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#all love and support and not in any way disappointed at all

upat4amwiththemoon · 3 days

Text

Lay me down gently

Summary: When I’m ready to fall, will you let go of my hand?

Pairing: past Natasha Romanoff x female!reader, platonic Wanda Maximoff x female!reader

Warnings: death, heavy angst, depression, wandavision didn’t happen

Word count: 1391

a/n: too dark? Too sad?

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @sayah13 @strangegardentaco @natashamaximoff69

masterlists | guidelines

It’s been a year since the day Y/N lost everything. Most of the people have already done the work to start moving on, but she hasn’t been able to do that. How could she? The love of her life, the woman who she was supposed to marry and live the rest of her life with, died.

Natasha sacrificed herself to save the world.

And Y/N loves her for that, she also hates her for it. She wishes Natasha would’ve been selfish. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hopes Natasha would’ve let Clint died, but she’ll never say that out loud. She knows Clint has the same wish. He has been trying to earn her forgiveness since that day. Even though, she has told him multiple times he doesn’t have to, that she has already forgiven him.

It’s not entirely untrue. Y/N would just prefer not to be around him. However, it’s difficult when his whole family is trying to get her to join them for family events. She doesn’t want to do that. Her family is gone, she doesn’t want another one.

During the year, Y/N has been locked up in her bedroom at the Avenger’s compound, she can’t go back to their home. It’s not her home anymore, the house never was, Natasha is the one that made it her home. She has continued working as an Avenger, doing her best to help the blipped people to get back into their lives. Besides, the crime never stops.

Her teammates have tried their best to get her out of the room, but all of them except Wanda have given up.

Wanda is a saint. She lost her home too, yet she is trying to help Y/N instead of herself. Y/N thinks she’s trying to escape the feeling of sorrow, just like she is by sleeping and rotting in her bed. She appreciates her friend, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

Y/N sits in the Quinjet as the team flies towards their destination. Only a small part of the team was chosen for the mission, Steve, Tony, Wanda, and Y/N. It’s supposed to be a quick, in and out mission. They never are.

Tapping on her shoulder brings Y/N back to the present. She turns to the side to see Wanda gently smiling at her. She looks tired of trying, but Y/N knows Wanda would never stop.

“How are you?” Her voice is soft, as if Y/N would shatter if it was any louder. She might.

“Good.” A blatant lie, but Wanda accepts it with a nod. Y/N’s voice is hoarse and it breaks at every other word, it has lost the gentleness of it. She hasn’t spoken a lot during the year. She hasn’t had any reason to talk.

“Good.” Wanda nods again. Her eyes shift through the Quinjet, she’s desperately looking for something. “They’re holding these things,” she starts carefully, “like support groups, for people who lost family during the blip.” She pauses, waiting for Y/N to say something, anything. “Would you like to go with me? I could really use someone familiar there with me.”

Y/N turns to look at Wanda. She has such a hopeful smile on her face, and Y/N hates disappointing her, but they both know what her answer is going to be. “No.”

“Okay.” Wanda whispers, still holding a smile on her face. She doesn’t want her to know how affected she is by the numerous failed attempts of trying to help her friend. “Just let me know if I can help you in any way.”

Nodding, Y/N falls back into her own world, where she stays for the rest of the flight.

They land the Quinjet on top of an abandoned building. It’s supposed to be a HYDRA base that is no longer in use.

Steve checks the perimeter, returning to the other three when nothing catches his eyes. “Tony and I will go inside, you two stay up here in case someone tries to surprise us.” Y/N and Wanda nod.

Tony opens one of the vents on the roof and drops down, Steve following right behind him. The Quinjet turns invisible to hide from prying eyes.

The wind blows softly as Y/N and Wanda stand in silence. Although Wanda keeps a vigilant eye out on the perimeter, she can’t help but keep glancing at Y/N. She seems like she isn’t even there anymore, not emotionally at least.

A feeling of something wrong grows in her body. “Y/N.” She swallows. “I’m worried.”

“About?” Y/N’s eyes don’t even glance at Wanda.

“That if I don’t do something, you’ll get hurt.”

“Sometimes it’s better to do nothing.”

Wanda doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t have time to voice this, as a contained explosion rattles the concrete beneath their feet.

“The building is not empty!” Steve’s voice comes through the comms right as all the vents to the roof open and a group of HYDRA soldiers rush out.

Y/N takes out her weapons and Wanda’s eyes turn red as they start fighting the soldiers. They can hear Steve and Tony struggling as they fight inside the building. The soldiers are ruthless, and they don’t seem to be lessening no matter how much they fight them.

A groan leaves Y/N’s mouth as she gets hit by something hard to the back of her head. She shoots whoever did it, but her legs stumble closer to the edge. She shakes her head to make the fuzziness go away.

Lifting her head up, her eyes widen. The only thing she sees is a bright blast coming right towards her.

It hits her in the chest, causing her to fly over the edge.

“Y/N!” Wanda runs to the edge, pushing the soldiers out of her way.

The wind is rushing past Y/N’s ears as she falls. She can only see the sky and Wanda, who gets smaller and smaller every second, from her view the red hair looks almost like Natasha’s. There’s a smile on her face.

Natasha.

She knows her girlfriend would want her to give up, but she couldn’t be mad at her for wanting to be with her again. Y/N knows she’d be more than happy to see her face again.

As the time to act gets shorter and shorter, Wanda’s eyes turn red, readying her magic to soften Y/N’s landing. Because unexpectancy of her magic, she peeks into her mind, not on purpose, but it’s still just as clear. That fraction of a second in her mind and the blatant smile on Y/N’s face makes her pause. The pause is long enough for her eyes to turn back to normal. Everything rushes around in her mind as she tries to make sense of the situation, as she tries to get her head back to the present and just lift her up. But a feeling deep inside her makes Wanda unable to act.

A feeling she knows neither of them can escape. Unless…

She watches as Y/N falls and she wants to rips her eyes away, but she can’t do that to her friend. She has to be there for her one last time.

Wanda finally looks away after the impact. Her ears are ringing and the team is shouting over the comms but she can’t hear them. She heaves as she drops to her knees, a burst of magic leaving her body as she screams, pushing any enemy left down the building. Her eyes are turning blurry from all the tears rushing out, she isn’t sure if she’s tasting blood or bile in her mouth. Her whole body shakes from the sobs.

She did the right thing.

Her nails dig into her palms as the scene of Y/N falling down replays in her mind over and over again. She’s pretty sure someone is trying to talk to her through the comms, trying to find out what just happened.

Surely, she did the right thing.

“Y/N is dead.” Wanda gasps out, her voice weak as the words tumble out. They seem so wrong, so unfair. She screws her eyes shut, dropping her forehead against the cold roof under her.

The guilt will eat her alive.

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theshadowsingersraven · 3 days

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Even if Elriel became endgame I don't know how to express how little that would matter to me at least because it would be so easy to write a significantly better love story than they could ever hope to be. I'm literally doing it right now with a non-canon character. Every Gwynriel and Elucien fic is doing it right now.

Elain leaving the Night Court of her own accord, finding herself outside of her family who smothers, underestimates, and undermines her, and finding Lucien along the way and learning that they are not nearly as different as she thought? That he's kind, respectful, humorous, and believes in justice? Who she can find connections to Vassa and Jurian through, people who have also had their humanity stolen from them, who can truly understand her? Defeating Koschei together? Ascending to High Lord and High Lady of Day?

That will always be better than Elain becoming a sideline to Azriel’s storyline, supporting him in the background with the Wraith Twins being to her what Alis was to Feyre. That was will always be better than Elain having to reassure Azriel that she isn't going to leave him for her mate (who she will always be tied to, even with a rejected bond) because it's within character for someone like him with self-worth issues and meticulous planning habits to anticipate the worst.

Azriel seeking out the history of Truth-Teller and it's ties to Enalius, healing his trauma from the Illyrian culture and his family while Gwyn tries to handle the fallout of the Valkyries winning the Blood Rite, and the three of them alongside Az and Cassian investigating the thin place beneath Ramiel? The exact thing Eris referenced? Gywn and Azriel healing from their self-worth wounds simultaneously, if not by helping each other? Gwyn finding out the truth of her own heritage? Gwyn being beside Azriel when he finally faces his father and half-brothers on page? The two of them being the first people to stand by Nesta’s side as she ascends to High Lady of the newly-revived Dusk Court?

That will always be better than Azriel questioning if he does have a mate somewhere out there and spending his relationship miserable while smelling whatever remnants of the Elucien bond there is if they decide to reject it? And if they don't, spending every waking moment with his partner being reminded that the Mother decided that they aren't a true match?

Just because SJM might decide to canonize a miserable, surface-level love story where neither party could be truly happy because of the mate bond doesn't mean her readership will accept it or not find something better. Fanfics always have and always will exist, my loves. And if any of us have read Manacled, for example, we know how much better fanfics can be than the actual source material. But I'd like to believe that if I can think of all the above major, unromantic if not disappointing flaws that would inevitably plague Elriel, then SJM can, too.

#anti e/riel #antielriel #pro elucien #pro gwynriel #gwynriel #elucien

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oristian · 3 days

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“ELRIEL IS A FORBIDDEN ROMANCE.”

I see this argument used so frequently, but it is an argument that holds no water and is easily debunked by canon itself. For those who may not be aware of where this argument stemmed from, the whole basis was created from a conversation between Rhysand and Azriel in the bonus chapter from ACOSF. Funnily enough, the bonus chapter is used to “support” the forbidden love trope between Elriel, but in the same breath is said that “no one reads the bonus chapters,” and, “you cannot use a bonus chapter as a way to infer endgame.”

RHYSAND AND AZRIEL, ACOSF BONUS CHAPTER

Taken at face value, having Rhysand say, “You are to stay away from her,” would indicate some semblance of a forbidden romance. Adding on context, all of that semblance goes away. The scene reads as Rhysand is disappointed in Azriel for pursuing Elain despite the bond between she and Lucien not having been rejected yet. Rhysand surmises that Lucien could evoke the Blood Duel between the two if he were to find out and that would ruin any alliances that the Night Court has with different courts and the mortal lands. However, using context and background information, the reader is able to differentiate between fact and hypothesis.

Using context and retrospect from ACOWAR, the reader knows that the extent of the “forbidden love” between Elriel rests solely in Elain’s hands. All she has to do is reject the bond and remain within the Night Court, and she and Azriel are free to be together. Rhysand would support any choice that she makes.

ACOWAR CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR, page 259

Now that is established, let us speak about what a forbidden romance trope actually is.

A forbidden romance trope exists between two characters who are already in love and have something established between them, or exist in a society already plagued by the turmoil that would be heightened by their coupling. This could negatively affect politics, societal normalcy, family and friends, et cetera. Elain and Azriel do not exist on opposite sides of a war, nor do they have ties politically that their relationship would affect. Them getting together before the bond is rejected is just tacky and would only serve to disappoint those around them. Once again, all Elain has to do is reject the bond and she and Azriel are free to be together.

Elain and Azriel are not “in love” with one another, nor has that been made a canonical aspect of their relationship. The only canon that we have that eludes to a romantic undertone is the bonus chapter. Azriel and Elain almost share a kiss, though after Azriel spends the beginning of the chapter explaining how he has only thought of her in a sexual fantasy.

I have always found this wording interesting. “This one moment, and maybe a taste, and that would be it,” followed by, “[…] like she read the decision.” That has always been blatantly obviously written to elude to the both of them wanting a one-night stand and that would be the extent of their relationship. Juxtapose that with Azriel speaking to Rhysand, having no plans with Elain outside of “the fantasies he pleasured himself to,” him calling her “the third,” and months passing between that night and the end of HOFAS and not a single indication that either of them are fighting, or wanting to fight, for their relationship.

Elain and Azriel are a buffer relationship between the endgame couples. No one is denying that they had a couple of scenes between them, but that is not out of the realm of how SJM writes. Nearly every single endgame couple that she has written has had a partner, or two, before their endgame. Had Elain not been mated to Lucien, then Elriel may have had a chance to become endgame.

Calling Elriel a forbidden love has never made sense and that trope has no ties to the overarching plots left within the spin-off series. If Elain and Azriel were meant to be endgame and serve within the same plot arc, SJM would have written Azriel to have gone and found Vassa and Papa Archeron in ACOWAR and she would not have written Gwyn within the ACOSF bonus chapter.

That is common sense, I fear.

#sjm is a gwynriel and elucien shipper #elucien endgame #elucien supremacy #pro elucien #elucien #gwynriel endgame #pro gwynriel #gwynriel supremacy #gwynriel #lol anti e/riel #anti ewriel #anti e/riel #acotar #sjm

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canirove · 2 days

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Rice, Rice, baby | Chapter 1

Summary: Liv and Declan, Declan and Liv, or the story about how a born and raised Tottenham girl falls in love with an Arsenal player... and its consequences.

Author’s note: Best way to celebrate my birthday? By sharing a new story about my beloved 🥳🫶🏻 I started writing this story back in October after making this gif (that's how Declan looks on this first chapter), and I got so inspired that I even managed to write like a script with everything I wanted to happen from beginning to end, which doesn't happen very often or never tbh 😅 I hope you like it as much as I do, and as always, thank you for reading! 💜

Next chapter (coming out on Thursday)

Masterlist

"And don't forget about the national team staying with us next week. We need to be at our best, the club wants them to keep coming here and not go back to Carrington or any other training centre" our boss says.

"We always are at our best."

"I know, Alex. But you know what I mean.”

"Yeah, we have to kiss their asses" he mutters.

"Shh" I tell him, hoping our boss hasn't heard him.

"You know it's true" he whispers. "Since we don't have enough with our princesses, now we'll have new ones. And I'm sure they are even more annoying."

"If you dislike football and this job so much, why don't you quit?"

"I don't dislike football, Liv. I dislike football players, it isn't the same” Alex says. “And I don't quit because Tottenham is the team me and my dad support, they happen to pay really well, and I need the money. Besides, what will your dad say? He helped me get this job, I can't disappoint him."

"He'll survive" I chuckle.

"I don't think so. If I'm not here, who will make sure his daughter doesn't end up sleeping with a football player? Especially now that we are gonna have some Arsenal ones in the building. They are the enemy."

"That is so stupid."

"The rivalry between Tottenham and Arsenal isn't stupid, Liv. Please show some respect."

"Whatever" I reply, trying to focus again on what our boss is explaining.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

"Ready to meet our new princesses?" I ask Alex.

"No."

"Well, too late. They are here" I say when the doors of the cafeteria open and the players from England's national team start walking in, Harry Kane leading them.

"Urgh, not him" Alex groans.

"Shut up and get to work. And don't forget to smile."

"I don't want to smile at him. Or at any of them."

"Hello, guys. Nice to see you again."

"Harry, hi!" I say. "How are the Germans treating you?"

"Good, all good. How are you around here?"

"All good too" I smile. "Same as always?"

"Same as always, Liv."

After Harry some other players like Rashford, Stones or Bellingham also come get their orders, and then…

"Hi, what can I get… you" I say, getting lost in the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen.

"A latte, please" he smiles.

"A… a la… a…" I mumble.

"Liv… Liv… Olivia!" Alex says, hitting my arm.

"Ouch! What?"

"His order" he says, nodding towards the blue eyed God in front of me. "Didn't you hear him?"

"I… Yes. A latte."

"That's it" he smiles again, the most stupid giggle ever leaving my mouth. What an amazing first impression, Olivia.

"I… Umm…" I mumble again.

"Liv, hey! Long time no see!"

"Madders, we saw each other three days ago" I say, my brain remembering how to work after hearing his voice.

"It feels like an eternity" he smiles. "Have you met Dec yet?"

"Uh?"

"Mr. Declan Rice. The most expensive English football transfer in history" he laughs, wrapping his arm around the blue eyed God's neck and messing up his hair, somehow making it look even better than it already did.

"You… what?"

"You hadn't recognized him?" Madders says. "I know he's had a big glow up, but he hasn't changed that much since the Euros."

"Yeah… I…" I say, feeling my cheeks on fire and the stupidest person in the world. How did I not recognize one of England's best players?

"Anyway, can I get the same as always?"

"He asked first."

"But he plays for Arsenal and I am a Tottenham boy, Liv. What will your dad say?" Madders smirks.

"Her dad?" Declan asks with a confused look.

"He's been working for Tottenham since before we all were born and hates anything Arsenal" Madders explains. "So if he finds out that you are favouring him over me…"

"You are so annoying, James" I say, rolling my eyes.

"Yet you love me" he smiles. "So, can I get my usual?"

"No" I say, turning around and getting Declan's order ready.

"You are so rude, Olivia…"

"Yet you love me" I reply, making Declan laugh. "Your latte."

"Thank you, Liv" he smiles as he takes his cup, our fingers barely touching but being enough to make my face burn once again.

"You're welcome" I giggle. You are so lame, Olivia. Dear God.

"Can I get my coffee now or are you gonna keep smiling at each other like two teenagers in love?" Madders asks.

"What?" Declan and I say at the same time.

"Flirting with an Arsenal player, Liv… What will your dad say?"

"Shup up, James" I say, turning towards the coffee machine to hide that my face now must be the same colour as Declan’s Arsenal shirt.

"You are an idiot, bro" I hear him say before walking away.

"What? Why? What did I say? Liv, hey. What did I say?"

"Just go drink your coffee, James" I sigh.

"But…"

"Go."

"You two are so weird… Made for each other" he winks, making me roll my eyes again.

Once I'm done with all the orders, I can't help but check around the cafeteria looking for Declan. During the Euros he had already caught my eye, but he didn't look as hot as he did right now. He was definitely aging like fine wine.

When I finally spot him, he's sitting next to other Arsenal players, a soft smile on his lips while sipping his coffee. And then… Then he turns to look at where I am. At me. And his smile grows wider, making my knees feel like jelly.

"Best coffee ever" he mouths, remarking each word.

"Thank you" I reply, definitely smiling like an idiot.

"Olivia, Olivia, Olivia…"

"Holy shit, Alex" I jump when I hear him next to me.

"Flirting with an Arsenal player at work? And him among them all? Your dad is gonna be so disappointed…"

"Shut up, Alex" I say, giving him a push that doesn't move him from where he is standing. "I'm gonna go check that we aren't running out of anything, you know how picky the boss is with that."

"Yeah, run away."

"Fuck you" I reply, showing him my middle finger and hoping no one from the national team has seen it. The least thing I need right now is someone complaining to our boss because of my bad behaviour.

As I leave, I can't help but look at Declan one last time, and to my surprise, he also is looking at me. And when our eyes meet…

"Holy shit" I whisper. Can you get turned on by a wink? Because I'm pretty sure that just happened.

#declan rice #declan rice fanfic #declan rice imagine #declan rice x reader #football fanfic #football imagine

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savriea · 2 days

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Okay but what about Rolan having a crush on Tav but he wants to figure out if they would ever be interested in him so he cast a spell to make him look like someone else to dig up information (I think he would embarrassedly as the companion and they would be on board)

But, turns out Tav clocked it was Rolan by things that he does and decides to mess with him. (Tav likes him but he should be messed with for being sneaky)

Thoughts?

Oh, anon. This popped up on my phone while I was in the mountains and did not have enough signal to respond—so I have been stewing on it nonstop since then.

asdhbfzgld I love this. Rolan is definitely the type to try to be sneaky about his feelings and use magic to get his way. I also think he'd be so tunnel-visioned with his goal that he'd forget to ask the right questions or learn even the tiniest bits of context, such as if the companion he transforms into is already in a relationship ;)

I was so excited to answer this one! Ugh, what a cute prompt. This one got long.

Rolan’s nerves are on edge. After the fall of the Netherbrain, the city had been wrought with chaos, and he has not seen Tav since before the final battle. Now, a tenday later, the "Heroes of the Gate" have decided to celebrate their victory at the Elfsong Tavern. Rolan only knows due to Lakrissa sharing the details of the impending event with Lia. Though he feels a pang of disappointment at not receiving an invite, it seems the perfect opportunity for him to finally learn if Tav harbors any feelings for him. His crush has lingered since the events at Last Light Inn, only growing after they dealt with Lorroakan. He simply can’t bear the uncertainty any longer.

After an awkward conversation with Gale, who was surprisingly supportive, Rolan began working on tweaks to the Disguise Self spell. After many days of nonstop effort, Rolan finally successfully adjusts the spell to allow him control over how the transformation looks. The familiar form of Gale takes over his own in the mirror, and he practices Gale’s mannerisms, determined to pull off the deception.

Entering the bustling tavern, Rolan spots Tav by the bar. Taking a deep breath, he approaches with what he hopes is Gale’s calm, thoughtful demeanor. “Tav, may I have a word?”

Tav looks up with a friendly smile. “Of course, Gale. What’s on your mind?”

Sat in a private booth in the corner of the Elfsong, he manages polite conversation, dodging questions about the other companions he has had no way of answering. Tav asks about Tara’s whereabouts and Shadowheart’s health, and Rolan deflects with vague comments and nods, trying to maintain Gale’s composed exterior. After a believable amount of small talk, Rolan starts with subtle probing.

“That Rolan was a great help at the final battle. Have you spoken with him at all since then? I do wonder if we'll see him this evening.”

Tav’s responses are thoughtful, but their lips hold a playful twitch at the corners. “Rolan? Oh, yes. Very helpful." They lean in slightly, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Hmm. Maybe he’ll turn up eventually... he’s been quite busy, I'm sure.”

Rolan feels a growing unease, sensing they know something is off but not letting on. The way Tav’s gaze lingers on him makes his pulse quicken. Just as he is about to steer the conversation back to safer ground, suddenly too nervous to go through with his plans, Tav’s demeanor shifts.

“Gale, you seem different tonight. Nervous, almost. More... attentive.” Tav’s voice takes on a teasing lilt, their eyes narrowing playfully. “You wouldn’t happen to be hiding something, would you?”

Rolan’s heart pounds and he finds himself unable to summon a response. He simply laughs off the accusation, folding his arms across his chest defensively. Then Tav starts flirting outright. They lean closer, their smile turning mischievous. “You know, Gale, if you keep showing me this extra attention... I might begin to think you have a crush on me.”

Rolan’s mind races as his heart pounds. “A crush? Of course not,” he stammers nervously, feeling his cheeks burn.

Tav’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Oh, no? A shame, then...” They pout teasingly, their playful demeanor making Rolan’s stomach ache. As they reach under the booth and place a hand atop his knee, he feels suddenly both giddy and sick.

The teasing and flirtatious comments directed at "Gale" make Rolan's heart sink. Is Tav interested in Gale? How has he not realized that after all this time? He tries to keep his composure, but his discomfort grows with each passing second. Tav’s laughter, though light and pleasant, feels like a dagger twisting in his chest.

Feeling misunderstood and heartbroken, Rolan makes an excuse and leaves the Elfsong Tavern early. “I just remembered I have something to attend to. Please, excuse me.” He hurries out, his heart heavy with disappointment and confusion, convinced he has misread everything and that Tav’s affections lay elsewhere. He quickly finds himself back at Ramazith's Tower, head hung low as he dispels the transformation and makes his way to the wine cellar.

~~~

Tav arrives at the Elfsong Tavern, ready to celebrate their hard-fought victory alongside their companions. The atmosphere is lively, filled with laughter and music. As they make their way through the bustling crowd, Tav notices Shadowheart arriving with someone unfamiliar. Tav finds it odd, considering Shadowheart and Gale had become close at the end of their journey. Even though they aren’t publicly "together" yet, it seems strange for the cleric to show up with someone else.

As Tav approaches to greet them, Shadowheart’s behavior is even stranger. She avoids eye contact and offers short, evasive answers when asked for an introduction to the new man. This piques Tav’s curiosity even more.

Just as Tav gives up and leaves to get a drink, Gale appears, greeting them with a casual, “Tav, may I have a word?”

Tav turns, surprised to see him looking so content, given the unfamiliar man Shadowheart has arrived with. “Of course, Gale. What’s on your mind?”

They move to a private booth in the corner, and Tav can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Gale is evading their questions about Tara, and when they subtly probe about Shadowheart, he avoids the topic. Gale then begins asking odd questions, particularly about Rolan, of all people.

Tav’s responses are thoughtful, but they can’t hide their amusement. They know Gale well enough to sense that something is different. They watch closely as he picks at the hem of his tunic, bounces a leg nervously under the table, and chews on his lip. He displays clear signs of distress, nervous ticks Gale had never once shown on the road.

Tav watches as he laughs nervously, folding his arms across his chest. The discomfort is palpable. Deciding to push further, Tav leans closer, their smile turning mischievous. “You know, Gale, if you keep showing me this extra attention... I might begin to think you have a crush on me.”

Seeing “Gale” stammer and blush confirms Tav’s suspicions. “A crush? Of course not,” he manages nervously. Tav glances across the tavern, catching a glimpse of Shadowheart and her "new" beau laughing happily at the bar. Their body language is quite familiar as they lean into each other, and Tav realizes the same could be said of the man opposite them, just in a different way.

Tav and Gale had already been down this road, once. They'd agreed very early on that they were better only as friends, and as the rest of Tav's companions seemed to pair up and find love elsewhere, Tav had been left as the odd one out. Others, such as one particular Master of Ramazith's Tower, would not know this, however. The nervous movements and slight lisp that Tav has failed to notice until now give him away. They decide to play into this knowledge, seeing just how flustered "Gale" could get.

Tav’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Oh, no? A shame, then...” They pout teasingly, enjoying his flushed reaction. As they reach under the booth and place a hand atop his knee, feeling him squirm, they feel a mix of giddiness and amusement at how easy it is to unravel the façade.

The act seems to have worked too well. He looks genuinely pained, and his discomfort visibly grows with each passing second. Tav’s playful teasing and laughter, meant to be light-hearted, seem to cut deeper than intended.

When “Gale” abruptly makes an excuse and leaves the Elfsong Tavern early, Tav feels a pang of guilt. They watch him hurry out, his posture defeated and his heart clearly heavy. Tav realizes they might have pushed too far. Determined to set things right, they decide to follow him.

Soon, they arrive at Ramazith’s Tower through the portal in Sorcerous Sundries. They are met by Rolan in the foyer, a bottle of Arabellan Dry in hand. The spell has dropped, and Rolan is back in his normal form, but he is still wearing the same clothes from the tavern. The sight of him, looking so dejected, tugs at Tav’s heart.

"Rolan," Tav says gently, approaching him. “I knew it was you.”

Rolan looks up, stunned. “The whole time?”

“Well, not the whole time.” Tav smiles softly. “But I figured it out pretty quickly. Gale and Shadowheart are... a bit of a thing.”

"Ah. He... did not share that with me." Rolan sighs, his face holding a mix of relief and embarrassment. He sucks in a deep breath before steadying himself, seeming resolute. “I just... Tav, I have not been able to stop thinking of you. Since Last Light, and then Lorroakan, you have plagued my thoughts. After... everything. I needed to know if you felt anything for me.”

Tav steps closer, their expression tender. “I’ve liked you for a while. You could have just asked.”

Rolan blinks, processing their words. “You mean... all this time, you...?”

Tav nods, a gentle smile playing on their lips. “Yes, Rolan. All this time. You didn’t need to go through all this trouble.”

Rolan’s posture relaxes, the tension visibly leaving his body. He takes a tentative step closer, his eyes searching Tav’s, seeming to look for any sign of hesitation. Tav offers none, and he lets out a breath so shuddery it wracks his shoulders.

“I’m sorry for being so foolish,” he murmurs, his voice trembling slightly. “I just didn’t know how to approach you.”

Tav’s smile widens. “Well, now you know.” They close the remaining distance between them, their hand gently cupping Rolan’s cheek. “And next time, just be yourself.”

#i got carried away again #anon ask #thanks anon!#bg3 rolan #drabble #sav speaks

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kikimurphys · 3 days

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Behind Closed Doors (Part 5)

Part 4 here

You decided then to make an appointment to see a midwife, just to ensure everything was fine. You wanted to do everything right for your baby girl.

Leaving the clinic, you felt like you were floating in a bubble where only your baby mattered. The world outside seemed distant, and all you could focus on was the tiny life growing inside you.

Cillian dropped you off at work. You still had so much to catch up on, and you didn't want the baby to keep you from your responsibilities. Sitting in the wardrobe trailer, you looked at the pictures of your baby. You felt so happy and relaxed now that you knew she was fine in there. With your palm resting on your bump, your mind began to think about Cillian and what would become of the two of you.

He sure was happy for the baby and promised to be with you every step of the way, but he was still processing the situation. He had to talk to his son and arrange a divorce with Siobhan. He wanted to be with you; he missed your touch, your laugh, the way you felt wrapped around his arms. He was still in love with you. It had struck him that morning, at the clinic when he met his daughter, that he not only wanted to share parenthood with you but also the rest of his life.

He had been happy when you were together. The brief time you had shared was filled with little moments of laughter, tenderness, and passion, a stark contrast to the strained relationship he had left behind. When you were together, it was unlike any other lover you had. It was passionate and almost pornographic, but at the same time, he was never rushed; he cherished every moment of it making you feel desired. His touch was both electrifying and gentle. The intensity of your connection was something you had never experienced before. Each kiss, each embrace, was infused with a depth of feeling that left you breathless. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world, his attention unwavering and his affection boundless.

In those moments, you both felt truly seen, truly loved. There was an intimacy between you that transcended the physical, a meeting of souls that made everything else fade away. Even now, with all the uncertainty surrounding your future, the memory of those times together brought a warmth to your heart. You longed to recapture that closeness, to build a life where that kind of love could flourish.

As you sat in the wardrobe trailer, looking at the ultrasound pictures, you couldn't help but smile. Despite all the challenges ahead, you knew that you wanted to create a home filled with that same kind of love and passion for your baby girl. You wanted her to grow up surrounded by the warmth and security of a family that cherished her.

Cillian, too, found himself lost in memories of your time together. The way your eyes sparkled when you laughed, the softness of your skin against his, the way you made him feel alive in a way he hadn't in years. He missed you more than he could put into words. He knew that the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but the thought of building a future with you and your daughter gave him a sense of purpose and hope that compensated for the disappointing of his previous family

As you continued with your work, your mind kept drifting back to Cillian. You wondered how he was feeling, how he was handling everything. You wanted to be there for him, to support him as he navigated this difficult transition. You hoped that he felt the same way, that he was as committed to making this work as you were.

Cillian, on the other hand, was grappling with his own set of emotions. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him, and the guilt of leaving his son and wife added to his turmoil. He knew he had to make things right and the thought of building a life with you and his daughter filled him with a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in a long time. Yet, the mess he had to clean up with his current life loomed over him, casting a shadow on his newfound hope. He felt a pang of guilt thinking about Max. He had to make things right with his son, ensure he understood, and try to mitigate the damage.

Driving to his house, Cillian's heart felt heavy. The familiar surroundings seemed colder, filled with memories of happier times and the recent strains. As he stepped inside, he found Siobhan in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee. She looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

"Hey," she greeted softly, her voice breaking the silence.

"Hey," he replied, his voice equally subdued. He could see the sadness etched into her features, a reflection of his own sorrow.

Siobhan wasn’t angry; instead, she was profoundly sad. The realization that their marriage had failed weighed heavily on her. They had been together for so long and had deeply loved each other, but it wasn’t enough. The constant fighting had driven them apart, leading to their initial separation. During that time, she had realized how much it had affected Max and decided to give it one more try for his sake. But the distance between them remained, and Cillian’s thoughts often drifted to you, wondering how different his life would be if you were together.

“It’s hard to let go, isn’t it?” Siobhan said, her voice trembling. “We tried so hard, for Max, for ourselves, but...”

Cillian nodded, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. “I know. I’ve thought about this moment so many times, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

Tears welled up in Siobhan’s eyes again. “I just wanted Max to have a "normal " family. But I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not.”

“Me too,” Cillian whispered, his own eyes moist. “We both did our best, but sometimes, love alone isn’t enough.”

They talked and cried, the shared sorrow binding them in a moment of painful honesty. They reminisced about the good times, the love that once burned brightly, and the gradual decay that neither could stop. The finality of their decision settled over them like a heavy shroud.

After a while, Siobhan calmed down. “You should talk to Max,” she said, her voice steadier now. “He needs to hear it from you.”

Cillian nodded and made his way upstairs. Max’s room was dimly lit, the boy sitting on his bed, hugging a pillow. When he saw his father, his face crumpled.

“Dad,” Max whimpered, tears streaming down his face. “Is it my fault? Did I do something wrong?”

Cillian’s heart broke at the sight. He rushed to his son, pulling him into a tight embrace. “No, Max. This is not your fault. None of this is because of you. Your mom and I... we’ve tried so hard to make it work, but sometimes, grown-ups can’t stay together. But it doesn’t change how much we love you.”

Siobhan joined them, her own tears falling freely. “We love you so much, Max. More than anything in this world. This isn’t about you.”

Max clung to them both, his small body shaking with sobs. “But I want us to be together. I don’t want you to leave, Dad.”

“I know, buddy,” Cillian said, his voice choked with emotion. “I wish things were different. But I promise you, I’m always going to be here for you”.

@galactict3a @xsweetcatastrophe @mamawiggers1980

#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x reader #cillian fic #cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader

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coal15 · 1 day

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My opinions on the whole multi-shipping Buddie and Tevan situation. But first, [steps up on soapbox and yells into bullhorn] HAVE NO BEEF WITH ANYONE WHO FEELS DIFFERENTLY THAN ME SO I'D REALLY APPRECIATE NOT GETTING ANY "YOUR OPINIONS ARE STUPID AND PROBABLY SO ARE YOU" COMMENTS IN MY REPLIES. **If any such comments do appear in my replies I would ask the rest of you to please simply ignore them. You won't change their minds so confrontation will do nothing but further poison the waters.

Ahem. Carrying on. Warning, this post is LONG. Like, practically a novella.

I'm still a multi-shipper at heart in the sense that I will always love my memories in the Buddie fandom and how vocally we showed our support over the last six years--yes there was a SUPER PROMINENT contingent among us who directly engaged with and verbally disemboweled every actress who played a li on a regular basis, (and who harassed Oliver to the point of him quitting twitter) but most of us had the sense to direct our ranting at the fictional character or writers/showrunner/network with varying degrees of anger or indignation. Now speaking just for myself, in my time as a Buddie fan I never commented on the physical appearance of any li, so seeing a lot of buddie-or-bust folks now referring to Lou as "ugly" "rectangle-faced" "gross looking," etc has been disappointing. I hope they represent the minority. So far it looks like they do.

On to my reasons for and/or role in shutting down non-Buddie romances: While I never took to engaging her personally, I voiced harsh criticism of GW over her "honorary latina" comment, likewise EG for her transphobia and non-apology apology ("I'm sorry if you felt offended). And while I wish bucktaylor had stayed besties (preferably bi besties since there was no reason Buck couldn't have his bi awakening with a woman), my issue with them dating was at first just a lack of romantic chemistry and the fact that Taylor never apologized for what she did to Bobby or even admitted it was wrong. But as the relationship dragged on I watched the life drain out of Buck. They were stagnant as a couple and the look on Buck's face when he said ily back to her was . . . laughably unromantic. The only growth his character got from that relationship was him being the one to end it. As for eddieana, on top of lacking chemistry they were just plain dull. The end.

Moving on to Buck's kiss w/Lucy: I actually like AK and was excited to hear about her coming to 9-1-1. She was fun af as Lexi on VD so I was looking forward to seeing her play a different character. Aaaaannnnnnd then KR immediately ruined her by making it abundantly clear that she was created for one sole purpose: to complicate a man's storyline and spark off a love triangle--and she did so in the most offensive way possible. It was appalling, negatively affected Buck's character, and thankfully KR's response to the intense backlash was to pivot so the love triangle never manifested. But the damage was already done. No one had any interest in watching them poke/flirt for the rest of the season. I was deeply offended by such a misogynistic use of a female character and it still boggles my mind that a woman created her.

Anyhow, all this was a long winded way of saying that my reasons for wanting those li gone went well beyond my investment in Buddie. Though I did strongly believe no romantic narrative for either of them could ever compete w/the Buckley-Diaz Family, at the end of the day those romantic arcs were ruined for me by writing mistakes, problematic actresses, and lack of chemistry (which is admittedly subjective and something we all approach with shipper goggles to some degree--if you think you 100% absolutely don't you're lying to yourself). I stand by a lot of the reasons Buddies were so opposed to those li being endgame. Yes, plenty of us took things waaaaaaay over the line re: direct personal attacks against actresses and/or non-buddie fans, but I think far more of us than not did argue in good faith and toward the right people. We just didn't stand out as much or get as much engagement because . . . well, toxic behavior is rewarded on sm with more clicks, shares, likes, quotes, etc. Attention seekers gonna seek.

As for why it's so hard to ship happily on sm: in my experience a handful of problematic or outright unhinged fans (on both sides) will go around stirring shit, provoking arguments, and soon the dog pile effect kicks in because everyone wants to defend their tribe. Arguments go in circles, spin off, get more and more petty, until most of "us" end up discussing amongst ourselves about how "they" are a bunch of [insert string of negative attributes here], which then in itself provokes a reaction from "them." Lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually way too many of "us" are hissing and snarling at "them" more often than theorizing about or celebrating our ship . . . the thing we enjoy . . . and it's really hard to detach from that cycle, especially when things get personal. I recommend total non-acknowledgement, but even I struggle to hold that line when I read something I think is terrible. I'm making an effort these days to just keep scrolling thru my feed until I hit something happy, and if there's a negative comment somewhere in the thread to give it ZERO engagement of any kind. Not. Easy.

Which brings me to where I am today. During my time in the Buddie fandom I assumed that for most of us the actual queer rep mattered more than any one ship. Hell, if Taylor had been the one to wake Buck up to his bisexuality--and admitted what she did to Bobby was wrong--they might have grown on me as an endgame couple. I've accepted "meh" endgame couples before as long as everything else on a show stayed solid. I also thought that Buck could never, ever look at anyone with bigger hearteyes than the way he looked at Eddie, but . . .

. . . Enter Tommy. As soon as they kissed, and in their albeit limited screentime afterward (thanks a lot shortened season!) I learned a lesson: there are different kinds of hearteyes. In my opinion Buck looks at Eddie with complete adoration and love, yes. Total hearteyes. But the way he looks at Tommy is . . . "Oh, that's what Buck looks like when he's absolutely smitten, that's how he acts, that's what a romantic crush looks like on Buck. Wow." It wasn't better or worse than his hearteyes or vibe with Eddie, just conspicuously different. It re-framed the way I see the Buckley-Diaz Family as well, and the way I read their chemistry. As I mentioned earlier chemistry is subjective, and once I actually had something queer to compare with Buddie's chemistry, I stopped rooting for romantic Buddie. I wouldn't exactly be furious if they went canon since I did spend all those years rooting for them and it would still be a high profile queer storyline, but I would rather see the Buckley-Diaz Family and Tevan coexist. I think they can, and I think it would be beautiful.

So here's where I stand with my preference and opinions today:

Falling in love doesn't mean everyone else in your life gets demoted. Feelings aren't like pie. Maddie doesn't love Buck any less since she fell in love with Chimney. Athena didn't love her daughter any less when her son came along. There's not a finite amount of love and you're serving out pieces of it. You can love more than one person with all your heart. And that's how I feel about Buck and the Buckley-Diaz Family. He and Eddie are more than friends, different than brothers, they just . . . have their own dynamic. It's unique, special, and vital to both of their identities. And those facts will not be altered by either of them falling in love w/another person. If anything, the Buckley-Diaz Fam has become more special to me since I started rooting for a Tevan endgame.

Queer rep matters more to me than Buddie. Buck coming out as bi wasn't and shouldn't be seen as a step on the road to "winning" the ship I wanted for years. It is completely awesome progress for us whether they're endgame or not. Ditto for Tevan. Also, at the end of the day I ship Buck+Happiness and Eddie+Happiness, and right now Buck seems to be falling for Tommy. What happens with Eddie remains to be seen.

Looking at the whole picture, I will always love Buddie and kinda wish they'd gone canon in s4 or 5, but I think that moment has passed and I'm not mad or bitter about it. I adore the Buckley-Diaz Family, I adore Tevan, and I want to see them both thrive in s8. Now if you'll excuse me, my fingers have begun to bleed from all this typing.

#9-1-1 on abc #bucktommy #Tevan #Buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #tommy kinard #buckley diaz family #multi-shipping #queer representation #evolving perspectives

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loch-des-monster · 5 months

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Day two of the week long strike for a free Palestine and I thought I’d share my recent painting with some tips for those looking for ways to get involved that can’t attend an in person event.

🍉Disrupt- Call/ email your representatives. Jam the phone lines with demands for an immediate ceasefire, aid to be allowed into Gaza, and an end to the occupation.

🍉With your money- do not spend this week. If you find yourself in dire need of something, try to buy it locally instead of from a corporation and absolutely no spending on non-necessities. Look into mutual aid programs near you. Beyond the strike, keep the boycotts going. Look for Palestinian businesses to support. Shop local over corporate as much as you can. Research your bank, see where they invest. If you find your money going to oppressors, move your money out of there and close the account. Send e-sims to Gaza. Look into Project Olive Branch.

🍉 Social Media: boost Palestinian voices and refrain from engaging with unrelated content. Share information. Engage with pro-Palestinian content to help fight the algorithms. This week, refuse to post or engage with any content that is not about Gaza.

Remember: these are just a few ways of getting involved if you can’t attend an in person event. You do not have to do all of them!!

Edit~ I’ve seen some truly disturbing reblogs to this painting and I just want to say that being anti-genocide should not be a controversial thing and if you feel it is, you’re on the wrong side of history. To all the lovely people just doing what you can to help, sending yall love!! I’m also just a person in a country whose reps are disappointing me greatly, looking for ways to be helpful.

#free palestine #free gaza #palestine #artists against apartheid #art #illustration #my artwork #artists for palestine #lochdesmonsterart

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fayes-fics · 2 months

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #1k notes #2k notes

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emberwhite · 4 months

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Do people judge a book by its cover? They absolutely do. They take one look at this, and they either often instantly hate it or love it.

Talking about how things should be is just yelling into the void. There is just reality. And this is the reality of being a self-published indie author.

People make complete conclusions based off of incomplete information. In this case, my book, there are no adults pressuring the boy into getting any surgery. There's no mention of surgery at all even. This person is thinking of a children's book written by a very popular political figure. Some people have had the courtesy to ask me if it's like that book. It's not at all. It's not even political. It's a story told from the perspective of a kid who grows up knowing they are very different and yet can tell no one about it. Even saying a word about it would bring all of his deepest and darkest fears into reality.

The challenge was to make the story as dark and scary as I could without ever going too far for a children's book. There are already some scary children's books and movies out there that prove what's possible, and I worked with my illustrator, Marta, to push it as far as we could go. There's one page we had to re-do almost completely because even I said that's a bit much.

But I'm very happy with the final result because we also got to do so many fun and colorful pages like this.

There will be plenty more drive-by reviews as the book continues to grow and grow. They take one look and see a soapbox to express all of their disappointments and frustrations in life.

I think they might be scared of the book. The world they grew up in is slowly fading away day by day, and it's all they have come to know. They've been around for so long that everything has become a bore to them, and the only remaining pleasure is to escape into the past in order to better preserve it. I can oddly relate, actually.

So the book is on Amazon, and you can watch the whole thing for free on YouTube as well. If you get the chance, let me know what you think. Literally, watching it for free and then giving it a simple rating on Amazon is the best way to support the book. But I also love waking up to reviews like this every day.

#artists on tumblr #illustration #lgbtqia #queer #art #drawing #trans #transgender #furry

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 6 months

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beautiful mess | f. odair

masterlist

summary: finnick knows exactly how to comfort you in a moment of insecurity.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, menstruation, fluff, boyfriend!finnick being a cutie patootie, angst, mild hurt/comfort, insecurity, a little overdramatic but it’s cute idc

notes: about to get my period so this is kind of self-indulgent lmao. the number of times I rewrote this is insane. i hope i didn’t disappoint <3

“You know, I think I could pull off one of those long wizard beards,” Finnick said, admiring himself in the bathroom mirror as he shaved down the slight stubble on his jaw. “Those ones that go down to your chest? I could decorate it with little seashells and twine. It’d look hot, don’t you think?”

His playful words didn’t register in your mind.

Frustrated tears threatened to spill as the hairbrush in your hand tugged harshly at the roots of your hair. Nausea was bubbling in your stomach as you stared at your reflection, feeling as though not a single human being in history had ever looked as ugly as you did right now.

“Sweetheart?”

Here you were standing next to a Greek god, meanwhile, your skin was all hot and blotchy, your hair was a tangled mess, and your stomach was aching something awful. Christ, you hated being on your period.

A hard lump was lodged in your throat; you tried to swallow it, but there was no use. Warm tears had already begun to stream down your cheeks. Unable to bear the sight of yourself any longer, you turned away from the mirror. As you reached for the bathroom door handle, a sharp unexpected cramp pierced at your insides, causing your legs to buckle and collapse to the cold tiled floor.

That was the last straw. You just couldn’t hold it in anymore. A disharmony of cries burst from your lips, reverberating around the small room as your shuddering body folded over itself. Curse the Fates for having you been born a girl.

Finnick, now switched to panic mode, quickly dropped to his knees before you, eyes wide and alert.

“Hey, hey!” he said soothingly as his hand moved to rub your back in support, though he wasn’t even sure what he was supporting.

A thousand-and-one distressing thoughts flew through his mind. Had someone died? Were you injured? Were you dying? Obviously, these ideas were a little irrational considering you were just standing next to him a second ago. But seeing the love of his life in pain and not knowing why made him fear the absolute worst.

“Baby, what happened? What’s wrong?”

All you could do was sob in response. You felt pathetic. Stupid, ugly, and pathetic. “How can you—” Another sob left your lips— “stand to look at me?!”

You could feel his hand stop moving which, illogically, made you even more upset.

“What?” he asked quietly. “What do you mean ‘stand to look at you’? Please, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

Finally, you forced yourself to sit up, revealing the tears that streaked your distraught expression. Finnick’s brows scrunched together, almost like he was in pain watching you in such a state of disarray. He tried to think of anything he might’ve done to make you feel this way because, of course, the first thing Finnick Odair would do was blame himself. But nothing came to mind.

Your heavy heart sank—he looked so worried. A part of your brain knew you were overreacting. Justa little bit. It made you feel even more terrible, knowing he was panicked simply because you didn’t like how you looked. Nevertheless….

“I look so ugly!” you cried. “My hair is all knotted, my face is all red and gross, my stomach is cramping, and—and… I’m just a mess!” You buried your face in your hands. “Why are you even with me?”

Shock was an understatement compared to what Finnick felt when those words left your mouth. Never in a million years would he believe someone like you—someone who looked like you—could ever possibly be insecure about their appearance, and now, of all times.

He gently reached out and removed the hands that shielded your face. You attempted to turn away to conceal yourself in shame, in fear that if he got too close, he would discover your flaws and see you the way you saw yourself. But he caught your chin with a single finger and compelled you to meet his gaze.

Yes, your skin was a little red and your eyes were a little bloodshot, but that didn’t mean you looked ugly. In fact, your rosy cheeks glowed with such radiance that the teardrops falling from your crystalline eyes looked like shimmering diamonds. Your lips, which were slightly quivering, were reddened and plump—an alluring contrast to the hue of your skin.

Not that he would say it given the insensitivity and selfishness of admitting such a thought, but he believed you cried quite beautifully.

“Because I don’t think you’re a mess,” Finnick said softly, ironically tucking multiple disordered strands of hair behind your ear. “You’re human, and you don’t need to look or feel perfect all the time. That’s why you’ve got me—I’ll always think the most of you. And when you’re feeling this way, I’ll always remind you so too.”

You tried to allow his compassionate words to seep into your brain, tried to turn his beliefs into your own. However, the storm of emotions inside your mind was refusing to dissipate. The insecurities just wouldn’t subside and Finnick could see it in your glossy eyes.

“Listen to me,” he said, his thumb brushing away a tear that fell across your skin. “Waking up and seeing your gorgeous face next to mine? That’s what gives me the strength to get up every morning. Those imperfections you’re so adamant about? They only make me love you so much more.

I love every part of you. Every so-called flaw, every tangled strand of hair on that pretty little head of yours.” He grinned as he consolingly ran his fingers through your hair which, in his opinion, was perfectly soft and smooth. “You’re my girl and nothing will ever make me want it any other way.”

Hearing his declaration had your heart aching in your chest. Your hand curled around his arm, needing some physical anchor to the reassuring words he spoke. There was nothing but sincerity in his voice, a sure-fire sign that he was telling the truth.

You realised you never had to worry about Finnick finding you unattractive. Though you were a little worried he was partially blind which, unfortunately, represented your own seemingly unshakeable insecurities.

“I wish I could see myself the way you do,” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying.

“I know,” he sighed. “I know, but just give it time. One day you’ll look back and wonder what the hell you were thinking. I mean, you? Ugly? Sweetheart, we might need to get you some glasses.”

You sniffled, lips stretching into a wobbly smile. “You’re an idiot.”

He lifted your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Only for you,” he quipped in response, wearing a light-hearted smirk on his lips. “Come here.”

He opened his arms, beckoning you to seek solace in his embrace. You scooted closer, sinking into his broad chest as his arms enveloped you. Your legs were folded awkwardly beneath your body and Finnick’s back ached from the lack of support behind him, but neither of you seemed to mind.

What is love without a little suffering?

His hand stroked the length of your hair, curling random strands between his fingers in admiration. Your fingertips danced across his tanned skin, amorously tracing the words ‘I love you’ over and over. You weren’t sure if he even noticed; it didn’t really matter. The sentiment remained true.

You listened to his heart beating centimetres from your ear. Thump. Thump. Thump. And you were grateful it beat for you. You were so, so grateful for Finnick. For his strong arms that soothed you in their embrace. For his lips that released a swarm of butterflies in your stomach with just a quirk of their corners. For his voice that could lift you from the deepest, darkest pit at any given moment.

So, when you whispered, “Thank you,” it was much more than a show of appreciation for his words of reassurance. It was gratitude for his existence. His entire being. For his love which echoed your own.

“Always,” he whispered in return.

Time began to pass but you remained in the same position—holding each other closely, dearly. And then as more minutes passed, rationality began to set in. You were thinking about apologising for your dramatics, but Finnick had other ideas.

“Wait, did you say your stomach’s cramping?” he asked suddenly. You simply nodded. “Are you on your period?”

Your head turned to bury your face against his chest in embarrassment. “Yes,” your voice muffled into his shirt.

Finnick grinned to himself. He didn’t want to play the stereotype card but knowing that detail helped him understand your actions a little better now.

“Well,” he began, gently coaxing you away from his chest so he could look into your eyes. “How about you come sit with me in the kitchen, hm?” He caressed the line of your cheekbone as he spoke. “I’ll cook you some pancakes and then we can both melt into the couch all day. Does that sound good?”

You pretended to think about it for a moment, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Chocolate chip pancakes?”

He made some noise between a chuckle and a scoff. “Of course. Anything else would be a culinary tragedy.”

“Oh, Finnick Odair,” you proclaimed theatrically, winding your arms around his neck as you pulled yourself further against him. “How I love you so.”

In response, his face lit up with a stupidly lovesick grin. This man will be the absolute death of me, you silently swore. You couldn’t help but lean in and press a soft endearing kiss to each dimple that hollowed his cheeks; doing so only made his smile stretch impossibly wider.

The touch of his deft fingertips settled on the sides of your cheeks, holding your face in his hands like it was his most prized possession—technically, you were. His smile never disappeared as he leaned forward, kissing you with such ardent affection that you were afraid your heart might give out from the consuming potency of his adoration.

It tasted like salt, your tears having now dried on your lips. More importantly, it tasted like love. Warm, sweet, syrupy love.

You pulled away, murmuring against his lips, “You would look hot with a wizard beard, by the way."

He chuckled lightly, sustaining the five-second break before returning to your lips to whisper the words, “I knew it.”

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risestarkiss · 6 months

Text

Being Big Red

Rise Ramblings #312

In “What Was Meant To Be” and “What They Became,” I discuss how the turtles were created by Draxum to be weapons and then how the boys were embraced by Splinter to be a part of the Hamato clan.

I also discussed how Splinter viewed television as a window into his former life. He used television as a means to drown himself in a never-ending cycle of reminiscing the past and mourning his former self.

Splinter’s crushing depression, though never voiced, impacted the turtles’ emotional growth and development. As a result, all four brothers had to cope with their father’s lack of attention and his expectations for their lives in their own way…

However, I believe that no one had more pressure placed on them than Raphael Hamato.

Raphael is naturally easy-going, sweet, fun-loving, and supportive. But, as the oldest/biggest turtle, he became the impromptu leader of their little team by default. Consequently, he takes on several different roles for the sake and well-being of his family.

Their day-to-day training regimen is directed completely by him.

He is the boys' moral compass and who they go to for guidance.

He's the team’s backbone, support, and backup, which often cumulates in him acting as a physical shield when things get rough.

And, most significantly, Raph is the leader even when he himself wants nothing more than to crumble to pieces.

Raph is so physically imposing, strong-willed, and devastatingly kind-hearted that it’s easy to expect these roles from him.

But, Raph is also just a child.

In reality, these roles should never have been Raph’s to bear…

Parentification is a process in which a child or adolescent is forced to act as a parent to their siblings (or to their actual parent) through providing emotional support (Emotional Parentification) or physical support (Instrumental Parentification) in order to maintain the household.

I believe that Raphael was subjected to both, but was especially subjected to the former.

All of the roles described above are the roles of a supportive parent to their children (or Sensei to their students.) To verify this claim, you needn’t look further than the roles that Splinter encompassed in any other iteration.

With Raph, none of this responsibility comes naturally. He has to work hard to live up to the pressures and expectations placed onto him, resulting in a dissonance between his responsibilities and his true nature.

I believe that you can see the evidence of this dissonance in his chosen form of dress.

Have you noticed that when Raph casually dresses himself, he mostly wears white?

Even Donnie picked up on this trend when he chose outfits for his brother in "The Clothes Don't Make The Turtle." (See "The Fashionista" for a full breakdown on Donnie's impeccable fashion sense.✨)

Yet, when Raphael is filling a role, or dressing to impress others, Red is his automatic go-to.

It’s almost as if the title of “The Red One” was not one that he chose, but one that was merely placed onto him.

But I digress...

Raph is able to be a pseudo-parent to his brothers and serves to fill in the gaps that their actual father could not fill. However, with no outlet for his own insecurities, all of that pressure had no relief.

And, if you understand chemistry, pressure, with no release, creates an explosion.

“Acting out” is an unhealthy defense mechanism in which one expresses their unacceptable feelings through physical actions.

In this case, the "unacceptable feeling" is disappointment, not at his brothers, or with his father, or with any external force, but with himself. And with no outlet and with no one to turn to for support, that disappointment turns into red hot anger.

He’s so disappointed with himself, in fact, that he reaches his breaking point.

Then finally, finally, he opens up.

And at long last, he gets the support he so desperately needed.

Thus, he is able to ultimately let it all go...

It's so lovely to see that his family does not disappoint.

○○○○

Next | Being Baby Blue • Being Purple ○ Part One • Being Purple ○ Part Two • Orange, Baby!

Finale | Being Hamato Yoshi

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hispg · 6 months

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Trying hard

Pairings: ID! Leon X Fem! Reader

Summary: Your husband will not give up until you're pregnant. No matter what.

Wc: 2.2k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, mentions of pregnancy, worshiping, mentions of lactation kink, breeding kink.

"Negative again?" Leon asks, watching you leave the bathroom.

From your crestfallen expression, he didn't need to think about much to understand that the pregnancy test had come back negative once again.

You'd been trying for three months, three months of unprotected sex at every opportunity. But so far your actions had yielded no more results than memorable nights.

"Yes, negative." You say with sadness in your voice, sitting down next to him on the bed.

He gently takes the test from your hands, calmly examining the result.

"Don't worry, we'll do fine." Leon says with a smile, bringing your hand up to his lips and giving them a gentle kiss.

You smiled weakly, looking down at your lap in disappointment.

You sometimes blamed yourself for thinking that you might have a fertility problem. But all the tests you had done didn't show anything, so maybe it was just bad luck.

"Don't stress your pretty little head about it, Hm?" He says to you, gently moving closer and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

You loved the way he was always supportive of you, and that he would never blame you for any of it.

"Do you think we can make it this year?" You ask softly, turning a little more towards him.

He chuckled, nodding at you, "We just have to try, one day it will happen."

The way he was so sure of you, you felt so safe with him.

"Come here." He proposes, spreading his legs and tapping his thigh, showing you where he wanted you to stand.

You nodded with a smile, mounting him and sitting on his soft thighs. And he promptly wrapped his arms around you, giving you soft kisses on the cheek.

"Have you thought of names?" He asks in a whisper, wanting to improve your mood somehow.

You mumble a soft no, clinging to him tightly. He knew you were controlling your tears at that moment.

"Shhh, it doesn't have to be like this. We just need to try a little harder." He murmurs, holding you by the waist while his other hand goes up and down your back.

"I feel guilty..." You say weakly, knowing from his sigh that he didn't like what you said.

With the hand that was on your waist, he lifted your chin, making you look at him, "Don't say that. There's no one to blame here, we're going to have a baby, we just need to be patient."

You pouted, and he, knowing you'd protest, gave you a soft, gentle kiss on the lips, shutting you up instantly.

Instinctively you wrapped your arms around his neck, returning the kiss with the same tenderness and gentleness.

You only felt his hands running down your hips, playing with the soft fabric of your nightgown. His touch was gentle, just light caresses over your clothes.

When he decided to stop the kiss, he let his forehead rest on yours, looking at you with big, gentle blue eyes.

"I love you, you don't know how much." Your husband says, soon pulling you in for another kiss.

This time he wasn't being soft or gentle, it was something more intimate, hot, his lips moving with yours sensually, making your body shiver with precipitation.

His tongue sliding into your mouth, caressing your own. The kiss got deep quickly, his hands finding their way under your nightgown, caressing your soft skin.

His calloused palms moving up and down your thighs, giving gentle squeezes, feeling how soft your skin was under his fingers.

A contrast to his rough skin.

"I bet you'll be the most beautiful mother in the world." He murmurs as he separates his lips from yours with a 'pop' sound.

"Do you think so?" You ask with a silly grin, you've already become more attached to the idea of getting pregnant than you should be.

"Positive." He says against your skin, his lips tracing your neck.

He made a point of mapping every corner of your skin, leaving wet kisses, holding off just a little longer so that you could feel his teeth grazing your skin.

You gasped softly, your breathing growing heavy with each kiss, each time his fingers kneaded your skin under your nightgown, sending shivers up your spine.

"I can already imagine." He says, trailing kisses down to the cleavage of your chest, holding you tightly by the hips to prevent you from moving.

"You, all round and pregnant. All swollen." His words vibrated against your skin, making you gasp with every sentence.

You could feel his stubble on your breasts, rubbing gently against your body. This was followed by his hot breath against you, and if you looked closely, you could see that he was salivating just looking at your breasts.

"And these tits here? Fuck, they're going to be so heavy. So full." He purred, pulling the top of your nightgown down, exposing what he wanted to see.

Your breasts bounced free, making him growl and bite his lip in response.

In the blink of an eye, he was stuck to you, sucking and nibbling on your breasts. He was latched onto the spot like a starving man, sucking you so hard that you could even feel his teeth on you.

"Fuck, imagine you leaking milk. Asking me to help you. And I'd suck out every last drop." He whispered against you, wrapping his tongue around your nipple, making you moan like crazy.

Unconsciously you started grinding against him, rubbing your wetness against his thighs, feeling his growing erection poking at your ass.

"You're going to feed me every night. Every. Fucking. Night." With that he left your left breast, not letting you breathe before moving on to the right.

You were already marked, the sweet bites of love staining your delicate skin.

"Leon, God..." You moaned, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him to your breast, making his nose nuzzle at you from how close he was.

And it didn't bother him one bit, you saw his eyes squint in a smile as his lips were glued to you, the sounds he made were as obscene as the scene before your eyes.

His tongue lapped at you, just as his hands held your hips tightly so that no matter how much you were squirming, you didn't move a muscle.

Once he opened his mouth, you knew what was coming. He traced your areola with his tongue, sucking lightly on your sensitive area.

Your mind was already in shambles, your panties soaked just from watching him feed on you like this. Feasting on every part of your body.

You could already imagine the image, Leon begging to taste your milk, wanting to know what it tasted like, the texture, wanting you to feed him every night.

Just thinking about it made you feel your pussy clench around nothing, making you let out a whimper at how excited you were.

He ravaged your nipple, sucking like a baby, growling as you slowly ground into him.

He could see your pink face, your panting breaths, you holding onto him so tightly, almost begging him to keep going.

And he was crazy if he didn't.

You could feel his grip on your hips tightening, you knew it would leave its mark the next day.

"Leon... Please." You pleaded with a little pout, clit throbbing for him to just fuck you.

You watched as he withdrew his lips from your breast, leaving a trail of saliva connecting the two of you.

"Please what? Mh?" he teases with a mischievous grin, rubbing his lips against yours.

You whimper, keeping your pout and looking at him with a sly expression.

"I need you. Please." You say slyly, rubbing your wetness against his thigh once again.

He moaned low, quickly turning you over and lying on the bed, climbing on top of you and planting kisses on your neck once more.

In this position you could see the wet spot staining his sweatpants, he was so turned on just thinking about you being pregnant. His mind was going wild with so many possibilities.

"You're going to be so beautiful, fucking beautiful." He says, taking advantage of the distraction to lift your nightgown up to your waist.

And once again you had him salivating, the lace panties that looked so beautiful on you. As soon as he saw it, he felt like ripping the fabric off with his bare hands.

You arched your body and gasped in response, holding back the urge to moan louder and roll your eyes.

But it all stopped when he found your clit, tapping it lightly before massaging your bundle of nerves.

"You're going to carry my baby. You're going to get all swollen because you're carrying my baby." He growls, kissing and nibbling your stomach.

As if to remind you how much he wanted this. How much he wanted you to carry his child.

His child.

"Yes, I'll carry your baby." You say shyly and softly, pushing your hips against his in a search for friction.

This made his eyes glaze over in anticipation, his cock throbbing painfully in his pants. The idea was too much for him, it was all he wanted most at that moment.

A desire he was going to fulfill no matter what.

He then began to remove your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs and off your ankles, then tossing them into a corner of the room.

And there you were, dripping wet, so ready for him, and you were like that because of him. Only him.

In agony, he removed his own pants, along with his underwear, his cock sticking out, drenched in his precum.

So red and flushed, the tip so swollen that it was painful for him. He then captured your lips in a sensual kiss, making you squirm and moan beneath him.

All you felt afterwards was him sliding his cock into you, shoving it all in at once. You were so wet that he didn't even have to do much.

As usual, your legs wrapped around him, his hips pressing into you all at once. You could feel the heat of his body against yours.

"I bet all you want me to do is fill that pussy, don't you?" He asked in a warm purr, slowly moving his hips against you.

All you did was nod in a sloppy way, he had you so full that you couldn't even think about anything. Just the sensation of paradise he was able to give you.

"So that's what I'm going to do, princess." He says this before giving a deep thrust, so deep you could bet he wanted to get as deep as he could reach.

He reached down to bite your neck, thrusting hard into you at a relentless pace.

One thing he had plenty of was stamina, you can believe that.

By this point he had given up on understanding any kind of language coming out of you. All that mattered was fucking you nice and hard.

All you could hear were his hips against yours, his balls slapping against you so hard that you rolled your eyes every time.

Your warm walls tightening around him was a clear answer that you were enjoying it, the way his cock was all wet with your fluids told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

He liked fucking you like this, in such a raw and dirty way, feeling you clench around him, your sweet moans entering his ears and making him grunt against you.

Or the tantalizing image of your breasts swaying as he thrust into you.

"Leon- Mh- I'm close." You say in a loud whimper, sinking your nails into his back.

"Go on, princess." He looks at you with a naughty grin, sending you straight into the edge.

You arched your body, crashing against his as you came, your cream dripping down your body, making a mess of the sheets and him, all he needed to start fucking you even harder.

"Good girl." He purred, slapping your clit lightly in approval.

He held you by the hips this time, slamming his hips into you, each thrust making you shudder. You held him tightly, as if you depended on it.

In and out, he took his cock out only to put it in again. Hammering his entire length into you.

You noticed when his thrusts became sloppier, him moving desperately to reach his own climax.

This time all you heard was his loud grunt, followed by a swear word that became almost inedible in the heat of the moment.

He sank into you in one powerful thrust, bottoming out and spurting all his seed. You felt that he was so deep that he wanted to hit your womb directly, just to be sure.

He let out a murmur of approval, lying down beneath you gently, but the peace soon ended when he felt his cum oozing out of you.

And he couldn't let that happen.

So he pulled out of you, getting down on his knees and pushing his cum into you once more, this time making sure that you didn't waste a drop, that you kept it all inside you as you should.

And he even smacked your tight pussy, murmuring a soft, "You did good."

You smiled under your breath, looking at him with tenderness. Your sweaty, tired expression said that you had enjoyed this as much as he had.

Despite the almost romantic moment, you could still see the lust in his eyes.

A silent message that you could already translate into your memory.

'Catch your breath, we're not finished for the night.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon x y/n #leon x you #leon resident evil #leon kennedy smut #re leon #resident evil leon #leon scott kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon smut

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bouquetofalliums · 4 months

Text

wilbur soot's statement is the furthest it can be from an apology. its vague, baseless, lacks Any sort of accountability, and feels like some shit chatgpt made up. two pages, four paragraphs and... Not a single Im Sorry. and to think i expected any better of him and i REALLY DID. his response to his other mild controversies were genuine and decent at best. this just lacks Everything. i read the first two sentences and my eyes rolled to the back of my fuckin head

disregarding that the way he downplays his own abuse astounds me. because WE KNOW EVERYTHING. we've heard from the victim and there were Witnesses. you say you were snobbish, disrespectful and selfish, but aside from the biting thing; do you ever address that time you pinned her down to claim you were stronger than her although knowing shelby has gone through past sexual assault? how you weaponized her safe word? how you locked her up in your house for days? how you never cleaned up over yourself and made her do all the work? how you gaslit her and her friends and Humiliated her in front of them ????? no amount of therapy or change you've claimed to have gone through can excuse any of your vile behaviours ESPECIALLY when it comes WITHOUT an apology. you cry about how you've changed to us but you don't care at all! because it was all about fame and money to you, right? us and our words mean so little to you, right?

you could've taken more time to polish this and to come from a place of genuinity and none of us would have complained. rather you put out some flat disingenuous slop and expected us to eat it up. No! youve lost your devoted fanbase wilbur. if you didn't want your shitty actions to come out you shouldn't have been a shitty person in the first place.

whatever . i have more to say but i dont want to waste my words on him. im so so fucking disappointed in that man and i hope to never see his face on the internet ever again . to think i spent the last 3 years and more just blindly supporting and loving his music and content without thinking anything else of it .... i feel so sick . I feel so so sick

sending all the love and support to shelby, lexie, rhana, sophie, and to anyone and all who have been deeply hurt by his actions in any way whatsoever

#i want to cry #wilbur soot #discourse #cw abuse #sa mention

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