft and entirely yours.

And then, slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast, he shifted once more.

His hands slid to your waist, drawing you closer until his forehead rested against yours. Instead of rushing forward, he began with something far more dangerous.

He kissed you once.

Soft.

Then your cheek.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

And with each kiss, he murmured quiet confessions against your skin.

“Thank you… for the coffee every morning…”

Another kiss.

“For waiting up for me…”

Another.

“For choosing me…”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Sinclair—”

“For loving me when I don’t quite know how to deserve it.”

And that—

That was what undid you.

He didn’t stop kissing you.

His lips moved slowly over yours, down the curve of your jaw, lingering at your throat as his hands trailed lower — fingertips tracing warm paths over your stomach, dipping lower with deliberate slowness that made your breath shudder.

“Sinclair…” you whispered, over and over, like a prayer.

He smiled faintly against your skin, pleased by the sound of his name falling from your lips.

His touch grew more purposeful, coaxing, patient, making sure you were ready, making sure you felt nothing but him.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, “you’re ready for me.”

You arched toward him at the sound of that tone alone, your fingers sliding through his hair before drifting lower, finding him and stroking slowly, wanting to feel him the way he was making you feel.

A low sound escaped his throat.

“Sinclair… I want you. Please… I want you now.”

He stilled at that.

Not teasing, but steady.

He lifted himself slightly, adjusting so he hovered between your thighs, one hand cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours — dark, intense, but soft in a way only you ever saw.

“I love you, my darling.”

Your chest tightened. “I love you too.”

When he finally pressed forward and joined with you, you both gasped softly, the sensation overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

He moved slowly at first.

Gentle.

Measured.

Like he was afraid to rush something sacred.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

The firelight flickered against the walls, shadows shifting as your bodies moved together in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

His lips brushed your neck, your collarbone, whispering your name against your skin.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You did.

And the intensity in his eyes stole the air from your lungs.

The pace shifted, not frantic, but firmer, more demanding. The slow control gave way to raw need as your breathing grew uneven.

“Sinclair…” you whimpered.

His grip tightened around you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

The pressure built between you, tightening, coiling.

“Darling… I’m close,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Me too,” he breathed,voice strained..

His pace quickened just slightly, not frantic, just deeper, more certain, and you clung to him, pulling him closer still.

“Together,” he murmured.

He moved deeper, closer, pulling you firmly against him as the tension finally snapped.

The release hit like a wave crashing against stone, powerful, overwhelming, stealing the world away for a few suspended seconds.

You clung to him through it.

He buried his face against your neck, holding you tightly as both of you trembled, breathing ragged and uneven.

When it passed, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around you tightly and rolled onto his side, dragging you with him so you were tucked safely against his chest.

Your fingers traced slow circles over his skin as your breathing gradually steadied.

The fire burned low and the world felt quiet again.

He pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

And neither of you let go.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

You lay tangled together on the rug, the fire now burning low, the air warm and heavy with contentment. Sinclair’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your back as though he was still convincing himself you were real.

You pressed a soft kiss against his collarbone.

He hummed in response.

And then—

Your stomach growled.

Loudly.

You froze.

There was a beat of silence before Sinclair’s chest began to shake with quiet laughter.

“Darling,” he murmured against your hair, “are you hungry?”

You groaned softly, hiding your face against him. “Maybe a little.”

“My sandwich,” he said solemnly, glancing toward the untouched table, “has been calling to me for quite some time. I’ve been attempting to ignore it out of devotion.”

You laughed, swatting lightly at his chest. “Devotion?”

“Yes,” he replied seriously. “Very heroic of me.”

Reluctantly, the two of you rose, gathering discarded cushions and straightening the rug with soft smiles that wouldn’t leave your faces. Instead of abandoning the room for morning chaos, you found yourselves cleaning together — blowing out candles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs from the table.

At some point, Sinclair handed you his shirt with a quiet, knowing look.

You slipped it on, the fabric still warm from him, sleeves swallowing your hands as the hem brushed mid-thigh. He paused just to look at you, not teasing, not smug.

Just… soft.

“You look rather pleased with yourself,” you murmured.

“I am,” he replied simply.

It wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it felt… intimate.

Domestic.

Like something permanent.

Afterwards, you showered, separately this time, though he lingered by the doorway with a fond expression that made you blush, and eventually fell into bed wrapped around one another, sleep claiming you almost instantly.

He had expected many things when he walked through the front door that evening.

A quiet house.

An empty bed.

Perhaps finding you asleep upstairs with a forgotten book beside you, curled beneath the blankets while a lamp burned softly nearby.

But not this.

Not your voice calling for him from the darkened library.

Not the sight of candlelight warming the room in soft amber waves.

And certainly not you standing there in his shirt beside a carefully prepared table as though the entire evening had been created solely for him.

At first, he had assumed the power must have gone out somewhere on the estate, that perhaps you had chosen the library simply for the warmth of the fire and the comfort of candlelight.

But then he saw the table.

The tea.

The food untouched and waiting.

You waiting.

And he realized none of it had been accidental.

You had planned this for him.

No one had ever done that before.

Not without expectation.

Not without wanting something in return.

But you had looked at him that night as though loving him had been reason enough.

And somehow, that stayed with him far more than the intimacy itself.

Because long after the fire dimmed and your breathing softened against his chest, what lingered most in his mind was not desire, but the quiet realization that someone had finally created softness for him instead of demanding strength from him.

Overnight, something inside him had quieted.

The fears. The hesitation. The constant instinct to hold part of himself back in preparation for loss.

You had touched every guarded part of him with steady hands and asked for nothing except honesty in return.

And if he could have done anything in that moment, he thought he might have stayed there forever, wrapped around you on the rug beside the dying fire, listening to your sleepy laughter and feeling your heartbeat against his chest.

Or perhaps he would have lived through that evening again and again, exactly as it was, just to watch you look at him that way one more time.

Because for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, home no longer felt like a place.

It felt like a person.

You woke to the faint sound of Mrs Lora’s radio drifting up from downstairs, something cheerful and familiar humming through the house.

You reached beside you.

Empty.

The balcony doors were slightly open, curtains moving lazily in the morning breeze.

Curious, you stepped outside onto the upper balcony, and that’s when you saw him.

Below, in the garden just beyond the terrace, Sinclair stood in the early sunlight, sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully arranging breakfast on a small table he had carried out himself — fruit, fresh bread, tea already poured, everything placed with meticulous care.

For a moment, you didn’t call out.

You just watched him.

The way the light caught in his hair. The way he adjusted the plates like it truly mattered.

And then you leaned over the railing slightly.

“Is that for me,” you called softly, “or Mrs Lora?”

He looked up immediately.

He turned at once, eyes softening when he saw you.

“For Mrs Lora, obviously,” he replied gravely. “She is an angel, and even if I attempted to charm her, she would refuse me out of loyalty to Mr Alfonso.”

You laughed.

“Will you come down, my darling?” he added, holding out a hand.

You quickly freshened up, pulling on soft sweatpants and a jumper before hurrying downstairs. Mrs Lora glanced at you knowingly from the kitchen.

“Sinclair is not going anywhere, darling,” she said warmly.

You only grinned and continued outside.

For a moment, he was nowhere in sight.

And then—

Strong arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you clean off your feet as he spun you once in the morning air.

“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured against your ear.

You turned in his arms, mirroring his tone perfectly. “Good morning, my dear.”

You both laughed.

He kissed your temple before guiding you to the table.

The dock shimmered in the distance, children’s laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the shoreline. Birds called from the trees, and the sunlight painted everything gold.

You ate slowly, knees brushing beneath the table.

At one point, Sinclair reached across and took your hand.

His thumb traced over your knuckles thoughtfully.

“I think,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over the water, “I would very much like to wake up like this for the rest of my life.”

Not dramatic.

Not on one knee.

Just steady.

Certain.

He turned to you then, expression soft but serious.

“If you’ll have me.”

There wasn’t even a pause.

You were already moving.

You lunged forward, knocking your chair back in the process, tackling him around the shoulders so suddenly that his own chair tipped backward onto the grass with a startled thud.

“YES,” you laughed breathlessly, half on top of him now. “Yes, yes, obviously yes!”

He burst into laughter beneath you, arms wrapping around your waist as he steadied you both on the ground.

“I shall take that as agreement,” he managed.

You kissed him — quick, bright, full of sunlight and joy.

That’s when the back door flew open.

“What on earth are you two doing?” Mrs Lora called, hands on her hips, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

You turned, still half draped over Sinclair.

“We’re getting married!” you announced.

Sinclair blinked up at you. “We are?”

You looked down at him. “We are.”

He smiled slowly.

“Well then,” he said, brushing hair from your face, “I suppose we are.”

Mrs Lora clucked affectionately. “I leave you alone for one evening…”

And as the morning sun carried your laughter across the garden, neither of you was afraid of forever.

Sinclair had been awake for some time before the rest of the house began to stir.

The morning light spilled slowly across the room, pale gold slipping through the curtains as he lay on his back, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist while the quiet weight of the previous night settled warmly in his chest.

For once, his mind was not crowded with unfinished thoughts or restless hesitation.

It was simply… calm.

Beside him, you shifted slightly in your sleep, pressing closer without waking, and he felt something dangerously close to wonder at how naturally the two of you had begun fitting into each other’s lives.

He glanced toward the balcony doors where the early morning breeze moved the curtains softly, and for a moment he considered staying exactly where he was.

Staying in bed.

Staying wrapped around you.

Staying inside this small, quiet version of the world the two of you had somehow created together.

Then his gaze drifted toward the terrace below, still washed in pale morning light, and a thought surfaced so suddenly that it almost made him smile.

Breakfast outside.

Something simple.

Something for you.

The idea settled immediately, warm and certain in his chest.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he slipped from bed and pressed a soft kiss into your hair before stepping onto the balcony, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as the first traces of sunlight stretched slowly across the estate.

And for once, the thoughts filling his mind were not about work or obligation.

They were simple.

Make her smile.

Downstairs, he found Mrs Lora already there, her cheerful radio humming through the kitchen.

She glanced at him over her glasses.

“You are up early, Señor Sinclair,” she observed knowingly.

“I have plans,” he replied with unusual lightness.

She followed him to the terrace doorway as he began carrying plates outside himself instead of asking for help.

“For her?” she asked.

He did not pretend otherwise.

“Yes.”

Mrs Lora watched him arrange the table with meticulous care — adjusting the placement of fruit, straightening the napkin twice, and pouring tea as though it were a ceremonial act.

“You look different,” she said quietly.

He paused.

“Different?”

“Softer,” she replied simply. “This one… she is not passing through. She is staying.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to.

His gaze drifted upward toward the balcony.

“She is the one for you,” Mrs Lora added, voice gentle but certain. “I have seen many seasons in this house. This one feels permanent.”

Something settled in his chest at that.

Not fear.

Not hesitation.

Recognition.

When your voice drifted down from above, teasing and warm, he looked up instantly, and the moment he saw you leaning over the railing, sunlight catching in your hair, he felt something steady and unshakeable take root inside him.

This was it.

Not fireworks.

Not chaos.

This.

The laughter. The domestic ease. The way you hurried downstairs as though he might disappear.

When he lifted you in his arms moments later, spinning you once just to hear that unguarded laugh spill from you, he realized something quietly astonishing:

He wasn’t afraid of the future when it looked like this.

And when he said he would like to wake up this way for the rest of his life, it wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t impulsive.

It was the calmest truth he had ever spoken.

Your immediate, chaotic yes – knocking him backward into the grass, only made him laugh harder, arms wrapping around you instinctively as though he had been waiting for that answer all along.

When Mrs Lora appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips and smiling despite herself, he glanced at her over your shoulder.

“I believe you were correct,” he called lightly.

She waved them off, muttering about young people and recklessness, but her eyes shone.

As you declared to the entire garden that you were getting married, and he confirmed it with a smile that felt entirely unguarded, he realized something profound.

For the first time in his life, forever did not feel like a risk.

It felt like a gift.

And as your laughter carried through the morning air, bright and fearless, he held you a little tighter with all of his love.

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[coldkidcookieneck]

Sinclair Bryant smut, in his office under the desk, plsss

Title: Lunch Break Sins

Summary: What began as a random lunch break with Sinclair Bryant blossomed into the sweetest kind of love, tender, romantic, and full of comfort. Of course, it wouldn’t be complete without one sinful moment beneath his desk.

Author's note: Got this request and somehow ended up spending my time writing my very first Sinclair smut 😳🔥 Honestly, I just wanted to give him all the love he deserves in the world. I really hope it turned out well. Hope you guys enjoy reading it, and please let me know what you think! 🫶🏼

Warnings: Smut and Fluff

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

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You had no idea that lunch on a Tuesday would change everything.

The restaurant was packed, the kind of packed where tables were wedged together like an overfilled bookshelf and the line at the host stand curved dangerously close to the door. You’d been clever enough to call ahead and secure a table for one.

After checking in, you’d left your bag and jacket on the chair to claim your spot, then slipped into the restroom to freshen up, smoothing your hair and pressing cool water over your cheeks before returning.

But when you walked back out into the crowded dining room, someone was already sitting at your table.

Not just anyone.

He was broad-shouldered, with sunlit blond hair that looked like it refused to be tamed, falling over his forehead in soft waves. His whole aura radiated something warm, easy, golden — like he belonged in sunlight, not crowded restaurants. He was leaning over the menu now, lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed in concentration. He had absolutely no idea he’d committed the very specific crime of stealing your table.

“Excuse me…” you started, already rehearsing a polite-but-firm speech about how you’d called ahead, and yes, this seat was very much yours. But then he looked up.

Good lord.

His eyes were soft, the kind of soft that disarmed you instantly, framed by faint crinkles that deepened when he smiled, which he did, apologetically, as if he already knew he’d been caught. It was the kind of smile that could talk you down from a ledge.

“Oh— I’m so sorry, miss.” His voice was low, warm, tinged with embarrassment. “The place is busier than I expected, and I completely forgot to call ahead. If you don’t mind… may I share the table with you? Lunch is on me. And, sorry again for just sitting here without asking.”

You stood there, momentarily at war with yourself. One-half wanted to stay irritated, to point out that your bag and jacket had clearly been on the chair. The other half, the half staring into those earnest eyes, felt your annoyance melting like ice in the sun.

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “It’s fine. We can share. But you don’t have to pay for me.”

“I insist,” he said quickly, relief softening his features. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he extended a hand across the table. “Where are my manners? Sinclair Bryant.”

You slipped your hand into his, the shake firm but warm. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure,” he said, his smile widening, “is entirely mine.”

The waitress appeared then, pen and notepad in hand, and you placed your orders. By the time she left, conversation had already begun to spark naturally between you.

“So,” he asked, resting his forearms on the table, “what do you do?”

“I’m a magazine writer,” you replied, sipping from the glass of water that had just been set down. “Mostly lifestyle and culture pieces. And you?”

“Stock analyst,” he admitted with a rueful chuckle. “Not nearly as glamorous, I know.”

You tilted your head, surprised. “Wait… which firm?”

When he told you, your jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. We’re in the same building. Different floors, but still.”

His eyes lit up with amusement. “And we’ve never crossed paths until now?”

“Apparently not,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief. “Guess fate was saving it for a crowded Tuesday lunch.”

He laughed, and something about the sound wrapped itself around your chest, warm and unguarded.

As the food arrived and time slipped by, the conversation grew more personal. Sinclair shared that he was divorced. “Her name was Natalie,” he said gently, without bitterness. “We were young, we thought we wanted the same things… but life has a way of proving otherwise. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Just two people moving in different directions.”

You nodded, swirling your fork in your pasta. “I’ve had my share of failed relationships. If I’m honest, most of them were just… disappointing. The kind where you give and give, and they take until there’s nothing left. After the last one, I just stopped dating. Decided I’d mind my own business and let fate do its work.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment too long, something thoughtful and kind in his expression. “Sometimes, fate works in crowded restaurants,” he said softly.

You ducked your head, smiling into your glass.

The two of you talked until your plates were empty, lingering long after the waitress cleared them away. Eventually, reality beckoned: the office, the deadlines, the life waiting outside the cosy bubble you’d fallen into at the table.

As you stepped out onto the busy street together, you turned to say your polite goodbye, only for Sinclair to pause, almost hesitating before he spoke.

“We should do this again,” he said, and there was nothing casual about the way he looked at you, earnest, hopeful, golden.

Your heart skipped. “I’d love to.”

He smiled like he’d just been given the world.

And just like that, a Tuesday lunch became the beginning of everything.

Sinclair adjusted his watch as he hurried down the street, muttering under his breath about a meeting that had run too long. His stomach had been growling since late morning, but he told himself he could wait until after. He always told himself that.

Pushing open the door of the restaurant, he was met with the hum of voices, cutlery clinking, and the warm scent of herbs and baked bread. It looked full, too full, and for a moment, he thought about leaving.

Then a waitress with an apologetic smile appeared. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m so sorry, we’re at capacity at the moment. Unless…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Unless you’d be open to sharing. One of our guests is seated alone, but she just stepped away for a moment.”

Sinclair frowned, considering — he was used to solitary meals, not interrupting someone else’s. But his stomach growled in betrayal, and the thought of skipping out now felt unbearable.

“Share, you said?” His voice softened, almost teasing, and the waitress relaxed. “Yes, I’ll take it.”

He slid into the chair, quietly smoothing his tie as he scanned the menu. Still, curiosity itched at him. What kind of woman chose to eat alone in a bustling restaurant? A businesswoman? Someone stood up? Or perhaps just someone who liked her own company.

He bent over the menu, tapping his pen against the page absently, trying to look casual. He didn’t notice you until your voice cut in.

“Excuse me…”

He looked up. And the world tilted.

You stood there with dampened cheeks, like you’d just splashed water on your face, hair smoothed back but with a stray strand falling into your eyes. The way you looked at him, half ready to scold, half surprised — knocked the breath right out of him.

God, she’s beautiful.

“Oh— I’m so sorry, miss.” His words rushed out, too fast, but he meant every one of them. “The place is busier than I expected, and I completely forgot to call ahead. If you don’t mind… may I share the table with you? Lunch is on me. And—sorry again for just sitting here without asking.”

He braced for irritation, ready to get up, but instead you sighed and smiled. Like you couldn’t stay mad if you tried. The warmth of it hit him square in the chest.

“It’s fine. We can share. But you don’t have to pay for me.”

“I insist,” he said, already imagining himself kicking himself later if he let this chance slip. He straightened and extended his hand. “Where are my manners? Sinclair Bryant.”

“Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure,” he said, and meant it, “is entirely mine.”

The waitress reappeared, and as orders were placed, Sinclair found himself leaning in, asking questions, wanting to know everything. A magazine writer, she said — and his grin widened when he realized they worked in the same building.

How have I never seen her before? he thought, laughing with you at the absurdity. Maybe fate had been hoarding this moment, saving it until today.

As dishes came and went, conversation flowed too easily. It startled him, how natural it felt to tell you things he rarely shared: about Natalie, about the divorce, about how sometimes even good people grew in different directions. When you admitted your own weariness with relationships, how you’d chosen to let fate work instead, Sinclair felt that same fate humming beneath his skin.

He watched you smile into your glass, and something inside him settled — like an answer he hadn’t known he was waiting for.

When the plates were cleared and you walked out into the street together, Sinclair’s chest tightened. He didn’t want the bubble to burst. He didn’t want to just let you go with a polite goodbye.

So he paused, heart thumping harder than he’d admit. “We should do this again,” he said, holding your gaze with all the hope he felt.

Your answering smile, soft, sure, radiant, undid him completely.

“I’d love to.”

And just like that, Sinclair knew: lunch wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.

Later that night

After the whirlwind of lunch and the impossible warmth that seemed to linger between you, you found yourself back home.

Your phone lay silent on the table, yet your heart wouldn’t settle. You had already checked your schedule twice, pulled out your planner, and, without hesitation, cleared Tuesdays.

Every task, every errand, you pushed them aside. You weren’t sure what to call the pull in your chest, but deep down, as you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t shake the thought: maybe this was fate… maybe Sinclair Bryant might just be the one.

Across town

In the quiet of his manor, Sinclair leaned back against the armrest of his couch, his tie loosened, a smile tugging uncharacteristically at his lips. He’d tried to bury himself in paperwork when he got back from the restaurant, but all he saw in those pages was you, your laugh, the way you tilted your head, the spark in your eyes when you teased him.

Finally, he called for his PA.

“Clear my Tuesdays,” he said firmly, though his tone carried an unfamiliar lightness.

“Yes, sir. May I ask the reason?”

He only shook his head, still smiling faintly. “I… have a prior engagement.”

And later, as he retired to bed, Sinclair stared at the ceiling longer than he ever allowed himself to. His heart was restless, his mind full of you. For the first time in years, he let the thought of fate slip past his defences. And when sleep came, it was with your smile lingering in his dreams.

Since that first lunch, it had become routine.

Not the kind of routine that felt stale or repetitive — but the kind that quietly stitched itself into the fabric of your week, like something inevitable, something right.

You’d slip out of work and find Sinclair waiting in his car, a little smile tugging at his mouth as though the day had been worth enduring simply to see you at the end of it.

Sometimes he drove you out to quiet little luncheons tucked in private corners of the city, where he insisted you order dessert “because you’ve earned sweetness, love.”

Other times, he’d surprise you with something offbeat, a museum he adored, a vintage car show where his eyes shone brighter than polished chrome, or a quiet stroll down narrow streets until your laughter echoed in the dusk.

At the museum, you teased him as you paused by a marble statue. “Do you bring all your business partners to the museum, or am I special?”

Sinclair smirked. “Only the ones who can make me forget what I’m looking at.”

You grinned. “So you didn’t see the priceless statue right behind us?”

“Darling,” he said without hesitation, “I saw something better.”

Later, at a car show, you caught the way his eyes lit up as he leaned over polished hoods and chrome lines. “You look like a kid in a candy shop,” you laughed.

He straightened, mock-offended. “A very refined candy shop.”

“I’ll allow it,” you teased, nudging his side. “Go on then, show me which one you’d buy me.”

He leaned close, his voice low enough for only you. “Darling, you’d look better in the passenger seat of mine.”

It was effortless, being with him. The world that had felt sharp and demanding softened the moment Sinclair’s voice wrapped around you. You found yourself falling, not suddenly, but gradually, the way twilight folds itself into night.

And one evening, sitting in a café with the murmur of other lives around you, Sinclair leaned across the table. His voice was lower than usual, but clear, firm, the way he was when he meant every syllable. “I’m falling in love with you.”

It stilled you. The teacup halfway to your lips trembled slightly, but there was no hesitation in your answer. Your smile was small but sure, your reply a mirror of his truth. “I’m falling in love with you, too.”

From that moment on, something shifted. He wanted you close, always. The invitations to stay over stretched into entire weekends, and before long, Sinclair asked you to move in.

The manor was tucked among trees and shadows, stately without arrogance, warm without fuss. A path led down toward the river, where the water stretched wide and calm, little boats bobbing gently against rows of houses in the distance. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also him. A reflection of Sinclair himself: steady, quiet, dignified, and yet unexpectedly welcoming.

You paused just inside, taking it all in. “It’s… beautiful. It’s so you, Sinclair.”

He smiled softly, almost shyly. “That’s the first time anyone’s said that. I’m glad you think so.”

He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, his chin brushing your shoulder as you looked at the view. “I prepared a picnic for us in the garden,” he murmured. “Unless you’re afraid of boats?”

You whirled on him, scandalized. “Afraid? Never. Where’s the dock?” Then you bolted off laughing, his laughter chasing after you as he followed.

The afternoon unfolded into something simple and perfect. He’d packed a basket and taken you out onto his boat, the river catching sunlight in soft ripples. He wore a sweater and a faded jumper, comfortable and utterly at ease, while you curled up in your own soft jumper and shorts. At one point, he leaned back against you, his head pillowed on your lap as though he’d belonged there all his life.

“That cloud looks like a Bentley,” Sinclair said dreamily, pointing. “That one like a roast dinner. That one—”

You bent down and kissed him mid-sentence.

His breath caught; then he blinked, grinning up at you like pure sunshine. “Darling… you’re very rude, interrupting my cloud analysis.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Worth it.”

“More than worth it,” he whispered, squeezing your hand.

That was your first kiss, and it lingered long after, like sunlight on skin.

From there, the little things began. A hand brushing yours when he passed you tea. A kiss to your temple before you parted for the evening. The quiet weight of his palm at the small of your back, guiding you through a door.

And the first time you came home after a brutal week, you barely made it past the foyer before collapsing against the wall, rubbing the back of your neck.

Sinclair emerged from the kitchen instantly. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“Bent over my computer all day,” you huffed. “Haven’t slept properly in days.”

He crossed to you in seconds, his hand warm at your elbow, guiding you. “Come sit on the sofa. I’ll take care of it.”

You tried for humour. “Handle what? My deadlines?”

“No,” he said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves. “But I can handle these knots in your shoulders.”

He massaged carefully at first, then firmer, coaxing the tension out with patient pressure. But before you melted completely, he kissed the crown of your head and said, “Not yet, love. You need dinner first.”

He disappeared briefly, only to return with a tray: grilled cheese, perfectly crisp and golden, alongside a steaming bowl of tomato soup. You ate slowly, his hand resting at your back the whole time.

Afterward, he drew you a bath, the steam curling into the air, lavender foam softening the edges of exhaustion. He showered behind the blurred glass screen, humming low under his breath, and when you were both clean and dressed again, he urged you to lie flat on the bed.

His hands worked over you with unhurried devotion, every stroke easing knots you didn’t even realise you carried. His voice was low, tender as his thumbs pressed into your shoulders. “I want you to feel at home here. Always.”

Half-asleep already, you murmured, “I think I already do.”

Even when you tried to return the favor, insisting he let you take care of him, Sinclair only chuckled, pulling you against his chest. “No, love. You rest. That’s all I need.”

Sinclair always gave more than you asked for.

And you, in return, began to realize you wanted to give him more. More care, more kisses, more of yourself than he ever thought to demand.

Which was how the idea began, the idea of surprising him, of giving him something that would finally shake his calm, make him feel as overwhelmed and adored as he made you.

Ever since meeting you at the restaurant for the first time, it had become routine for Sinclair.

Not a dull routine, not one of obligation, but something he hadn’t known he’d been starving for. Something that stitched itself into the fabric of his week until it felt inevitable, natural.

You.

Every evening, he pulled up outside your office, and he felt it, that tug at his chest, the small smile that insisted on forming the moment you stepped out into the evening light. The day’s endless meetings, the documents, the endless lists, all of it became worth enduring, simply for that single look on your face when you spotted him.

The luncheons, the museum halls, the vintage car shows… they were excuses, he knew. Excuses to give you pieces of his world, to see if you might choose to belong in it. And every time you laughed, whether at his mock-offended tone over cars, or at his very serious comparison between clouds and a Bentley, he thought, perhaps I might deserve this, after all.

But with the joy came a shadow. Because he remembered how badly things had ended before. Natalie had been a wound that bled long after she was gone. He had given too much, too fast. He had smothered with care, thinking it love, only to learn that his love had been too heavy for her to carry.

And now, with you, that you had looked him in the eye, voice trembling but sure, and told him you loved him too, he was terrified of repeating the same mistake.

He wanted to give you everything. He wanted to shield, to care, to provide, and yet he feared overwhelming you, feared becoming too much.

So every touch, every offer, every word of affection, he weighed with silent care, trying to strike the balance between holding you and setting you free.

The evening you came home, shoulders hunched, exhaustion clinging to your every step, Sinclair’s heart stuttered in fear.

“What’s wrong, darling?” His voice cracked sharper than he meant.

“Bent over my computer all day,” you sighed, rubbing at your neck. “Haven’t slept properly in days.”

He crossed the room at once, hand warm at your elbow, guilt pressing against his ribs. This is what he feared. That he would miss the signs, let you carry too much alone. “Come sit on the sofa,” he urged, softer this time. “I’ll take care of it.”

You laughed faintly, trying to lighten the weight. “Handle what? My deadlines?”

He rolled his sleeves, covering his worry with a grin. “No. But I can handle these knots in your shoulders.”

And he did, slow, deliberate, careful not just with his hands, but with his heart. He wanted you to feel cared for, yes, but not trapped. Wanted you to know this was your space, your choice, always.

He paused long enough to bring you dinner, which he had made once getting back from work, grilled cheese and tomato soup, simple but warm, the kind of thing that might coax you back to yourself.

Then a bath, the scent of lavender curling into the air. He showered quietly behind the blurred glass, leaving you the space to breathe.

And finally, when you were both clean and curled beneath soft sheets, Sinclair worked every knot from your shoulders, your back, your legs. Devotion in his palms, reverence in every press of his thumbs.

“I want you to feel at home here,” he murmured, voice catching on the truth of it. “Always.”

Your sleepy murmur in reply nearly undid him. “I think I already do.”

He pressed his lips to your hair, pulling you close. Even when you offered to return the favour, to take care of him, Sinclair only chuckled, though a trace of sadness lingered beneath. “No, love. You rest. That’s all I need.”

But as he held you through the night, your breath soft and steady against him, Sinclair admitted to himself the thing he hadn’t dared say aloud, I’m afraid. Afraid of failing again. Afraid of losing this. But I love her more than my fear.

The office was quieter than usual when you stepped in, the muted hum of computers and the faint shuffle of papers echoing down the hall. His PA had smiled at you before leaving for her own lunch break, telling you Sinclair had just stepped into the loo.

Perfect.

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped into his office, heart pounding, and ducked under his desk like you belonged there. The polished wood smelled faintly of cedar, and you tucked yourself neatly between the space his legs would soon occupy, grinning to yourself like a criminal waiting for the mark.

It was a stupid idea, maybe, but you’d been thinking about him all morning. Thinking about how he’d told you, almost apologetically, that he wouldn’t be able to see you today. Thinking about how much he’d done for you since the day you met. And thinking about how much you wanted to give something back.

The door clicked open. Footsteps. And then, softly, the sound of him humming Here Comes the Sun under his breath.

Your chest tightened. God, you loved that voice.

He slid into his chair, sighing as it creaked under his weight. You could see the outline of his thighs above you, the fabric of his tailored trousers stretched smooth over strong muscle.

You let your hand glide over his ankle.

“Bloody hell—” He jerked, legs tensing, and then looked down. “Y/N? What the—what are you doing under my desk?”

“Shh,” you whispered, your fingers curling around his calves. “It’s me. Now you’ve confirmed it, carry on with your work, love.”

He stared at you like you’d just suggested arson in broad daylight. “Darling… you do know you can just sit on my lap, right? Not—”

“Sinclair,” you cut in with a little huff, “back to work, Mr. Bryant.”

His lips parted in disbelief, then curved into that slow, wicked smirk that made your stomach flip. “You are utterly incorrigible.” But he turned back to his desk, shuffling papers, fingers resettling on the keyboard.

You began with something innocent — slipping off his shoes, massaging the arch of his foot. His sigh was immediate, deep and guttural, a sound that made your thighs clench. You worked up his calves, kneading muscle, pressing kisses over the fabric as you went.

“Mmh—love, that’s… that’s rather nice,” he murmured distractedly, flipping through a document.

When you reached his thighs, his voice cracked on your name. His chair squeaked as his posture shifted, his breathing shallow. You pressed your lips just above his knee and felt him flinch, then relax — then tense again when your hand cupped the obvious bulge in his trousers.

“Y/N—”

“Hush, Sinclair.”

Your fingers made quick work of his belt and zipper. He froze when you freed him from his trousers, his length heavy and flushed in your hand. You stroked him slowly at first, teasing, tracing veins with your fingertip, then leaned in to kiss the tip, soft, reverent.

He cursed, head thudding back against the chair. His knuckles whitened against the armrests as you licked a long stripe up his shaft before wrapping your lips around him.

“Oh… God, darling…” His voice was wrecked already, low and strained.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself as you set a slow, torturous rhythm. His hips twitched despite himself, betraying the polished composure he tried to keep, little groans spilling out with every drag of your mouth.

He clutched at the edge of the desk now, documents forgotten. “Please, I— I can’t—”

You swallowed him deeper before he could finish, your name spilling broken from his lips like prayer. His thighs trembled around you, his body straining against the desk’s confines until finally he shattered, hot and desperate in your mouth.

You swallowed what you could, pulling back slowly, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Reaching for the tissue box on his desk, you cleaned him gently, carefully, and when you stood, his hands shot out instantly, pulling you into his lap with a desperate kiss that stole your breath.

“You didn’t have to—” he began, voice still ragged.

“Sinclair,” you interrupted softly, cupping his jaw, “this is my love for you. You’ve been taking care of me since the start. Let me take care of you too.”

His eyes softened, that rare crack in his armor, so raw and open it nearly undid you. “I’ve never been loved like this before,” he whispered against your temple.

“Good,” you said, smiling as you stroked his cheek. “Then get used to it.”

He chuckled, breathless, forehead dropping to yours. “I don’t think I’ll ever recover from you, darling.”

You grinned, brushing your thumb over his lips. “Now… you still want lunch?”

His laughter shook through you, warm and unguarded. “I’m starving. And there’s a new dish I’d like to try.”

“Sinclair—”

He kissed you again, grinning against your mouth. “You.”

Hand in hand, you left the office together, the taste of him still lingering on your lips, and a very smug, very wicked secret tucked safely between you both.

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[coldkidcookieneck]

Back from the dead and apparently I return bearing emotional damage, candlelight, Sinclair yearning, and a proposal 🤍

Don’t worry, the others are waiting patiently in the drafts for their spotlight too…

But this comeback belongs to Sinclair🥹

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: Wax On, Fall in Love

Summary: You believed everything happened for a reason. You just didn’t expect that reason to be a car wash fundraiser you didn't want to attend, and an unexpected waxing session with Lionel Shabandar.

Author's note: Hey guys! I’m finally writing Lionel Shabandar 🦁 for the first time since I started writing, and I couldn’t be more excited. I hope you enjoy this little wax-on, wax-off Lionel drama as much as I had fun writing it. Let me know what you think!😉🫶🏼

Pairing: Lionel Shabandar x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

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You had always chosen the quiet corners.

The departments no one visited. The floors where the executives never wandered. The positions that kept you behind screens, buried in data, invisible, and uninterrupted.

It wasn’t accidental.

As a data researcher, you knew your place in the company hierarchy, and you were perfectly content with it. You weren’t a star, you weren’t visible—and that was the entire point. Your role didn’t come with popularity or face-time with the CEO; it wasn’t the kind of position that invited attention or admiration. Unlike Human Resources or PR, where optics mattered and presence was performance, yours was HR-adjacent and analytical, tucked safely away from the dramatic glass offices and power meetings Lionel Shabandar was known to frequent. You did your work, sent your reports, attended the necessary meetings, and went home.

No small talk, office politics, and definitely no extracurricular bonding.

In. Out. Peace.

You’d been doing it that way for nearly five years. Ever since you graduated. Ever since you started working for him.

And somehow… you never had any interaction with him.

Which suited you just fine.

Normally, your days were predictable. Work. Home. Book. Tea. Period dramas. Repeat. You liked it that way. You needed it that way.

So when the company-wide email came in about the fundraising car wash, attendance encouraged, all departments involved—you had immediately closed it.

No.

Absolutely not.

You had every intention of ignoring it… until Amelia got involved.

That morning, you were curled up in your bed, cocooned in your blanket, half-asleep and entirely content. The world could have ended and you still would have chosen to stay exactly where you were.

Your phone buzzed.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

You groaned, burrowing deeper into your pillow.

Then there was knocking.

Loud. Persistent. Rude.

You squeezed your eyes shut. If I don’t move, she might go away…

The knocking continued.

With a dramatic sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, shuffling toward the door like a disgruntled ghost. You opened it—

And there she was.

Amelia.

With a wide grin, coffee in one hand, a bag slung over her shoulder and that determined look that meant resistance was futile.

“Come on, babe,” she said, breezing straight past you into your flat. “It’s for charity, it’s outdoors, and it’s literally one day. One. Day.”

You groaned, closing the door and padding after her. “You know I don’t do office bonding things.”

She turned, pointing her coffee at you.

“And you know,” she shot back, “that you’ve worked for Lionel Shabandar for five years and have the social presence of a ghost.”

You blinked.

“…That’s unnecessarily accurate.”

She smirked. “Exactly. Now get dressed.”

You stared at her. Then at your couch.  Then back at her.

With a dramatic sigh, you gave in.  “Fine. But I’m blaming you.”

She beamed. “As you should.”

She headed out to bring the car around while you changed, and you kept it simple. Denim shorts. Plain white t-shirt. Hair pulled into a ponytail. Comfortable. Practical. Forgettable.

You weren’t there to impress anyone.

You were there to tick the attendance box and escape.

Wax a few cars. Go home. Read. Or watch Pride & Prejudice. Simple.

That was the plan.

Amelia honked not ten minutes later. You grabbed your bag, locked the door, and jogged down.

“Hyde Park,” she announced as you slid into the passenger seat. “Prime location. Lots of foot traffic. Rich people territory.”

You snorted. “Wonderful. I’ll try not to get run over by a Bentley.”

She laughed, pulling away. “Relax, Miss No-Fun.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

She grinned. “Accurate.

Hyde Park was already buzzing when you arrived.

Tents. Banners. Buckets. Hoses. People laughing, shouting, music playing from someone’s speaker. The sun was warm, the grass was green, and the atmosphere was… annoyingly cheerful.

You spotted familiar faces from different departments—HR, marketing, PR, finance, people you only ever saw in passing or in meetings. Everyone looked oddly excited, some already damp, others flirting shamelessly while pretending to work.

You scanned the crowd, instinctively looking for a quiet corner.

A clipboard appeared in front of you.

“Name?” a volunteer asked.

You gave it. She ticked something and pointed.

“Waxing station. Over there.”

You followed her finger… and blinked.

Waxing.

You glanced back at the washing station—where people were already laughing, splashing water, with hair plastered to their faces, and flirting openly.

Of course.

Of course you’d be the one stuck on waxing.

You exhaled, tying your hair tighter and rolling up your sleeves. “Alright,” you murmured to yourself. “Let’s just do this and go home.”

And so you did.

Car after car. Hood. Door. Panel. Repeat.

You barely noticed the noise around you, too focused on the task, the rhythm, and the small satisfaction of seeing the shine come through. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t linger. You just… worked and determined to finish and leave.

And then—

“BABE!”

You jumped.

Amelia appeared in front of you, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to her cheeks like she’d just survived a water ride.

You stared.

“…Did you fall into a lake?”

She laughed. “Worse. Marketing boys.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Why am I not surprised?”

She glanced around, then frowned. “Where have you been? This is supposed to be fun. Why are you taking it so seriously?”

You gestured to the line of cars. “Someone has to actually do the job.”

She snorted. “Even the boss isn’t here anymore.”

You blinked. “He’s not ?.”

She waved a hand. “No, he did. Earlier. While we were washing. You were back here, and then he went missing. Probably got bored.”

You hummed, uninterested. Lionel Shabandar might as well have been a myth for all he existed in your daily life.

Amelia nudged you. “Actually… a bunch of us are going clubbing later. Wanna join? I mean, I’m supposed to bring you home, so what’s the verdict, Miss Waxxer?”

You paused, considering.

Then you pictured your couch. Your blanket. Your movie. Your grilled cheese and tomato soup that you’re craving.

Easy choice.

“It’s okay, Melia,” you said gently. “I’ll just take a cab or the bus home. You go. Have fun.”

She pouted. “You sure?”

You leaned in, lowering your voice. “Besides… I think a certain someone you like is going too. Mr. Williams.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh hush, Y/N, he’s going to hear—”

You both burst out laughing.

She swatted your arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

She sighed dramatically, then hugged you. “Alright. Go home safely. Message me. And don’t work too hard.”

“You too,” you replied, hugging her back. “Message me when you’re home.”

She pulled away, blowing you a kiss before jogging back toward the chaos.

And just like that…

It was quiet again.

You turned back to the car in front of you, gripping the cloth a little tighter.

Wax. Go home. Cook. Movie. Simple.

With that goal firmly in your head, you picked up the pace. Faster strokes. Firmer pressure. You just wanted to be done—to finish the car in front of you and disappear back into your quiet little life.

Your arm was already starting to ache when you leaned in to polish the side panel, brow furrowed in concentration.

And then you heard it.

A voice behind you.

Calm. Smooth. Mildly amused.

“You’re going to wear the paint off at this rate.”

You froze.

Not because the comment was rude, but because the tone was… different.

Controlled. Cultured. Unhurried.

The kind of voice that didn’t belong to the chaos of splashing water and laughing coworkers. The kind that made your spine straighten before your brain even caught up.

You turned.

And there he was.

Lionel Shabandar.

Crisp white button-down, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist, dark slacks sitting obscenely well on his frame. No jacket. No tie. Just effortless authority. Sunlight caught the edge of his watch, glinting softly as he stood there like he belonged exactly where he was.

His hair—golden-blond, softly wavy, was brushed back, catching the light in a way that made him look unreal. Like something lifted straight from a billboard.

Which, you realised belatedly, wasn’t far from the truth.

You’d seen him before. Of course you had.

In boardrooms.On screens.Across corridors. On massive billboards towering over the city.

Always distant. Always untouchable.

Never this close and never looking at you.

Your breath stalled.

His gaze flicked briefly to the cloth in your hand… the wax smudged across your fingers… the faint streak of polish on your cheek which you knew was there as you forget to wipe it after seeing it on the car window.

Then back to your eyes.

A slow smile curved his lips.

Not polite, friendly but interested.

“I assume,” he said smoothly, “that you’re the one responsible for this car now?”

You blinked.

“Oh—uh—yes. I mean—if—yes. Yes, I am.”

His brow lifted just a fraction.

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.

 “Just… surprised, sir. I didn’t think you were still here.”

He leaned in slightly, hands slipping into his pockets, his voice lowering just enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you.

“I rarely miss opportunities I find… worthwhile.”

Heat rushed to your face.

You turned quickly back to the car, hoping the distraction of work would ground you.

It didn’t.

You were just finishing the side panel, focused and methodical, when he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Lionel murmured.

You blinked. “I am?”

He didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he reached out without asking, his hand closing over yours on the cloth.

Warm. Firm. Controlled.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Gentler. Let the wax do the work.”

Your breath hitched.

You could feel the heat of him behind you—his chest just inches from your shoulder, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your thoughts scatter uselessly.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

And then… he didn’t move away.

Instead, he stayed.

Guiding. Teaching.

His voice was low at your ear as you worked the panel together.

“Small circles,” he instructed softly. “Like this.” “Yes… exactly.”

You swallowed.

This was supposed to be a fundraiser.

Not a moment. Not… whatever this was.

You were so absorbed you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“Uh—excuse me?”

You both looked up.

The man stood there staring, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes darting between you… Lionel… and the cloth still in Lionel’s hand.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that—are you—” He laughed nervously. “Is Lionel Shabandar waxing my car?”

Lionel didn’t even blink.

“Team effort,” he replied smoothly.

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery.

“Mate—can—can I get a picture?”

You stiffened but Lionel didn’t hesitate.

He slid an arm lightly around your waist and drew you in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “She did most of the work.”

Your eyes widened.

His hand was warm through your shirt. Possessive in a way that made your stomach flip and your pulse spike. You stood there, frozen, as the man raised his phone.

The camera flashed.

The man thanked you both at least six times, shook Lionel’s hand like he was royalty, and left grinning like an idiot.

And Lionel…

…didn’t immediately move his hand.

You gently stepped away, clearing your throat, and busied yourself with gathering bottles, stacking brushes, rinsing out rags. It was the last car anyway.

Even though you knew the cleaning crew would take care of everything.

You felt his gaze on you before he spoke.

“You do know you don’t have to do that.”

You shrugged. “I don’t mind. Makes it easier for them later.”

Behind you, you heard fabric shifting and then the soft sound of rags being collected and buckets being filled.

You turned, startled.

He was helping.

Lionel Shabandar—rolling up his sleeves, collecting dirty clothes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared.

He caught your look and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked mildly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You laughed softly, unable to stop yourself.

“No, sir. Just… unexpected.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and subtle, as if he were amused by something only he could see.

You finished cleaning quickly after that, movements efficient and purposeful, doing your best not to think about the way his gaze followed you as you worked.

When everything was done, you slung your bag over your shoulder.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

His voice stopped you immediately.

You looked back.

This time, he didn’t speak right away. He studied you—properly. Not the passing glance from before. Not the distracted curiosity of a man accustomed to faces blurring together.

This was thoughtful, measuring and intent.

“I’ve never seen you in my office,” he said at last. “How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years,” you replied quietly. “Data research.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“That explains it,” he murmured.  “I would have remembered you.”

Warmth crept into your cheeks.

You gave a small, polite smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“I should get going.”

You took two steps.

“Wait.”

Again.

You turned back, in a heartbeat and quick step, giving you away.

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

You blinked.

 “Oh—no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to be felt.

“Then let me take you home.”

Your breath caught.

“…Alright.”

He walked you toward the park entrance, the night air cooler now, calmer. Waiting near the curb was a sleek Rolls-Royce, dark and gleaming under the streetlights.

The driver straightened when he saw Lionel.

Lionel opened the passenger door for you without hesitation.

You paused—then slid inside.

The interior was quiet luxury: soft leather, polished wood, a discreet compartment stocked with drinks—champagne chilled in silver, crystal glasses, a bottle of whiskey bearing a lion engraved into the glass.

Of course it did.

Lionel entered from the other side, the door closing with a muted thud.

The driver glanced back. “Where to, Mr. Shabandar?”

Lionel turned toward you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Where to, miss—”

He stopped.

Just for a beat.

You realised it at the same time.

“…Carrington,” you said gently. “Miss Carrington.”

His gaze sharpened—interested.

“Miss Carrington,” he repeated, like he was testing the sound of it. “Alright.”

You gave the driver an address.

“Understood,” the driver said, and the car began to move.

Lionel shifted slightly toward the drinks compartment.

“I apologise for not asking your name earlier,” he said. “That was… discourteous.”

“It’s okay, sir,” you replied.

“Drink?” he asked. “I have champagne, whiskey… or water.”

“Water would be nice.”

He nodded, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it to you. Then poured himself a measured glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.

The car settled into a quiet hum.

The city slid past the windows.

You took a sip.

The day finally caught up with you.

Your eyelids grew heavy.

The warmth of the seat, the steady motion, the quiet presence beside you—

You didn’t even realise you’d leaned until a gentle pressure touched your arm.

“Miss Carrington.”

You stirred, blinking.

Your head had fallen against his shoulder.

“Oh—!” You straightened immediately, mortified. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s quite alright,” Lionel said, smiling softly.

You noticed then how close he was. How relaxed. How unbothered.

“We’ve arrived.”

The car slowed to a stop.

“Thank you for the lift, sir,” you said quickly. “I really appreciate it.”

You reached for the door,

“Wait. Let me.”

He stepped out first, walked around, and opened the door for you.

You paused, then smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You nodded and said, “Good night, sir. Safe travels.”

“Good night, Miss Carrington.”

And then, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it, 

“Yes… a good night indeed.”

You walked to your door.

Before unlocking it, you glanced back.

He was still there.

Watching.

You lifted a small wave, half-shy, half-dazed,then slipped inside and closed the door.

The moment it shut, you leaned back against it, and laughed. Softly. Breathlessly.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You stayed like that for a moment, forehead against the door, cheeks warm, heart doing something wildly unprofessional, before forcing yourself to straighten.

Get a grip.

It was just a day. A fundraiser. A lift home.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and headed for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the wax, the sun, the exhaustion… and him. Or at least, you tried to.

It helped. A little.

By the time you were dressed in soft pyjamas, hair damp and loose, you felt calmer. More like yourself.

You moved through your routine on autopilot—tomato soup simmering on the stove, grilled cheese crisping in the pan, sparkling apple drink poured into your favourite glass.

Normal things. Safe things.

You curled up on the couch, tray balanced on your lap, Pride and Prejudice already playing.

This was your comfort. Your reset.

Darcy appeared on screen, stiff and reserved, delivering his first lines with that familiar, controlled arrogance.

You smiled faintly.

And then—

his hand on your waist.

You blinked and shooked your head.

Focus.

The film continued. Darcy walked closer. Spoke softly.

His voice near your ear.

You groaned quietly and sank deeper into the couch.

“Stop it,” you muttered to yourself.

You tried to concentrate on the dialogue, on the music, on literally anything else, but your mind betrayed you at every turn.

The way Lionel had looked at you when he said your name. The warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek. The calm certainty in his voice.

At some point, halfway through the film, your eyes grew heavy.

You drifted.

And then—

“Miss Carrington.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Darcy stood on the screen, mouth moving,but for a split second, you could’ve sworn you’d heard him.

You stared at the television.

“…I’m losing my mind,” you whispered.

You laughed softly, shaking your head, pressing your palms to your face.

You told yourself it was just exhaustion. A long day. Too much sun. Too much everything.

And yet, every time Darcy spoke, every time he stepped closer, every time his tone softened, your thoughts wandered.

You finished your soup. Your sandwich. Your drink.

The film rolled on.

And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, he kept appearing anyway.

After the ordeal with Harry Dean and PJ Puznowski, after too many conversations that felt like chess matches and not nearly enough that felt like breathing, Lionel Shabandar wanted something different.

Not louder. Not grander. Not another evening spent in a tailored suit beneath chandeliers, surrounded by admiration that asked nothing of him and offered even less.

His PR department had suggested a fundraiser—something visible, personable, approachable. A gala at his manor was the obvious choice. It always was. Women fawning, donors eager, reputations polished over crystal glasses and rehearsed charm.

Once, he would have welcomed it.

Now, the thought exhausted him.

So he chose something else.

A car wash.

Simple. Public. Unpretentious.

A place where his staff could exist as people rather than extensions of his name. Where laughter didn’t need scripting and goodwill didn’t require rehearsals.

Hyde Park was perfect.

On the day of the fundraiser, Lionel arrived to find his employees in denim and shorts, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, music playing softly from somewhere near the tents. There was no rigid structure—just motion, water, sunlight, and noise that felt… honest.

He made a brief appearance. Launched the event. Smiled for a few photos.

There were, inevitably, attempts at flirtation. He accepted them with polite amusement and moved on. He hadn’t come to linger.

After an hour, he returned to the office. Finished what needed finishing.

Later, he found himself back in Hyde Park—not to rejoin the event, but to walk its perimeter. To breathe. To keep an eye on what he had set in motion.

That was the justification.

The truth was less tidy.

When he returned, the fundraiser was winding down. Staff were laughing, soaked, flushed with success. Someone, Williams, he thought—invited him out. Club, drinks, celebration.

He declined with ease. Praised them. Thanked them. Wished them a good night.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He saw you at the far end of the row.

White shirt. Ponytail. Denim shorts.

Waxing the final car with a focus that bordered on excessive—as though you intended to scrub every trace of the day from it.

The others had gone. Laughter had drifted away.

He assumed you have been left with the last one. Or had chosen to stay.

Either way, you were alone.

Lionel paused, watching you for a moment longer than he meant to, before stepping closer.

“You’re going to wear the paint off at this rate.”

You froze.

He immediately regretted the timing, you were the only one there after all. His tone hadn’t been sharp, but it was unmistakably his.

When you turned, he understood the hesitation.

Not fear.

Awareness.

You looked at him the way people did when distance collapsed all at once, when a name became a presence.

He recognised it instantly. The stiffness. The careful stillness.

Shy, he realised. Or simply unused to being seen.

You weren't striking in the way billboards demanded. There was no performance of you, no studied posture, no invitation.

Just… easy.

The kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be looked at, and therefore lingered longer.

His gaze dropped briefly, wax on your fingers, a faint smudge on your cheek you clearly hadn’t noticed.

The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.

Endearing, he thought. Unexpectedly so.

“I assume,” he said smoothly, “that you’re the one responsible for this car now?”

You blinked, once, twice, then nodded too quickly.

“Oh—uh—yes. I mean—if—yes. Yes, I am.”

His brow lifted just a fraction.

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

You swallowed, glancing briefly at the space between them, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

 “Just… surprised, sir. I didn’t think you were still here.”

He leaned in slightly, hands slipping into his pockets, voice lowering,not intentionally, but instinctively.

“I rarely miss opportunities I find… worthwhile.”

Colour bloomed across your cheeks and you turned back to the car too quickly.

Lionel smiled.

He observed you finishing the side panel, focused and methodical, when he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Lionel murmured.

You glanced at him. “I am?”

He didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he reached out, his hand closing over yours on the cloth.

Warm. Firm. Controlled.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Gentler. Let the wax do the work.”

Your breath caught.

Lionel felt it, felt the sudden stillness beneath his hand. Warm. Tense. Relaxation

He should have stepped back but he didn’t.

He stayed, guiding your movements, his voice low near your ear.

“Small circles,” he instructed softly.” Like this.”

“Yes… exactly.”

He hadn’t expected this when he’d walked back into the park.

Hadn’t expected you.

You both were so absorbed, that both of you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“Uh—excuse me?”

You both looked up.

The man stood there staring, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes darting between you… Lionel… and the cloth still in Lionel’s hand.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that—are you—” He laughed nervously. “Is Lionel Shabandar waxing my car?”

Lionel didn’t blink. If anything, he smirked.

“Team effort,” he replied smoothly.

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “Mate—can—can I get a picture?”

Lionel felt you stiffening again but he didn’t hesitate.

His arm settled at your waist, light but certain.

It felt… right.

As though you fit there and always had.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “She did most of the work.”

The camera flashed.

The man thanked you both at least six times, shook Lionel’s hand like he was royalty, and left grinning like an idiot.

And Lionel…

…didn’t immediately move his hand.

You stepped away first.

Not abruptly, just enough to put space between them. A soft clearing of your throat, then you were moving again, gathering bottles, stacking brushes, rinsing rags as though the work still required your attention.

It didn’t.

It was the last car. The cleaning crew would handle the rest.

You stayed anyway.

Lionel watched you quietly.

Not because you had to, but because it was right.

There was no distaste in your movements. No impatience. No sense of being above any of it. You worked with the same quiet diligence you had given the car, treating the aftermath as though it mattered.

He was… surprised.

Too many people mistook service for something beneath them. Too many wore their status like armour, looked at mess as though it were contagious.

You did not.

Something in his chest shifted, subtle, but unmistakable.

“You do know you don’t have to do that,” he said gently.

You only shrugged, not even looking up. “I don’t mind. Makes it easier for them later.”

What a girl, he thought, before he could stop himself.

Without comment, Lionel rolled up his sleeves.

If you noticed, you didn’t say anything.

He joined you, collecting rags, stacking buckets, lifting crates as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It felt… grounding.

You glanced at him then, surprise flickering across your face. He caught it and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked mildly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You laughed,soft, genuine, unguarded.

“No, sir. Just… unexpected.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and subtle. Amused, not by your reaction, but by how easily you had drawn it from him.

They finished quickly after that.

Lionel watched your movements—efficient, purposeful, as though you had done this a hundred times before. There was no lingering, no attempt to draw attention to yourself. And yet, somehow, his gaze followed your anyway.

When you finally slung your bag over your shoulder, the evening felt… finished in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The word left his mouth before he’d fully decided on it.

You stopped immediately and looked back at him.

This time, Lionel didn’t speak right away. He studied you properly, not the passing glance from earlier, not the distracted awareness he gave most people who passed through his orbit.

This was thoughtful. Measuring. Intent.

“I’ve never seen you in my office,” he said at last.

“How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years,” you replied quietly. “Data research.”

Something flickered in his chest.

“That explains it,” he murmured. “I would have remembered you.”

The faint colour that crept into your cheeks did something entirely unreasonable to him.

You adjusted the strap of your bag.

 “I should get going.”

You took two steps.

“Wait.”

Again.

Your quick step gave you away when you turned back in a heartbeat, and he noticed. Of course he did.

Lionel hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

You blinked.

 “Oh—no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to be felt.

“Then let me take you home.”

Your breath caught.

“…Alright.”

Good.

They walked toward the park entrance, the night air cooler now, calmer. Waiting by the curb was his Rolls-Royce, dark and immaculate beneath the streetlights.

The driver, Adam, straightened instantly.

Without thinking twice, Lionel opened the passenger door for her.

You paused—then slid inside.

The interior was quiet luxury: soft leather, polished wood, crystal glasses secured neatly beside champagne and whiskey etched with his crest.

Of course it was.

Lionel entered from the other side, the door closing with a muted thud.

“Where to, Mr. Shabandar?” the driver asked.

Lionel turned towards you, a faint smile touching his mouth.

“Where to, miss—”

He stopped.

Just for a beat.

Ah. You idiot.

“…Carrington,” you supplied gently. “Miss Carrington.”

His gaze sharpened, interest deepening.

“Miss Carrington,” he repeated, as though testing the sound of it.

Yes. That would do nicely.

You gave the driver her address, and the car eased into motion.

“I apologise for not asking your name earlier,” Lionel said. “That was… discourteous.”

“It’s alright, sir.”

“Drink?” he offered. “Champagne, whiskey… or water.”

“Water would be nice.”

He nodded, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it to you before pouring himself a measured glass of whiskey. The amber caught the low light as the city slid past the windows.

The quiet settled.

Then he felt the weight against his shoulder.

Your head, resting there, unguarded.

Lionel adjusted instinctively, careful not to wake her.

How, he wondered, had I not seen you before?

The thought lingered as he relaxed back into the seat.

When the car slowed and the driver announced their arrival, a ridiculous impulse crossed his mind, to carry you inside rather than wake you.

He dismissed it just as quickly.

Instead, he spoke softly.

“Miss Carrington.”

You startled awake immediately, mortified.

“I—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, smiling despite himself. “We’ve arrived.”

You thanked him, sincere and warm, and reached for the door.

“Wait. Let me.”

Lionel stepped out first, walked around, and opened it for you.

You paused, then smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Safe travels, sir. And good night.”

“Good night, Miss Carrington.”

The words followed you as you walked away.

And Lionel found himself thinking—then, quite absurdly, muttering under his breath,

“Yes… a very good night indeed.”

He watched your back retreat, wondering, not for the first time that evening, whether you had heard him or not.

He didn’t move the car.

Instead, he remained where he was, eyes fixed on you until you reached the building. Anything could happen in seconds, he knew that better than most. Only when you glanced back while unlocking the door did his shoulders ease.

You gave a small, shy wave.

Lionel almost laughed.

Adorable, he thought, entirely unhelpfully, as you slipped inside.

When the door closed behind you, he remained still.

Only when the light in your flat flicked on did he finally turn back toward the car.

Adam caught his expression in the mirror, and, wisely, said nothing.

“Home,” Lionel said at last.

As the car pulled away, your building disappearing behind them, his thoughts drifted, not to headlines, not to optics, not to strategy, but to a woman in a white shirt and denim shorts, waxing a stranger’s car with quiet diligence.

To the way you had smiled so easily. To how naturally you had fit at his side. To how he had somehow not seen you around not once, and how unacceptable that now felt.

For the first time in a long while, Lionel Shabandar found himself grateful for a decision made without calculation.

A simple fundraiser.

And the inexplicable sense that fate, at last, had met him halfway.

Next Morning

Then, just like the previous day repeating itself, you woke to your phone buzzing instead of your alarm.

Once.Twice.Relentless.

Half-asleep and already knowing exactly who it was, you answered without looking.

“Hello—”

“BABE—OH MY GOD—YOU AND LIONEL—WHAT—WHEN—HOW—”

You shot upright, heart slamming into your ribs.

“What?”

“THE PICTURE,” Amelia screeched. “THE CAR WASH—YOU—HIM—IT’S EVERYWHERE— I’M COMING OVER RIGHT NOW, BABE—”

Your stomach dropped.

“…Lionel who?”

Silence.

Then—

screaming.

The sound blended with the rush of yesterday crashing back all at once—

Hyde Park. Wax on your hands. His voice at your ear. His arm around your waist.

Your hands shook as you scrambled for your phone, pulse racing.

And there it was.

Lionel Shabandar Joins Fundraiser Pictured with Mystery Woman

And beneath the headline—

you.

In his arms.

Smiling.

Lionel's Office That Morning

Lionel Shabandar did not wake up expecting chaos.

His mornings were precise, meticulously scheduled, calibrated down to the minute, and always predictable in a way that left no room for surprises or sentiment. Each day unfolded exactly as the one before it had: coffee brewed to the same strength, briefing notes waiting on his desk, markets already moving in patterns he understood well enough to bend if necessary.

Control was not merely a preference; it was a discipline.

Coffee. Briefing. Markets. Power.

For exactly three minutes, the routine held.

Then, uninvited, you slipped into his thoughts.

White shirt. Rolled sleeves. The faint crease between your brows as you concentrated. The way you laughed when he raised an eyebrow at you, soft, surprised, unguarded.

Your head on his shoulder.

Lionel exhaled slowly and set the thought aside.

Indulgence was a luxury along with sentiment was a weakness.

He had a day to run.

His phone lit up.

Once, twice and then again.

By the time he picked it up, the screen looked like a Christmas tree.

Three missed calls. Five messages. A calendar alert that had absolutely nothing to do with this.

And then,

PR: URGENT – CALL ME NOW

He frowned.

The screen refreshed.

And there it was.

A photo of him at the car wash.

Sleeves rolled. Expression softened. Framed in warm afternoon light, close enough to feel intimate, clear enough to be intentional.The man who had asked for the photo had captured far more than he realised.

His arm around—

He froze.

You.

Your head tilted slightly toward him. Smile small. Unaware. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

The headline loaded beneath it:

Lionel Shabandar Joins Fundraiser Pictured with Mystery Woman

His jaw tightened.

He stared at the image longer than he should have.

Not because of the press. Not because of the cameras, the clarity, the way the shot was already circulating like currency.

But because of the way his hand rested on your waist.

Because he remembered exactly how warm you had been, how you laughed and how you tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend he didn’t affect you.

And how he absolutely knew he had.

Footsteps approached at speed, heels clicking with barely contained panic.

A knock.

The door opened, and Lisa stepped in, her heels clicking too quickly for a woman who usually prided herself on composure.

“Sir… the phones are… busy,” she said carefully. “PR is requesting guidance. And—”

She hesitated, “There are inquiries about the woman in the photo.”

Lionel didn’t look away from the screen.

“She works for the company,” he said evenly.

Lisa paused, fingers tightening around her tablet.

Lionel added, without lifting his gaze, “She’s your colleague, Lisa.”

The correction was subtle,but unmistakable.

Then, more quietly—firmly,“And she is not for public consumption.”

Silence filled the room.

Lionel finally leaned back in his chair.

A slow smile touched his lips.

Not amused.

Intent.

“Find her schedule,” he said. “Clear mine.”

Lisa blinked. “Sir?”

“I want to have lunch with my employee.”

He rose, moving toward the window, the city stretching beneath him, orderly, obedient, predictable.

For a moment, he shook his head faintly, a quiet huff of breath leaving him.

Five years, he thought. And I didn’t notice you.

He watched the morning traffic below, already recalculating his day, not in numbers or markets this time, but in timing.

“Lisa,” he added without turning.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have Adam bring the car.”

She hesitated. “To the office?”

“No,” Lionel said calmly. “To her address.”

Lisa’s brows lifted, just slightly—but she nodded.

“Understood.”

Lionel remained at the window long after she left.

Yes, he decided.

Chaos, apparently, had a face.

And it was wearing a white shirt and denim shorts.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

[ruzz9]

Imagine hitting your head so hard one day and ending up living that life… a dreaam

Credits to the user in the images

[coldkidcookieneck]

I’d be hitting my head repeatedly just to stay in this dream, even if I’m severely concussed later, it’s worth it if it’s this troupe🤭

[vintageisbest]

Reading: The Goblet of Fire. (YES STILL!! I’ve had no interest in reading books since I lost my mum. However, I just picked it up again after months and I’m about 100 pages away from the end and it did help distract me a bit)

Last series: Daryl Dixon Series 4. Though, I haven’t yet finished it as again I’ve not been able to concentrate on anything other than FanFiction.

(So again, I must say a huge thank you to the writers that write for Alan’s characters here. I love and appreciate you all. You have no idea how much it has aided me getting through December) 📚✍️🤍

Last film: Tolkien (2019)

Last song: Moonlight Shadow ~ Maggie Reilly

Sweet/salty: I have a raging sweet tooth. 🍫🍫🍫

Coffee/tea: Coffee (…sadly decaf is all I can tolerate now).

Working on: going back into education in September. I’m going to study Media and Film production.

Definitely a mature student, I’ll nearly be 33 by then *cries* 🙃

@jacks-valentine thank you for the tag! Happy new year to you and everyone that follows me.

Tagging @coldkidcookieneck @death-by-snape @ruzz9 @evans23

@smilingformoney

[coldkidcookieneck]

Reading: Sense and Sensibility (basically an emotional autopsy), so I shan’t forget Christopher, I’ve left that poor man alone in the dark for far too long, and I genuinely think he may come through the pages to give me a whack or two for denying him his happy ending.

Last series: Marie Antoinette ( 2022- ) so good, watching this reminds me of A Little Chaos🤭

Last film: Avatar 3: Fire and Ash🔥

Last song: Paper Hearts = Tori Kelly

Sweet / Salty: sweeeeeeet, always

Coffee / Tea: coffee. caffeine is essential and non-negotiable ☕😌

Working on: writing as many fics as possible for you guys 🫶🏼

Thank you for tagging me along, @vintageisbest 🥰

Tagging: @unclosetedrickmaniac, @evans23, @starzeeecat, and anyone else who feels like joining in, please do 😉

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: The Silver Fox Problem

Summary: Even generals stumble when the fight turns inward. When Frank starts pulling away and forgets how deeply he is wanted, you make it your mission to remind him, thoroughly.

Author's note: Happy New Year, everyone! 🥳✨

Wishing you comfort, healing, and all the joys you deserve🫶🏼. I’ve been a little quiet, but what better way to start the year than with a sweet request from a lovely reader?. I hope you guys enjoy reading it, and please let me know what you think!😉

Pairings: Frank Benson x Fem Reader

Warnings: Language, Fluff and Angst

Cross-posted on AO3

==============================================

Retirement had been a strange adjustment for Frank, almost like shrugging out of a life that had wrapped itself around him for nearly eighteen years. He’d survived things most people wouldn’t even dare to imagine: war zones, broken bones, betrayals, near misses, and the kind of accidents that carved themselves into a man’s bones. The military had shaped him and scarred him. Kept him standing.

So waking up slowly in a quiet house, without orders, without drills, without boots hitting concrete at dawn—felt foreign. Wrong. Like he’d lost something he wasn’t sure he could ever get back.

But then there was you.

His one unexpected blessing.

The twenty-five-year-old volunteer walked into the base with bright eyes, steady hands, and absolutely no fear of him, as you kept on saluting him no matter where you were. You’d seen past the temper, past the sharp tone and cold exterior. You saw him, the man beneath all the armour. And you chose him. Despite the whispers. Despite the age gap. Despite everything.

Which was why the empty bed hit him harder than it should have.

He blinked awake, stretching, reaching instinctively for warmth that wasn’t there. No soft weight snuggled on top of him. No sleepy mumble against his chest. No cold little feet pressing into his thigh. Just quiet… and the warm smell of bacon drifting up the stairs.

He exhaled softly, running a hand through his messy hair. Thank god for you.

He swung his legs out of bed, stretched as he did every morning, then tugged on yesterday’s sweatpants, he preferred sleeping in just his boxers… far more comfortable, and much better for certain nightly circumstances involving you, before grabbing his old black shirt. He slipped it over his head the way he always did, but halfway down the fabric caught against his chest… then his stomach.

'Probably shrank in the wash again,' he told himself quickly. Happens all the time.

He froze.

Pulled it again.

Still tight.

Without thinking much of it, he padded downstairs on bare feet.

You were standing at the counter, plating bacon, morning radio humming softly behind you. Dressed in a light sports bra and fitted tights, skin glowing, hair tied back, fresh from your light morning workout, just the easy routine you did to stay healthy. You were never a gym freak; you weren’t chasing abs or weight loss. It was simply who you were: naturally lean, naturally effortless, naturally beautiful.

Still… you looked fit. Young. Radiant.

You turned, a bright smile blooming instantly.

“Well, look who finally crawled out of bed. My very own koala,” you teased.

He huffed a quiet breath, the closest he came to laughing this early, but your eyes dipped briefly to his shirt. The tightness across his midsection was unmistakable now that he’d stepped fully into the light.

And God, he felt it.

His eyes flicked down automatically to the softer curve forming where years of strict military diet had given way to homemade breakfasts, lazy mornings, and shared desserts. A body no longer defined by combat or discipline but by peace.

And right in front of him stood you, toned waist, slender arms, bright eyes, looking like the embodiment of youthful energy.

You stepped toward him, arms open for your daily morning hug.

And for the first time, Frank stiffened the moment you wrapped your arms around him. Not because he didn’t want your touch, God, he always wanted your touch, but because your hands landed right against the place where his shirt felt too tight, too revealing, too much.

Your warmth pressed against him, and suddenly his mind wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

It was back there.

A few nights ago, at the annual base anniversary gathering, was the first time many people saw you and Frank together. Not everyone knew he was taken.

He remembered that you enjoyed the night fondly.

Frank didn’t.

He hadn’t told you everything.

Like the moment he walked past a group of officers and overheard:

He froze.

“Damn, she looks fine.”

“Wonder who her man is. Bet he’s some young hotshot.”

All things he wasn’t anymore.

Young.

Hotshot.

Fit.

Later, he saw you laughing with a group of younger men — the guys from your volunteer programme. You’d told him many times they were like big brothers, and they had even told him that they saw you as a sister.

But Frank, through the haze of insecurity, saw something else entirely.

Young bodies. Muscles. Youth he no longer had. And then he saw you taking pictures with them, your arm slung casually around their shoulders, their smiles wide and easy. You looked like you belonged among them.

A stone formed in his chest that he never quite swallowed.

He barely spoke on the drive home. You chattered, telling stories, teasing him, reaching for his hand, and he gave nothing but quiet hums and nods. At one point, he even snapped, his voice sharper than he intended:

“Can we just drive in silence for a minute?”

You blinked in surprise.

He regretted it instantly. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m just… tired.”

You let it go, leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

“It’s okay, honey. I can see your tiredness on you, so let me draw you a bath when we get home, alright? You can relax." 

He nodded, but the guilt ate him alive.

In the warm steam of that sandalwood bath, he made a quiet decision: he should look better for you. You deserved a man who looked like he belonged beside you, not someone with softening edges and years written across his body.

But he didn’t act on it. Not really. He told himself he’d start working out again, return to his old routines, and run like he used to, and he meant it. But intentions were easier than action. He convinced himself he wasn’t that out of shape. That maybe he’d imagined the comments. That may be the shirt that felt tight last week had shrunk in the wash.

He avoided mirrors more than usual and avoided thinking too deeply about any of it.

Which was why this morning hit him so hard.

Because now, with you hugging him, smelling like a fresh workout, wearing your fitted clothes, your palms resting exactly where he felt bigger, everything he’d been suppressing came crashing back at once.

She deserves better than this. Better than me.

The insecurity from the anniversary.

The vow he didn’t follow through on.

The quiet denial he’d been living in.

And the terrified little thought:

His shoulders tensed, his breath caught, and his entire body locked up involuntarily under your touch.

You pulled back slightly, confusion flickering across your face.

“Frank? You okay, honey?”

He swallowed, forcing his expression into something neutral.

“Breakfast smells good,” he muttered. “Let me… get the coffee.”

He stepped away faster than he meant to, fully aware of your gaze following him. And as he stood there pretending to focus on the coffee machine, something inside him shifted — a quiet, heavy resolve settling into place.

Something had to change.

He had to change.

Not because you’d ever asked him to, God, no, you loved him openly, endlessly. But because he suddenly feared that one day, you’d wake up and realise you could do better.

He swallowed hard, grounding himself.

“Coffee’s ready,” he said, forcing his voice steady.

But in his mind, something had already begun, a resolve, messy and insecure but firm, that he needed to become someone worthy of you again. Someone who could stand beside you, who didn’t flinch from your touch, someone you would never outgrow.

He didn’t know it yet, but this was the morning everything changed.

For both of you.

Frank started waking before dawn, slipping out of bed with the kind of care he once used on missions, slow movements, controlled breathing, careful not to disturb you. He’d pause sometimes, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand curled into his pillow in your sleep, as if you knew he was gone even then.

He hated leaving you like that.

But he pulled on his joggers anyway, laced his old running shoes, and stepped out into the early-morning darkness.

The first jog nearly humbled him.

His legs burned far quicker than they used to, a sharp pull in his hamstring making him grit his teeth. His lower back pinched with every uneven step, his breath heavier, harsher. The quiet streets that once felt like freedom now felt endless.

This wasn’t how it used to be.

He slowed, then walked, jaw tight with irritation, not at his body exactly, but at the reminder of time. Of change. Of everything he’d tried not to think about.

Some mornings, when he returned sweaty and stiff, you’d already be awake.

“Hey,” you said softly once, peeking up from the couch with your mug cradled between your hands. “Where’d you go?”

“Just a morning walk,” he replied, a little too quickly.

The idea of you jogging beside him, effortless, glowing, made something twist in his chest.

Your face lit up anyway.

“Aww… you could’ve woken me up. I was actually planning to go today. We could’ve gone together.”

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It was too early. Didn’t want to wake you.”

There was always a next time, wasn’t there?

You smiled, accepting it easily.

“Okay. Next time.”

On the mornings guilt won, when his legs ached too much or the weight of it all sat too heavy, he stayed home. And instead, he did push-ups.

Quietly. Carefully. In the living room. In the dark.

Once, you caught him.

You padded in half-asleep, rubbing your eyes, and froze when you saw him on the floor, breathing hard, arms shaking.

“Frank?”

You squinted at him, unconvinced, giving him that look, the one that said I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it go. 

He startled, nearly collapsing.

“—Just stretching,” he muttered, pushing himself upright and wiping his face.

“Oh. Okay,” you said slowly.

You left it alone.

Another time, he was sure you’d gone out, only for you to pop back in to grab your phone. You found him mid-rep again.

“Stretching?” you repeated, eyebrow raised.

You lingered just a second longer than usual, arms slipping briefly around his waist in a quiet hug.

He huffed, irritation flashing briefly before he caught himself.

“Yeah.”

Frank stiffened,, not pulling away, but not leaning in either and for a terrifying moment, he had the distinct sense that you knew.

Not what he was doing.

But why.

As if you could feel the tension in his body and chose tenderness instead of questions.

Your lips brushed his jaw once more before you stepped back.

“Don’t overdo it, okay?” you murmured softly.

 Leaving him standing there with his chest tight and his resolve wavering.

And then you were gone.

Frank exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, forcing his muscles to relax as he returned to his stretches.

He heard you move down the hall.

Then the soft thud of the laundry room door.

He was halfway through another stretch when he heard your voice again, faint, distracted.

“What the—”

He paused.

A moment later:

“Huh.”

There was the rustle of fabric. The clink of the washing machine lid.

“That’s… weird.”

Frank straightened slowly, heart ticking up for reasons he couldn’t explain.

You muttered again, more to yourself than anyone else.

“I swear this wasn’t this tight before…”

His stomach dropped.

A second later, you popped your head back into the living room, eyes flicking briefly,  almost unconsciously, to his shirt.

He went still.

“Everything okay?” he asked, carefully neutral.

You hesitated.

“Yeah,” you said, a little too quick. Then you frowned, glancing down at your own sleeve, tugging at it thoughtfully.

“Just… laundry stuff.”

You hummed under your breath, distracted now, already turning away.

“I really shouldn’t have switched detergents,” you murmured absently. “Cotton’s such a pain…”

The words barely registered.

Detergent. Cotton.

Frank stood there, frozen, staring at the doorway long after you disappeared back into the laundry room.

His shirt still pulled tight across his stomach and chest still felt heavy.

And somehow… the knot inside him twisted tighter instead of loosening.

He told himself it meant nothing.

He always did.

The changes didn’t stop there.

He kept wearing that same black shirt, the one that fit a little tighter now, like a challenge he refused to back down from. Somehow, it only made him look grumpier. Quieter. Sharper around the edges.

Meals changed too.

He know that you are noticing he eating slower, less. He pushed away second helpings without comment. When you offered dessert, your time, your cozy ritual curled together on the couch with a movie, he shook his head.

“Think I’ll skip tonight.”

“Just… full,” he said. “Feeling a little gassy. Probably lunch.” 

You frowned.

“Really? You love dessert.”

You watched him for a moment, then nudged his knee lightly with your own.

“Hey,” you said, gentle but firm. “I need my man eating properly, alright?”

He looked up.

“No weird dieting. No skipping meals. You’re allowed to enjoy food.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because of what you eat — or don’t eat.”

His throat tightened.

“I know,” he said quietly.

But he still didn’t reach for seconds.

He didn’t sit with you anymore. Instead, he retreated to the bedroom, turning on the TV and leaving you wrapped in a blanket alone on the couch.

Every time, his heart ached.

He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to feel your warmth, your weight, your comfort. But the thought of you touching his stomach, noticing, made him pull back.

At night, when you curled into him automatically, your hand drifting to his middle like it always had, he gently moved it away.

“Hey,” he murmured, guiding it higher. “Up here.”

You hesitated only a moment before curling closer again, your forehead resting against his chest.

“No,” you whispered quietly, one hand slipping back down anyway, possessive and warm.

“You’re mine, Frank. All of you. No restrictions.”

His breath hitched.

“I love you exactly the way you are.”

He wrapped his arm around you then, tighter than he meant to, as if holding on was the only thing keeping him steady.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

And he lay awake long after, wondering how something so simple could hurt so much.

You never expected to meet someone who would change your life when you volunteered at the army base.

At first, you thought it would just be harmless fun, a break from routine. A few months of helping out, teasing a bunch of sweaty soldiers who desperately needed some interaction with the outside world. You expected laughter, chaos, brotherly nonsense. Nothing more.

You certainly never expected to fall for one of the commanding officers.

Lieutenant General Frank Benson.

The men you worked with treated you like a little sister, and you were grateful for it. They were protective, loud, endlessly annoying in the way only brothers could be. You loved them for that. Romance was never part of the picture.

Until one afternoon, during some ridiculous dare game, Adam slung you over his shoulder like a sack of grain while everyone laughed.

And then the laughter stopped.

Adam nearly dropped you when he noticed.

You turned, and there he was.

Silver-streaked hair. Immaculate uniform. A presence that sucked the air out of the room. You would’ve melted into the floor if not for the piercing look in his eyes and the sudden awareness of how very improper your position was.

You heard snorts behind you.

You scrambled down and snapped into a salute.

“Sorry, sir.”

Frank studied you for a moment — then nodded once and walked past.

From then on, every time you crossed paths, you saluted. Sometimes he’d stop for a word or two. Coffee turned into conversations. Conversations turned into quiet drives home. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a volunteer, and became his.

When you moved in together and once Frank retired, you made it your mission to feed him properly. After years of cafeteria food and solitude, he deserved warm meals, full plates, and someone waiting for him at home.

And it showed.

His skin looked healthier. His shoulders relaxed. He laughed more. Slept better. And you? You loved every second of it.

You weren’t a fitness fanatic, just occasional jogs, light stretching. Your body had always been lean, more genetics than effort. You loved food as much as Frank did. You were happy. He was happy.

Until the base gathering.

You hadn’t thought twice about it, Frank seeing old friends, you reuniting with your army brothers. But as you laughed and posed for photos, you caught Frank watching you from across the room.

Not angry.

Just… wrong.

The drive home was quiet. Too quiet.

When he snapped, it startled you.

“Can we just drive in silence for a minute?”

Your hand slipped from his.

He apologized immediately, but the look on his face stayed with you long after.

The next morning, you woke early, kissed his forehead, and pulled on your workout clothes, just enough movement to wake yourself before cooking him a proper breakfast.

That’s when he appeared in the doorway.

Joggers. Black shirt.

Your smile bloomed, then faltered.

That shirt hadn’t fit like that three days ago.

You stepped into his arms for your usual morning hug.

And he stiffened.

Didn’t hug you back.

Your heart sank.

“Frank?” you asked softly. “Are you okay, honey?”

“Breakfast smells good,” he said, already stepping away. “I’ll get the coffee.”

You watched him move, tired, shoulders slumped, avoiding your touch.

And in that moment, you knew.

Something was wrong.

And you were going to get to the bottom of it.

So that’s what you did.

The first time you noticed, you woke expecting the familiar weight of Frank curled around you, his arm slung over your waist, his warmth pressed into your back.

Instead, the space beside you was cold.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet.

You frowned, sitting up, listening. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Curious and uneasy — you slipped out of bed and padded toward the window. You opened the blinds just a crack.

At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you.

Then you saw him.

Frank, in his joggers, moving steadily down the street. Jogging.

You rubbed your eyes and looked again.

Still him.

Shock rooted you to the spot. In all the time you’d been together, Frank had never woken early like this. He loved sleeping in with you — slow mornings, tangled sheets, nowhere to be.

Heart thudding, you watched until he turned back toward the house.

Panicking slightly, you hurried back to bed and slipped beneath the covers, closing your eyes just as the front door opened. Soft footsteps coming up the stairs. A pause beside you.

You felt his lips brush your forehead.

Then the sound of the shower.

You lay there staring into the dark, the same thought looping again and again.

Why are you acting so strange?

You told yourself to let it go.

At first.

But the mornings kept repeating.

Some days, you were awake when he came back, damp and breathing heavier than usual.

“Where’d you go?” you asked once, trying to sound casual.

“Just a walk,” he replied — too quickly.

Your face lit up anyway.

“Aww, you could’ve woken me up. I was actually planning to go today. We could’ve gone together.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face, then it vanished.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It was too early. Didn’t want to wake you.”

You smiled.

“Okay. Next time.”

But next time never came.

Another morning, you woke later and padded into the living room, only to freeze.

Frank was on the floor.

Breathing hard. Arms shaking. Holding a plank.

“Frank?”

You eyed him skeptically.

He startled so badly he nearly collapsed.

“—Just stretching,” he muttered, pushing himself upright and wiping his face.

“Oh. Okay.”

You let it go. Maybe he really did just want to stay active. You didn’t mind. You didn’t want him to change for you, not ever.

But then it happened again.

You’d gone out, realized you’d forgotten your phone, and returned, only to find him mid-rep once more.

“Stretching?” you asked again, eyebrow raised.

He huffed, irritation flashing briefly.

“Yeah.”

You stared a second longer than usual, then stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quiet hug. His body stiffened — not pushing you away, but not relaxing either.

You ignored it. Kissed his jaw softly.

“Don’t overdo it, okay?”

You left, your mood to go out completely gone.

Instead, you headed to the laundry.

That’s when you noticed it.

You pulled clothes from the washer and frowned.

“What the heck…?”

Some of your shirts felt tighter. Shorter. An oversized tee now fit like it never had before.

Then you noticed Frank’s clothes.

His shirts. His joggers. Even his underwear.

“I swear this wasn’t this tight before…”

Your mind raced. You stepped into the living room and glanced at him, his black shirt clung tighter around his waist now, stretching where it hadn’t days ago.

Frank noticed your stare.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said a little too quickly. Then you tugged at your sleeve thoughtfully. “Just… laundry stuff.”

You retreated back to the laundry room, staring at the detergent bottle.

“I really shouldn’t have switched detergents,” you muttered under your breath. “Cotton’s such a pain…”

You’d bought it on a whim, flashy label, promises of extra softness, something new to try. Now you regretted it instantly, fingers rubbing the fabric of a shrunken sleeve.

You shook your head and pushed the thought aside.

Laundry could wait.

Frank’s behavior, however, didn’t.

It crept back in that evening.

At dinner, you noticed it again, the way he ate slower. Smaller bites. Less enthusiasm. He pushed his plate away after barely finishing one helping, even though you’d cooked his favorite vodka pasta, garlic bread still warm on the table.

You watched him, quiet concern settling in your chest.

When dessert came, your ritual, your time, curled together on the couch with something sweet and a movie playing softly in the background…

“I think I’ll skip tonight.”

You turned to him, brows knitting.

“Really? You love dessert.”

“Just… full,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Feeling a little gassy. Probably lunch.”

You knew he hadn’t eaten much at lunch.

You nudged his knee gently, grounding him.

“Hey,” you said, firm but soft. “I need my man eating properly, alright?”

He finally looked at you.

“No weird dieting. No skipping meals. You’re allowed to enjoy food.”

You squeezed his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because of what you eat — or don’t eat.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

But he still didn’t reach for seconds.

And it didn’t stop there.

After dinner, instead of settling beside you like always, he retreated to the bedroom. The TV clicked on, muffled through the walls, leaving you alone on the couch wrapped in a blanket meant for two.

Your heart ached.

That was when you knew.

This wasn’t about food. It wasn’t about exercise. And it wasn’t something you wanted to corner him about — not yet.

So you gave him space. Let him have silence when he needed it. Let him decide when he was ready to speak.

But at night… you still held him.

You always did.

When you curled into him beneath the covers, your body instinctively sought his — your hand drifting to his middle like it always had, familiar and loving.

He stiffened.

Gently, carefully, he moved your hand upward.

“Hey,” he murmured softly. “Up here.”

You paused.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

You didn’t pull away.

“No,” you whispered instead, slipping your hand back down anyway — warm, possessive, unafraid.

“You’re mine, Frank. All of you. No restrictions.”

His breath caught sharply in his chest.

You pressed closer, your voice barely more than air.

“I love you exactly the way you are.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then his arm came around you, tighter than necessary, like he was afraid letting go might make you disappear. Like you were the only thing holding him steady.

“Goodnight,” he murmured into your hair.

You hummed softly, nestling closer, your fingers tracing slow, reassuring circles.

And in the quiet dark, you hoped gently, patiently that when he was ready, he’d let you in.

Frank threw himself into the renovation plans like it was a mission briefing.

Measurements scribbled on scrap paper. Tools laid out in precise lines. The garage smelled of sawdust and oil, a comfortingly familiar distraction. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

Anything to keep him from thinking about the way you still touched him like nothing had changed.

And how that somehow made everything worse.

You appeared in the doorway, arms folded loosely, voice gentle in a way that made his chest tighten.

“Hey, honey. Come on. Let’s go out tonight.”

He glanced up, surprised.

“It’s been a rough week,” you continued softly. “For both of us. Let’s just… relax. Have a drink. Be us again.”

Guilt hit him hard and fast.

He nodded before he could talk himself out of it.

Later, while he was dressing, he hesitated with the long-sleeved shirt in his hands.

“This one might—”

“It’ll fit,” you said easily, not even looking up.

And somehow… it did.

No tightness. No strain. The fabric sat exactly where it always had.

Frank frowned at his reflection, confusion flickering, but he pushed the thought aside when your arms wrapped around him from behind.

“You ready, babe ?” you murmured.

He turned.

And forgot how to breathe.

Jeans. White knit top. Messy bun. Effortless. Comfortable. You, exactly the way he loved you most.

You reached up and messed his hair with a grin.

“Damn, I love your hair so much.”

“Oh?” he muttered dryly. “Didn’t know it had that kind of magnetic pull.”

You laughed, bright and warm — and just like that, something inside him softened.

The drive there was calming with you by his side like old times and the bar was quiet, a seaside bar, your favourite place to be together.

Ocean air drifted in through the open doors, carrying the salt and the low hush of waves. Soft lights reflected off glass and water, the dock stretching just beyond the railing, overlooking the sea. Calm. Unbothered. Everyone minding their own business.

It felt safe.

Frank relaxed, just a little.

You both settled into your seats, drinks in hand, talking easily. About the garage renovation you’d been planning. About paint colours. Storage. Things that mattered without touching the thing that had hung between you since the anniversary.

Food came and went. Laughter slipped in naturally. You finished with a glass of wine; Frank stuck to his whiskey like old times.

Then he saw him.

A man walking toward your table.

Frank heard your name first, spoken casually, familiarly. The man was near your age. Good-looking. The kind of man who made sense standing next to you.

You turned, recognition lighting your face.

 “James!” you said, cheerful.

“Yes — it’s me,” he laughed.

You didn’t hug him. Didn’t lean in. You just smiled, genuinely happy, and that somehow hurt more.

You introduced Frank, your hand briefly touching his arm as you did. James greeted him respectfully, apologized for interrupting your time together.

Frank forced a smile. “It’s fine.”

But his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists under the table as he turned slightly, lifting his drink and staring out at the sea.

She should be with someone like him.

He caught snippets of your conversation, laughter, memories, easy familiarity, and waited patiently even though every part of him wanted your attention back on him.

Someone young. Someone who fits her world.

Not some old, overgrown, retired arm general who’d been moody and distant for weeks.

For a moment, he even imagined James as a rookie back on base, the kind he’d once thrown out of the barracks for flirting with you.

The thought almost made him smile and cleared his throat as an indication to which he thought you heard.

Then you said your goodbyes.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” you said softly once James left. “I know tonight was supposed to be for us. He’s just an old friend from school. Nothing romantic. We lost touch.”

“Hm,” Frank murmured. “I see.”

The rest of the evening went quiet.

Later, once you were home, you headed upstairs to get ready for bed. Frank locked up the house, his thoughts heavy and loud as he followed.

When he reached the bedroom, you were tying your hair up for a shower.

Frank leaned against the doorway.

“You deserve someone your age,” he muttered, stepping further into the room. “Not an old man with a retired soldier’s gut.”

He saw you freeze.

“Frank,” you said gently. “I knew something was bothering you. Ever since that gathering. Talk to me — what really happened?”

He shook his head. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I did,” you replied softly. “But I also saw you stop eating properly. Pushing food away. Pulling back when I touch you. All those random workouts. So tell me, what happened?”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t have let you meet me. You should have someone more than I am. Someone your age. Not me.”

You stared at him. “Over what? Weight?”

He swallowed.

His jaw tightened.

“At the gathering” he said quietly. “I heard a bunch of dumbasses talking.

‘Damn, she looks fine.’

‘Wonder who her man is. Bet he’s some young hotshot.’”

“I wanted to knock their teeth out. Deport them if I could.”

He let out a bitter breath. “Then I saw you taking pictures with your army friends. And I thought… maybe they were right.”

“And that morning,” he continued, “when my shirt felt tight, it just added fuel to it all.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Oh my god, Frank,” you said softly. “I thought — for a minute — you were cheating. Or losing interest in me.”

He looked up, startled.

“But then I knew,” you continued, stepping closer. “That something hurt you. And you needed time. I just… never expected this.”

You took his face in your hands.

“Don’t you ever call yourself that. Or say you don’t deserve me.”

Your voice shook. “You gave me a home. Safety. A shoulder. Your heart.”

You pressed your forehead to his.

“And for the record, you didn’t gain weight. You look exactly the same to me. And even if you did? I’d still love you.”

You huffed a laugh through tears.

“And the shirt? That’s my fault. I changed the detergent. Even my clothes shrank — I’ve been walking around feeling like I’m wearing toddler knickers.”

Frank smirked weakly.

“So… just assholes talking?”

“Exactly,” you said. “And if I ever hear them again, my army bros will handle it.”

You stepped forward and wrapped yourself around him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For pushing you away these last two weeks.”

He hugged you tightly, kissing your temple.

“Well,” you murmured with a smile. “You can make it up to me.”

You slipped away, giggling as you darted toward the bathroom.

Frank watched you go, lighter than he’d felt in weeks.

You decided on the date because it had been a while.

Because ever since the gathering, something in Frank had shifted — the rigid routine, the forced workouts, the way he pulled away without ever really letting you go. And you thought… why not? Why not take him somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar.

Your favourite restaurant by the sea.

So when you found Frank in the garage, buried in renovation plans like they were military orders, you crossed your arms and smiled.

“Hey, honey ,” you said sweetly. “Come on. Let’s go out tonight.”

He glanced up looking surprised.

“It’s been a rough week,” you continued softly. “For both of us. Let’s just… relax. Have a drink. Be us again.”

You hid your smile as you turned away, hoping — really hoping — you might get your General back tonight. Maybe he’d finally let whatever he was carrying go.

That night, you dressed together. You handed him a long-sleeved shirt, and you saw the hesitation flicker across his face.

“This one might—”

“It’ll fit,” you said easily.

And somehow, it did.

Perfectly.

The confusion crossed his expression, but before he could dwell on it, you wrapped your arms around him from behind.

“You ready, babe?”

He turned, and the way his eyes softened when he saw you in jeans, a white knit top, hair thrown up in a messy bun, made your chest ache.

You reached up and messed up his hair deliberately.

“Damn, I love your hair so much.”

“Oh?” he muttered. “Didn’t know it had that kind of magnetic pull.”

You laughed, and just like that, the tension eased.

The drive was calm. Easy. You both enjoyed the seaside drive like the old times and the bar was just as you loved it. Quiet. Open to the sea. A dock stretching out toward the water. Everyone minding their own business.

Safe.

You ate. You talked. You drank wine for you, whiskey for him.

Then you heard your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned, surprised, and then smiled.

“James!”

An old friend from school. English club. Not close, but familiar. He’d changed, no glasses, broader shoulders, but the smile was the same.

You greeted him warmly, but you didn’t hug him.

“And this is my partner,” you added easily. “Frank.”

James smiled politely. “Nice to meet you. Sorry to interrupt your time.”

You noticed Frank nod, polite but distant, turning back toward the ocean with his glass.

You chatted briefly, volunteering, life updates, until Frank cleared his throat softly.

You took the cue immediately.

“We’ll catch up another time,” you said.

James agreed, wishing you well before leaving.

You turned to Frank. “Sorry, babe. I know tonight was meant to be just us. He’s an old friend, nothing romantic.”

“Hm,” Frank said quietly. “I see.”

The rest of the night passed gently — but quietly.

At home, you went upstairs to get ready for bed while Frank locked up. You were tying your hair up for a shower when he appeared in the doorway.

“You deserve someone your age,” he muttered, eyes fixed anywhere but you.

“Not an old man with a retired soldier’s gut.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You froze — then realised, with a strange mix of hurt and relief, finally.

He was opening up.

“Frank,” you said gently. “I knew something was bothering you. Ever since that gathering. Talk to me — what really happened?”

He shook his head, frustration rough in his voice.

 “Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I did,” you replied softly. “But I also saw you stop eating properly. Pushing food away. Pulling back when I touch you. All those random workouts.”

You stepped closer.

“So tell me — what happened?”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t have let you meet me. You should have someone more than I am. Someone your age. Not me.”

You stared at him.

“Over what?” you asked quietly. “Weight?”

He swallowed hard.

“At the gathering,” he said at last. “I heard a bunch of dumbasses talking.”

His jaw tightened.

“‘Damn, she looks fine.’ ‘Wonder who her man is. Bet he’s some young hotshot.’”

His hands curled into fists.

“I wanted to knock their teeth out. Deport them if I could,” he muttered bitterly. “Then I saw you taking pictures with your army friends… and I thought maybe they were right.”

He exhaled sharply.

 “And that morning, when my shirt felt tight, it just added fuel to it all.”

You could feel the anger flare, not at him, but at the idiots who had planted the thought in his head. Bloody dumbasses. If you’d known that same day, you would’ve happily kicked their bollocks in with your heels.

And then the guilt hit.

The detergent.

All of it, weeks of insecurity, compressed into him without a word.

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Oh my god, Frank,” you whispered when he finished. “I thought you were cheating. Or losing interest in me.” 

He looked horrified.

“But then I knew,” you continued, stepping closer. “That something hurt you. I just never expected this.”

You cupped his face firmly, making him look at you.

“Don’t you ever call yourself that. Or say you don’t deserve me,” you said, voice trembling despite yourself.

“You gave me everything, a home, safety, your heart.”

You rested your forehead against his.

“And for the record — you look exactly the same to me. And even if you didn’t?”

You huffed out a weak laugh. “I’d still love you.”

You pulled back just enough to smirk.

“And the shirt? That’s my fault. I changed the detergent. Even my clothes shrank — I’ve been walking around feeling like I’m wearing toddler knickers.”

He finally smirked small, but real.

“So… just assholes talking?” he asked quietly.

“Exactly,” you said, wrapping your arms around him.

“And if I ever hear them again, my army bros can handle it.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For pushing you away.”

“Well,” you murmured with a smile, cheeks warming as you thought about it,

“you can make it up to me.”

You slipped away toward the bathroom, giggling, heart lighter, face warm, already blushing at the thought of how Frank planned to do exactly that.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt it, the weight lifting.

The tension easing and Frank breathing freely again.

He’d finally let it all out.

And you knew — absolutely, that everything was going to be okay.

Epilogue

A few days later, you found yourselves at the supermarket, cart half full, Frank reading labels like it was a tactical operation.

You were comparing pasta brands when you heard it.

“God, look at that silver fox…”

“Damn. Where do we get one like that?”

Frank frowned.

“…Who are they talking about?” he muttered.

You bit your lip.

He glanced around — then froze.

There was no one else nearby.

Two women down the aisle were pretending very badly to study canned tomatoes, whispering and glancing in his direction.

Slowly, Frank turned to you.

“…Are they talking about me?”

You lost it.

His ears turned red.

A soft snort escaped you before you could stop it.

“Oh my god, Frank — yes. Yes, they are.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, looping your arm through his. “That silver fox hunk? That’s you.”

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“This is deeply uncomfortable.”

You grinned up at him.

“Aw, come on,” you teased. “You’re a total magnet.”

He huffed. “Too bad I’m taken.”

You squeezed his arm possessively.

“Very taken.”

As you wheeled the cart away, you caught him glancing at his reflection in the freezer door, not critically this time, but with something softer.

Something settled.

And you smiled, knowing exactly what he saw.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

[coldkidcookieneck]

Merry Christmas everyone 🎄🤍

Hi guys, I know I haven’t been posting much lately. Between the hectic holiday season, a touch of writer’s block, and life doing its usual cauldron-sized explosions (thankfully none at Nakatomi Plaza🤭), but I wanted to pop in and wish you all a really lovely day.

I’m so grateful for every single one of you for reading my stories, leaving kind comments, and being part of this little space with me. This community has honestly been so caring and supportive, and I never expected writing to lead to making so many new friends. It truly means more to me than I can put into words.

Moreover, I'm happy that you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them (even when my muse is hiding out like a certain well-dressed thief during a Christmas party).

I hope today brings you warmth, comfort, and something that makes you smile. Thank you for being here, and Merry Christmas 🤍✨

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: The Man at Spinner’s End and the Sugar-Fueled Ghost Brigade

Summary: He expected changes to Spinner’s End… but he definitely didn’t expect a sugar-fueled ghost brigade and their unstoppable leader to turn his quiet street upside down.

Author's note: Okay, sooo yes, I know Halloween was basically a month ago and we are living in deep November now 😂 but this little story starts with spooky season and slowly wanders all the way toward winter and New Year’s… so just pretend time makes sense. I had way too much fun writing this chaotic, tiny ghosts, grumpy Snape energy, and soft autumn-to-winter vibes so hope you guys enjoy reading it, and please let me know what you think!😉

Pairings: Severus Snape x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

=============================================

It was a major change from the glass-walled apartment you grew up in.

Back in the city, everything was polished, busy, and loud – the kind of place where even silence had a hum. The skyline blinked at night like it never slept, and neither did you, really. You were used to the steady pulse of deadlines, coffee cups stacked beside your laptop, and the faint buzz of streetlights outside your window at 2 a.m.

Your parents had thrived there too, once, your mother a tireless marketing executive, your father a civil engineer. You remembered the way they’d come home late, eyes heavy but smiling, promising that all this busyness was for a better future. And for a while, it was. You lived comfortably, tucked away in a sleek apartment high above the chaos, where time felt like money and rest felt like a luxury.

But after years of living among deadlines and traffic, the world had begun to feel too small, too noisy, and too fast. You told yourself you could keep up, but some part of you didn’t want to anymore. So when your parents, now happily retired, decided they wanted a slower, simpler life, you didn’t protest.

You followed.

And that’s how you ended up in Spinner’s End, a place that felt like stepping into another time.

The neighbourhood had been refurbished recently, rebuilt into neat modern homes that sat shoulder to shoulder with their older, timeworn neighbours. Most of the original brick houses had been sold to developers who turned them into sleek, pastel-painted residences. But a few stubborn owners refused to sell. The clause was simple: if they didn’t want to relocate, they could renovate, keeping the house’s bones but giving it new breath.

The result was an odd little street: a patchwork of eras. Modern homes with white fences and bright flowerpots stood beside brooding, soot-darkened houses whose chimneys still exhaled faint curls of smoke.

To adults, it looked charming.

To children, it looked haunted.

Your parents’ house was one of the newly redone ones, cozy, warm, and filled with your mother’s laughter and your father’s endless tinkering. You had returned after a few years working as a freelance magazine writer, your laptop tucked under one arm and your exhaustion under the other. You told yourself it was just temporary, a quick recharge before you returned to the fast lane. But deep down, you knew the truth: the city had taken too much out of you.

Here, people actually said good morning. Neighbours waved from their gardens. The air smelt of rain, not exhaust. And before long, you found yourself drawn into the rhythm of it, carrying groceries for Mrs. Smith down the lane, chatting with the retired postman, and being invited to dinner by nearly everyone within walking distance.

Your first evening with the neighbours had been an unexpected delight. The Morrisons, who lived three houses down, invited your family over for stew and apple crumble. Their grandchildren, Sam and Isla, were visiting for the holidays, and their friends Penny and Oliver, who lived across the lane, had tagged along.

They were bright, wild things, all between four and six, full of energy and curiosity. From the moment you walked in, they treated you like some kind of celebrity.

“Are you really a writer?” Penny asked, eyes wide as you helped her carry napkins to the table.

“Sometimes,” you said with a grin. “Mostly I write about people who are much more interesting than me.”

Sam frowned thoughtfully. “You could write about us.”

You pretended to think about it. “Only if you promise not to sue me for stealing your life stories.”

Laughter followed, and by dessert, you were already an honorary member of the family. It didn’t take long for the four of them to decide that you were their “Miss Y/N”, their self-appointed big sister, a title that filled something in your heart you didn’t realise had been empty. You’d always wanted siblings. Now, suddenly, you had four little whirlwinds instead.

Together, you became inseparable: baking cookies, collecting leaves for crafts, and holding picnics in the park when the weather was kind.

“Miss Y/N, you make the best ghost cookies!” 'Isla', declared one afternoon, cheeks smeared with flour.“That’s because I add extra sugar and chaos,” you teased, dusting her nose with powdered sugar.

As autumn crept in, Halloween approached, and with it came excitement you hadn’t felt since childhood. At the park one crisp afternoon, you and the children sat on a bench surrounded by fallen leaves, discussing costumes. Witch hats, capes, face paint, fake fangs,  by the end of the day, you had a full shopping list ready.

The verdict? You’d all be ghosts. Matching ones.

Later, as you buckle them up in the car to the craft shop, their chatter filled the car, a blur of squeaky laughter and debates about who would have the “scariest sheet”. Then Oliver, the quietest of the bunch, suddenly fell silent.

“Miss Y/N,” he said softly, “are we going to go around the end of the lane for trick-or-treating?”

You caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. “The end of the lane? Of course. Why?”. Penny leaned close, whispering dramatically, “Because that’s where the scary man lives.”

You blinked. “The scary man?”

Sam nodded gravely. “The one with long hair and a black coat. He shouted at us once. Said we were noisy monkeys.”

“Oh, that.” You tried not to laugh.

Isla shuddered. “He yelled really loud, Miss Y/N! He scared Penny so bad she dropped her popsicle!”

You smiled gently. “Maybe he just doesn’t like loud noises. Some people like quiet, that’s all.”

“But”, Oliver whispered, “his porch light comes on every night. And his window’s always open during the day. My grandpa says no one ever sees him, except when he’s angry.”

You hummed while starting the car, though truthfully, you’d noticed the house too. It sat near the curve of the lane, one of the few untouched by time. Its windows were curtained, its walls dark with age, and its garden a tangle of ivy and shadows. Your parents had mentioned him once, too.

“He’s not exactly friendly,” your mum had said. “Slammed the door on us when we tried to introduce ourselves.”

“Seems he prefers solitude,” your dad added. “But he pays his taxes. That’s something.”

You’d never seen him yourself. I only heard the name whispered once — Mr Snape.

“Well,” you said brightly, looking at the kids, “we’ll decorate the whole lane this year – pumpkins, lights, cobwebs, everything. It’ll be so bright and happy that no one will feel scared. And when we go trick-or-treating, I’ll be right there with you, and we are going to be ghosts so no one can scare us.  Deal?”

The children exchanged smiles.

“Deal!” they chorused.

“Good.” You grinned. “Now, who wants to sing Toy Story songs to calm our spooky nerves?”

The car erupted into laughter and off-key singing, the windows fogging with warmth as you drove down the golden-leafed street. The old house at the end of the lane loomed quietly as you passed, its dark windows reflecting the pale afternoon light like watching eyes.

And though you didn’t know it yet, someone was watching.

The night before Halloween, your cozy little home turned into a den of giggles, flour dust, and pumpkin guts.

The kids had begged for a sleepover,  “Please, Miss Y/N! Just one night! We promise we won’t make a mess!”, and honestly, you didn’t have the heart to say no.

So after dinner, you spread blankets and pillows all over the living room floor. The air smelled of cinnamon candles and roasted marshmallows. Penny had brought her stuffed bat (“Her name’s Beatrice, and she keeps the ghosts away”), Oliver and Isla carried a flashlight “for emergencies,” and Sam kept insisting on using your laptop to find “the scariest movie ever.”

You settled for Hocus Pocus. Within an hour, the room was glowing with the flicker of the TV and soft snores as little ghosts-in-training drifted off under their blankets. You stayed awake a bit longer, watching the soft rise and fall of their shoulders, feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long time — peace.

Morning arrived far too early. You were woken by the sound of muffled giggles and the smell of pancakes wafting from the kitchen.

Your mum’s cheerful voice called out, “Breakfast is ready, everyone!”

You sat up, hair a mess, just in time to see Penny dragging her blanket like a cape. “I smell syrup!” she squealed.

Oliver pointed his flashlight dramatically toward the kitchen. “To the pancakes!”

You couldn’t help laughing. “March, my little ghosts. Breakfast calls.”

At the table, your dad had taken his role as morning entertainer very seriously. He sat with a spatula like a microphone, pretending to host a live interview.

“So, Penny,” he said in a deep announcer voice, “tell us, how does it feel to be a ghost on the eve of your first official haunting?”

Penny giggled, mouth full of pancake. “Sticky!”

“And Sam, rumors say you’re the team leader of this ghost crew. Thoughts?”

Sam puffed his chest. “We’re gonna get so much candy. No fear. No mercy.

“Except spiders,” Both Isla and Oliver added seriously.

“Spiders don’t count,” Sam muttered, blushing as everyone laughed.

After breakfast came decorations.

Pumpkins carved with crooked smiles lined the porch. Cobwebs tangled on the banister. Paper bats hung from the ceiling, and the air smelled like cinnamon and glue. Sam nearly glued his sleeve to a ghost cutout, Isla and Penny sprinkled glitter on everything in reach saying it’s haunted now, and Oliver kept stealing the candy corn jar, pretending to “test” it for safety.

By midafternoon, the house looked like Halloween had exploded inside it. You collapsed onto the couch beside Isla, who handed you a cookie and said with a tired little sigh, “I think we did good."

 “You did amazing,” you said, bumping your shoulder against hers.

 Exhausted but happy, you and your little crew took a quick nap before the big night.

When evening fell, excitement filled the air again. You helped each of them into their costumes, white bedsheets with uneven eye holes, small black hats, and glow-in-the-dark bracelets. You wore a ghost costume too, though yours had a more stylish flair thanks to your mum’s help with the trimming.

Your father whistled from the porch as you lined up for a photo.

“Oh, look at that, the ghost and her sidekicks!”

“More like my chaos brigade,” you quipped.

“Say boo!” your mum called.

“BOO!” the kids screamed in unison just as Isla stuck her tongue out. The camera flash went off mid-giggle.

The sky was already ink-blue when you stepped out.

The lane glowed orange from carved pumpkins and string lights. Children in costumes darted across the pavement, their laughter echoing through the crisp air.

You held a bag of spare sweets and tissues; experience had taught you that someone always cried halfway through trick-or-treating.

You walked a few steps behind the kids, adjusting Sam’s sheet, which kept slipping over his eyes.

“I can’t see anything!” he complained.

“That’s because you look like a lampshade,” you teased, tugging the fabric straight again. Isla clung to your hand, humming I Put a Spell on You from Hocus Pocus under her breath.

Up ahead, Penny and Oliver were hopping down the path, their candy buckets swinging wildly.

“Last one to the corner’s a rotten pumpkin!” Oliver shouted.

“Hey! No fair!” Penny yelled, racing after him.

In their excitement, Oliver bumped into her, and her bucket tipped, candy scattering across the ground and bouncing into the shadows of the old house at the end of the lane.

The one house without decorations.

The one with curtains drawn tight.

“Penny, wait—!” you called, but she was already scampering toward the fence, her ghost sheet flapping behind her. Oliver followed close behind, guilt written all over his little face.

“Come back, you two!” Isla cried, clutching your arm.

“They just dropped a few sweets; it’s fine,” you reassured her, though your stomach twisted slightly.

The others gasped when the porch light flickered on.

And then, the door creaked open.

It wasn’t the soft kind of creak either; it was sharp and loud, slicing through the laughter like a warning.

Penny froze mid-step. Oliver tripped over her sheet and fell with a muffled thud. He yelped, clutching his knee.

Your heart turned cold. You broke into a run.

“It’s all right, sweetheart, I’ve got you—”

But before you could reach them, a tall black figure stepped into the doorway.

The kids screamed and you stopped dead in your tracks.

The man stepped into the porch light, tall, imposing, wrapped in a long black coat that seemed to swallow the glow. But instead of shouting, he knelt down beside Oliver.

“You’re bleeding,” he said briskly, pulling a folded handkerchief from his pocket. “Hold still.”

His voice was low and precise, the words clipped but calm. His long fingers moved with unexpected gentleness as he dabbed at the scrape.

You finally caught up, breathless, Isla and Sam clinging to your sides. Your ghost sheet was tangled around your legs.

“I’m so sorry, Mr.—”

“Snape,” he said shortly, not looking up.

“Mr. Snape. They didn’t mean to—”

“Children rarely do.”

You knelt beside him, still half in disbelief that the “scary man” was… helping. His hair fell like dark curtains around his face, his expression tight with irritation, but his tone, his movements, were controlled. Almost careful.

When he finally looked up, his gaze met yours, a flicker of surprise there, as though he hadn’t expected calmness in return.

Oliver sniffled. You brushed his cheek gently.

“See, Ollie? Not so scary after all.”

Snape’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t a scowl either.

“Try to keep your… sheeted army out of my garden next time,” he said dryly.

Penny, Isla, and Sam all nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir!” they chorused, wide-eyed.

He looked at them, and just for a moment, the smallest, almost invisible smile softened his face.

You let out a shaky laugh. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

He stood, tall and distant again, and with a curt nod, disappeared back inside. The door closed with a soft click.

The kids were still buzzing with adrenaline all the way home.

“Did you see him? He helped Oliver!” Isla whispered.

“He didn’t even shout!” Sam said, eyes wide.

“Maybe he’s not evil,” Penny added thoughtfully.

“Maybe,” you said softly.

You patched Oliver’s knee properly, gave everyone mugs of hot chocolate, and tucked them into their sleeping bags by the fire.

You had just started cleaning up when the doorbell rang.

Your mother opened it and returned holding a small wicker basket.

“This was on the porch,” she said, her brow lifting. “No one was there.”

Inside were old-fashioned wrapped sweets, the kind sold in tiny jars at corner shops, and a folded note written in neat, slanted handwriting:

For the brave little ghost and her companions. Do refrain from trespassing next time.— S.S.

You couldn’t help it, you laughed softly. “Well,” you murmured, setting the basket down, “maybe he’s not such a scary man after all.”

Your dad peered over your shoulder, squinting at the signature. “S.S.? Huh. I guess even scary blokes have manners.”

Your mum smiled knowingly. “Maybe he’s just lonely.”

Outside, the wind rustled through the lane, carrying the last echoes of laughter, and far down at the end, behind those dark curtains, a single light stayed on longer than usual.

For years, Spinner’s End had been nothing but dust, shadows, cold wind through broken panes, and the quiet rhythm of his own breathing.

And he liked it that way.

Severus Snape vanished from the wizarding world the same way one extinguishes a flame: silently, efficiently, without witness or sentiment. His wand, the last symbol of everything he had ever survived, endured, and hated, now lay buried at the bottom of a locked iron chest. When he walked away, he carried nothing except a worn coat, a stack of research notes, and a letter that had found him at the worst possible moment.

A letter from Gringotts.

Almost mocking.

Prince inheritance.

Money. Stocks. Land. Dormant investments that had matured untouched for decades.

Eileen Prince had never left him warmth but she had left him resources which was enough to ensure he never had to teach, bow, or obey anyone again.

He sold the last of his magical belongings. Burned letters. Locked his wand away so deeply it might as well not exist.

Then he walked away.

His new life became something quiet, almost startlingly human. Scientific journals replaced spellbooks. Microscopes instead of cauldrons. He worked as a freelance researcher in botany and plant pathology, discreet, effective, untraceable. Knowledge of rare magical flora translated disturbingly well into the Muggle world.

He bought books. Real ones like botanical studies, herbal field guides, scientific journals about soil composition and plant regeneration. He turned his potion-brewing precision into something mundanely human, freelance plant research. Quiet, profitable, unnoticed.

Then came the developers.

Spinner's End, once forgotten, crooked, and decaying, was suddenly the target of revitalization. Cranes rose like metal giants, scaffolding wrapped around crumbling walls, and old houses vanished under bulldozers.

Severus almost left.

But then they announced renovations, not full demolition. Homeowners could choose: rebuild, or restore.

For the first time in decades, he felt the strange, uncomfortable flicker of possibility.

He restored his own home on his term which was not for beauty, but for solitude. The outside remained as uninviting as ever: peeling black paint, dim curtains, ivy curling around rusted fences. The inside, however, was stripped bare and rebuilt in minimalist lines. Pale walls, clean bookshelves, glass jars labelled with meticulous care. Silence remained, but it was a chosen silence now, not an echo of ruin.

Then the neighbors came and with them came noise.

Not just any noise, it was chaotic, intrusive, joy-saturated noise.

The kind that seeped through walls, under doors, into the marrow of his peace like a stubborn draft.

Slowly, the empty street transformed.

First came the young families, boxes piled high in rented vans, children clinging to stuffed animals, parents smiling with that bright forced optimism only new beginnings brought.

Then retirees with gardening hats and too much free time.

Along with hat came newlyweds with matching jackets and hopes larger than the homes they moved into.

Parents pushed strollers across pavement still smelling of fresh tar and toddlers toddled with wobbling steps, palms slapping the ground when they fell, laughter bubbling up as if pain did not yet exist in their world.

Severus sat at his window with a cup of tea, watching them reclaim the street that had for decades belonged to rot and silence  a street he chose because no one wanted it.

Neighbors waved when they spotted him through the glass but he never waved back.

Sometimes they knocked bright smiles ready, introductions rehearsed which he never answered.

Sometimes pamphlets advertising community potlucks, committee meetings, landscaping discussions  were tucked neatly into his mailbox or placed on his porch.

Those went straight into the fire.

And yet, they still persisted.

But the children…

The children were the worst.

Shrieking laughter echoed through the newly built park across from his house, the kind of noise that was not the natural chaos of childhood, but the sharp, unrestrained kind that pierced thought.

He told himself it would pass yet it did not.

They tested his patience and it didn't take long for Severus to burst.

One evening, as he settled down to read a book, he opened his window before sitting, and as he did, he saw four in particular, two girls, two boys, no older than five, were playing some kind of chase game directly outside his fence.

And he hoped that his evening would be quiet but then high-pitched shrieks pierced the air and someone was even howling along with shrieking for absolutely no reason at all.

Severus tried to ignore it.

He lasted exactly seven minutes.

Severus set down his book and closed it.

Very carefully.

He rose with the slow inevitability of a thunderstorm forming, coat and hair shifting as if caught in an unseen wind and then opened his door, stepped into the crisp evening, and the moment the children noticed him, their gleeful screeching escalated into almost weaponized chaos.

That was the final straw.

“QUIET, YOU NOISY MONKEYS!”

Every sound stopped.

Four small faces turned toward him, wide-eyed, caught mid-sin like startled woodland creatures.

One little girl, the one with pigtails and a pink jacket froze so completely that the ice cream in her hand slipped, rolled down her fingers, fell, and landed in the dirt with a tragic little splat.

Severus blinked as the girl stared at the ruined ice cream.

Her lower lip trembled.

Oh no.

Not tears.

Absolutely not.

Guilt punched him square in the chest — sharp, old, unwelcome.

He despised guilt and how familiar it felt.

Quickly, too quickly, he muttered something that could barely pass as, “Go on, then,” flicked his hand as if dismissing a spell, and turned on his heel.

He slammed the door, perhaps harder than necessary.

The sound echoed through the hallway.

Silence returned.

Artificial, brittle silence.

He leaned against the door for half a second, just long enough to acknowledge the inconvenient truth blooming beneath his ribs:

He had scared the children when he hadn’t meant to.

Not really especially not this version of children, not the ones who laughed easily and lived without fear.

Severus closed his eyes and swallowed the feeling.

And, as always, carried on.

The next week, the lane welcomed a new set of residents, a moving truck, laughter, chatter, the sound of boxes thudding against the porch.

He ignored it.

That is, until someone knocked.

When he opened the door, there stood a kindly older man and woman, bright-eyed, hopeful. “Hello! We’re new to the lane and thought we’d introduce ourselves.”

He stared for exactly three seconds before shutting the door with a thunk.

Peace restored.

For now.

Days later, he saw you.

At first, you were simply another face, chatting easily with neighbors, helping carry groceries, kneeling to tie a child’s shoe. But you smiled differently. The kind that reached people. That drew them in. The very same four children, the “monkeys”, followed you like a miniature parade everywhere you went.

But it was your smile that irritated him most.

Soft, genuine, the kind that drew people in as if warmth itself lived behind your teeth.

Ridiculous.

One afternoon, as he passed a pair of gossiping neighbors, he overheard:

“That’s the daughter of the couple who moved here, the one the grumpy man slammed the door on.”

His eye twitched.

You adapted quickly. Everyone knew you, liked you and even the children he yelled at.

You were steady warmth, effortless, maddening, noticeable.

He told himself you were irrelevant.

He lied.

Sometimes, rarely, he found himself pausing when he heard your laugh drift through the lane.

Then came October.

Leaves gathered in rust-colored piles along fences, and pumpkins appeared on doorsteps along with plastic bats and smiling skeletons hung from windows.

The air smelled like chimney smoke and cold earth.

Halloween.

A holiday he despised.

He still remembered his childhood Halloweens, standing alone, empty-handed, watching other children laugh and run,costumes bright and full of joy that he knew he’d never be allowed to touch.

So on the evening of October 31st, he made preparation:

He made tea, opened a book, cracked a window slightly, just enough for cool air and distant laughter to drift inside.

Lights — OFF.

Curtains — CLOSED.

Door — LOCKED.

Porch — dark enough to warn away even the bravest sugar-drunk toddler.

Children ran past the lane in excited chaos to which he heard their footsteps, their shrieks, their joy.

Then—

“LAST ONE TO THE CORNER IS A ROTTEN PUMPKIN!”

A little girl's voice, breathless, triumphant.

Another shouted back:

“HEY! NO FAIR!”

Severus felt a reluctant smirk tug at his mouth.

Seconds later, footsteps. Running. Fast.

A clatter and something falling.

Something landing in his yard.

His eyes widened.

“Oh, for—”

He moved to the window, peering through the narrow gap in the curtain.

There, in the dim light,  he saw two ghost-costumed children, one small girl and the boy who often clung to her side.

The girl looked familiar.

Ice cream girl.

She reached through his fence, trying to retrieve her dropped candies. The boy climbed through the gap entirely, sheet and all, into his yard and, immediately the girl followed after him.

Then voices down the lane:

Severus closed his eyes.

“Penny and Oliver, wait!”

“Come back, you two!

Of course.

He sighed sharply, grabbed his coat, flicked the porch light on, and swung the door open.

Two small ghosts froze mid-step. One tripped, the other gasped and also heard other down the path screamed too. A shrill scream pierced the air, and then he saw you rushing down the path in a flurry of white fabric.

By then Severus was already walking toward the boy and as he did he saw the boy had scraped his knee.

Without thinking, Severus knelt, pulling his handkerchief from his coat. His hands moved automatically, precise, gentle.“You’re bleeding,” he said briskly, pulling a folded handkerchief from his pocket. “Hold still.”

His voice was low and precise, the words clipped but calm. His long fingers moved with unexpected gentleness as he dabbed at the scrape.

Behind him, he heard you finally stop, breathless, the other children clinging to your legs like frightened ducklings.

“I’m so sorry, Mr—”

“Snape.”

“Mr. Snape. They didn’t mean to—”

“Children rarely do.”

You knelt beside him, tentative, unsure, and he could feel your confusion radiating off you.

Confusion because he,the rumored grump of the lane, was helping.

His hair fell like curtains around his face, his expression tight, but his movements remained careful. Intentional.

When he finally looked up, his gaze collided with yours, steady, warm, unafraid and the kind of gaze that held people not with force, but with understanding.

Oliver sniffled. You brushed his cheek gently.

“See, Ollie? Not so scary after all.”

Something in him faltered.Not fear.Not discomfort. Just… presence. Warmth. A stillness that unnerved him.

Four small ghosts stared up at him, wide-eyed, unified, adorable in a way that terrified him more than any dark magic ever had.

He cleared his throat.

“Try to keep your… sheeted army out of my garden next time,” he said, and then the four ghost nodded in unicorn saying,”Yes, sir.”

He could feel the edges of his mouth twitching, almost, almost, a smile you noticed and somehow, your quiet laugh unraveled something deep inside him as you said “We’ll do our best”. 

Wide-eyed.

Cute.

Terrifyingly effective.

You left with murmured apologies and thank you’s, herding the little ones back down the lane. He closed the door, stood in the dim light for a long moment, then looked down at the faint smear of blood on his handkerchief.

By the time he washed it clean, his thoughts were no longer silent.

Later that night, he wrapped a small wicker basket with a neat bow. Inside, a few of his favorite sweets in a jar, the kind he’d kept from habit, though he never ate them. He scribbled a short note, his hand pausing only once before signing the initials.

He didn’t owe anyone anything.

He didn’t owe you anything.

And yet—

He crossed the lane quietly. As he approached your house, he could see through the window, you and the children laughing with your parents, all changed into pajamas, cheeks flushed with happiness.

For the brave little ghost and her companions. Do refrain from trespassing next time. — S.S.

Something inside him, something dusty and long-forgotten, loosened.

He placed the basket quietly at your door, rang the door bell and walked home through the cold night, the air crisp and smelling faintly of smoke and sugar.

When he reached his study, he sat down at his desk, staring at nothing. For the first time in years, there was something soft beneath his ribs, a pulse of warmth he hadn’t felt since… well, since long before peace ever seemed possible.

Then carefully, quietly, he allowed himself the smallest, softest smile.

And that night, he went to bed thinking of the little ghosts, and the woman who’d dared to walk into his night while bringing light with her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

[muiitoloko]

The Judge’s Picnic

Summary: He never intended to join them in the sun—but when a stranger approaches his daughter, the judge is reminded why he keeps his shadows close.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

First, Second, Third and Fourth part here

Also read on Ao3

The morning light slipped quietly through the tall, arched windows of your bedchamber, filtered through the thick damask drapes in pale ribbons. The fire had burned low in the hearth, leaving behind only a faint orange glow and the scent of charred wood. The sheets beneath you were rumpled and still warm, tangled from the night before.

When you stirred—slowly, sorely—Turpin was already dressed. Or nearly. He stood near the full-length mirror, shirt buttoned, waistcoat in hand, one foot braced on the ottoman as he fastened the silver buckles of his boots. The early light caught the sharp edges of his profile: the line of his hooked nose, the deep furrow between his brows, the familiar severity in his hazel eyes as he adjusted his collar.

He noticed your movement before you spoke. His gaze met yours in the mirror. “Stay in bed,” he said, baritone steady, as though delivering a sentence from the bench. “You need rest.”

You nodded, bleary-eyed, the linen sheet still clutched to your chest. “The girls—”

“I’ve given orders,” he interrupted. “Breakfast will be brought to you here. The carriage is being prepared. I’ll see to it they arrive at the schoolhouse on time.”

You blinked, surprised. “You’ll take them?”

“I’ll see that they are taken,” he corrected. “Bamford is waiting.”

You nodded again, quietly, brushing your knuckles across your eyes. The soreness in your thighs was matched only by the weight in your chest, heavy and confusing. You watched him from the bed as he reached for his coat—black wool, finely cut—and shrugged it over his broad shoulders with practiced ease. His fingers moved to the collar again, adjusting it with stiff precision, but he faltered slightly, the edge of his hand brushing the spot just below his throat.

You saw it before he could turn—just a glimpse of red.

The mark you left.

A bite. Shallow but deliberate, nestled against the pale skin of his neck like a brand.

He caught your gaze.

And for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he turned back to the mirror, adjusting his cravat to hide it. “That was unseemly,” he muttered.

You flushed, your fingers curling around the edge of the sheet. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Turpin grunted, but said no more on the matter.

He had nearly finished fastening his cuffs when your voice broke the silence again.

“Richard,” you said, softly.

He paused. “Yes.”

“I made the girls a promise,” you murmured, rising slightly in bed. “They’ve been asking for weeks. I told them… I told them I would take them to the park on Saturday.”

He said nothing.

You hesitated, watching his back stiffen as he stood by the window, adjusting the buttons of his coat.

“I… I wanted your permission,” you added quickly. “Of course. I wouldn’t presume otherwise. It’s only an hour. I thought…” You trailed off. “I thought it might do them good. The air.”

Turpin didn’t turn. He remained still, one hand resting on the window frame, the early light casting long shadows along his sleeves.

At length, he spoke.

“No.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “But—it’s just the park.”

“I said no,” he repeated, his voice clipped.

The ache in your chest returned. You tightened the sheet around your chest and looked down at your lap, throat burning. You hadn’t expected miracles. You hadn’t expected warmth. But you had hoped—for something. For a change. A turning point.

Last night had meant something. Hadn’t it?

You tried again.

“They won’t be gone long,” you whispered. “Annabelle has been asking for weeks. Clara already picked out a ribbon for her bonnet. And Margery—”

“I am aware of what they want,” he snapped, turning now to face you. “That does not change the rules of this house.”

You flinched.

He saw it.

And it stopped him.

Turpin’s expression softened—barely—but he didn’t speak. Not at once. He studied you. The way you sat there, the sheet clutched like armor. The way your eyes dropped to your lap, silence settling over your shoulders like a cloak. You had thought, foolishly perhaps, that last night would open something in him. That it had.

But now…

You turned your face slightly, hiding the disappointment in your eyes.

And that—more than anything—made him move.

He stepped closer.

The creak of the floorboards broke the silence. Then the soft rustle of his coat as he neared the edge of the bed. You felt his shadow before you saw him.

“Look at me,” he said, quietly.

You didn’t.

His hand came beneath your chin, lifting your gaze to his. His fingers were cool, calloused, steady.

He studied your face.

His thumb brushed the side of your jaw, then slid slowly down your throat, tracing the bruises and marks he had left there not twelve hours ago. The curve of your neck. The dip of your collarbone.

He could see the disappointment on your face.

And worse—the resignation.

Turpin exhaled slowly, the sound low and heavy.

“You are diligent,” he said at last, voice quiet. “With the girls.”

Your breath caught.

He paused.

Then—finally—he relented.

“One hour,” he said, hazel eyes narrowing. “No more.”

You blinked.

“I’ll have the carriage ready,” he added. “And I will accompany you.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You… will?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I trust you to keep them within bounds on your own?”

You flushed.

Turpin watched the color bloom in your cheeks.

It came slow, creeping up from your throat to stain your cheekbones with the heat of emotion—shame, gratitude, perhaps a touch of surprise. It suited you poorly, in his opinion. Far too soft for a woman who'd spent the night atop his face, weeping her pleasure into his mouth while whispering prayers between gasps. But still… it held a certain appeal. The way your gaze dropped modestly to your hands in your lap. The way your lashes fluttered once, twice, like you were still rehearsing the words before you spoke them.

“I…” you began quietly, lifting your gaze. “About last night—”

“No.” Turpin interrupted you briskly, his baritone clipping the air in two. He stepped back before your thoughts could coalesce into anything sentimental. “What was it the girls wished to do in the park?”

You blinked, startled by the interruption, but recovered quickly. You swallowed your words, the tenderness still hanging on your tongue like honey, unsaid and unwanted.

“A picnic,” you said instead, voice smoothing with practice. “They wished for a picnic, my lord.”

Turpin’s brow furrowed. “A what.”

You tilted your head, surprised. “A picnic, my lord.”

He didn’t speak. His hazel eyes narrowed faintly. You watched the faint twitch of distaste at the corner of his mouth.

Turpin repeated the word slowly, like it tasted foreign and suspect. “A… picnic.”

“Yes,” you said, sitting straighter. “From the French piquenique. It’s becoming rather common among families with children. Ladies’ journals are full of it now. It means taking food outside—to eat in the open. In the grass. With blankets, usually.”

He stared at you as if you’d just described eating from a trough.

“On the ground,” he said slowly. “With insects.”

You fought a smile. “Yes. With insects.”

His expression soured further. “And sun.”

“Indeed.”

“Like peasants.”

You laughed softly before you could help yourself. “Like children, my lord. Who spend too much time behind lace curtains.”

Turpin's jaw flexed, his hazel eyes glinting beneath his heavy brow. His gaze flicked to the side, to the window, where the weak morning light filtered across the polished wood of his chamber floor. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, finally:

“And what does one bring to such an absurd affair?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Food, my lord.”

Turpin’s mouth twitched. “Bread?”

“Yes.”

“Cheese?”

“If we have any left. Cook mentioned a wedge yesterday, but Margery has a habit of feeding the corners to the dog.”

“She hasn’t got a dog.”

“She feeds them regardless.”

His gaze returned to you. Steady. Searching.

You lifted your chin. “We’ll take what we have. Tarts. Cold tea. Strawberries, if cook permits. They only want to eat on a blanket in the grass. That is all.”

Turpin exhaled heavily through his nose, eyes dragging up and down your figure as though the sheer suggestion of eating on the ground had stained your person.

Then he turned back to the dressing table and muttered, “God save me from fashionable French idiocy.”

You smothered your grin behind a hand.

He caught it in the mirror.

And pretended not to.

Saturday arrived far too quickly for Richard Turpin’s liking.

He had, in the deepest folds of his cynical heart, placed his trust in London weather—the sort of dreary grey mornings and endless drizzle that had spoiled picnics and parades for better men than he. But fate, it seemed, had a perverse sense of humor.

The sky was blue. Not a polite, dusty grey-blue, but a sharp, bright, offensive sort of blue that made the rooftops glow and the birds more vocal than was decent. The air was warm, fragrant with the scent of river reeds and early roses. The park—green, crowded, abominable—beckoned.

“Damn it,” Turpin muttered under his breath as the carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones, his fingers curling tighter around the ivory handle of his cane.

Across from him, you sat poised with the picnic basket nestled primly on your lap, shawl tied neatly at your shoulders, your hair pinned in the style he preferred: modest, elegant, not too loose.

On your right sat Annabelle and Clara, arranged side-by-side like matched bookends, their bonnets tied, hands clasped, each holding a small woven napkin in her lap. The girls had scrubbed themselves to a sheen. Clara beamed. Annabelle stared at the window with an air of solemn triumph, as though she'd personally bent the sky to her will for this outing.

And then—there was Margery.

The four-year-old was in Turpin’s lap.

She had not asked permission. She had simply clambered onto him the moment the carriage door shut and had remained there ever since, wriggling, giggling, and occasionally attempting to tie his cravat into knots with her jam-sticky fingers.

“Will you sit still, girl?” Turpin growled, gripping her around the waist with one large hand.

“But Papa,” she sang, twisting in place, “I’ve got a song in my tummy!”

“Leave it there,” he muttered darkly.

You, seated across from him with folded hands and veiled amusement, kept your eyes politely on the window—but your lips twitched.

Margery, delighted, launched into song anyway:

“There was a man with a beard on his chin—He sat on a pot and fell right in!” 🎵

Turpin closed his eyes slowly.

“Christ preserve me,” he muttered.

You turned your head to hide your smile.

Annabelle stifled a laugh. Clara clapped once and echoed the next verse.

“He cried, ‘Oh help! I cannot swim!’ So they sent for a goose to pull him in!” 🎵

“Enough.” Turpin’s voice cracked through the carriage like a pistol shot, baritone and sharp. “One more rhyme and I’ll leave all three of you in the pond.”

“You can’t,” Margery grinned, utterly unbothered. “I’m the baby.”

“You’re a devil,” he snapped, “and you’ll be the death of me.”

But he didn’t remove her.

You tilted your head, voice smooth and dry. “She gets that from her father.”

His hazel eyes narrowed at you.

“I get it from the goose!” Margery declared proudly.

“Of course you do,” Turpin said grimly, dragging a hand down his face.

There was a beat of silence, interrupted only by the clatter of hooves. Then he shifted, resting his  hand over the head of his cane, and looked directly at you.

“I spoke to Father Lennox yesterday,” he said, voice low and purposeful.

You blinked. “The vicar?”

Turpin nodded. “Reminded him of the substantial tithes I’ve contributed over the years. And of the bronze altar bell I paid to have re-cast. Twice. He listened.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“He said he would offer prayers for the child’s future,” Turpin said, tone clipped. “For its strength. Its health. Its gender.”

You frowned slightly. “He usually says all children are blessings, regardless of sex.”

Turpin’s lips curled in a sneer. “He did. Until he met Margery.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“Last Sunday,” Turpin continued, “she tried to remove his wig mid-sermon.”

Margery beamed. “It was crooked.”

“He called her a ‘blighted whirlwind’ on the way out,” he added, tone bone-dry.

“She bit his thumb once,” Annabelle offered helpfully.

“He put it in her face,” Clara reasoned.

“It smelled like fish,” Margery muttered.

Turpin exhaled slowly, his gaze distant, as if contemplating a life before fatherhood. “This is what the Lord has given me.”

“I told you,” you said sweetly. “Children are blessings.”

Turpin scowled. “This one is a warning.”

Margery, unbothered, began to climb her father like a monkey once again, tugging on his lapel with sticky fingers.

He did not stop her.

Outside, the city gave way to green.

The carriage slowed as it neared the iron gates of the park—painted black, trimmed in gold, flanked by flowering hedgerows. Beyond lay wide lawns and scattered oaks, families spread on blankets, children shrieking, nannies herding the young like cats.

As the carriage rolled to a halt, Turpin looked out at the chaos, nose wrinkling.

“This,” he muttered, “was a mistake.”

You smiled and rose, picnic basket in hand. “You promised.”

Turpin grunted.

And Margery, perched on his knee, looked out the window and screamed, “DUCKS!”

“God help us,” Turpin groaned as she lunged for the door handle.

The judge followed his family into the sunlight like a condemned man to the gallows.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t fear what came next.

The grass was warm beneath your skirts.

Sunlight filtered through the broad canopy of a sycamore tree overhead, dappling your shawl and the worn tartan blanket with gold and green. Annabelle sat beside you, carefully arranging the bread and cheese on a china plate like it was part of some grand tea ceremony. Her movements were precise, delicate—ten-year-old hands trained by observation, not instinct. She adjusted the napkins, then the berry tarts, then the folded handkerchiefs once more for good measure.

“Mother,” she whispered, low enough that only you could hear, “he’s still standing.”

You didn’t have to look to know she meant her father. Richard Turpin had not moved since descending from the carriage.

The judge stood ten paces from the edge of the blanket—his cane planted in the earth, his hat square on his silvering head, one hand resting on the hilt of his walking stick like it were a sword. His long black coat stirred faintly in the breeze. His expression was impassive, though the tight line of his jaw and the sharp glint of his hazel eyes said more than words ever could.

He looked like a magistrate presiding over a particularly dull execution.

“It is shameful,” Annabelle muttered again, cheeks flushed. “Everyone else is sitting.”

And she was right. All around you, families reclined on the grass in various states of disarray: gentlemen in shirt-sleeves, matrons with parasols, toddlers asleep on blankets, governesses unpacking wicker baskets. A pair of boys were tossing a ball near a bench. Even the rector and his wife—whom Turpin considered barely respectable—were sipping tea cross-legged under a linden tree.

Only Richard Turpin remained upright. Scowling. Like a monument to discomfort and pride.

“It’s as if he thinks the grass is beneath him,” Annabelle hissed.

“It is,” you said, straight-faced, handing her a folded napkin. “At least in his opinion.”

Nearby, Clara and Margery squealed as a duck waddled closer. They were barefoot now, stockings stuffed haphazardly into your reticule while they’d chased the birds around the edge of the pond. Clara knelt at the water’s edge, throwing crumbs with practiced grace, while Margery—filthy, delighted—tossed fistfuls of bread and shouted “QUACK!” at full volume.

“Girls,” you called gently, “not so close to the water.”

“We fed the fat one!” Clara cried.

“Fat as Papa!” Margery giggled, cheeks flushed.

“Margery—” you began.

But Clara, turning toward the blanket, squinted at her father’s distant figure. “Why does Papa look like a post?”

Margery erupted in laughter, clutching her stomach and collapsing backward into the grass. “He does!” she howled. “He looks like a gatepost with buttons!”

You bit your lip, hiding your amusement behind your hand.

Turpin’s head turned slightly at the commotion. His hazel eyes fixed on Margery’s sprawled form, then flicked to Clara, then to you. His brow twitched.

You smiled politely. “My lord,” you called gently. “Will you not sit?”

His jaw tensed. “I am quite well as I am.”

“We would be glad for your company,” you added, voice low and calm. “It is a fine afternoon. The girls are… content.”

He didn’t answer at first. The wind stirred his coat. The light caught on the polished silver of his cufflink. His hand tapped once—click—against the ivory handle of his cane.

Then—slowly—his eyes drifted over the blanket.

Annabelle, red-faced and still fussing with the cutlery.

Clara, smiling wide, crumbs clinging to her hem.

Margery, rolling in the grass like a piglet.

And you—composed, radiant in the sunlight, the edge of your shawl brushing the edge of the tartan, your hair caught up in a twist that softened your jaw. You looked young. You looked happy.

Well—most of you looked happy. Annabelle looked as though she might perish from sheer embarrassment.

Turpin exhaled through his nose.

With visible reluctance, he stepped forward.

Clara and Margery gasped in unison. “Papa’s coming!”

You shifted to make room beside you as he lowered himself—stiffly, gingerly—onto the edge.

“You see,” you murmured as he settled beside you, “not so terrible.”

He grunted. “I am a man of the bench, not the meadow.”

“But the meadow doesn’t demand a verdict,” you teased. “Only your patience.”

He adjusted his coat, brushing invisible specks from his trousers with a frown. “And a certain immunity to insects.”

Margery flung herself into his lap with a squeal.

“I’m a beetle!” she cried.

“You are a nuisance,” Turpin muttered, though one arm curled instinctively around her back to steady her.

Annabelle sighed with theatrical relief.

The rest of the afternoon passed in peace.

The girls ate first—tarts and cheese and fruit packed lovingly in layers of cloth. Margery licked jam from her fingers. Clara fed strawberries to a passing dog. Annabelle sipped cold tea from a china cup and did her best to ignore the grass brushing her stockings.

Turpin sat rigidly beside you, coat tails bunched behind him, his cane resting on his knee like a sword held in abeyance. When you tried to offer him a slice of bread and cheese, he waved it away with a faint scowl.

“I do not eat on the ground.”

“Of course not, my lord.”

You didn’t insist. You turned back to the girls instead, passing a tart to Clara, handing Margery a crust to keep her hands occupied.

But Turpin noticed the shift in your face—subtle, but there. A softness behind your eyes. A light in your cheeks.

And he looked at you for a long moment before speaking.

“You seem pleased,” he said gruffly.

You turned toward him, surprised. “I am.”

His brow furrowed. “May I ask… why?”

You looked at your daughters.

Annabelle, fussing over napkins. Clara feeding a goose. Margery asleep in her father’s lap, sticky-fingered and filthy and smiling in her dreams.

And then back to him.

“Because we are all here,” you said simply. “Because today… we are a family.”

Turpin didn’t answer right away. But something in his face shifted—something quiet and almost imperceptible.

Then he reached across the blanket, rough fingers curling around your hand.

Not firm. Not possessive.

Just there.

Present.

And when you returned the gesture, your thumb brushing lightly along his knuckles, he did not flinch. Only glanced at you once—hazel eyes sharp beneath his silvering brow—and then looked away again.

“Who is that?” Annabelle asked, furrowing her brow as she shielded her eyes from the sun. “With Clara?”

You turned, alarm sharpening in your chest.

Clara had wandered toward the water’s edge again, which in itself was not unusual. But now, standing beside her, was a man.

Not one of the park attendants. Not a father with his own child. This man was older—perhaps forty-five, maybe fifty—dressed finely, too finely, in a bottle-green frock coat and polished boots. His hair was slicked back with oil, and a gold chain glinted against his waistcoat. From where you sat, you could not hear what he was saying—but he was too close. Much too close.

And Clara was laughing.

Turpin saw it the same instant you did.

His entire body went still.

The hand in yours stiffened.

Then, with practiced precision, he passed Margery—still sleeping, sticky and flushed—into your arms. She mumbled in protest but did not wake.

You clutched her tightly as Turpin rose.

Not a single word escaped his lips.

He moved swiftly, silently, his boots crunching the grass as he crossed the park with the stride of a man who had passed judgment upon thousands. His coat flared behind him like the wings of some dark bird, his cane forgotten on the tartan, his hazel eyes sharp and locked upon the man beside his daughter.

You sat frozen, heart thudding against your ribs, Margery’s breath warm against your neck. Annabelle leaned into your side, tense and watchful.

Clara looked up just as Turpin approached.

Her smile faltered.

The man turned—saw the judge—and had the good sense to step back at once, his hands lifting slightly in a half-apologetic gesture. Turpin said nothing to him. Not a word. But whatever he saw in the judge’s face was enough. The stranger tipped his hat stiffly, murmured something inaudible, and turned on his heel with haste, vanishing down the gravel path like a man chased by hounds.

Turpin’s hand closed around Clara’s wrist.

Not harshly. But firmly. Deliberately.

She blinked up at him, startled. “Papa—?”

“Come,” he said, voice low and grim.

He did not raise it. He didn’t need to.

Clara was silent as he led her back to the blanket.

You adjusted Margery’s weight in your arms, eyes fixed on your husband as he returned. Clara walked slightly behind him, no longer pouting, no longer smiling—her cheeks flushed with something that might have been embarrassment. Or fear.

When they reached the blanket, Turpin did not speak at first—he merely stood, looming over the spread of bread crusts, empty jars, and rumpled linen, his shadow stretching long in the afternoon sun. Clara lingered behind him, eyes downcast, her fingers curled into the folds of her dress. You looked up at your husband, your chest already tight.

“Pack it,” Turpin said curtly. His baritone voice was low, but final.

Annabelle blinked. “But Papa, we haven’t—”

You didn’t let her finish. “Annabelle.” Your tone was calm but firm, your hand already moving to the basket. “Obey your father.”

The girl’s mouth snapped shut, her shoulders drawing inward.

You rose, shifting Margery gently in your arms. Her curls brushed your cheek, her breath warm and syrup-scented against your throat. She stirred slightly, murmured something incoherent, and nestled deeper into sleep.

Without a word, you crossed to your husband and passed her carefully into his arms.

He took her without flinching.

His hand cupped the back of her head, long fingers curling protectively over her ear, and she adjusted instinctively—her legs tucking up, her cheek resting against the line of his cravat. His cane was forgotten in the grass. His other hand dropped to his side, balled into a fist.

You turned away to gather the basket. Annabelle knelt beside you without speaking, folding the napkins with stiff, quick motions. Clara joined last, slower, dragging her heels, her eyes darting toward the pond where the stranger had disappeared. You said nothing. Neither did Turpin.

The carriage ride back to the manor was silent at first.

You sat beside your husband, your shawl tucked close, your fingers laced tightly in your lap. Across from you, Clara slumped against the window, arms crossed. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and resentment. Her bonnet was crooked. She refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

Annabelle sat beside her, prim and quiet, her hands folded.

Margery remained curled in her father’s arms, fast asleep, her mouth slack against his collarbone, one foot dangling beneath the edge of his coat.

Then—

Turpin’s voice cut through the carriage like a blade.

“Straighten your face.”

Clara blinked.

He didn’t repeat himself. Just looked at her with that sharp, judge’s stare, the one that made grown men confess before the sentence was spoken.

Clara frowned deeper. “You’re annoying.”

You drew in a breath. Annabelle gasped softly. Turpin’s brow twitched.

“I was talking,” Clara huffed, looking out the window again. “It wasn’t a crime.”

“You do not speak to strangers,” Turpin snapped, his baritone rising slightly—controlled, but edged with warning. “Especially when your mother and I are not beside you.”

Clara rolled her eyes.

Turpin’s teeth clenched. “Do that again, and I’ll have Bamford fit you for blinders.”

She rolled her eyes again, slower this time. Deliberately.

“Clara,” you said gently, reaching across and placing your hand on Turpin’s arm, trying to soften what you knew would follow. “Your father is not angry just to be angry. He was frightened. He’s scolding you because he cares.”

Clara didn’t look at you. “He cares like a wolf cares for a lamb.”

“Clara,” Annabelle whispered, horrified.

Turpin inhaled sharply, his jaw ticking. His hand flexed against Margery’s back, but he didn’t raise his voice. Not yet.

“I am trying,” he said, low and hard, “to teach you something before it is too late. You do not know what men are like. You think the world is full of stories and songs and harmless gentlemen in green coats.”

Clara glared. “He said he liked my braid.”

“He,” Turpin snarled, “should not have been speaking to you at all. And you should not have smiled.”

“I was being polite!”

“You were being gullible.”

“I was being kind!”

“Kindness will not protect you,” Turpin barked. “Not from what’s out there. It will only make you prey.”

The words echoed in the close space of the carriage. Margery stirred slightly, but did not wake.

You reached for his hand again. He didn’t shake you off—but he didn’t soften either.

“I am trying,” he said, quieter now, voice tight with restraint, “to prepare you. Because no one else will. Not your mother. Not your governess. Not even the Lord Himself, if you go out into the world grinning at every snake in boots.”

Clara’s lips trembled.

“You do not talk to men you do not know,” he went on, slow and brutal. “You do not look at them. You do not give them your name. You do not smile. Because one day, it will not be a picnic. It will not be a park. And the man who says you look pretty will not stop at your braid.”

The carriage rattled. Clara’s head had dipped now, her fists clenched in her lap.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered. Her voice was low, sullen—but beneath it trembled something raw, something uncertain. “What harm could he have done? He was just being polite.”

Annabelle inhaled sharply, clearly sensing the storm that was about to come.

Turpin did not answer at first. His hazel eyes went flinty. His jaw twitched.

You felt it beneath your palm—the slow coil of fury building in him like a rope pulled taut, the kind that came before a courtroom outburst, or the swinging of a cane. But this time, your hand on his arm didn’t simply rest there. You tightened your grip.

And, to your quiet astonishment—he listened.

The judge inhaled sharply through his nose. The breath rattled. Controlled.

He exhaled once.

Then spoke.

His voice was low. Not the thunderous baritone that shattered rooms or silenced courtrooms—but something far quieter. Measured. Grim.

“There are men in this world, Clara,” he began, “who wear manners like a mask. Who bow low, smile sweetly, and call you ‘young miss’ while they picture you bare and screaming.”

Clara blinked.

Annabelle’s face went pale.

“You do not know them when you see them,” Turpin went on, his tone sharper now, fingers tightening faintly against the sleeping weight of Margery curled in his arms. “They do not come with horns and knives. They come with compliments. And ribbons. And a soft voice that makes you feel seen.”

His hazel eyes met Clara’s across the carriage. “But you are not seen. You are sized. Measured. Weighed like meat in the butcher’s window.”

Clara shrank a little in her seat, but didn’t look away.

“And when they find you wanting—” Turpin leaned forward now, shifting Margery slightly to keep her cradled, his stare like iron—“when they think no man is watching, and you are alone, and there are no fathers in black coats nearby—they take. Your dignity. Your body. Your childhood. And then they walk away.”

The carriage jolted slightly over a stone in the road. No one spoke.

“And that,” he said, low and vicious, “is what that man could have done.”

Clara’s lower lip trembled. She turned her face toward the window again, but not in defiance now. Just quiet understanding. Or the beginning of it.

Turpin leaned back into the seat, slowly, his coat shifting around Margery’s sleeping form. He reached up and removed one of his gloves with deliberate care, then brushed a curl from Margery’s brow, tucking it behind her tiny ear.

“I will protect you,” he said, his voice no longer cruel—but something else. Heavy. Ironclad. “I have protected you. Every hour of your life. And I would do it again. I would burn this godless country to cinders before I let harm come to a single hair on your heads.”

Annabelle’s eyes shone. She blinked hard.

“But I will not always be there,” he added, eyes narrowing, gaze fixed now on both daughters. “Not forever. Not everywhere. And the men I speak of will not wait for you to be ready. They do not ask permission. They do not play fair.”

His hand curled into a fist on his knee.

“That is why I demand obedience. Why I bark. Why I discipline. Because when I am gone—and I will be, one day—you will have nothing left but your wits and your silence. And if I have not taught you how to see danger, how to fear it, how to run—then I have failed you as a father.”

The girls were quiet. Clara stared down at her lap now, hands slack in her dress. Annabelle swallowed, throat bobbing.

“I don’t wish for you to live afraid,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “But I would rather you live afraid than not live at all.”

He looked at you then.

Just briefly.

As though daring you to scold him. To tell him he had frightened them. That he’d been too harsh.

But you didn’t.

You only nodded. And reached out.

Your hand slid across the bench and found Annabelle’s first, squeezing gently. The girl looked up at you, eyes brimming, and you smoothed a stray lock from her brow.

Then, with more courage, you reached across to Clara.

She didn’t pull away. Her hand crept slowly into yours, small fingers curling into your palm.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

Turpin nodded once. “Now you do.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence, save for the soft snoring of Margery, oblivious and safe in her father’s arms.

The dining room had gone still.

The last course had been cleared—roasted lamb, boiled carrots, a modest apricot pudding—and the housekeeper had long since ushered the girls upstairs, guiding Clara and Annabelle with quiet firmness while Margery, half-asleep in her chair, was scooped into arms and carried off like a heavy sack of flour. You’d offered to rise, to help with the nursery, but Turpin had said no.

He wanted the house quiet.

Now it was.

The fire crackled low in the grate. The grandfather clock ticked like an old man muttering to himself in the corner. And across the long table, Richard Turpin sat in silence, his profile framed in firelight, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, his broad shoulders still stiff beneath his dark coat.

You waited.

You knew better than to fill the silence before he was ready.

And then—

“I frightened them.”

His voice was low. Baritone, of course, but softer now. More like sandpaper than stone.

You looked up from your folded hands. “You protected them.”

He didn’t answer. His gaze didn’t move. He leaned slightly back in the chair, one hand resting atop the other on the carved armrest, his hooked nose casting a shadow down his cheek.

“Did I frighten you?”

You stood.

He didn’t look at you as you walked around the table. Didn’t speak as you came beside his chair and laid a hand on his shoulder. But when you reached for the back of the chair, fingers brushing the smooth wood, Turpin shifted.

He pushed the chair back slightly, just enough.

An invitation.

You accepted it.

You stepped around and lowered yourself into his lap—carefully, slowly, your skirts rustling softly against his thighs. He grunted once, low in his throat, but didn’t move to stop you. His hands found your hips instinctively, steadying you as you settled against him.

You curled one arm around his shoulders. The other rested gently at the base of his throat, fingers brushing the stiff edge of his cravat.

“No,” you murmured, after a long moment. “You didn’t frighten me.”

His brow twitched, but he said nothing.

“You scared them,” you continued gently. “But only because you care. That’s what they’ll remember.”

“They’ll remember the tone I used,” he muttered.

“They’ll remember their father stood between them and danger,” you said, quieter now. “That’s more important.”

Turpin’s eyes didn’t leave the fire. But you felt the shift in him—small, almost imperceptible. His breath eased just slightly. The tension behind his jaw slackened.

After another pause, you tilted your head and asked, “Do you know who he was?”

Turpin’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “No.”

You frowned. “Truly?”

“I’ve sent Bamford to find out.” His tone was clipped. “By morning, I’ll have a name. An address. An occupation. The man will be warned—firmly. Discreetly. But warned.”

You nodded, your fingers tracing absent patterns along the lapel of his coat.

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. You knew what “warned” meant, in Richard Turpin’s world.

The fire snapped again. You looked at him, at the hard line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the silver threaded through the dark hair at his temples.

He was still brooding. Still silent.

You shifted slightly in his lap, adjusting your weight.

His hand slid to your thigh.

Long fingers. Calloused. Warm.

“You’ve never sat here willingly before,” he said, his voice quiet, almost amused.

You blinked, startled by the sudden change in subject.

“No,” you admitted softly. “I haven’t.”

Turpin looked at you then. Really looked at you. Hazel eyes dark and searching, his brow furrowed—not with suspicion, but with something else. Something softer.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Things are different now.”

He didn’t reply.

But his hand stroked your thigh again—slowly, thoughtfully—through the folds of your skirt. Not possessively. Not to stir anything. Just… a touch.

You leaned your temple against his.

“Things are different,” you repeated, barely above a whisper. “Since you told me about your father.”

Turpin’s breath caught, ever so faintly.

“I see you more clearly now,” you murmured. “And I still choose to be here.”

He closed his eyes.

Not in pain. Not in defeat.

But in something quieter. Something deeper.

And when he let his forehead rest against yours, his hand still firm on your leg, you knew:

It wasn’t forgiveness he needed.

It was this.

Presence.

Trust.

Warmth, where none had been before.

And it was enough.

The fire had burned low. You stayed curled on his lap for longer than was proper—longer than you ever had. But eventually, of course, the moment had to end.

You rose slowly, smoothing your skirts as you stood, your limbs heavy with warmth and the weight of everything unsaid. Turpin’s hands fell from your hips with measured reluctance, his gaze following you as you straightened your bodice and crossed to the door, leaving him there in the firelight—still seated, still watching.

The dining room was quiet when you left. The servants had waited long enough. Before long, the house would hum again with the soft clatter of plates and silver as the table was cleared and the evening swept away like ash. But you were already climbing the stairs, the skirts of your dress brushing the polished banister, the hush of candlelight casting warm shadows along the walls.

Turpin followed behind you at a distance, slow and deliberate. No words passed between you as you reached the landing. Only the soft creak of floorboards and the distant tick of the hall clock. The hallway, lined with portraits and heavy tapestries, yawned open before you.

You reached your door first.

“Goodnight, my lord,” you said quietly, turning the knob.

Turpin’s steps slowed beside you. “Goodnight.”

You entered—but only halfway.

Then you stopped.

The door hung ajar, candlelight spilling into the corridor. Your hand remained on the knob, but you turned, your voice soft and hesitant.

“Richard.”

He had barely taken two steps toward his own room, but at the sound of his name, he turned sharply—almost too sharply. His back straightened, and for the briefest instant, the hardness in his features cracked, revealing something almost… eager.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice too calm to disguise the slight urgency beneath it.

You opened your mouth—then faltered.

You hadn’t meant to call him. Or rather, you hadn’t known why. It was simply impulse. A feeling. Something left over from the firelight.

And now…

Now you stood in your doorway, not knowing what you meant to say.

So you said the first thing that came.

“The girls…” you began, your voice catching slightly. “They need new shoes. For the schoolhouse. Their soles are… coming loose.”

Turpin’s brow furrowed. “Shoes?”

“Yes. They’re outgrowing the old pairs.”

He was silent for a breath. Then: “I’ll provide them.”

You nodded, suddenly unsure why your throat felt tight. “Thank you.”

And you turned back toward your door, fingers tightening on the knob. You were halfway through when—

“Wait.”

It was his voice this time.

You turned again, heart beating faster than it should.

Turpin stood outside his own chamber door now, one hand on the frame, watching you.

You waited.

He didn’t speak right away.

His lips parted—then pressed together again. His eyes flicked to the candle on your side table, then back to you. It was as though he had something to say, something real, something that reached further than propriety allowed—but whatever it was, it snagged in his throat.

So instead, he asked—

“What size do they wear?”

You blinked.

Before you could answer—

“Mama!”

The bedroom door down the hall creaked open, and Margery emerged in her nightdress, barefoot and bleary-eyed, her wild curls a halo of chaos around her head. She padded toward you on tiny feet, squinting into the low light.

“Are you two gonna kiss already?” she asked, utterly unbothered. “Or are you just gonna keep talking about shoes?”

You froze.

Turpin’s expression went rigid. He opened his mouth to respond—likely with a scold, a sharp rebuke—but Margery pressed on without pause, her voice rising in sleepy indignation.

“Anyway,” she huffed, “I need to poop. Father, come take me to the privy.”

Turpin’s face twisted. “That is your mother’s task.”

Margery folded her arms. “She’s scared of the latrine at night.”

You flushed instantly. “That is not—Margery!”

“It’s true,” she insisted, turning toward her father with all the gravity a four-year-old could muster. “She said the wind makes it howl, and she doesn’t like the shadows. I asked her why she just doesn’t light the lamp, and she said it makes the rats bold.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand.

Turpin blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he sighed.

Long. Deep.

As though calling upon some ancient, patriarchal reservoir of patience.

Margery beamed in triumph.

“She’s lying,” you muttered weakly, glaring at the girl.

But your husband said nothing. Only stepped forward, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with slow, heavy resignation.

He led Margery down the corridor with the gait of a man marching to execution.

You cast one last glance at them—Margery, smug and sleepy in her father's arms, and Turpin, striding off down the corridor like a man betrayed by God and his bowels both—before slipping into your bedroom and closing the door behind you.

The latch clicked softly.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding and leaned back against the door, one hand pressed to your stomach. The air still smelled faintly of roast and lamp oil, and the only light came from the single taper by your bedside, guttering gently in the stillness.

Silence, blessed and private, settled over the chamber.

Meanwhile—

Richard Turpin, Lord of Law and Absolute Governor of the Privy, descended the servants’ staircase with the indignity of a monarch in exile.

He had paused only long enough to seize a lantern from the wall sconce, lighting it with practiced efficiency, and to bark at Margery to put on her slippers lest she “contract the Black Death from the floorboards.” She had obeyed, with the slow, dignified gravity of a child who knew she had already won the war.

Now they passed through the kitchen—dark and still, save for the faint creak of a mouse behind the hearth—and out through the back door into the yard beyond. The night air was brisk, cool with dew, and the ground damp beneath their feet.

Margery did not notice.

She was humming.

Turpin held the lantern high, casting long shadows across the hedgerow and the narrow stone path that led to the little shed tucked behind the stables—the outdoor latrine, simple and unadorned, a dark box with a crooked door and a latch that stuck when it rained. He hated it. Everyone hated it. But plumbing had not yet reached this corner of London, and his patience for the clumsy indoor commode upstairs had worn thin after it leaked down the pantry wall last spring.

So—this.

This, apparently, was fatherhood.

When they reached the latrine, Turpin shoved open the door and held the lantern inside.

“Go,” he said gruffly, gesturing her in like a sentry at the gates of hell.

Margery entered primly, nightdress swishing behind her. “It’s cold,” she announced.

“It’s a hole in the ground.”

“It smells like beet soup.”

Turpin did not dignify this with a reply.

He stood outside, pinching the bridge of his hooked nose between two fingers, muttering something low and biblical under his breath as Margery settled onto the seat inside.

There was a brief pause.

Then came the sound.

He closed his eyes.

“I think I have too many berries,” she announced.

Turpin exhaled through his nose, his breath curling in the night air like smoke. “It is not a matter for judicial inquiry.”

“It’s a very important matter,” she insisted. “What goes in must come out. You taught me that.”

“I taught you Latin.”

“Yes, but you also told me law is cause and effect. I ate seven strawberries. Now I am suffering the consequences.”

Turpin groaned. “If only Parliament suffered such clarity.”

There was a pause.

Then, cheerfully: “Father?”

He grunted.

“Why don’t you and Mama share a bedroom?”

He blinked.

The words hung in the night like a pistol cocked.

“I—what.”

“You have your big bed. She has her big bed. Why not just push them together and make one giant bed? Then you wouldn’t be so grumpy all the time.”

Turpin stared into the night as though hoping it would swallow him whole.

“You are not to concern yourself with the nature of your mother’s… arrangements,” he said, voice strained. “It is not your affair.”

“It could be!” Margery chirped from inside the privy. “If you made it a family bed. Then I could sleep in the middle.”

Turpin looked skyward. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Clara said you snore.”

“I do not snore.”

“She said you grumble in Latin and then say ‘where is my pen’ in your sleep.”

“That is dreaming, not snoring.”

“You should kiss more,” Margery declared.

His spine stiffened. “What?”

“You and Mama,” she explained patiently. “You only kiss in private. I’ve never seen it.”

“And you never shall,” he snapped. “It is not a spectacle for your amusement.”

“But it’s how babies get made.”

Turpin’s jaw clenched so hard it creaked.

“You have five babies already,” Margery continued thoughtfully. “So you must have kissed lots. Why don’t you anymore?”

“I will fetch the vinegar sponge,” he muttered.

“Do you not like kissing?”

“I do not like this conversation.”

“You should,” she said brightly. “You like Mama. You look at her like you’re mad, but also like your stomach hurts in a nice way.”

“I—”

He froze.

His mouth opened. Then closed. His mind—sharpened by years of legal practice and cross-examination—could find no appropriate reply.

When he returned from the washroom basin with the sponge—steaming, soaked in warm water and vinegar as prescribed by the governess manual he’d once set fire to—Margery was waiting, cheeks flushed, feet swinging.

Turpin wiped her with precise efficiency.

Margery wriggled.

“It’s cold.”

“It is disinfectant.”

“What’s disinfectant?”

“What keeps you from dying of dysentery.”

She gasped. “Am I dying of dysentery?”

“Not tonight.”

Once she was cleaned and redressed, he lifted her into his arms with a grunt, holding her as far from his chest as dignity allowed. But the moment they reached the back door, her little arms slipped around his neck and clung tight, the kind of hug that softened him despite himself.

He carried her up the stairs without another word.

And as they passed your door—still cracked, still warm with candlelight—he paused.

Just briefly.

Not to knock.

Not to speak.

Only to listen.

Then he turned away, carrying his daughter back to bed.

But her words—those damned, absurd, innocent words—followed him all the way down the hall.

"You should kiss more.”

And for the first time in twenty years, Richard Turpin didn’t know if he was being judged…

or forgiven.

[coldkidcookieneck]

Protective dad Turpin… it gets me every time. Gentle, strict, loving and somehow still trying to figure out how to be a better husband too. Ahhh, my heart and go read it, guys !!!🥹🫶🏼

[muiitoloko]

His Majesty's Proportions

Summary: Louis's campaign becomes unbearable-not from war, but from the absence of his Queen's biting tongue and disdainful silence. So he sends art. And she sends consequences.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, funny, Implicit sex, infidelity, Dark Magic.

Author's Notes: This chapter was actually supposed to be two separate ones, but it ended up becoming just one. So get ready for a long read!

First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh and Eighth part here

Also read on Ao3

The day passed in a haze.

Louis did not leave her side.

He didn’t even try.

The hours after their reunion on the chaise melted together like warm wax, slow and seamless—Athenais pressing close to him, her voice velvet-soft, her fingers always grazing his arm, his chest, his cheek. She had changed dresses by noon—blue this time, soft as sky, with pearls trailing down the bodice like dew. She fed him grapes with her fingers. She poured his wine herself. She bathed his forehead with a damp cloth and laughed as if it were nothing, as if the King of France had not come to banish her and instead found himself cradled in her arms like a wounded boy.

He dined with her privately that evening, in her rooms.

Not in the royal hall. Not with the Queen.

Not even with his ministers.

He sent word through Gérard: Coucher du roi would not be needed. He would not attend the opera. Nor the card game hosted by the Duc de Lauzun. Nor the supper with Monsieur.

He was… indisposed.

The Queen, they said, had returned to her rooms early. Pale. Wordless.

Louis did not ask.

He didn’t speak of her at all.

Even as the candlelight flickered across Montespan’s skin. Even as her laughter echoed through the suite. Even as he touched her again, slower this time, mouths dragging over silk, skin hot with wine and false memory.

But sleep, as it always did, betrayed him.

It was well past midnight when his breathing slowed. Athenais curled beside him, the room scented with rosewater and sex, the fire burning low in the grate. One arm thrown across his bare chest, her leg tangled over his, lips parted slightly in the dreamless drift of enchantment.

And yet—

Louis stirred.

His brow furrowed in the dark.

He whimpered.

Then—choked.

A low, broken sound escaped him, the kind no king should ever make. His hand clenched over his chest, as if the weight there was too much to bear. He gasped.

“No—” he whispered. “No, no—mon cœur—please—”

And then the sob broke from him like a wave.

He turned onto his side, curling into himself, his bare shoulders trembling beneath the thin linen sheet, gray hair damp beneath the edge of his black wig, his baritone voice raw and ragged with grief.

He was dreaming of her.

Of his Queen.

Of the way she had looked the last time he saw her—her gown kissed by moonlight, her eyes soft with belief. He dreamed of the hope he had placed in her palm. The sword on the floor. The quiet vow between them that for once, he would choose love over vanity.

And he had shattered it.

He had gone back to Athenais. He had let her hands lead him. He had let the wine cloud his mind. He had—

“Shhh,” came a voice beside him, too close, too calm. Athenais stirred, rising up on one elbow, her curls falling across her chest. “Louis—what is it?”

He shook his head violently, trying to rise, his limbs sluggish, as though lead had melted into his bones. “I have to—go—I have to see her—”

But Athenais’s hands were already on him.

Firm. Gentle.

Commanding.

“No,” she whispered. “Not now.”

“I must—” he gasped, trying to swing his legs off the bed. “She—she saw—she heard—”

“She saw what she needed to see,” Athenais murmured, pressing her palm to his chest. “It’s done. Let it be done.”

Louis shook his head. Violently. Desperately.

“I need to see her.”

His voice—normally smooth, poised, royal—was frayed now. Unraveling. Thicker than wine, laced with panic. The weight of what he had done was starting to sink its teeth into him. The fog was lifting—just enough for the guilt to seep in.

“I need her,” he whispered again, more to himself than to Athenais. “My queen.”

For a moment, Montespan stilled.

The words struck like stones. They always had. Even after all these years, that title—my queen—never belonged to her.

But she didn’t let it show.

Her face remained soft, composed, the edges of her smile carefully tilted. A slight flick of her lashes. No more.

Inside, she was seething.

La Voisin was right, she thought, heart pounding, the potions must be given in intervals. The soul resists. The will returns. It must be broken again.

Without speaking, she leaned forward, slipped her arms around Louis’s shoulders, and pressed her lips to his damp brow.

“Shhh,” she crooned. “It’s alright, Louis. She’s resting. She’s well. You need rest, too.”

He tried to pull away again, sluggish, confused, but her arms tightened.

And then—the scent.

Orange blossom. Resin. A whisper of burnt honey and roses. Sweet, but heavy. Wrong.

It enveloped him. Filled his lungs.

And like a marionette with cut strings, Louis stilled.

His heartbeat slowed. His breathing evened. The panic dulled to a murmur.

Athenais eased him back down into the mattress, stroking his chest, her voice velvet-soft. “That’s it… Just breathe, my love. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

His hazel eyes, clouded with sleep and sorrow, blinked once… twice… and refocused.

On her.

Only her.

The Queen, the vow, the sword—all drifted like ash from his mind.

Athenais smiled.

Victory tasted like perfume.

Meanwhile, in the Queen’s wing, the world was silent.

Your rooms were dim. Not dark—Henri had lit the fire hours ago—but soft, subdued, as if even the candlelight had bowed in mourning. The wind whispered through the velvet curtains. 

You stood by the window. Hands clasped. Shoulders rigid.

Watching the moon rise.

It was high now. Cold. Silver. Unfeeling.

Like you.

You had said nothing since the corridor.

Not a word.

Not when Henri had guided you gently back to your chambers. Not when he dismissed the guards with a quiet shake of his head. Not when he drew the curtains, poured your tea, lit the hearth.

He had tried.

God, he had tried.

“Majesty,” he’d said, kneeling beside your chair hours earlier, voice low, firm, desperate. “Say something. Anything. Let me call your confessor. Or the chaplain. Let me—”

You hadn’t answered.

You hadn’t even blinked.

Now, he stood across the room, watching your stillness with that soldier’s patience he wore like a second skin. But it was breaking. The silence was breaking him.

“You have to do something,” he said, voice harsher now, almost pleading. “Scream. Throw something. Break a mirror. Cry. Curse him.”

You didn’t move.

Henri crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed your wrist—not cruelly, but with enough force to feel.

“Say something!”

Your eyes turned to his.

And you finally spoke.

“No.”

Your voice was quiet. Measured. Steady.

But deadly.

“I will not scream. I will not cry. I will not break things for him.”

Henri blinked, stunned by the sound of your voice. It was not grief he heard.

It was clarity.

You drew your hand from his gently, turning back toward the window, the moonlight spilling over your face like a benediction.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” you said.

The words hung there, sacred and final.

You exhaled, long and slow. “He never did. And I see that now.”

Henri’s mouth parted. He took a step forward. “You love him.”

“I loved a dream,” you corrected coldly. “A man who spoke of honor. Of virtue. Of something more than lust in silk and perfume. But he’s not that man.”

You looked down at your hands, at the rings still clinging to your fingers.

“I was foolish,” you said. “To believe him. To wait for him.”

Henri opened his mouth again, but you weren’t finished.

“He is not a king,” you whispered. “He’s a child. A weak, vain, soft-lunged boy who lets his cock decide the fate of nations.”

Henri’s eyes widened.

“And I—” you stopped, voice trembling once. “I was willing to forgive it. Even then. Even when I saw it. I wanted to forgive him. I wanted him to choose me.”

A pause.

“But he didn’t.”

Your voice, now, was sharp enough to cut glass.

“So let him rot in her bed. Let him wallow in her poison. Let them destroy each other in the ruin they built. But I will not shatter for him.”

Silence.

Henri stared at you—awed. A little frightened.

You turned back to the window, your silhouette bathed in moonlight, regal and untouchable.

Let Versailles whisper.

Let France watch.

You would not be the weeping queen.

You would be the one they feared.

The days passed like ghosts in the halls of Versailles.

You and Louis did not speak.

You dined in the same rooms, attended the same councils, walked the same polished corridors—but there were no words between you. Only silence. Polished. Icy. Formal. During mass, he glanced at you once, when the choir sang Domine salvum fac Regem, but you did not meet his eyes. You kept your gaze fixed on the crucifix, lips barely moving in prayer. When he spoke to ministers, you listened in cold silence. When he looked for your reaction, he found none.

Only that smile.

That serene, elegant, glacial smile.

The same one you had worn when you first arrived at court, the one he used to find unbearable, unreadable—now sharpened into something new.

He tried, once.

At supper, two days after the betrayal, he approached you after the others had gone. His voice was low, awkward, half-coaxed from that baritone like he wasn’t sure how to use it with you anymore.

“You mustn’t be upset,” he said quietly, standing behind your chair.

You looked over your shoulder, your expression soft and poised. “I’m not upset.”

And you weren’t.

You were finished.

He hesitated, waiting, as if expecting more. An argument. A cry. A bitter accusation. Anything he could latch onto—twist into proof that you still felt something.

But you only turned back to your wine.

Louis didn’t bring it up again.

After that, he stopped trying.

The palace settled into a strange new rhythm—one where Montespan returned to the center, radiant in her victory. She held court in her salons again, surrounded by powdered sycophants and lacquered flirtations. She smiled like a goddess and kissed like a queen, and the King drank it all in like salvation. You heard from your ladies that he hadn’t visited any other mistress in a days. That he no longer even looked at the others—not Madame de Rochefort, not Madame B, not the new English girl the Duc had brought to Versailles as an offering.

Only her.

And you?

You didn’t care. You no longer asked.

But Henri saw the way your fingers tightened around your fork at dinner when Montespan laughed too loud. He saw the way your shoulders stiffened when Louis excused himself from a council meeting early—only to be spotted half an hour later in the mistress’s wing.

He said nothing.

But he noticed.

And then, at last, the day of the campaign arrived.

The King was leaving for the northern border—another show of force, another parade of banners and trumpets and polished armor. Versailles buzzed like a beehive. Footmen scrambled with trunks and plumed helmets. Horses were groomed to gleaming perfection. Nobles jostled for favor in the courtyard, eager to be seen, to be chosen, to be remembered.

Montespan, of course, was already there.

She wore pale lilac, trimmed in gold, with pearls threaded through her curls and her youngest daughter at her arms. The other children—legitimized, proud, already speaking in the clipped tones of royalty—stood nearby, solemn in their velvet coats. She kissed Louis on both cheeks, murmuring something in his ear that made him smirk.

The Queen did not come down.

It was expected, traditionally, that you would—wives and mothers always did. Even the Queen Mother had appeared at such departures, standing by the gate with a hand on her breast as if she might tear it out for her sons.

But not you.

You remained on the balcony above, high above the courtyard, framed in sunlight and silk.

You watched everything.

Unmoving. Untouched.

Your gown was blue again, but deeper than before—indigo, almost violet, with silver embroidery curling along the sleeves like frost. A crown of simple diamonds rested in your hair. You wore no rouge.

You didn’t need it.

Your face was already flushed from the wind.

Louis mounted his horse slowly, stiffly. He hated the pageantry of departure—found it sentimental, overly dramatic—but he played his part. His black wig was freshly powdered, his gloved hands resting on the reins. He nodded to his generals. Laughed too loudly at something the Duc d’Estrées said. Smiled at Montespan when she pressed a kiss to his boot.

But when he looked up—

He saw you.

And everything else vanished.

His breath caught.

There you stood, haloed by light, one hand resting on the balcony rail, the other clutching your skirts. You didn’t wave. You didn’t bow. You simply looked down at him with that same cool, unreadable gaze.

And beside you—

Henri.

He stood just behind your right shoulder, sharp in his dark uniform, his expression hard. His gloved hand hovered a little too near yours. He did not look at the King.

But Louis saw him.

And Louis hated it.

His mouth twitched. His eyes narrowed. The reins tugged slightly in his grip.

The sight of Henri beside you was unbearable.

It should’ve been him.

He was your husband. Your King. The man who had laid a sword at your feet and begged for your belief.

He had chosen you.

He had meant it.

Hadn’t he?

Then why was he riding away with the taste of another woman still in his mouth?

Louis shifted in the saddle, his throat tightening. Something clawed at his ribs—something like shame, something like longing, something like—

“Get down,” a voice in his head whispered. Dismount. Run to her. Go. Fall at her feet. Beg.

The urge hit like a blow.

It was sudden, physical. His whole body leaned forward as if pulled by invisible string, by a force older than guilt, older than sin.

He could see it, just for a moment—the image of you walking down the stairs, your eyes softer, your hands reaching for his face. He could feel the ghost of your kiss. The promise of forgiveness. The ache of belonging.

His heart stuttered.

He wanted to strip himself of armor, of crown, of every lie he had worn like a second skin and stand bare before you, whispering, Forgive me. I was wrong.

But—

Something stopped him.

A weight.

A presence.

Not Montespan. Not the court.

Something deeper.

Older.

His fingers clenched the reins.

And you turned away.

You stepped back from the railing, your shoulders regal, unmoved. Henri followed, pausing only once to glance back at the King. Not out of respect. But warning.

Louis watched the doors close behind you.

And for the first time in weeks—longer, maybe—he felt cold.

Truly cold.

As if even the sun could not touch him.

As if something sacred had slipped through his fingers, and this time, it would not return.

He bowed his head.

And rode out from Versailles.

Without your blessing. Without your kiss.

Without you.

And that absence would echo louder than any war drum.

A week had passed.

And you were bored.

You attended mass every morning with a posture so regal it made even the archbishop glance twice. You completed your royal duties—signing petitions, reviewing fabrics for the winter gala, listening to petitions from duchesses whose dogs had misbehaved at court as though the fate of France hung in the balance.

You dictated fashion in Versailles without trying. If you wore light pink, the salons shimmered in pink the next evening. If you raised an eyebrow at a woman’s new ribbon, it disappeared by morning. You were an empress of taste. The court followed your every breath.

And yet… you were suffocating.

You had no children. You didn’t gossip. You didn’t host salons. Your only true confidantes were your ladies-in-waiting—sharp, loyal, but born of duty—and Henrietta, who spent most days ill or entertaining guests at Saint-Germain.

There was no one.

Except Henri.

And he saw it. Of course he did. He always did.

He saw it in the way you stared out the window during embroidery lessons, in the way your fingers curled too tightly around your quill when writing letters no one would answer. He saw it when you didn’t speak for entire afternoons, just paced your rooms in slow circles like a caged lioness.

So he did something unthinkable.

He planned your escape.

“I beg your pardon?” you blinked, still half-dressed in your morning chemise.

Henri held out the outfit with one gloved hand: a plain, clean maid’s gown. Brown muslin, ivory apron, soft-soled shoes. No corset. No embroidery. No fan.

“It will fit,” he said calmly.

You stared at him.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am always serious.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Elise, your most trusted maid, entered the room carrying your tea and winked. “I’ll stay behind. Wear your slippers. I’ll walk like you.”

You stared between them.

Then laughed.

For the first time in days.

The passageways beneath Versailles were narrow, winding, and smelled of damp stone and old coal. Henri knew them well—better than most. The hidden servants’ routes, the forgotten stairwells, the locked doors that led to older wings of the palace no longer used. He had been a boy when he first learned the paths, back when he polished boots and carried trays, long before he became the Queen’s shadow.

He held your wrist gently as he led you through the dark, his gloved fingers warm and steady.

“You’re certain no one will see us?” you whispered, heart racing.

Henri gave a low hum. “The King’s valet uses this path to meet his mistress. If it’s safe enough for adultery, it’s safe enough for you.”

You stifled a laugh.

When at last you reached the outer servant’s gate, Elise was already there, sweeping. She gave you a small nod. Henri led you through the final door, and suddenly—

The air changed.

It wasn’t perfumed. It wasn’t heavy with incense or polished wood.

It was sharp. Real.

Paris.

You stepped into a world you had never truly known.

The sun struck your face, and for the first time in years, you didn’t squint behind a fan or parasol. There were no guards flanking your side. No courtiers bowing or staring or whispering. Just people.

So many people.

The streets were alive. Buskers strummed lutes near food stalls that sizzled with roasted chestnuts. Children dashed between carts, their bare feet slapping against the cobblestones. Women bargained in loud, beautiful voices over fish and bread, and old men with weather-beaten faces shouted at pigeons and waved canes at each other over politics. It smelled of smoke and honey, dung and pastry, lavender and leather.

You turned in a full circle, stunned. “It’s—”

“Loud?” Henri offered.

“No,” you said breathlessly. “It’s magnificent.”

Henri grinned.

You clutched your borrowed apron tighter, lifting your skirts slightly to avoid a suspicious puddle. A man nearly ran into you with a basket of cabbages. Two women were fighting over a bolt of fabric. A dog barked, and someone tossed a crust of bread.

It was chaos. Glorious, unwashed chaos.

Henri stayed close, his hand brushing the small of your back each time someone veered too near. When a drunk stumbled toward you from an alley, Henri stepped forward immediately, his arm a wall.

“You alright?” he murmured, eyes on the man until he passed.

You nodded, breathless. “This is his kingdom.”

Henri blinked. “Who?”

You didn’t need to say it.

“Louis,” you murmured. “These are his people.”

Henri didn’t reply. But he guided you forward, down a narrower street lined with stalls and booths. A woman was selling small bouquets—wildflowers, mostly, tied with string.

“I’ll get you one,” Henri said, already reaching into his coat.

You watched as he pulled out a few small copper coins and passed them to the woman. She smiled, missing a tooth, and handed him a bundle of carnations. Henri turned and offered them to you with a slight bow.

“For your Majesty.”

You blushed.

You had received flowers before—dozens, hundreds. Florists crafted entire arrangements in your honor, sometimes spelled out in Latin with ribbons and thorns. But this… this was different.

These carnations had no emblem. No crest. No hidden meaning. They were wild. Fresh. Slightly crushed from the vendor’s basket. And they were handed to you not from obligation or show—

—but from Henri.

Your fingers closed around the humble stems, still damp with dew, and when your eyes met his, you saw it again—that flicker of something unnameable behind his calm. A gentleness carefully wrapped in restraint.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Henri’s smile was small, but true. “It’s your kingdom, too.”

You looked around.

Yes. It was.

Not the chandeliers, nor the salons. Not the velvet nor the wigs nor the empty flatteries echoing in golden halls. This—the fishmongers shouting prices, the children chasing chickens down crooked alleys, the clatter of hooves and wooden carts—this was France. Alive. Loud. Real.

Yours.

And for the first time… you felt it.

Then the smell hit you.

Sweet. Spiced. Warm.

You turned instinctively, eyes catching on a small stall nestled between a cheese cart and a rag seller. A brass pot steamed over a tiny charcoal stove, and inside, a dozen pommes rôties glistened in bubbling syrup—golden, blushing, their skins soft and splitting with caramel and clove.

You gasped, delighted. “What are those?”

“Baked apples,” Henri said, following your gaze.

You blinked up at him. “You’ve had them?”

“Once. When I was a child.”

Without waiting, you darted across the narrow lane, nearly colliding with a man carrying a goat. Henri swore softly under his breath and followed, clearing a path with his body. You stopped in front of the stand, your eyes wide, nose tilted toward the rising steam.

“Do they taste as lovely as they smell?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder.

Henri chuckled. “That depends on how many teeth you’ve got left.”

The vendor—a short woman with a red kerchief and hands blackened from sugar—grinned. “Two sous each, mademoiselle.”

Henri stepped forward, reaching into his coat for his purse.

And froze.

He patted the inside pocket. Frowned. Opened it fully and counted the coins.

Then frowned deeper.

You tilted your head. “Is something wrong?”

Henri didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched. “It seems I’m short.”

“How short?”

He hesitated. “One sou.”

You blinked.

“That’s nothing,” you said, already reaching for your own coin purse. “We’ll just—”

“No.” His hand touched your wrist lightly. “I’ll go back to the carnation seller. She might have change—”

But you’d already unclasped your little embroidered pouch. A coin clinked into your palm, heavy and unmistakable.

Louis’s face glared up at you.

That damn coin. That damn man. That damn powdered lie of a king.

Your expression hardened. You turned it over once—Le Roi Soleil, like he hadn't ruined anything—and you slapped it into the vendor’s waiting hand.

“I’ll take two,” you said coolly.

The woman wrapped them both in waxed paper and handed them over with a gap-toothed grin.

You gave one to Henri, already biting into your own. The skin broke, warm and syrupy, and sugar dripped down your chin. You didn’t care. Not even a little.

Henri stared at you, stunned.

You were licking your fingers.

Like a servant.

Like a woman.

“Your Majesty—”

“No titles today,” you said, mouth full. “You promised.”

Henri hesitated. “You’ve never eaten like that.”

“I’ve never lived like this.”

He looked down at his own apple, still untouched.

“Eat,” you commanded. “Before I take yours, too.”

Henri obeyed.

And for a long moment, you ate in silence, surrounded by noise, your back against a barrel of pickled onions, and for the first time in months, there was no expectation pressing down on your spine.

But you hadn’t forgotten the purse.

“How much do you earn?” you asked abruptly.

Henri stiffened. “Majest—”

You shot him a look. He corrected himself. “Madame…”

“Well?”

He cleared his throat. “It isn’t proper to speak of such things.”

“Henri.”

His eyes dropped. “Four livres a month.”

You choked.

“Four?”

He flinched.

You stared at him. “That barely feeds one man—let alone one who guards a Queen!”

“I’m not a court noble. I’m not even technically a captain. I’m a butler. A bodyguard. The salary is—”

“An insult.”

He didn’t answer.

You reached for the coin purse again. This time you stared at the entire royal crest burned into the leather. “I will send him a letter,” you muttered darkly. “I will write to Louis. I will demand he name you the Grand Maître of my wing.”

Henri’s eyes widened in horror. “No—absolutely not! That’s a noble title! A hereditary one! That’s—”

“I outrank the nobility.”

“Yes, but—”

“I am the queen,” you added, waving the coin, “and I will not let the man who wipes his ass with rose petals tell me I cannot appoint someone who actually protects me.”

You bit into your apple again, juice running down your wrist. “It’s final.”

Henri was stunned into silence.

A moment later, your eyes darted to something down the lane. You straightened.

“What’s that?”

Henri turned. “That?”

“Yes,” you said, pointing at the crowd gathering near a wooden trough.

“That,” Henri said slowly, “is a duck race.”

“A what?”

He smiled, reluctantly. “They paint numbers on the ducks. You bet on which one gets to the end of the trough first.”

You blinked. “People bet on ducks?”

Henri chuckled. “Every Sunday.”

“I want to bet.”

“Of course you do.”

The crowd was cheering now. A boy held up a chalkboard with scribbled numbers. A woman rattled a cup. Five ducks—mottled, slightly disheveled, and extremely confused—were squawking at the starting end of the water trough, each with a tiny colored ribbon tied around its neck.

“Which one do I choose?” you whispered.

Henri leaned down. “I’m taking green. He looks angry.”

You grinned. “Red, then. She looks vain.”

You handed the bag of coins to Henri with a grin.

"You pay," you said, thrusting it into his gloved hand. "If I do it, they might recognize me. You look like a man who makes bets on ducks."

Henri gave you a long-suffering look but accepted the bag without protest. "I'll try not to look too noble."

"You don’t," you said sweetly, and turned to find the best vantage point.

He chuckled and approached the old woman with the cup. A brief exchange of sous later, and he returned to your side, shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in.

"It’s done," he said. "One for red. One for green."

The makeshift racetrack was a long wooden trough, water splashing gently over the sides. The ducks—mottled, muddy, and thoroughly confused—quacked indignantly at the crowd gathered around them. People were already cheering, shouting encouragement at their chosen birds.

You stared, fascinated. "They really cheer. For ducks."

"Watch this," Henri murmured.

The old man running the race blew a tin whistle. The crowd erupted.

"Go on! Go on, you beautiful idiot!"

"Move your fat tail, green!"

"Red! Come on, Red, you vain little queen!"

You burst out laughing, the sound so unguarded, so unroyal, that Henri turned to look at you—really look at you. Your eyes sparkled with delight, your mouth open in a grin, your hands clutched at your apron as if to hold the joy in.

Then you did something entirely unlike you.

You jumped.

Actually jumped.

"Go, Red! Faster! Come on, duckling, you gorgeous little narcissist!"

Henri stared.

Then he laughed—a rare, deep sound that tumbled out of him without permission.

"Green! For God's sake, Green, you're going backwards!"

Children screamed, old women waved handkerchiefs, and someone began to drum on a bucket. You threw decorum to the wind and joined the chaos, screaming for your duck like a woman possessed. Henri leaned into the crowd, yelling himself hoarse, caught somewhere between exasperation and wonder.

And then—

Red won.

It wasn’t even close. Your duck waddled triumphantly across the trough, squawking like royalty, her red ribbon bobbing like a banner of war.

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Pure delight.

You turned to Henri, wild-eyed, breathless, utterly flushed with victory. "Did you see that?! She’s a champion. A goddess. A legend."

Henri opened his mouth to reply.

You pointed a finger at him. "And you doubted her."

He raised his hands in surrender, grinning. "I was wrong."

"Damn right, you were."

You were smug for the rest of the afternoon. Positively unbearable. Henri teased you for it, of course, but never once tried to dull your joy.

And he watched you, quietly, as you laughed and danced and bit into another caramel-soaked apple.

He had never seen you like this.

He had never loved you more.

Back in Versailles, Elise reclined on your chaise, her feet tucked beneath a silk pillow, a fan lifted delicately to obscure her face.

"More wine," she said lazily.

A maid rushed to refill her glass.

"Now a poem," Elise declared. "One with tragic longing."

Another courtier (who didn’t quite know she was not the Queen) obliged with a stammered verse about roses and heartbreak.

Elise listened, fanned, and sighed.

Being the Queen, she decided, was delicious.

She and the real Queen were the same height. Same hair. The trick, she found, was not to speak too much. Just enough. And always behind the fan.

When someone bowed too deeply, Elise waved dismissively. When a minister asked about tax reform, she nodded slowly and said, "Send a letter."

No one suspected a thing.

Because no one looked too closely at the Queen anymore.

They feared her.

And Elise—with a borrowed smile and a perfect posture—was having the time of her life.

Later that evening, after the duck race and a meal of roasted chestnuts shared under a stone archway, you and Henri wandered back toward the hidden path.

The sky was streaked with orange and plum. The bells of Notre-Dame echoed faintly through the winding streets.

"Thank you," you said, softly.

Henri looked over at you. "For what?"

"For this. For letting me disappear."

He stopped walking.

You turned to face him, suddenly unsure.

He reached for your hand.

Not as a soldier.

Not as a servant.

As a man.

"You don’t disappear," Henri said. "You shine. You always have."

Your breath caught.

He held your hand just a little tighter. "But if you ever need to vanish again—I’ll be there. Every time."

And in that quiet moment, under the hum of a city that did not know your name, you leaned into him.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And Henri bent forward—

Not to kiss you.

Not yet.

But to press his forehead gently against yours.

It was reverent. Intimate. Like a promise not yet spoken aloud.

And in your heart, something shifted.

Something began.

Your fingers curled against his chest. You felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath his coat, fast and firm and entirely real.

“Henri…” you whispered, looking up at him.

He didn’t move.

“Henri,” you said again, quieter now. “Kiss me.”

A pause.

Then a sharp breath.

His hands dropped from your arms as if burned.

“No,” he said.

The word was soft. Gentle. But final.

Your heart stilled.

You stepped back half a pace, confusion knitting across your brow. “No?”

Henri looked away, jaw clenched tight. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

You stared at him, something sinking inside you like a stone tossed into deep water. “You don’t want to?”

He flinched.

Your voice broke slightly. “Henri—”

“God forgive me,” he interrupted, his voice rough, low. “I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

The confession landed hard between you, trembling with sincerity.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he stepped closer again, not touching, his hazel eyes steady on yours.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, breathless now. “I want to hold you. I want to take you away from all of this—Versailles, the court, him. I want to give you something honest. Something whole.”

“Then why—”

“Because it wouldn’t be right,” he snapped, not at you, but at the pain between you. “Not now. Not like this.”

You shook your head, angry, wounded. “Why not?”

“Because it would be treason,” Henri said, quieter now, aching. “Not against the crown. Against you.”

You blinked.

His chest rose and fell.

“If I kissed you now,” he said, “it would be for the wrong reason.”

You swallowed. “What reason would that be?”

“You’re hurt,” he said, holding your gaze. “You’re angry. You want to feel wanted. You want to feel powerful. Desired. You want revenge.”

You turned your face away, ashamed.

But Henri followed you, gently catching your chin and forcing your eyes back to his.

“And I don’t blame you,” he whispered. “He betrayed you. Humiliated you. And I would kill to see him suffer.”

He swallowed hard.

“But if I kiss you now, like this...”

He trailed off. Shook his head.

“It would give me hope,” he finished softly.

Your breath caught.

Hope.

You hadn’t even realized he was afraid of it. But now… now you saw it.

Henri’s strength wasn’t in his sword or his silence. It was in his restraint. In the way he’d loved you quietly for years, never once overstepping, never once daring to ask for more than your safety, your presence, your trust.

But he wanted more.

And he couldn’t survive being handed hope just to have it taken again.

“You still love him,” Henri said, voice barely audible. “And I can’t let myself believe I matter more. Not yet. Not unless it’s real.”

You said nothing.

You couldn’t.

He looked down, breath shallow. “If I kiss you now… and tomorrow you return to his arms—what will I be then? A shadow? A regret? A mistake?”

You flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this,” Henri whispered. “But I would rather live with longing than lose the courage to protect you.”

You reached for him anyway.

Fisted the front of his coat. “He has dozens of lovers,” you said bitterly. “Twelve, at least. Can’t I have one?”

Henri closed his eyes.

“Not if you only want me to hurt him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not if I’ll just be another name in your palace of wounds.”

Silence fell again.

Not cold. Not cruel.

Just… honest.

You looked at him then—not as your guard. Not as your shield. Not as the man who had stood behind you for years without asking for anything.

You looked at the man who loved you.

Who wanted you.

But who refused to take you unless you wanted him, too.

You let your hand fall from his coat.

Henri watched you. Waiting.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t smile.

You just said, “I see.”

And the words meant more than anything you could’ve screamed.

Henri stepped back, his hands clenched at his sides as if to keep from reaching for you.

The air between you shifted. Gentle again. Grief-laced.

You straightened your posture, gathering the borrowed skirts in your hands.

“I think I’d like to go back now,” you said softly.

Henri nodded once. “As you wish.”

And side by side, but no longer touching, you walked back through.

Back toward the palace.

Back toward the throne.

And the silence between you was the loudest vow either of you had ever made.

Louis was bored.

Painfully, blisteringly, soul-drainingly bored.

The military camp near the northern frontier stank of sweat and horse dung. The wine was watered down. The bread was stale. His generals, despite their decorated shoulders and booming voices, were all cowards in lace, more concerned with embroidered maps than actual terrain. The most dangerous thing Louis had done in the past three days was trip over a tent rope and nearly flatten his secretary.

He was the King of France. He had come to war.

And yet here he was, sipping lukewarm broth while the Duc de Luxembourg droned on about Spanish supply lines and unfavorable weather near Namur.

“…the Spanish have reinforced the western flank, Sire, most likely due to our proximity to the Dutch border,” the Duc said, tapping his finger on the map. “If we maneuver here—”

Louis wasn’t listening.

Because the Spanish had triggered a very inconvenient train of thought.

Spain. The Queen. His Queen.

He shifted in his chair.

It had been a week since he left Versailles.

Seven full days.

And not a single letter from her.

Nothing.

Montespan had written twice already. The second letter had arrived that morning, soaked in perfume and littered with phrases like “your glorious hands” and “the ache of your absence.”

The Queen, however?

Not a word.

Not even a dull, dutiful update from her secretary.

Did she miss him?

Was she angry?

Was she even thinking about him?

God, perhaps she was praying for his horse to collapse on him.

He scowled.

“Perhaps I should write to my queen,” he murmured, half to himself.

A silence followed. The generals looked up. Louis blinked, then realized: he had spoken aloud.

“Your Majesty?” one of them asked cautiously.

Louis cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

But someone had heard.

His court painter—Claude—was lingering near the edge of the tent with his sketchbook, awaiting orders for the next staged “royal at war” portrait.

When Louis dismissed his generals with a curt nod and a tight-lipped sigh, they bowed and scattered like dust on the wind—eager to escape the tent and his increasingly sour mood.

He remained seated, one gloved hand pressed to his temple, the other fiddling absently with the gold trim of his chair. The fire in the brazier had begun to die. The map of Europe flapped listlessly on the table as if even it were too bored to stay still.

Then—

A cough.

Delicate, hesitant.

Louis turned sharply.

Claude stood awkwardly at the edge of the tent, his sketchbook clutched to his chest like a shield. His curly wig was slightly askew, and he looked deeply conflicted—as though he were about to suggest something scandalous… or artistic.

Which, in the case of Claude, was usually the same thing.

“Sire,” Claude said cautiously, voice soft as oil on canvas. “Forgive me, but… I heard Your Majesty speak.”

Louis arched a brow. “That is concerning, Claude. I don’t recall addressing you.”

“You did not, Majesty,” the painter replied quickly. “It was… an accident of proximity.”

Louis squinted. “Get to the point, Claude.”

The man stepped forward, voice dropping confidentially. “You were wondering whether to write to Her Majesty. Perhaps... instead, Your Majesty might send her something.”

“A gift?” Louis asked, curious.

Claude hesitated. “A… portrait.”

The King blinked.

Claude pressed on. “Something… intimate.”

Louis’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, intimate?”

Claude swallowed. “Well… some nobles—when far from their wives—ask me to draw them. Nude.”

Louis’s eyes widened.

Claude rushed to add, “Tastefully, of course. Strategically draped. Shadows and swans and such. But occasionally—” he cleared his throat, “—they request something more… ah… detailed.”

Louis was silent for a long moment.

Then his baritone voice, ever-velvety and aloof, purred: “And the wives… enjoy this?”

“Oh yes,” Claude nodded. “Most find it… flattering.”

Louis leaned back in his chair, one hand stroking the brocade armrest thoughtfully. “Do you believe the Queen would enjoy such… a depiction of her husband?”

Claude blinked. “With Your Majesty’s proportions? Certainly.”

That was all it took.

Louis stood. “Very well. Sketch me.”

Claude blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now. Before I change my mind.”

Moments later, the tent was closed, the guards dismissed, and Louis—King of France, Sun of the Nation, God’s Appointed Sovereign—stood stark naked in the firelight.

“Well?” he said, placing one hand on his hip. “How shall I pose?”

Claude didn’t blink. He’d painted warhorses in flames and nobles mid-coitus. He was unfazed.

“Perhaps reclining?” the painter suggested, flipping open a fresh sheet of parchment.

Louis considered. “Yes. Yes, I like that. Something Greek. Heroic. Like Apollo. But with more… thigh.”

He reclined on a pile of cushions, propped on one elbow, belly drawn in tight, one leg lifted like a swan preparing for flight.

Claude began sketching.

“Add more muscle to the arms,” Louis instructed. “And here—” he gestured to his stomach, “—remove this entirely.”

Claude’s charcoal flew across the page.

“And… the member,” Louis added casually, as if discussing upholstery. “Make it… substantial. But tasteful. Impressive. But still... plausible.”

Claude didn’t look up. “Understood.”

“Length... girth... dignity,” Louis said, gesturing vaguely in the air. “Like a coiled serpent. Regal. Commanding.”

Claude paused. “A… serpent?”

“Metaphorically.”

The artist shrugged. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

Five days later, back in Versailles, you were having tea in your chambers.

It was a lovely morning. Calm. Birds singing. The scent of violets drifting from the gardens. You had just finished dictating a letter to your sister when Henri entered the room with his usual quiet grace.

"A letter, Your Majesty," he said, placing it on the tray beside your teacup. “From the front.”

You raised a brow. “From whom?”

He hesitated. “The King.”

You stared at the envelope. You hadn’t heard from him in over a week. And now—a letter?

Reluctantly, you picked it up and broke the seal, fingers deft. The paper crinkled. A second sheet slipped out.

You glanced at the letter.

And screamed.

Actually screamed.

The sound ripped from your throat before you could stop it, a shriek of pure, instinctive horror. You dropped the parchment as if it had bitten you, stumbling back from the chair, your hand flying to your chest.

Henri was at your side in an instant, eyes sharp. “What—what is it? Are you hurt?!”

You pointed a trembling finger at the paper on the floor. “That—THAT—THING!”

Henri blinked, then cautiously leaned down, eyes narrowing at the drawing.

His face slowly turned red.

“My God,” he muttered, blinking in stunned disbelief. “That’s… That’s not a penis. That’s a python.”

You looked like you might faint.

“That monster,” you hissed. “That creature doesn’t belong to my husband. That doesn’t belong to any human man!”

Henri coughed awkwardly, still staring. “It’s… certainly ambitious.”

“He doesn’t even look like that!” you snapped, storming toward the fireplace as if preparing to toss the letter into the flames. “Where are those muscles coming from? He looks like an Italian sculpture! That is not Louis. Louis is soft! Soft and lumpy! He snores!”

Henri, now beet red, murmured diplomatically, “Perhaps he… posed strategically.”

“Strategically?” You whirled on him. “Henri, he looks like he could lift a horse. I’ve seen the King climb stairs. He wheezes. And that thing—”

You jabbed a finger toward the floor, where the snake-dick monstrosity still leered obscenely up from the parchment.

“—has a shadow. It’s casting shade. It has perspective.”

Henri, still staring in a horrified trance, blinked. “It’s… rather well-rendered.”

You gave him a look that could peel paint.

“Do you want to join his harem, Henri?”

He choked. “Absolutely not, Your Majes—madame—no.”

“Good,” you muttered, snatching the letter off the floor. “Because I don’t even want to be in his harem anymore. This is madness.”

You turned the page with shaking hands and began reading the note that had accompanied the drawing.

My Beloved,

I send you this likeness to ensure you do not forget the majesty of your husband while I am cruelly absent from your side.

May it provide you with comfort during these long nights.

P.S. Claude insists it is a tasteful rendering.

You stared at the note.

Then you stared back at the drawing.

And then you howled.

Henri flinched. “Are you alright?”

“No,” you said between gasps of unhinged laughter. “But I will be. Once I respond.”

“Madame?”

You pointed firmly at the writing desk. “Ink. Paper. Now.”

Henri hesitated. “Are you sure you want to—”

“I’m going to ruin him.”

Henri exhaled and retrieved the writing supplies.

You sat down with a wicked gleam in your eye, sleeves rolled up like a woman about to commit a murder. “We’ll see how he enjoys receiving a tasteful rendering.”

In his campaign tent near the northern border, Louis XIV—King of France, God's Anointed, Wearer of Fabulous Wigs—lounged in a velvet chair, fanning himself half-heartedly while sipping tepid wine. The weather was dreary. The generals were dull. The excitement of war had long since faded into paperwork and dry meat.

Then, finally, a courier arrived bearing a letter.

From Versailles.

From her.

Louis’s hazel eyes lit up with the unmistakable glee of a man about to be praised for his own penis. He practically snatched the letter from the poor boy’s hands, waving him off without a second glance.

He broke the seal.

And blinked.

Then blinked again. Then gasped.

Inside was a drawing.

A drawing.

Of him.

But it wasn’t his version.

It was hers.

There he was—reclining awkwardly on a too-small chaise, a belly spilling over his waistband, his wig askew and his face round as a turnip. His eyes were half-closed in a drunken squint, and his signature hooked nose had been exaggerated to cartoonish proportions. As for his “member”…

Louis squinted.

Was that a thumbtack?

No—wait. It was labeled.

In perfect calligraphy: “Actual size.”

Beneath the drawing, the Queen had scrawled:

Your Majesty,

You were correct. I found your depiction “most flattering.”

Here is mine.

May it bring you comfort during your long, hardly majestic campaign.

P.S. My maid mistook it for a garden slug. I had to clarify.

Louis roared with laughter.

The tent nearly collapsed from the force of it. Pages peeked through the flaps. His generals, startled, looked up from their maps.

“Sire?” one asked cautiously. “Is all well?”

Louis, tears running down his cheeks, clutched the drawing to his chest.

“She drew my penis,” he gasped. “She drew it like a shrivelled walnut!”

He laughed until he wheezed. Until his powdered wig slipped sideways.

He read the note again.

And kissed the page.

“My God, she’s magnificent,” he whispered.

Then he stood.

He turned to his stunned aides with renewed purpose.

“Summon Claude,” he commanded.

“Sire?”

Louis grinned. “We’re sending another one.”

And so began the greatest erotic correspondence war in royal history.

France would never recover.

You stared down at the new drawing.

It had arrived at noon, slipped discreetly beneath your breakfast tray—your maid had barely stifled a snort as she set it before you, muttering something about "artistic liberties" and "certainly not suitable for morning digestion."

You waited until the room was empty.

Then, reluctantly, you unfolded it.

And groaned.

This one was even worse than the last.

Louis, nude again—naturally—but this time with a dramatically flung cape draped behind him like a Roman general caught mid-victory. One leg propped atop a stone, muscles exaggerated into absurdity. His stomach had vanished entirely, replaced by sculpted ridges that would’ve put the Apollo Belvedere to shame. A sword rested across his lap—not subtly. The hilt pointed straight at his exaggerated manhood, which, you were horrified to note, had been drawn with shading. Again.

There were doves.

Actual doves.

You flipped it over. A letter was tucked into the back, in Louis’s unmistakable hand—looping, elegant, and just slightly pompous.

Ma rebelle,

The war grows tedious. My generals smell of beef and cowardice. The tents leak. The soup is a crime.

I dream of you instead. Not your sermons. Not your politics. You.

I have enclosed another likeness of your husband, to keep you warm at night. Study it well. It is accurate—more so than last time. Claude has found a new muse in me.

In return, I require a rendering of your breasts.

For morale.

I remain, Your King (and favourite sculpture), Louis

You stared at the parchment in silent horror.

Your mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then you shoved the paper facedown beneath your plate and swore under your breath, “That disgusting pervert.”

You didn't respond immediately.

You wanted him to sweat.

You wanted him to squirm.

So you waited.

Seven days later, Louis received your reply.

He knew it was from you before the seal even broke—no perfume, no filigree, just plain parchment and the cold weight of disdain.

His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it. He read it slowly, eyes scanning each line with a kind of masochistic anticipation.

To His Majesty Louis,

Your latest drawing was received. I mistook it briefly for a hunting tapestry and nearly ordered it hung in the stables, until I realized the serpent-like creature slithering across your thighs was, in fact, meant to be your manhood.

The doves were a nice touch. I assume they flew away shortly after catching your scent.

Versailles has improved in your absence. The halls no longer reek of pomade and masculine indecision. The air is fresher. The fountains less polluted by your dramatics. The musicians have taken to playing quietly in the gardens—where you cannot shout over them. Even the swans seem calmer.

I have not drawn my breasts.

You have not earned them.

Kindly stop requesting pieces of me as if assembling a perverse jigsaw puzzle.

I remain, regretfully, Your Queen (by unfortunate legal binding),

P.S. Claude’s talents are wasted on your ego. Let the man paint a landscape.

Louis read the letter once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

By the fourth reading, his expression had transformed from scandalized outrage to something dangerously close to adoration.

He was grinning.

Wickedly.

Utterly.

The letter was an insult. A mockery. A rejection of his most virile royal attributes.

And yet…

He liked it.

More than Montespan’s letters, which had grown tedious—syrupy things filled with praise and swooning phrases like “My Lion of France” and “May your loins be protected by God.”

You, on the other hand, called him a jigsaw puzzle and suggested he smelled like indecision.

And somehow… that pleased him.

Deeply.

It felt real.

It felt earned.

As if you, even from a distance, were the only one still capable of reaching beneath the silk and ceremony—of cutting him to the quick and making him laugh in the same breath.

He folded the letter neatly, pressed it to his lips once, and tucked it into the pocket of his coat.

Then he turned to Claude, who stood nearby with a sketchbook and a look of growing concern.

“Fetch me a quill,” Louis said, eyes alight.

“Sire?”

“We are replying,” Louis declared. “At once.”

He paused. Then added, “And this time, I want wings. A halo. Make me an angel of war.”

Claude sighed, long-suffering. “With or without the serpent?”

Louis’s grin deepened.

“With,” he said.

“Obviously.”

My dearest rebel,

Your last letter wounded me. Truly. You accuse me of indecency, vulgarity, sacrilege—and yet I am a man at war! A man deprived of the comforts of home, of silk, of civility. Deprived of you.

I shall refrain from sending further artistic renderings of my blessed anatomy if—and only if—you send me something in return.

A drawing.

Nothing scandalous. Nothing improper. Just something of yours. Your face. Your hands. A curl of your hair if you wish to gift me a relic. Or, if the spirit moves you—a tasteful rendering of your breasts.

I leave the subject to your discretion.

But understand this: if I receive no reply, I can make no promises about Claude’s next commission. He is already sketching me riding a griffin, naked but for a laurel crown. You have only yourself to blame.

Yours (bare, noble, and slightly chilly),

Louis

P.S. You underestimate Claude. His serpent has depth.

You stared at the letter.

You read it again.

You inhaled once.

And then muttered, “That absolute bastard.”

Henri, who had wisely retreated to the far corner of the room, cleared his throat. “Shall I burn it?”

“No,” you said coldly, rising from your chair. “Fetch me ink. Paper. And the charcoal box.”

Henri blinked. “Are we drawing now?”

You leveled him with a look.

“We,” you said, “are declaring war.”

____________

To His Royal Exhibitionist,

You are to cease immediately with the anatomical illustrations. This is not art—it is sacrilege. The Louvre weeps.

If I receive one more sketch of your “laurel-crowned serpent,” I will have it framed and displayed in the Hall of Mirrors for the entire court to admire. I will commission a full oil painting and hang it beside your father's portrait. I will invite the Pope.

Stop.

No more thighs. No more glistening pecs. No more dislocated anatomy and misty-eyed cherubs.

I am not sending you my breasts. Or my hair. Or my wrists. I am not a reliquary.

You want a drawing?

Fine.

Enclosed is a rendering of myself, drawn with my own hand, as you truly inspire me.

Enjoy.

May it haunt you.

Regretfully,

Her Majesty, your long-suffering Queen

P.S. The broom is symbolic. But I will use it.

The enclosed drawing, inked in bold strokes and precise detail, depicted you—gown billowing, teeth bared, eyes narrowed in royal fury—chasing a very naked King Louis XIV down a Versailles corridor with a broom raised high above your head. The resemblance was uncanny: the nose, the smug expression turned to panic, the unmistakable serpent (now modestly labeled “Not to scale”).

Claude would have cried.

You folded the letter, sealed it with your own monogram, and handed it to Henri with a satisfied smirk.

“Make sure it’s delivered by hand,” you said.

Henri raised a brow. “Shall I warn the messenger?”

“Tell him to run.”

_______

Louis was in a foul mood.

His boots were muddy, his fingers ink-stained, and he had just endured the third bland duck stew in as many days. Montespan’s perfume-laced letter lay unopened on the table, ignored entirely in favor of the one he now clutched with both hands.

The Queen’s seal.

His pulse quickened.

He broke it open.

He read.

He stared.

And then he howled.

The tent echoed with his laughter. Claude peeked in, curious, only to be waved inside by a flushed, cackling King.

“She drew herself chasing me,” Louis gasped, wheezing. “With a broom!”

Claude approached cautiously, squinting at the paper.

“…Your Majesty,” he murmured, “I must say the resemblance is uncanny.”

“She labeled the broom ‘consequences,’ Claude!”

Louis slapped the table, nearly knocking over a carafe. His wig was already askew. “Gods, look at my face. I’m running! Me! Like some terrified valet!”

Claude tilted his head. “Well, to be fair—”

Louis glared.

Then laughed again.

“She’s magnificent,” he whispered, clutching the drawing to his chest. “Utterly mad. And mine.”

Claude nodded slowly. “So… no more serpents, then?”

Louis paused.

Looked at the drawing.

Grinned.

“Not unless she asks for them.”

He folded the paper reverently and tucked it into his journal, alongside the one she’d sent before.

Then he picked up a fresh quill.

To my divine fury,

The broom is terrifying. The anatomy was cruel. The labeling was excessive.

I’ve never wanted you more.

Write again soon.

Yours (and running), Louis

P.S. Claude is drawing you riding the broom. Naked.

For balance.

He sealed the letter to his Queen with a smile still ghosting across his lips—a crooked thing, warm at the edges, tinged with disbelief. The drawing of himself being chased with a broom would haunt him in the best way. He tucked it safely into the leather folio at his desk, as though it were a relic of something precious. Something alive.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he reached for the other letter.

Montespan’s.

Her familiar seal, scented with that too-sweet perfume—orange blossom and honeysuckle, always too thick, too eager—was already beginning to smudge from the oil on his fingertips. He hesitated. Not because he feared what was inside, but because he already knew.

It would not make him laugh.

Still, he broke the wax and unfolded the page.

Mon Louis,

The children ask for you daily. Marie-Anne will not practice her harpsichord until you write to her personally. Louis-Auguste insists his sword is dull and cannot possibly defend France without his father’s inspection. Even little Louise Françoise pouts whenever your name is spoken. You are missed. Deeply.

I miss you too. Every morning I wake, hoping to hear your voice in the corridor. Every night I sleep with your handkerchief beneath my pillow, whispering prayers to God and to love.

Return to us soon, my King. Your absence carves at the edges of my soul.

Your devoted, A.

Louis sat still for a long time.

The tent was quiet now. Claude had gone. Outside, the wind tugged faintly at the canvas, and the low sound of distant marching boots echoed through the camp.

He looked down at the letter again.

It was simple.

Syrupy, yes. Romantic in a way he no longer believed in. But the mention of the children—that caught him. Twisted something soft in his chest. His son’s scowl when displeased. Marie-Anne’s ridiculous insistence that she was “destined for opera.” The way they both crowded around him when he returned from trips, eager for stories, for attention.

He missed them. He always did. They were the only things he and Athenais had created together that did not feel... poisoned.

He picked up a fresh sheet of parchment.

To my children,

I think of you often. Of your lessons. Your laughter. Of Marie-Anne’s stubborn hands at the harpsichord and your brother’s flair for dramatics in battle poses. I trust your tutors are keeping you clever. And your mother, warm. Know that I remain proud.

When I return, we will ride.

Your father, Louis

He stared at the closing line for a long while.

Then slowly folded the letter, sealed it, and handed it to the courier waiting just outside his tent.

He never mentioned Athenais.

And when the letter arrived, Montespan read it in silence.

The page said nothing. The room was still. Her ladies kept their distance.

She sat at her dressing table, the light from the window catching on the gold flecks in her hair. Her lips, painted that perfect rose hue, curled faintly as she read the final lines again.

We will ride. Your father. Louis.

Nothing else.

Nothing for her.

Not even a line.

The smile slipped.

She folded the parchment slowly, hands careful, controlled. The silence in her chamber stretched long enough for even the candles to flicker nervously.

She rose.

Walked to the hearth.

Dropped the letter into the flames.

Then turned to Marie-Claire, who had been lingering by the door like a ghost.

“Summon the carriage,” Montespan said softly.

Marie-Claire hesitated. “My lady… where are we going?”

Athenais’s voice was quiet. Cold. Resigned.

“To La Voisin.”

A pause.

“It’s time for another ritual.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the fire, watching the last of Louis’s ink curl and blacken.

“He’s slipping again.”

She didn’t blink.

“We cannot allow that.”

The night dragged on, stale and airless in the tent.

Louis lay on his cot, one arm thrown across his chest, staring boredly at the canvas ceiling above. The flickering torchlight outside cast soft shadows that danced like ghosts on the fabric. He was not sleepy. Not particularly tired. But his body ached—not from war, not from the weight of crowns and maps—but from something simpler.

Loneliness.

It wasn’t emotional, not in the way people meant when they said the word with longing in their voice. This was carnal. Familiar. A dull pull behind the ribs, a heat in the belly. A man’s restlessness. He exhaled heavily, shifting on the narrow cot, the linen creaking under him.

Versailles felt far away.

Even Montespan, with all her perfume-drenched letters and desperate declarations, felt like something imagined. A sweet rot in the corner of his memory.

He sat up.

The air was cooler now, the fire in the brazier dying down. His wig itched against his scalp—he scratched at the edge, sighing, reluctant to remove it lest he feel older than he already did. With a low groan, he rose and pulled on his coat, draping it loosely over his shoulders. He left the tent without a word.

The camp was quiet.

Most had gone to sleep. The clamor of the day had dulled to occasional snorts of horses, the creak of leather, the rustle of a flag catching wind. Torches lined the perimeter, their flames low and hissing.

And that’s when he saw her.

A maid—young, but not too young—was tending one of the torches near the officer’s quarter. Her sleeves were rolled, her hair pinned beneath a linen cap, her fingers blackened from oil and ash. She moved quietly, with that stiff, hurried grace of someone used to being overlooked.

Louis tilted his head.

It had been days.

Too many.

Too long.

He wasn’t made for abstinence. He never had been. He’d said as much before. A man shouldn’t go too long without feminine warmth—it breeds melancholy. That was what he’d told his confessor once, and while the priest had blanched, Louis hadn’t cared. He was the king. If God didn’t understand, then God didn’t deserve France.

He approached slowly.

“Bonsoir,” he said, voice smooth, baritone warm as candle wax.

The girl startled slightly, then turned, dipping into a nervous curtsy. “Majesty.”

She knew him, of course. Everyone did. But her eyes were uncertain. She stayed where she was, one hand still on the torch’s iron frame, the other gripping the hem of her skirt.

Louis smiled.

It was the kind of smile that once made duchesses blush and baronesses forget their vows. The kind he rarely used anymore, except when it suited him. Seduction was a game he hadn’t played in weeks—and his hands were aching for cards.

“You’re working late,” he said softly, stepping closer.

“It is my duty, Sire,” she replied.

“Hmm,” he murmured, letting his gaze flick over her. “How noble.”

The girl flinched slightly. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the look. The tone.

“Sire…” she said, gently, uncertain, “I—shouldn’t. You are—”

“Married?” he finished for her, voice low. “Yes.”

She shifted, eyes darting to the dark beyond the torch.

Louis leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to that intimate hush. “And you’re not the Queen. I know that.”

A pause.

She bit her lip. Looked away.

He tilted his head. “You think me wicked?”

“No,” she said too quickly. “I just… it isn’t proper.”

Louis smiled again, indulgent.

“Proper,” he said, “is a prison for people with dull lives.”

And then—he reached for her wrist. Gently. Not forcefully. But possessive enough to show intent.

“I can be good to you,” he said, voice low, warm, edged in wine and charm. “Just for tonight.”

The girl trembled. But in the end, she didn’t pull away.

They found a corner between two supply carts, half-sheltered by canvas. It was quick—hot, breathy, the kind of sex that tasted of secrecy and dust. She whimpered when he touched her, gasped softly when he pushed into her, her hands clinging to his sleeves like leaves in a storm. Louis grunted, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping her hip.

It wasn’t emotional.

It wasn’t tender.

It was habit.

It was boredom.

It was Louis XIV—flesh before faith. Impulse before memory.

And afterward, as he adjusted his coat and the girl vanished into the shadows like smoke, he walked back to his tent alone, hips sore and unsatisfied.

He lay down.

And immediately thought of her.

Not the maid.

Not Montespan.

Her.

The Queen.

Your face. Your silence. The cold way you had stared down at him from the balcony, the look of disdain carved into every inch of your regal posture.

He saw you now—unmoving, pale, proud.

And the image struck like a blade.

Louis turned on the cot, restless. “A man needs to relieve himself,” he muttered aloud, as if to the canvas above. “He needs softness. Warmth. It means nothing.”

But the words were hollow.

He rolled again, frowning. “It’s not betrayal. Not truly. I’ve always had lovers.”

His voice faltered.

He wasn’t speaking to God. Or France. Or even to the shadow of the Queen in his mind.

He was speaking to himself.

Trying to explain himself. Trying to believe it.

But then—something shifted.

Not in the air.

Not in the tent.

In his mind.

It was subtle at first, like the taste of something familiar on his tongue. A thought. A scent. A whisper.

Orange blossom.

Burnt honey.

A glint of pearl. The sound of a laugh—hers, Athenais’s, like perfume turned into sound. He blinked, and suddenly her face filled his vision—not the maid, not the Queen—but Montespan.

Her eyes. Her hands. Her perfume, thick and cloying and warm.

Louis sat up slowly, his pupils dilating in the dim firelight.

He hadn’t meant to think of her.

But there she was.

Soft hands. Soft lips. Familiar thighs. The smell of her neck.

He swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed.

What had he been saying? Something about honor?

Something about guilt?

It was slipping away already.

Replaced.

Flooded.

The taste of wine. The curve of her smile. The comfort of her bed.

It rushed into him like heat.

And far away—very far, back in Paris—Athenais stood barefoot in La Voisin’s chamber, her palms pressed to the blackened altar, the air thick with smoke and murmured Latin.

The witch’s voice was sharp. Precise.

“It returns,” she said. “The will grows back like rot. But we know what to do.”

Athenais didn’t speak.

She only nodded.

Her lips parted. Her breath steadied. And as the wax dripped onto the sacred symbol carved into the stone, she whispered the King’s name.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

Again.

And in a cold tent near the northern frontier, Louis groaned softly, lying back against the cot with a strange, distant smile on his lips.

He didn’t know why he was thinking of her.

He didn’t care.

He wanted her.

And that was all that mattered.

Because Louis XIV did not need to be bewitched to be unfaithful.

The spell only made him choose her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

[coldkidcookieneck]

Finally caught up with this series and… WOW.😳Damn, Monstepan, how can you do that?! Go read it, guys, if you haven’t yet, totally worth it 🔥

[muiitoloko]

Eden in Versailles

Summary: The Queen becomes Eve reborn-half-mad with grief, half-divine in rage-bathing beneath Apollo's gaze.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Jealousy, Angst

Author's Notes: I wrote this while listening to Ma Meilleure Ennemie — I'd recommend checking out the translation!

About the Bassin d’Apollon. I've read on some websites that it's around 1.10 meters deep, others say 2 meters, and some even claim it’s less than 1 meter. So I just told myself, “Oh, whatever!” and decided to write it as if it were shallow 😅 So sorry if that looks like a mistake to you, but I honestly couldn’t figure out how deep the Bassin really is!

First, Second, Third and Fourth part here

Also read on Ao3

The promise was kept.

Henri walked free at dawn, his chains struck from him quietly, without spectacle. He emerged from the Bastille thinner, paler, with the hollow-eyed look of a man who had shared walls with damp and silence. But when you saw him again—when he crossed the Queen’s threshold as though nothing had changed—you met him with arms outstretched, tears unspooling despite your effort to swallow them.

“Majesty,” Henri whispered, bowing low even as you clutched his hands, as if his loyalty needed to be written into his very posture.

“Never again,” you said sharply, dragging him upright. “Never again will I let him take you from me.”

Henri said nothing. He only pressed your hand to his lips, his eyes closed, his lashes trembling against his pale cheeks.

Versailles resumed its glittering pulse when the mourning days ended. The mirrors were uncovered, the fountains stirred back to life, and courtiers returned to their endless games of power and perfume. You, exhausted of grief, returned to your canvases. Paint became your confessor, color your only salve. In the quiet hours you painted not palaces or lilies or holy virgins, but small things: hands, tiny faces, shadows of infants that never grew. You painted them in ochres and silvers, faces blurred, as if to will your son into some other existence—if not in flesh, then at least in pigment.

Louis did not stop you. Perhaps he feared to. He had softened after the night you collapsed into him, softened enough to ask your forgiveness with lips against your hair. But softness in a king never lasted long. Within weeks, he found another way to salt the wound.

The declaration was made on a bright spring morning: Louise Françoise de Bourbon, Montespan’s daughter, was legitimized. Paraded in silk, recognized by crown and church as a true child of France. The court erupted in bows and blessings, courtiers fawning as if God Himself had endorsed the decision. You sat rigid in your chair, black still trimmed at your cuffs, your lips fixed in a faint smile that fooled no one.

It was humiliation. Montespan’s child had lived, yours had not. Montespan’s cradle rocked, yours remained empty. Versailles knew it. Versailles whispered it.

“The queen’s womb is barren,” the ladies murmured behind fans.

“Her belly swelled only to break.”

“Montespan overshadows her still.”

You could feel it in their eyes when they bowed—too long, too pitying. A bow that stung more than an insult. You suspected Montespan fanned these whispers herself, sly as ever, her hand guiding the rumors like a puppeteer’s string.

What you did not know—what none of the court dared breathe aloud—was that Louis heard her once.

It was a night at the Porcelain Trianon. Montespan, flushed with wine and emboldened by laughter, had let her tongue wander too far. A quip, sharp as it was careless:

“Her Majesty clutches her rosary while I cradle France’s future.”

Louis froze.

The courtiers chuckled nervously, but Louis’s hazel eyes snapped to her, cold as steel, the baritone beneath his breath coiling with warning. “Do not say that again.”

Montespan, clever creature, read the danger. She leaned in, lips brushing his ear, her perfume thick and sweet. “Ah, forgive me, Sire. Only a jest. You are too solemn tonight.”

Louis said nothing more. But that night, when they withdrew to her chamber, his silence burned hotter than anger.

Montespan had always known how to disarm him—with wit, with body, with the promise of warmth when the queen was ice. She purred against him, her voice dripping honey. “You are too grave, Majesty. Let me sweeten you.”

But Louis was not sweet.

He took her with a roughness that startled even her. No murmured baritone endearments, no velvet play of words. Only teeth at her throat, fingers digging hard into her hips, the slap of flesh punctuating his silence.

“Louis—!” she gasped once, half in shock, half in thrill.

“Be silent,” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

She clung, nails raking down his back, her practiced moans faltering beneath the sheer force of him. Montespan knew the game well—how to coax, how to beguile—but that night, there was no coaxing him, no softening his grip.

It was not passion; it was punishment.

Every thrust said what his lips did not: You overreached. You forgot yourself. And I will remind you.

Montespan, ever calculating, yielded. She let him use her body as outlet, knowing that his fury, like his lust, would burn hot and then cool. But even she flinched when he pushed her face into the pillows, his breath harsh against her ear.

“You think yourself clever,” Louis rasped, his baritone hoarse. “Mocking my queen. Mocking me.”

Her voice trembled with the forced sweetness of survival. “Forgive me, Sire. I live only to please you.”

He did not forgive. Not that night.

And when at last it ended—when his hands finally released her wrists, when the silence grew heavy again—Montespan lay very still, her painted lashes trembling, the sting of his dominance lingering in her skin. She had held his power many times before, but that night she remembered that she was only ever borrowing it.

Louis lay back, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the canopy overhead. He did not look at her. His baritone, when it came, was quiet and sharp.

“Do not speak of my queen again.”

Montespan swallowed her pride, her painted lips curving into a faint smile as she whispered, “As you command, Majesty.”

But in her heart, she cursed you.

Because though you had lost your child, though you were mocked by whispers, though your cradle was empty—Louis had defended you. Not with words. Not with tenderness. But with fury, and with his body, and with a violence that reminded Montespan that even she, the favorite, could be punished for touching the wound he carried for you.

And Versailles—if it had known—would have whispered a different tale.

That the Sun still burned for his queen, even in the shadows of another woman’s bed.

The return from the Trianon was never silent. The wheels of the open carriage groaned over stone and gravel, the gold-leaf crests glittered in the sun, and the pace of the horses was as ceremonial as a funeral march—slow, observed, regal. Courtiers lined the inner avenues of the gardens to bow as Louis XIV passed, their wigs trembling with sweat in the heat, their fans fluttering like trapped butterflies. But today, no one said a word to him.

Not because they didn’t wish to. But because Madame de Montespan sat beside him.

She was a vision of restraint. Her powdered décolletage shimmered like cream dusted with gold. Her dark eyes lowered demurely beneath gilded lashes, lips faintly painted with the same rose-colored tincture she’d worn when the king had first claimed her. Not a single ringlet of her thick hair had strayed from its pearl-pinned coils. She was silence perfected—composed, cold, cruel beneath the surface.

Louis didn’t look at her.

Not once.

He kept his hazel eyes fixed to the landscape on the left, jaw clenched as if weighing some internal war. He had not touched her since they entered the carriage. He had barely spoken to her since their return from the Trianon. Yet Montespan’s smile remained, carved into her face like the arches of Versailles—immaculate, calculated, indestructible.

Then he saw you.

A small commotion on the eastern edge of the gardens—where the green opened to sun, and the gilded waters of the Bassin d’Apollon sparkled in shallow brilliance beneath the sky. He raised a hand.

“Arrêtez.”

The coachman reined in the horses with a sharp command. The carriage jerked slightly. Dust curled. Courtiers paused in confusion.

Louis leaned forward, eyebrows knit. His baritone was low but edged with something warmer than before.

“What is she doing?”

Before them, flanked by your small entourage of ladies and guards, you stood in full sun, a palette in your hand and a frown on your brow. You wore mourning still, but today the veils were lifted, replaced by a lighter shade of gray-blue satin—no longer in defiance of grief, but in control of it. You painted on an easel set before the bassin, lips pursed, sunlight pooling around you like an offering. You gestured irritably at Henri, who stood behind you holding a parasol.

“No,” you snapped, loud enough to be heard by all. “Not above my head. Beside. You’re blocking the reflection.”

“But, Majesty—”

“I don’t care if it’s tradition. This painting does not care about tradition.”

Louis let out a short, surprised breath that could have been a laugh.

The sound carried across the gardens like a ripple through still water. One of your ladies gasped aloud, hand to her throat, and the others immediately turned, their eyes widening before they dropped into low curtsies. The guards straightened, hands to swords, heads bowed. The air thickened with the reverent silence that followed his presence.

You, however, did not move.

Your brush hovered above the canvas, eyes fixed on him across the sunlit space. Louis XIV—your husband, your king—sat high in the open carriage, his black wig framing his pale, drawn face, the gray at his temples hidden but not forgotten. His hazel eyes were fixed only on you. And beside him, poised like a predator draped in pearls, Madame de Montespan smiled.

She did not look at the king. She looked at you.

Her fingers toyed lazily with the golden necklace around her throat, making the pearls sway against her powdered décolletage. She fiddled with it in mock distraction, but her gaze, dark and satisfied, stayed locked on yours. That was when you saw it—the mark, dark and blooming at the base of her neck. A love-bite. Fresh. Unhidden. A deliberate wound disguised as ornament.

Something twisted sharp and cold in your chest.

Louis leaned forward, one hand braced on the carriage door. “Ma rebelle,” he called, his baritone curling with fondness and command in equal measure. “What are you painting now, hmm? A new devotion to our fountains? Or a portrait of your own temper?”

You narrowed your eyes, forcing your lips into the faintest smile. “Oh, Majesty, you know me. I am not skilled enough to capture fountains, nor vain enough to capture myself.” You tilted your head, letting your tone sharpen into something sweet and edged. “I was only attempting the impossible. A portrait of your fidelity.”

A ripple of gasps and muffled laughter darted through the entourage. Montespan’s fan snapped open, her shoulders trembling as she smothered her laughter behind it. The dark mark on her throat seemed to glow in the sunlight, mocking you silently.

Louis’s hazel eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, though his smile remained practiced. “Careful, ma rebelle. Sarcasm is like fire—pleasing when it warms, dangerous when it burns.”

You dipped your brush in paint, your hand steady though your pulse thundered in your veins. “And kings are like the sun. Too close, and they scorch everything in sight.”

Montespan’s laugh broke free then, light and cruel, spilling from behind her fan like perfume. She leaned subtly toward Louis, though her eyes flicked only to you. “Ah, Sire,” she purred, “your queen’s wit is sharper than your marshal’s sword.”

Louis did not answer her. His gaze stayed fixed on you, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He could endure your sharpness, perhaps even admire it in secret—but Montespan’s mockery of it pricked his pride.

You saw it. You seized it.

Without a word, you bent and slipped off your shoes. The silk slippers landed on the grass with a soft thud.

The entire garden seemed to hold its breath.

Louis’s eyes widened. For one terrible instant, his composure cracked. His baritone cut the silence, sharp and alarmed. “Dieu—don’t tell me you mean to hurl those at me!”

He jerked slightly in his seat, half turning as though to shield himself behind Montespan, his hand pressing instinctively to her arm as if to nudge her between you and him. “Madame, brace yourself,” he muttered under his breath, hazel eyes darting nervously back to your bare hands.

But then—

You began to unfasten your bodice.

Henri, who had stood valiantly under the parasol and the weight of the queen’s fury for far too long, made a faint choking noise. “Majesty—!”

You did not acknowledge him.

One hook, then two. The third gave way with a sharp tug of your fingers, exposing the pale linen beneath. Your shoulders shrugged free of the tight blue-gray satin, baring the top of your chemise. It clung to your skin with sweat and defiance. The wind caught your veil and tossed it back like a banner.

Montespan’s lips parted again. This time the gasp was audible.

Louis’s breath hitched—but not in desire.

In dread.

His hands rose slightly, more defensive than royal now. “My flower,” he warned, baritone low and sharp, “whatever you are thinking—”

You glanced at him with a smile that was not a smile.

Then turned your back on him.

Louis’s breath caught. “No.”

Your hands dropped to your hips, unfastening the rest of your bodice until it slid off entirely, revealing the damp white linen clinging to your form beneath—nearly sheer, the curve of your spine visible through it in the sun.

“Do not,” Louis said, standing fully in the carriage now, voice rising, dangerous, nearly pleading. “Do not dare.”

But you were already walking.

Barefoot, head held high, your bodice bundled under one arm and your chemise sticking to your skin in the heat, you stepped from the edge of the gravel path and began descending the marble steps toward the Bassin d’Apollon.

Gasps broke out like firecrackers.

Henri spun in place, back turned, parasol abandoned, one hand pressed dramatically over his eyes. Your ladies fluttered, frozen between duty and disbelief. A guard dropped his halberd. Somewhere, someone whispered, “She’s gone mad—!”

You didn’t care.

The sun glared off the water’s surface, the shallows shimmering like molten glass. Apollo rose at the center of the bassin, his chariot of bronze horses straining toward the sky, half-submerged in the shallow depths. The water was barely knee-high—only one meter at its deepest—and yet you stepped into it as if it were the Tiber, as if you were wading into legend.

The cold bit at your ankles. Then your calves.

You smiled.

Louis was out of the carriage now.

Stalking across the gravel with the full fury of his crownless grandeur, his hazel eyes burning, black coat snapping behind him like the flag of a nation at war.

“Out,” he barked. “Out now.”

But you ignored him.

Your skirts dragged like drowned silk behind you as you waded farther in, your chemise darkening where the water soaked it, rising up your thighs in clinging folds.

“Are you deaf?” Louis snapped. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

You turned slowly, knee-deep now in the Bassin d’Apollon, and smiled up at your king as sunlight turned your soaked linen nearly translucent. The marble colossus of Apollo loomed behind you, his arms raised in eternal triumph.

“I do,” you said clearly. “I’m bathing. Like a goddess.”

Louis’s fists clenched at his sides. “This is sacrilege.”

“This is honesty,” you said. “This is what France worships, isn’t it? Not God. Not love. But image. Power. The Sun reflected in water.”

“You shame yourself,” he snapped.

“I do it well,” you countered, lifting a handful of water and letting it run over your throat with a sigh. “At least I shame myself with beauty.”

Montespan stood frozen beside the carriage, one hand on her chest, her mouth moving but no sound emerging.

You spun in the water, wet skirts billowing, droplets catching the light as you splashed like a girl at a spring. Then—scandal of scandals—you raised one hand and caressed the marble leg of Apollo’s statue.

“He never leaves,” you said aloud, gazing up at the god’s sculpted face. “He does not flee. He does not lie. He does not drown out a woman’s cries with laughter and wine.”

Louis’s jaw locked.

“Enough,” he growled. “You will come out now or I will have you dragged out.”

You looked at him then—over your shoulder, eyes narrowed, hair clinging wet to your throat—and smiled. “Do it. Let them see you drag your queen from the arms of Apollo.”

The court behind him was deathly still.

Montespan looked as if she might faint.

Louis took a single step forward, then stopped.

His hazel eyes swept the scene: your soaked chemise clinging to every inch of you, your bare feet stirring the mirrored surface, the god behind you gleaming gold in the sun. You were not a queen. You were not a wife. You were not a widow or a scandal.

You were a symbol.

You were a curse.

You were Eve bathing in Eden, and Louis had never wanted to bite more than in that moment.

He gritted his teeth.

“Get out,” he said again, lower now, slower. “Before I throw myself in after you.”

You laughed.

It echoed through the gardens, rich and wild, as you turned in the water once more, stretching your arms over your head and letting the sun gild the tips of your fingers.

“I wish you would,” you said.

Because then they’d see you both.

Drenched. Mortal. Human.

And Louis XIV, the Sun King of France, would never survive such a thing.

Not in the age of mirrors.

And yet—

He loved you for it.

Hated you for it.

You were the worst of his blessings.

The most beautiful of his curses.

And still, even soaked in humiliation, even surrounded by gasps and scandal and silence, he could not look away.

He never would.

A new wave of gasps swept across the gardens as Louis XIV—King of France, sovereign of the sun, god of protocol—did the unthinkable.

He moved.

Not with courtly grace. Not with the polished, deliberate elegance of a monarch descending a dais. But with urgency. With defiance. With something dangerously close to joy.

His gloved fingers tore the ribbon from his throat. He flung his wig to the grass—black curls bouncing once on the gravel like some slain animal. Gasps turned to cries. The sight of the king's real hair—gray at the temples, damp with sweat—was more scandalous than nudity. He kicked off his shoes. Peeled away his coat. Unfastened the heavy embroidery at his chest.

And then—

He stepped down into the Bassin d’Apollon.

The marble steps slicked with sunlight. Water lapping like startled applause. A king entering the same water as his queen. Without ceremony. Without permission. Without hesitation.

You blinked, startled.

He was really coming.

Your laughter broke free, wild and high and disbelieving. “Louis!”

You darted backward, skirts swirling in the shallows, water splashing around your knees. He followed, slow at first, then faster—driven not by statecraft or strategy or fury, but something ancient and heady and human.

You darted around the foot of Apollo’s statue, your chemise soaked, your bare skin luminous in the sun. The crowd on the shore—the nobles, the guards, even your ladies—all stood frozen, stunned into silence as the king of France gave chase to his barefoot, laughing wife through the shallows of a royal fountain.

Louis didn’t speak.

He lunged.

You screamed and laughed as he caught you from behind—arms around your waist, your feet lifted clean off the stone floor as you kicked water in every direction.

“Put me down, you madman!” you laughed, twisting in his arms.

Louis only grunted, the sound half-growl, half-laughter. “Not before I drown us both in scandal,” he murmured, his voice rasping low against your ear.

“You? Drown in scandal?” You laughed, squirming. “You breathe scandal, Louis.”

His hands slid around your thighs as he lifted you higher, and for a heartbeat, he simply looked at you—your dripping chemise plastered to your body, nipples hard from the cold, your lips parted in breathless joy. You saw it then—the look—the flicker in his hazel eyes. That pause. That ache.

As though you had become a myth. Not his queen, not his enemy, not his failure.

But Eve—drenched, defiant, born of the earth and made for no one’s hand but God’s.

You took your chance.

You grabbed him by the shoulders and spun.

Louis gasped, caught off guard, but he let you turn him—his hands never leaving you, his feet steady even as you led him in a dizzy, reckless whirl through the water. You danced, breathless, soaked, twirling through the shadow of Apollo’s chariot like two mad gods flung from Olympus.

And the crowd—

Oh, the crowd sighed.

Not from scandal this time, but from awe.

Because here—here was a king who had lost a child. A queen who had nearly broken. A marriage scorched by grief and betrayal. And yet they danced. In the fountain. In broad daylight.

They danced.

“Mon Dieu,” someone whispered on the bank, clutching her fan to her chest. “He has gone mad.”

A marquis muttered, “No—he’s in love.”

Another voice said, almost reverently, “They both are.”

And still you spun.

Louis let you lead, his grip firm but unresisting. You twirled, water flying from your skirts, hair plastered to your cheeks, and with each turn, each breathless step, something unspoken began to unravel between you.

Forgiveness was not yet spoken.

But something softer than hate bloomed in its place.

Louis caught your wrist.

Stopped the dance.

Pulled you to him.

For a moment you were chest to chest, soaked linen against soaked linen, his bare hair silvering in the light, your veil forgotten somewhere in the water.

He looked at you, eyes full of things you didn’t want to name.

And softly—softly enough that only you could hear it—

“I forgot,” he whispered, “how beautiful you are when you laugh.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because it had been so long since you’d seen him like this—not as the king, not as the architect of your misery, but simply Louis. The man who had once traced your ribs with reverence. The man who had once wept over your shoulder in the darkness after his mother died.

You stood in silence, the world watching, the water dripping from your fingers.

And for one heartbeat, you had been equals.

Then—

A shriek cut the air.

Montespan.

Your head snapped toward the sound just as her fan fluttered dramatically from her hand and she collapsed backward into the arms of a nearby chevalier, all lace and limp limbs, her corset heaving in delicate dismay.

“Athenais!” Louis’s voice cracked through the gardens like a whip. His hands fell from you in an instant. “Athenais!”

You turned and watched.

Watched as he stumbled out of the bassin, boots splashing in the shallows, hands still dripping with the water he’d cupped your waist with not seconds before. Watched as he ran to her—ran—wigs and whispers forgotten, royal composure abandoned as he fell to his knees in the gravel beside her, voice raw with concern.

“What is it? What’s happened? Speak to me—”

She fluttered her lashes, one hand to her brow like some tragic heroine torn from Racine. “I could not bear it, Sire,” she gasped, her voice quivering with carefully curated fragility. “I watched you debase yourself in the fountain—and something within me snapped. I could not bear the sight of her…”

Her eyes flicked toward you, just once, venom gleaming beneath the veil of hysteria.

You stood, chest rising and falling, the wind catching the wet linen of your chemise. Your skin burned—not with sun, but with shame. The moment was gone. Trampled. Drowned.

Of course.

Of course.

It always ended this way.

A rustle of movement beside you—gentler this time, no spectacle—drew your gaze downward. Henri. He had stepped into the fountain. Not fully—just his boots submerged, the hem of his trousers darkening with water. But he stood beside you now, arm outstretched, palm open.

“Majesty,” he said softly, eyes on yours. “Come.”

You blinked at him, breath still shallow. He didn’t press you. He simply stood there, hand steady, gaze unwavering.

And you—you—stepped forward.

You took his hand.

Henri helped you up the steps, guiding you with a firm, silent grace, as if shielding you from the eyes still watching. He did not look at Louis. He didn’t need to.

At the top of the marble edge, Henri paused. Then, in one fluid motion, he shrugged off his coat—still warm from his body—and draped it gently around your shoulders.

The velvet swallowed your bare arms, the weight of it grounding you. Protective. Kind. His fingers brushed your back as he settled it, but never lingered. He stood between you and the gawking court now, body angled to shield you from the worst of it.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Louis was still kneeling.

Still holding her.

Still letting her breathless dramatics spill like wine down his sleeve.

“I thought I might faint,” Athenais sniffled, pressing a lace kerchief to her mouth. “When I saw you there—with her—as if we were commoners at a public spring. What must the court think? What must God think?”

Louis murmured something too low to hear, his hand cradling her cheek like she was the fragile one.

You turned back, jaw tightening.

Henri touched your elbow, voice low. “Majesty… come.”

You didn’t look back again.

You let him lead you.

Through the parted crowd, through the silence thick with scandal and shock and envy. You held your chin high, but your lips pressed tight. Your fingers clutched Henri’s coat tighter around your body as the court stepped aside to let you pass—not with deference, not with awe, but with hunger.

They had seen too much.

And yet, it wasn’t them you felt burning into your spine as you walked away.

It was him.

Louis watched you.

He watched as you allowed another man to guide you from the water. As you clung to his coat. As you leaned into his shadow instead of returning to the royal carriage. And something in his chest—something buried beneath centuries of pride and ritual and lace—twisted.

It wasn’t rage. Not quite.

It was older. Sourer. Bitter.

He remembered your words. The ones you'd hurled at him like daggers that night in his chambers:

"If you kill him—then you’ll have my body to bury next."

"I will not breathe in a world that lets you take everything from me, Louis."

"Yes. I’d die for him."

He had thought you furious when you said it. Hysterical. Mourning, grieving, dramatizing like all women do under strain.

But now—now he watched you walk away with Henri’s coat over your shoulders, your bare feet dark with water, your body still trembling beneath another man’s protection.

He believed you.

For the first time… he truly believed you had meant it.

You had looked him in the eye, soaked and grieving, and declared that you would throw away your crown, your body, your life—for your butler.

And now?

You trusted that butler more than him.

It gnawed at him.

Scraped like a dull knife beneath his ribs.

Louis remained kneeling beside Montespan, but his eyes didn’t return to her. Not fully. Not when she fluttered and whimpered and sighed. Not when she pressed her fingers to her brow with the elegance of a dying swan.

His gaze stayed on you.

On your retreating figure.

On Henri’s hand.

On the quiet strength with which the man protected you—not with spectacle, not with power, not with baritone declarations and fountains and wigs—but with quiet, constant loyalty.

Something Louis had never learned to offer.

And in that moment, drenched in scandal, humiliated before gods and court alike, Louis XIV—King of France, chosen of God—felt something he did not recognize.

Something sharp.

And ugly.

Jealousy.

It coiled in his chest like smoke.

Because you trusted him.

Not your king. Not your husband.

But a servant.

And somehow, that servant had become the one thing Louis feared most.

Irreplaceable.

[coldkidcookieneck]

This whole series throws me into tiny little tornadoes of emotions, especially the tension and interaction between Louis, MC, and Henri 😭 Go read it, guys!!!