#hcdcsbcbydcll

It was rare for Cole to get into town. With all the work he had on his hands it was rare for him to find the time for a break to begin with and even then, he preferred to stay on the farm. This was his quiet piece of heaven, and he loved it with every fibre of his being. But even Cole was just a mere human, so from time to time, when his hand was no longer enough for that sweet satisfaction, he went into town to find someone there. Usually he went for the girls from the big city who came to rural Montana for excitement and to find out if all those rumours about riding a cowboy were true. It also meant he didn’t have to deal with the consequences of someone from town believing that an ONS was more than that and with being the only heir to the McKenzie farm there were quite a few who thought getting him was an easy way to get their hands on his land. The girl he brought home this night was probably the hottest he had ever been with. Her lush curves nicely packaged and when she leaned over to him on their ride home he thought he’d see fucking stars with her dick sucking skills. Now she was in the bathroom, Cole was impatiently waiting for their first real fuck. Getting her out of her clothes had been fun already, but he also understood that she wanted a short break after her makeup had smeared from her tears after choking on his cock.

ACCEPTING | send me a ➹ and a fc ;; i’ll create a character on the spot.

Name: Kieran Seo Age: 29 Occupation: Undercover investigator specializing in corporate espionage Hometown: Ravenport — a rainy, steel-and-glass city where loyalty is currency and secrets are power Current Vibe: Coiled tension — the man who looks relaxed but whose mind is always three steps ahead, calculating every move.

Personality:

Cunning — sees the angles no one else notices

Loyal — but only to the few who have truly earned it

Restless — always chasing the next horizon, the next impossible case

Dry-humored — speaks in a low voice laced with sarcasm and hidden warmth

Signature Look: Tailored dark suits that somehow look rumpled just right, scuffed leather gloves, and a stare that could cut through stone.

Quirks:

Twirls a silver pen between his fingers when he's thinking.

Never drinks coffee — only sharp, bitter black tea.

Memorizes the exits of every room he steps into, out of pure instinct.

Mini Aesthetic: flickering city lights reflected on wet pavement, the chill of midnight air, smudged fingerprints on glass, the sharp snap of a lighter in a silent alley

Quick Quote: "If you can't outfight them, outthink them."

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Name: Elowen "Winnie" March Age: 25 Occupation: Indie filmmaker and part-time barista Hometown: Willow Creek — a sleepy town full of secondhand shops, wildflower fields, and more stories than people Current Vibe: Whimsical edge — the girl who dances barefoot at music festivals, wears vintage coats two sizes too big, and looks like she just stepped out of a dream she half-remembers.

Personality:

Creative — sees the world through a camera lens tinted with magic

Scatterbrained — notebooks full of half-finished thoughts and to-do lists she'll probably lose

Tender-hearted — feels everything too much and loves without brakes

Determined — if she believes in something, she’ll fight for it in her own unpredictable, stubborn way

Signature Look: Messy ponytails tied with silk ribbons, hand-me-down jackets with frayed cuffs, mismatched earrings, and a smile that’s both mischievous and soft.

Quirks:

Always carries around an old Polaroid camera, even when her phone could do it faster.

Leaves behind little origami cranes in random places she visits.

Eats dessert before dinner because "life’s too short for rules."

Mini Aesthetic: Super 8 film reels flickering at dusk, daisies growing through sidewalk cracks, tangled bedsheets in sunlit rooms, songs that sound like secrets

The scent of earth and leather clung to the air, mingling with the rich musk of the stables, a scent Devin had long since found more comforting than the perfumed halls of the palace. The quiet sounds of the horses—soft snorts, the shifting of hooves in hay—filled the space, a rhythm far more familiar than the one she was expected to step into now.

The weight of expectation had never sat lightly upon her shoulders, but today, it felt heavier than ever. A crown without a throne, a marriage without a choice. Devin had known this was coming, had spent years preparing for it, yet the moment arrived with all the elegance of a blade pressed to silk—sharp, inescapable, inevitable.

Her fingers moved idly over the sleek neck of her mare, the dark coat still damp from their ride. The animal exhaled, pressing into her touch, sensing the quiet storm within her. Horses, at least, did not pretend. They did not scheme or weave silken lies. They simply were.

Footsteps behind her, measured and deliberate. She did not turn at once. She already knew who it would be. Then, his voice, the bow in his tone before it even reached his frame. His words were a formality, a duty, words rehearsed and polished until they gleamed. Did he mean them, she wondered, or was he merely reciting the lines of the life he had been assigned?

Devin exhaled softly, her hand still stroking the mare’s neck as she finally turned. The light slanted through the stable doors, catching in the rich darkness of her riding habit, a deep forest green lined with gold. Her hair, unbound save for a few pinned strands, spilled over her shoulders, still tousled from the wind. If she was meant to be the perfect vision of a princess meeting her betrothed, she had failed spectacularly.

And yet, she did not care. Her gaze met his, unhurried but searching. This was the man she was to marry. Illegitimate, yet of royal blood. A stranger, yet bound to her by forces neither of them had chosen.

❝Matthew,❞ she said at last, her voice smooth but not overly warm, a thread of quiet curiosity woven beneath the formality. Not unkind, not cold. Simply… measured. She turned back to her mare, letting the silence breathe between them as she ran her hand over the horse’s muzzle. Would he fill it? Would he let it linger? Then, without looking at him, she asked, ❝Tell me, do you find such arrangements as ours comforting in their certainty, or suffocating in their finality?❞

Devin did not speak at first.

She let the silence stretch, watching the man before her with a careful, assessing gaze. He knelt, as all the others had before him, blade resting in a show of fealty, posture rigid with formality. It was a sight she had seen too many times to count—knights sworn to her service, their oaths spoken with conviction but their eyes detached, their loyalty a duty rather than a choice.

But this one was different. He was not of noble birth. He had not been raised in the halls of privilege, nor handed his title on a silver platter. He had earned his place, carved his own way forward through skill rather than lineage. And that, perhaps, made him worth watching.

❝You do not need to kneel before me,❞ she said at last, her voice smooth, even, betraying none of the curiosity he sparked within her.

Her words were not a request but a quiet command, spoken as though it were obvious, as though the very act of kneeling before her was unnecessary. She waited as he rose, her gaze never wavering from his as she took a slow step forward.

Now, standing before her, she could see him more clearly. The broad set of his shoulders, the way his hands—calloused, roughened by labor—rested at his sides with practiced restraint. He did not bear the soft hands of a nobleman; his were hands that had worked, that had fought, that had bled.

A gift.

That’s what they called her. A rare breed. A pet in need of taming.

Blaise had unwrapped many gifts before—things of exquisite worth, things meant to be savored, claimed, broken. But this… this was something different. Not some fragile trinket to be admired from a distance, nor some mindless, whimpering creature eager to submit. No, this one had fight in her—he could see it in the sharp set of her jaw, the defiance burning in her gaze, the way her body coiled despite the binds holding her still.

How amusing.

He stepped forward, the heavy silence stretching between them, suffocating. The candlelight flickered, shadows licking at his frame as he moved, slow and deliberate. He had no reason to rush. The hunt was already over; the prey already ensnared.

His boots barely made a sound against the polished marble, but she felt him, stiffening as he drew near. He could hear the sharp inhale she didn’t mean to take, the way her heartbeat quickened—just slightly—as he crouched before her, watching her with a gaze as cold as the grave.

Pathetic. Yet, undeniably intriguing.

❝They wrapped you up so prettily,❞ he murmured, voice a velvet caress over sharpened steel. ❝Tied with a bow, delivered to my doorstep. Tell me, should I be grateful? Should I savor this… generosity?❞

A slow smirk ghosted his lips as he reached out, fingers trailing along the air between them, close enough that she could feel the ghost of his touch, yet maddeningly just out of reach.

❝Don’t tell me what I mean, Lia.❞

The words were quieter this time, the sharpness in Blaise’s tone softened by a faint slur of whiskey-laden syllables. His blue-gray eyes, glazed but calculating, barely moved as he watched her, studying her reaction. He didn’t shift from his slouched position, one arm lazily hanging over the back of the couch, but there was an undeniable tension beneath his indifferent facade.

He exhaled slowly, the smirk on his lips tugging at the line between playfulness and something rawer—something he’d never let surface. Not fully. ❝You think I don’t mean it because you don’t want me to.❞ The accusation was light, almost teasing, but there was a weight behind it that cut through his usual careless charm.

Blaise tilted his head, a strand of disheveled blond hair falling across his forehead as he swirled the drink in his hand. He didn’t look at it, though. His gaze stayed on her, lingering, searching for something—anything—that would let him pull back before he said too much.

But Blaise never knew when to stop.

❝If you didn’t matter, you think I’d keep you around?❞ His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, as if speaking louder would betray too much. ❝If you weren’t…❞ The word caught in his throat, a brief flash of irritation breaking through his veneer before he drowned it in another sip of whiskey.

He didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t. Instead, he leaned back, his expression closing off again, returning to the familiar mask of aloof detachment.

Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening as his lips grazed her skin. It was maddening, really—this pull she felt toward him. The kind that had lingered quietly for years, weaving itself into her thoughts and settling in the spaces of her heart she had long tried to ignore. How long had she known? Maybe always. Maybe the moment they met. Or maybe it was every moment after, stacking on top of one another until the weight became unbearable.

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes locking on his. ❝It’s not just a good thing,❞ she murmured, her voice soft but laden with emotion. Every word she spoke felt like standing on thin ice, the weight of her confession threatening to break it beneath her. Her free hand hovered at her side before finally moving, nervously brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ❝You’ve always been the most important person in my life, Matthew.❞

The words hung in the air, unyielding and raw. They were the truth, the kind of truth that scared her because it couldn’t be taken back.

She glanced away briefly, gathering herself, but her gaze inevitably found its way back to him. ❝Even when I left…❞ her voice faltered slightly, but she pushed through, ❝even when I wasn’t here. You’ve always been there. And somehow…❞ She gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, one that betrayed just how much this moment terrified and thrilled her. ❝Somehow, you’ve always managed to feel like home.❞