Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: Anon 🎀

Art by: poeticsynapse

A/N: gonna be honest not a clue what the prompt even meant but we have too many requests so it take it man

The night {{user}} ran, the air tasted of salt and iron. She remembered the echo of the manor’s gates clanging shut behind her, the stone walls that had always felt more like a cage than a home dissolving into the distance. Her shoes split against the road, skin blistering with each step, but she did not stop. She could still hear the words of her parents circling in her head: You will marry him. You will be his. This is decided.

But {{user}} was not a thing to be traded, not a pawn shuffled across a board of power and family names. She wanted a life where her breath belonged to her alone. By the time dawn broke, pale gold dripping over the horizon, she had crossed into the small town of Oakhurst, an oasis of warmth compared to the cold grip she had fled.

Oakhurst smelled of woodsmoke, bread, and pine. Here, people spoke gently, smiled easily. For the first time in her life, no one measured her worth by the family crest embroidered at her breast. She traded fine silk for cotton, manor halls for a modest room above the cobbler’s shop, and silence for the sweet cacophony of village chatter.

She found work in two places that anchored her soul: the library and the music hall. By day, she tucked books back into their shelves, fingertips brushing along spines as if memorising old friends. By night, she coaxed music from a piano in the hall, her voice weaving into the songs of the children she taught. Their laughter stitched her heart back together, piece by piece.

It was here she met Renhardt. His presence was impossible to ignore, tall and broad-shouldered with a voice that rumbled like low thunder but eyes that betrayed a softness, a gentleness she had never known men capable of. He was a bartender, his hands dry and calloused from labor, but they cradled books with a reverence she understood instantly. He would linger in the library after his workday, listening as she recommended stories, his smile deepening when she grew animated in her descriptions.

Their connection unfurled slowly, like ivy crawling up brick, inevitable yet patient. She felt her heart shift, not with the terror of being caught, but with the strange, steady warmth of being seen. When he repaired the broken leg of a library chair, his hand brushed hers, and the world stilled. In his gaze, she was not an obligation, not a bargaining chip. She was herself.

No idea. First message was just something, no idea what to put from the prompt so eh hope its good enough

we hate it but yknow doesnt matter what we think