Thriving Thursday (maybe also thankful Thursday): pretty little thing family after omegas had the baby (or maybe a few more babies) and being thankful that shitty ex dropped them and that they sent in the application for the matchmaker service

You can’t help but stare when the little wrapped bundle nestles further into the broad chest of one of the most capably dangerous alpha’s you know. The sniper and soldier, calculating and dedicated to being a ghost on every operation he goes on, is dedicated to keeping your baby safe.

Every movement that could have woken your baby, that could have stirred them from the sleep they’re in on his chest, draws his ire. Johnny raised his voice to shout across the kitchen asking Kyle about something, and Simon could have killed Johnny with his eyes alone.

It was his time with the freshly born babe, this beautiful little boy that was going to be raised to be a good and strong alpha like his daddies. There was nothing that was going to end the time Simon had with him early, not until your hungry little boy needed to breastfeed.

You watched him, that protective daddy that he was, as you rested after giving birth. You were in labour for a long time and though your alpha’s were there for you every minute, it was still you that had to go through that.

The doctor recommended you take the time you need to recover, to give your body time to heal. The alpha’s in your pack stepped up the moment your baby boy first cried.

The first time he used his lungs to cry in the hospital room, pride flourished in the hospital. Gaz was the first one to hold your baby, the first alpha to calm the son that had just come into the world. Kyle’s voice soothed your baby, stilling the cries that had filled the room.

“You need to eat.” The interruption to your view of Simon comes when John sits beside you on the couch, carrying a plate of food for you—a combination of protein, fruits, vegetables and legumes. “I want you to finish it all.”

You sit up and lean against John, your head resting on his shoulder. He turns his head to kiss your forehead, giving you an affectionate exchange for the plate of food in his hand. He watches, he waits, as you start eating the food piece by piece, making sure you are cared for.

When Johnny and Gaz come into the living room, Kyle’s carrying a bottle of your breast milk for the baby. Johnny carry’s a diaper for your son and a spare set of clothes to change into, almost as if he predicts that he’s going to have a blowout.

“Give ‘im here, Si.” Johnny approaches the couch Simon’s sitting on, where your baby is tucked against his chest, nestling in. “It’s my turn.”

“The baby’s hungry,” Simon doesn’t deny Johnny, he wouldn’t do that, but he does take as much time as he can before he gives your son up.

Once Johnny takes your baby, he sits on the other side of you your baby snuggling into one of his daddies chests. It only takes a few minutes for your baby to wake up, his soft little cries and scrunched nose evident of his hunger.

“My boy,” Johnny coos, calming your baby before his hunger makes him too cranky, “got mum’s milk right here.”

Johnny taps the nipple of the bottle against your baby’s lips, waiting until he follows the movement. Once he takes the nipple into his mouth, he begins suckling and quickly becomes content with eating. Johnny’s fingers brush over his forehead, his scent soothing your son who looks up at his daddy watching him.

“Best decision we ever made,” Johnny whispers to your son, speaking to him as he east and fills his belly with breast milk you pumped and stored, “applying to meet your mama. She’s beautiful, your mama, and you are gonna grow up like your daddy-”

“The biggest and strongest,” Simon says with a lilt to his voice, “alpha. The best of the best.”

There was a general consensus among them all, the alpha’s that would’ve sent your ex a thank you card for walking out. Cause if he hadn’t then they wouldn’t have had the chance with you.

And that would’ve been one of the greatest upsets of their life.

Please accept this brain worm for the fae!au. You brilliant queen you! What if one of the fae courtiers decided to begin giving gifts to their queen? Maybe it's jewelry, maybe it's exotic mounts for far away. Invitations to private garden parties or evening rides by the beach. I WANT THOSE BOYS JEALOUS!

It began subtly, at first.

A bracelet, left on your writing desk, its chain woven from moon-silver and set with a single, gleaming gemstone that pulsed like a captured star. There was a simple note; for the loveliest of queens, and no indication of its sender, but when you had worn it the next evening, a ripple of murmurs spread through the court like wildfire, for it did not bear the insignia of royalty nor of your husbands, and thus it could not be from them.

John’s gaze had flicked to your wrist, his expression dark. Johnny had stared for a long moment before forcing a bright grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Kyle merely hummed as he sipped his wine, though you did not miss the way his fingers tapped idly against the table’s surface. Simon said nothing- but later that night, you had felt his gaze lingering on the bracelet, his fingers curling slightly as if resisting the urge to remove it himself.

Then came the invitations.

A Lord, a high-ranking noble known for his wealth and charm, was the first to act openly. An invitation to his private garden soiree arrived, wrapped in deep indigo silk and sealed with golden wax. The Queen Mother, who had joined you for an afternoon tea, had raised a brow when you presented it to her, but she did not object.

“Go,” she had murmured, lips curling in faint amusement. “Let them see what you inspire. Do not disappoint me."

And so you had gone. The garden had been a marvel- twisting vines that shimmered under the moonlight, flowers that sang when touched, fountains bubbling with water that reflected glimpses of possible futures and the twinkling stars themselves. The Lord had guided you through it all with easy conversation, his eyes sharp, assessing, and it was not that hard for you to assume who had gifted you that bracelet from before.

Your husbands had not been pleased.

Johnny had arrived at your chambers that night, leaning against the doorway with arms crossed, warmth tempered by something cooler, something sharper. “Nice party?” he asked, voice light- too light. Claws dug into his clothes, almost ripping the fabrics.

You had only smiled, inclining your head; even now, you did not understand them. It felt like they could not stand you with others, yet did nothing to truly push them away. Did nothing to truly have you as theirs wife. “It was pleasant.”

He had frowned at that, grumbling. “Aye, I’m sure it was.”

Kyle was less subtle. Days later, when a noblewoman presented you with an obsidian-winged mare from the distant eastern courts- a beast rare and revered- he had appeared at the stables before you even had the chance to take your first ride.

“You think you’ll be safe, riding something like that?” he had asked, watching the creature with wary eyes.

You had smoothed a hand down the mare’s neck, feeling the power coiled beneath her gleaming hide. “... Would you like to accompany me?”

Something in Kyle’s jaw had tightened.

“I think,” he said, stepping closer, voice a low rumble, eyes dark as a storm. “that it’s a dangerous thing when courtiers start getting ideas.”

Still, the gifts kept coming. More jewelry, rare perfumes that smelled of starlit forests and distant seas, invitations for private evening rides along the beach under the silver glow of the twin moons. You accepted them all with the grace expected of a queen, but you did not miss the way John’s fingers tightened around his goblet during court dinners, nor the way Johnny’s laughter came a beat too late when you spoke of these offerings.

Simon was perhaps the most unnerving, in your opinion. He said nothing when you donned the sapphire choker gifted by a particularly bold noble, but you could feel the tension radiating from him as he stood behind you at court, the ever-present shadow at your back. One night, as you prepared for bed, you had caught the faintest touch against your throat- the whisper of his fingers against the gemstone before he withdrew, his eyes unreadable as he turned and left without a word. Too late did you realize that the choker was no longer around your neck.

John, however, was the one who finally snapped.

The court had been gathered for an evening of music and storytelling when the first Lord- whose gifts, unbeknownst to you, were no longer reaching you though they kept coming- approached, offering his arm as he invited you for a dance. You had hesitated- briefly- but before you could answer, a presence loomed behind you, warm and unwavering.

“My queen,” John murmured, his voice smooth yet sharp, his hand settling on your waist. “If you wish to dance, it should be with your husband.”

His hand extended toward you, palm open, waiting. The Lord had smiled- polite, knowing, unhappy- and stepped back with a murmured farewell.

As you placed your hand in John’s, the court watched. And your husbands?

Well.

They would make sure the rest of the court remembered exactly who you belonged to.

(Come tomorrow, you'd return to your room and realize all the gifts have been tucked away in black boxes set aside, and all of it replaced with gifts from your husbands).

I don't know if you've done something like this before but dukedom with a florist/botanist reader

The scent of fresh lavender and damp earth clung to your fingertips as you arranged the last bouquet of the morning, tying it off with a delicate ribbon. The small flower shop you owned, nestled near the outskirts of Duke Price’s grand estate, was quiet save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

You often supplied flowers for the manor- centerpieces for dinners, fresh herbs for the kitchen, roses for the gardens- but you had never once met the Duke himself. You had not met much of his household, either, though that wasn’t too surprising; there must be at the very least a hundred workers there.

But fate had other plans for you.

The bell above your shop door chimed, and you turned, expecting one of your usual customers. Instead, a broad-shouldered man strolled in, his sleeves rolled up as if he had just left a heated kitchen.

“Ah, finally found ye,” he said, his accent thick with a lilt. “Was beginnin’ to think this place was a myth.”

You blinked, setting down your shears. “Can I help you, sir?”

He grinned. “Johnny MacTavish. I run the kitchen over at Price Manor.” He leaned on the counter, glancing around at the hanging bundles of herbs and freshly cut flowers. “Kyle- that’s the head butler- told me you’ve got the best lavender around. I need some for a honey cake I’m makin’, and we’re runnin’ short.”

You hummed, already moving toward the drying racks. “You’re in luck, then. Just harvested some fresh stalks this morning.”

As you carefully wrapped the bundle for him, Johnny watched you with a curious expression. “Never seen ye ‘round the manor,” he remarked. Then gave you a grin. “But I seen ye pretty flowers ‘round often.”

“I usually deliver when you’re busy in the kitchen, I assume,” you said, handing him the wrapped herbs with a soft smile. “Though I’ve heard of you. Your bread is very popular.”

He grin widened, pleased. “Aye, I do my best.” He took the bundle, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Might have to find excuses to come by more often. You’re far more charmin’ than the usual market vendors, lass.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I imagine you say that to all the merchants.”

“Only the ones worth complimentin’.” He quipped, winking before heading out the door.

And just like that, your first thread into their world had been woven.

A week later, you found yourself face-to-face with the Kyle Garrick, the Duke’s head butler, standing at your shop’s doorstep in the early morning light.

“Apologies for calling on you so early,” he said, tone smooth and professional, eyes warm enough to replace the sun. “His Grace is hosting a dinner, and we’re in need of arrangements.”

You nodded, ushering him inside. “Of course. Any particular requests?”

Kyle glanced over the selection of flowers, thoughtful. “Something warm. Rich colors- autumnal, perhaps?”

You set to work, carefully selecting blooms that matched his vision, all the while feeling the weight of his gaze on you.

“You work quickly,” he observed, amusement and approval in his voice. “These will look wonderful when they will be used, I have no doubt.”

You glanced up, catching the small smile on his lips. “Years of practice.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, arms folding over his chest. “Johnny was right. You’ve got a charm about you.”

You raised a brow, finished with the arrangement; of course, this was simply to show him what you’d be making in hoards for the dinner. One arrangement was most definitely not enough. “Are you two always this flattering?”

Kyle smirked. “Only when it’s deserved.”

“He said the same thing!”

They weren’t the only ones you ended up interacting with; you had heard of Duke Simon Riley before. A man as mysterious as he was respected. Some said he was cold. Others said he was simply a man who valued silence over frivolous conversation. But all agreed that he and Duke Price were close friends.

So when he stepped into your shop one evening, his imposing frame half-shadowed by the setting sun, you were caught off guard.

“You’re her, then.” He said without much preamble.

You frowned, the little flower pot in your hands held carefully. “I… beg your pardon?”

“The florist.” He glanced around the shop, his expression unreadable beneath the mask of neutrality he wore so well like a lot of other nobles- though in your opinion, no one did it quite as well as him. “You’ve made quite the impression.”

Setting the pot down, you fingers tightened slightly around the stem of its rose. “I wasn’t aware I was being … observed. Forgive me for the use of such a word, sir, but-“

His gaze flicked back to yours, and he shook his head. “No apologies are needed. I understand, but… we notice things. Especially things worth noticing.”

We?

A beat of silence passed before he finally moved closer, picking up a baby’s-breath from a basket. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed over the little flowers.

“They say flowers speak in their own language,” he murmured. “What would this one say?”

You swallowed, carefully choosing your words. “Baby’s breath represents sincerity and- and everlasting love, sir.”

Simon hummed, tucking the sprig into his coat pocket. “…Fitting. I shall return soon.”

And just like that, he was gone- even before you could tell him he would always be welcome (even if he was so strange).

And at last, you met Duke Price himself.

Deliveries to the manor were routine, but you never expected to meet the Duke himself. That changed one crisp afternoon when you arrived with your arms full of flowers, only to find the man himself standing at the doorway.

He was an imposing figure- broad shoulders, sharp blue eyes, and a well-tended-to beard flecked with gray. But when he smiled, it was warm, not intimidating.

“You’re the florist, then.” He mused, looking over the bouquet, unintentionally reminding you of Duke Riley’s words.

You managed a curtsy, despite your hands being full. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Beautiful work,” he said, gesturing for you to follow him inside. “Kyle, Johnny, and Simon have spoken highly of you.”

You hesitated, surprise blooming on your face. “They… have?”

He let out a deep chuckle. “Indeed. Said you’re clever with flowers. And sharp with words.”

Embarrassment crept up your neck. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.”

Price halted mid-step, turning to face you fully. His sharp blue eyes met yours, steady and intent.

“You have one now.”

There was something in his gaze- something deep, and it sent a quiet thrill through you, like the first whisper of a storm on the horizon.

(That first whisper, you’d eventually learn, would be their starting attempts of courting you).