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jomiddlemarch · 5 months

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Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense

“I’m worried about Matthew,” Mary said, having set down the coffee-pot, every Wedgewood cup filled. The meal might have ended with port or brandy for the men in a household aspiring to be fashionable, but to Jed’s eternal amusement, Mary held fast to her New Hampshirewoman’s disapproval of anything she thought was more for show than purpose and though she was not deeply involved with the temperance movement, she saw limited appeal in spirits, which unlike coffee or even tea, never enlivened the enervated nor hastened industry. Jed spent a good deal of his time trying to impress upon her the value of leisure, but admitted it was a Sisyphean task. She applied her considerable efforts, fussing he called it, to the well-being of those she called friends, so he could not be surprised at her declaration.

“I’m sure you needn’t,” Emma said. This only caused Mary to purse her lips in a manner Jed found adorably kissable, but which indicated she felt Emma was not taking seriously what she deemed a serious matter indeed.

“Why are you worried?” Henry asked. “He’s not written often since he went to New York. At least not to me. Perhaps you’ve heard more from him?”

“If she hasn’t, it’s not for lack of trying,” Jed remarked. “At this rate, we may send Daniel out West to earn his Harvard tuition as his mother’s spent it on postage—”

“It won’t work, Jed, Emma and Henry already know you for a fabulist. You ought to confine your exaggeration to your waistcoats,” Mary replied, sounding very much as she had when they’d first met in Alexandria, all asperity and wit. She turned to face Henry, whose earnestness still matched her own. “It’s not so much what he says as what he omits and there are times I almost feel he’s written me a sermon instead of a letter to a friend.”

“I thought it would be easy enough for him, in New York. They’re not known for their propriety as Boston is,” Emma said. She had found it more difficult than she expected to gain acceptance, even as Mrs. Reverend Hopkins, her soft drawl a lesser issue than the myriad small faux pas she made, which she discovered only through a raised eyebrow or a short, barely audible sniff. When Mary’s efforts at consolation had proven ineffective, she’d brought Emma to Margaret Brook and then to the Bhaers’ exercise in utopia. She’d left with a hand-printed program of “The Pirate’s Fearsome Revenge and Also, His Parrot Makes a Freind” as a talisman against disappointment. “No Lowells, no Cabots, it might as well be a children’s garden party at Plumfield.”

“Evidently the von Rhijns and the Astors would make the Cabots and Lowells quail,” Mary said. “There’s a brazenness in New York society that’s frowned upon in Boston and Matthew mentioned that some of the newer families, the Russells in particular, are rather given to excess, even though that is reflected in their charitable giving as well as their millinery.”

“You are concerned Matthew will be caught up in the battles between old and new money?” Henry asked. “That he may be diverted from his ministry and his neediest parishioners?”

“The man survived five holiday bazaars, including the one the former Miss Hastings attended,” Jed said. “Have some faith—”

“He was at home then,” Mary said. “He knew the players and he knew who he might call upon as allies, should he need them.”

“You make it all sound quite cut-throat,” Jed said. “Not that I don’t think Anne brought a Bowie knife to that sewing bee you hosted. I expect she spiked the punch from her trusty flask as well.”

“No one serves punch at a sewing bee,” Emma said.

“I’m afraid Matthew’s affections are becoming improperly engaged,” Mary interrupted. Henry frowned but Jed let out a low whistle, one his sons had all learned to replicate. He was teaching the girls in secret.

“Improperly engaged! Given the source of such an assessment, I can only assume our esteemed Reverend Forte is enamored of a circus performer or perhaps his inamorata is a lady aeronaut,” Jed said, making little effort to restrain himself. He was, after all, among friends.

“Do be serious,” Emma said, an exhortation Mary knew better than to ever bother with. Henry, uxuoriousness undimmed by nearly twenty years of marriage, patted his wife’s hand. Mary rolled her eyes, but Jed could tell she was equally amused by his playfulness and Emma’s exasperation. There was little latitude granted to a minister’s wife in Massachusetts and Emma’s thirsts for gossip and the latest fashion were generally unquenched.

“Not a widow of means, then?” Henry said.

“He writes almost effusively about a Miss Brook and no, Jedediah, there is little chance she’s any relation to Mrs. John Brook, the surname is common enough,” Mary said.

“What makes an engagement an improper one then, Molly?” Jed asked.

“As her title suggests, she is unmarried, but not fresh from the schoolroom. She is a lady of some years—”

“An elderly spinster,” Jed remarked. “Probably poor as a church mouse, though I’d defer to Henry to explain why all the mice who make churches their residence are doomed to being impoverished. Not much opportunity for cheese, I suppose—"

“Hush!” Mary exclaimed. “She is of middle years and unmarried but what makes the engagement risky—”

“Not risqué,” Jed muttered under his breath, low enough Henry could claim he hadn’t heard but loud enough he’d grinned.

“Is her connection to the van Rhijn family,” Mary went on.

“Is she a second cousin? A cadet branch? A companion?” Emma asked, speaking the word companion as she might say harlot.

“She is Mrs. van Rhijn’s only sister,” Mary said. “He was invited to luncheon at the van Rhijn house. They had New England clam chowder. Miss Brook admitted amidst the guests that she’d had it specially prepared to remind him of home.”

Emma looked aghast.

Henry looked as surprised as he had when his eldest daughter Lydia had announced her intention of studying Ancient Greek at Wellesley College the day after the school’s charter was announced. She had been five at the time and was already halfway through Cicero.

Mary looked concerned and also divinely self-satisfied, largely due to the expressions on the faces of both Hopkins and the near-absolute silence that had descended on the sitting room. Jed could only barely make out the sound of the boys arguing, Rebecca wheedling cakes from Mrs. Hudson for Beatrice and the Hopkins girls. They were dear to him, these three, and though he could not share in the apprehension over Matthew Forte’s affections and reputation, he was fond of the minister in his own way.

“As it’s evident the three of you believe Reverend Forte shortly to be torn limb from limb, either figuratively or literally, with the likelihood of a new iteration of New England chowder featuring a man of God, his frock coat, and quantity of diced potatoes doused in cream soon to be presented at the van Rhijn table, I would suggest a course of action,” Jed said, allowing himself to wax, if not rhapsodic, then comedically melodramatic. Mary might take him to task later, but they were all so earnest and Emma, in particular, needed to be reminded there was life outside the parlor and parish hall, life she had once lived, most threatening with her swinging hoopskirt. It was always fraught, to refer to the War, each of them carrying their own burdens, each of them managing in the best way they knew how, but they had once attended or performed in the dramas of the Mansion House Players and given the clear desire to make a tragedy out of a few lines in Matthew’s letter, their previous experience would be well to be evoked.

“Well, out with it,” Mary said. “You’re overdoing the dramatic pause, Jedediah. If Timothy and John were with us, you wouldn’t escape so lightly—”

He nodded. The two younger boys had his same taste for mockery and were only slightly reined in by Daniel’s steadiness, so like his mother’s, and Bea’s innocence. Rebecca would only egg them on. Mary could quell them all with a glance but only if she chose.

“Matthew needs an ally. Reinforcements. The introduction of an unexpected character from the wings, kitted out with a shield and sword. And flask,” Jed said. Henry and Emma still had blank expressions but a light came into Mary’s dark eyes as he spoke and he loved her for it. “Mrs. Frederick Morris—”

“Nurse Hastings?”

“Anne?”

“I may quibble with your approach, but I must admit, this is a pretty solution. A surgeon’s intervention,” Mary said. “No one can deny Anne has the acuity and aim of a scalpel. She’s impervious to shame, while being well-aware of its impact on those around her. And she has the resources to allow her to make a splash in New York society, though her money’s old enough she will merit some respect. I shall write her in the morning.”

“And if she does not succeed?” Emma said.

“I suppose Dr. Foster may find it necessary to visit Mrs. Manson Mingott and make sure she has been taking her tonics as prescribed,” Mary said, smiling. “Or then, Newport is lovely in the summer and we’d be happy to have you and the girls come to stay for a few weeks, Emma. Henry, if you can’t get away, you needn’t fret. We shall have it all well in hand and Mrs. Brook and Mrs. Laurence will make sure you don’t expire while living as a bachelor.”

“I notice you don’t leave Henry to Jo Bhaer’s tender mercies,” Jed remarked.

“I shouldn’t think he’d survive the theatricals at Plumfield,” Mary said. “And she has quite a heavy hand with caraway, which I know makes Henry dyspeptic.”

“Shouldn’t we just send you to Matthew’s side? Within a week, you’d have wedding bells rung for the lovesick couple and Mrs. van Rhijn ringing them herself as well as all the receipts for Delmonico’s menu for Mrs. Hudson to improve upon,” Jed said.

Henry nodded.

Emma smiled.

“I’m far too busy here at the moment,” Mary said. “And Anne is likely in need of some diversion.”

“Heaven help Mrs. van Rhijn,” Jed said.

“I believe Matthew must be trying his best in that regard,” Henry said.

“Unless she has already dispatched him for chowder,” Emma added, making them all laugh.

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historicconfessions · 2 years

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#anne stafford #anne hastings #tudor confessions

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anelimjolie · 2 years

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„I‘ll read my books and I’ll drink coffee and I’ll listen to music and I’ll bolt the door.“ - J.D. Salinger, A boy in France.

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fideidefenswhore · 1 month

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Had circumstances been just a little different, Anne Boleyn might still have lived. Had she produced a son, Jane would have been a passing distraction, Anne's enemies would have been silenced, and her fiery character might again have seemed, at least at times, beguiling to Henry. During the course of their brief marriage, which lasted just over three years, there had been many fluctuations. After the final miscarriage, Anne fought back, saying she had been frightened by Henry's accident, but also broken-hearted at his paying attention to another woman. This kind of criticism was not something Henry was prepared to tolerate in a wife; one of Katherine's strengths, as she herself acknowledged, was that she had never shown any sign of animosity or distress in response to the king's infidelities. Henry and Anne's relationship had been a genuine love-match, however, and the volatility which helped bring about the extraordinary events of the break with Rome remained a part of their relationship ever after.

Henry VIII, Lucy Wooding

#'never' is doing a lot of heavy lifting/ obfuscating here lol #(it's traditionally thought that she never had harsh words about bessie blount-- and indeed there's no record of this--#although elizabeth blount's primary biographer has said that she had no court presence after the birth of henry fitzroy suggests a frosty #dynamic... just about the elevation of fitzroy #however there's the hastings drama)#also 'her enemies would have been silenced' is overly simplistic #unpopular queens having sons might have reduced overt hostility #but it didn't annihilate it. more realistically might have 'bridled' her enemies #and yet i still find this excerpt compelling so . here we are #lucy wooding #last part of sentence 2 tho...eminently plausible #prior to this storms always melted into sunshine . stormclouds gathered on the horizon and storms began again. then repeat.#and as reviled as the assertion 'genuine love-match' has been as of late. there is evidence which supports it .#would jane have been a passing distraction? again we don't know. their periods of 'royal mistress' (although there needs to be a better ter #maybe...object of king's affections?) are different in that there is only record of anne's in hindsight via cavendish etc #and also in their actions. in 1526 there was no royal watcher that believed the withdrawal of one of the queen's ladies was significant #in 1536 there was one who believed jane's meetings with henry were highly significant and they proved to be...#altho as wooding underlines here they proved to be mainly due to circumstance #it's not to say there weren't discussions behind closed doors of anne becoming queen among the boleyns circa 1526. but they were not known #and wouldn't have been guessed due to lack of precedent

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crownspeaksblog · 1 year

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This but it's ann walker looking at anne lister..

#you know damn well anne has nice arms from the physical work we've seen her do..#i want to see ann walker flustered and blushing looking at her wife's skin for the first time..#the fact that anne getting naked infront of ann for the first time wasn't a bigger moment/scene is fucking insane to me!!#yet another thing that disappointed me about season 2..#well i made myself annoyed again.. this was just a funny sexy lil post..#gentleman jack #gentleman jack season 2 #the ann(e)s #anne lister #ann walker #bridgerton #the duke of hastings #daphne bridgerton #saphne #also this scene is really fucking hot!! i wish i watched bridgerton when i starting posting here #it'd mostly be just me being like oh my god that's hot every episode..#regency era

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bellabbb · 8 months

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youtube

The Matrix (1999) - Du Hast (Music Video)

#the matrix #the matrix 1999 #neo #trinity #keanu reeves #morpehus #carrie anne moss #lawrence fishburne #neo x trinity #rammstein #du hast #lana watchowski #lily wachowski #Youtube

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emasdf · 2 years

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It’s Iggy’s birthday!

I’m going to miss that tiny dance machine.

#ts4 #ts4 gameplay #the pancakes family #iggy pancakes #bob pancakes #eliza pancakes #dylan pancakes #jesminder bheeda #arun bheeda #antonio bheeda #nancy landgraab #geoffrey landgraab #charles landgraab #izabella hastings #ozzy hastings #jo-ann delgato #liam flynn

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petnews2day · 1 month

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MP supports bill to protect health and welfare of puppies and kittens

New Post has been published on https://petn.ws/GuOAF

MP supports bill to protect health and welfare of puppies and kittens

Watch more of our videos on Shots! and live on Freeview channel 276 Visit Shots! now The Government has announced it’s backing for the new legislation which will close existing loopholes exploited by unscrupulous breeders and traders to illegally smuggle cats and dogs into the UK. Since 2012, the Pet Travel Scheme, created to make it […]

See full article at https://petn.ws/GuOAF #CatsNews #Government, #Hastings, #HumanInterest, #Parliament, #Politics, #SallyAnnHart, #YourWorld

#government #hastings:#Human Interest #parliament #politics #sally-ann hart #your world #Cats News

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jolieeason · 4 months

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December 2023 Wrap Up

Here is what I read/posted/won/received/bought in November. As always, let me know if you have read any of these books and (if you did) what you thought of them. Books I Read: Books Reviewed: Mister Lullaby by J.H. Markert—review here Sister of Starlit Seas by Terry Brooks—review here Deceptive Silence by Reily Garrett—review here Hard Check Holiday by Ann Hunter—review here Echoes of…

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andypantsx3 · 2 months

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I love the TodoReaderBaku polycule idea!! I imagine them pushing the others buttons in the morning as they get ready for work and then you come home late that evening to them snoozing and cuddled up together in their sleep on the couch while they wait for you. They(bakugou) already made dinner but they didn’t want to eat without you 🥹💕

This is soooo cute omg you are giving me big domestic tdbkreader feelies. 🥺 I hope it's okay that I wrote you a lil something inspired by this.

contents: shouto x reader x bakugou, established relationship, domestic fluff, gender neutral reader, sfw, 1k

The sound of muffled arguing in the kitchen wakes you up on Saturday morning.

It's late, the sun already streaming in through your windows, pooling in streaks of pale gold across your floor. From where you're wrapped up in the blankets you can just make out a pair of Shouto's discarded pants laying across the floor, Katsuki's folded with military precision atop the hamper. You stretch, joints popping, until the sound of voices draws your attention again.

"The fuck is that supposed to be, huh?" comes Katsuki's growl from beyond the door.

Shouto's low tone answers him, his voice soft and almost indecipherable. You can tell the two of them haven't been up for much longer than you by the rasp in Katsuki's voice, the deep hum of Shouto's. "They are Julie Anne."

There is an incredulous pause, and you can almost see the expression on Katsuki's face. Barely awake, you just manage to stifle your own laugh into the blanket when Shouto's meaning comes to you, and Katsuki's scandalized inhale makes you smile harder.

"It's julienne, dumbfuck. Who the hell is Julie Anne?" he demands.

"They are julienne, then," Shouto says placidly, which you know grinds Katsuki's gears even more than defensiveness.

"This is half a fucking carrot, I said cut 'em tiny!" Katsuki hisses.

Shouto says something in reply you can't quite make out, and Katsuki all but growls—except then there's the softest, slick sound of a kiss, and you know Shouto has pulled out his ultimate move to quiet your boyfriend down.

"Think you can just do whatever because you're cute," Katsuki mutters after a moment, but his tone gives him away. It's easily a thousand degrees warmer than it was moments before, and you can tell by the sound of his voice that the tips of his ears are scarlet.

A helplessly fond smile pulls at your mouth as you stretch again, and you figure you should get out to the kitchen now that the waters have calmed.

The process of unrolling yourself from the blankets takes a minute, and then you spend another few hunting around for the shirt and pants Shouto flung off of you somewhere last night, and a few more brushing your teeth in the bathroom.

Something is hissing on the stove by the time you make it out to the kitchen, and the room smells mouthwatering.

Shouto has apparently been exiled to the far side of the island, and your boyfriend turns to you, his hair a little flatted on the left side, red strands tangling up with the white. His long fingers clutch a glass of orange juice, and he looks so adorably morning-ruffled and sweet you almost fall over your feet in your haste to kiss him.

"Good morning, love," he says, pressing another kiss to your mouth. He's warm and tastes like fresh oranges, and his bare chest is almost too beautifully sculpted in the morning sun. You let him pull you into his lap, and only get a little flustered with the way his arm muscle cords as he does so.

He hooks his arms around you, pressing his mouth into your shoulder, and you shiver with the delicious warmth of him along your back.

"Thought you mighta died in there," Katsuki says, scarlet eyes finding yours over the counter. "'S late for you."

He's bare chested too, miles of golden skin on display in his low-slung grey sweatpants and your mouth goes a little dry just looking at him.

"Luckily someone set the bickering boyfriend alarm," you say, eyes barely finding their way back up to his face.

Katsuki grins, a wicked thing, and leans over the counter to seize your mouth, a long-fingered hand cupping your chin. He tastes like coffee, an indulgence he only allows himself on weekends, and he slides you a matching mug when he finally lets your mouth free, having to return to the rolled omelette he's making.

"I might be in love with you," you say gratefully, taking a sip, reveling in how good it is. Katsuki only does freshly ground—a million miles better than the instant powder or coffee pods you brew yourself on your way out to work. You're definitely in love.

"Then I might be inclined to let you have some of this," Katsuki says. The motion of his arm as he flaps the dishtowel over his shoulder is notably smug.

You settle back into Shouto, sipping your drinks together quietly as you watch a traditional Japanese breakfast come together under Katsuki's talented hands. He plates up rice, his rolled omelette, and then a sauteed kale stem and carrot salad off the stove—so that's what the julienne talk was about. Then grilled fish is laid over the top of the rice, and Katsuki lays out another side of soup and several tiny plates of carved fruits.

Shouto helps you off of his lap gently when it's finished, and Katsuki crowds you into your own chair between the two of them, charging another kiss for his efforts. You pay up eagerly, the meal and the man in front of you equally delicious.

"Eat it all," Katsuki demands of Shouto over your shoulder as he takes his own seat, pointing his chopsticks like a weapon at him. "You overused your quirk in Bunkyo yesterday, y'need to make up the energy deficit."

Shouto hums, used to Katsuki's bossiness.

You have to suppress an appreciative groan when the first bite of breakfast hits your mouth. The fish is fresh and sweet and the rice is warm and fluffy. As with anything Katsuki makes, it's cookbook perfect.

"It's sooo good," you say, your usual—though heartfelt—platitude. "Really good. Thank you both."

"It is made with love," Shouto specifies, his tone low and earnest in that disarming way he has. In the corner of your vision, Katsuki rolls his eyes, but pointedly does not deny it.

You take another bite, hiding your smile in a mouthful of sauteed kale stem and badly-julienned carrot.

#todoroki x reader #bakugou x reader #todobaku x reader #shouto x you #bakugou x you #character: todoroki shouto #character: bakugou katsuki

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hardlyinteresting · 3 months

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Personal

Aaron Hotchner x reader

A case hits a little too close to home for the reader. Hotch makes sure she knows she not alone even as they struggle to decide if they're colleagues, friends, or something more.

Warnings: female reader, (I've given her the nickname Sweets), No physical description of reader, mildly graphic descriptions of injuries, cannon-compliant themes of violence, themes of past domestic violence, mild hurt/comfort, I am not a profiler so there are likely mistakes in the profile (please let me know if there are any warnings you'd like me to add. Aaron Hotchner Masterlist | Send Requests

Word count: 3.2K

"Hope is a gift. You can't choose to have it. To believe and yet to have no hope is to thirst beside a fountain" Ann-Marie MacDonald

The case comes in early in the morning. Aaron has hardly managed a sip of his coffee when the phone rings with a call from a local P.D. in Aberdeen, Virginia. It's urgent. It always is. He cannot begrudge the haste with which his job forces him to chug down the scalding liquid in his mug as he calls upon Garcia to prep the relevant files for the case. It's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. Sufficiently caffeinated (albeit with a burnt tongue), and briefed on the case, Hotch calls the team to meet him in the conference room.

His colleagues seem to be in good spirits today. With a passing glance around the room Hotch silently completes a behavioural checklist for each of them in his mind. No one on the team seems over-exhausted, overtly anxious, or withdrawn. They chat amongst themselves, teasing and joking like siblings as they wait for him to settle into the remaining seat at the table. He nods at Penelope, “Garcia, let's get started”. With a quick “yes, sir,” she presses a button on the remote to begin the briefing.

This morning the police in Aberdeen discovered the body of a woman left propped up against the wall outside a local medical clinic. Abigail Lawson. 27 years old. She had been badly beaten. A single stab wound. No sign of sexual assault.

“Cause of death?” Prentiss asks.

“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Garcia supplies the response.

“And she's the first?” Morgan follows up.

“Two weeks ago Stella Amos, twenty-five, was admitted to hospital with similar injuries. She passed away two hours later. A punctured lung”.

The photographs of the injuries are disturbing. After years on the job, the images never seem to get less brutal. A chill travels down his spine as he looks over the extent of the wounds on both of the women. A hush falls over the room as everyone else takes a moment to swallow down their own shock and compartmentalize their feelings of disgust. They train themselves, scanning the photographs and notes for the facts they can work with in hopes of saving anyone else from meeting the same fate.

“No stab wound. Are we sure these cases are connected?” Reid surveys the provided facts one more time.

“Similar age, hair colour. They were from the same neighbourhood. Steady jobs,” Rossi lists, “there's a pattern in victimology to be sure”.

“They could be unconnected acts of domestic violence,” Morgan posits before continuing, “but leaving these women at medical centres is unique. Could be remorse”.

“A man who beats women within an inch of their lives before dropping them off for medical attention. It's a big risk. Knowing they might survive to identify him”.

Hotch nods at the assessment. He had followed the same thought process himself when he got the call.

“Maybe he's banking on them being too afraid to talk if they do pull through,” another voice in the room speaks up for the first time this morning. Sweets, the team calls her. An affectionate nickname that’s stuck since her first week on the team. “the stabbing is an escalation and these are high-risk victims. This UNSUB isn't worried about getting caught. These attacks are personal to him somehow”. It's an important assertion, and something they'll need to consider as they build and expand their working profile.

He's glad to hear Sweets adding to the conversation. She's never been shy when contributing to the team's brainstorms, and he had begun to worry when it had taken her so long to speak up. He doesn't miss the wobble in her tone, or the way she now avoids eye contact. She’s a valuable team member, and despite being the most recent addition she’s settled herself flawlessly over the last year. Aaron is well aware of the poor retention rate for new team members in the BAU and has continued to be impressed by her ability to hang on to her brand of optimism and take their most difficult cases in stride. She’s worked hard to see the best in people, and unsurprisingly endeared herself to those around her; himself included.

At first, Hotch had been grateful for her unique perspective from her experience working for victim services. Then, he grew to appreciate her attention to detail, and the way his piles of paperwork seemed smaller and smaller at the end of each week. She quickly became a friend and a confidant after long nights in the office, and the field. Now, their relationship lies in limbo somewhere between friends and something more.

Lately, the tugging at his heartstrings has grown nearly painful. All the old cliches leave his heart racing and he feels like a teenager whenever her hand brushes against his own. A night out with the team had ended with her curled up in his bed the next morning, and he’s been a goner ever since. It's been weeks, she hasn’t mentioned it, so neither has he. The guise of professionalism makes it easy to shove down his insecurities, and recurring fears; his age; his scars, physical and metaphorical; the weight of his career; he pushes them to the back of his mind. He does not dare to hope. He does not allow himself to consider the reasons why she might want to keep him at arm's length. It hurts less that way. “Whatever the case we've got a week before he strikes again,” Hotch confirms, his mind focused on the case, “we should head out”.

It’s August, and the sun is nearly blinding; the heat and humidity are intolerable, but nobody complains as they split up between the most recent crime scene, the morgue, and the precinct. Hotch would never admit it, but he’s glad when the woman who occupies half his thoughts volunteers to head to the station with JJ. Not for his peace of mind, but hers. Driving into the town he had seen her hands fidgeting in the back seat of the Suburban. Something about this case is already weighing on her, and he doubts the discomfort of the summer calefaction will be much help. He tries not to think about it any more than that.

The crime scene doesn’t tell them much more than they already knew. There’s no security footage to help them identify the UNSUB. But, the way he leans the victims to sit against the way rather than just dumping them shows some kind of warped sense of concern for their well-being. The women are likely substitutes for someone else. He was likely raised in a violent home. He can only hope that the rest of the team has managed to learn more.

Sweets is glad that the station had the forethought to move a coffee maker into the room they’ve set up for the BAU team to work out of. In her short time on the team, she’s learned how essential caffeine is to the function of herself and her teammates. Not enjoying coffee is not an option. Cream and sugar make it tolerable to those who despise the bitter taste. As she preps her second cup of the day she watches Spencer dump 4 packets of sugar into his mug. Whatever gets you through the case. She reminds herself.

“Defensive wounds on her arms, but her manicure wasn't chipped. There was no blood or skin under her fingernails. No bruising on her knuckles,” Morgan shares what he and Rossi learned at the morgue, “She held her arms up to protect herself, but she didn't fight back. She didn't scratch, claw, or punch her assailant”.

“She probably knew him then,” Prentiss says, “He’s not sneaking up on these women. But, he has the advantage and control required to attack them head-on”.

The profile continues to build and Sweets pulls further in on herself. The personal nature of the attacks leaves her nauseous. Flickers of memories she’s fought hard to forget flash behind her eyes, but she forces herself to stay in the room. Reign it in, she wills herself. Without looking across the room she knows Aaron’s eyes are on her. Her cheeks warm though she can’t be sure if it’s his gaze or her anxiety to blame. She tries not to read into it, not wanting to feel too self-important. It’s his job to watch everyone on the team, she knows that. It doesn’t mean anything, she reminds herself the same way she has since she woke up next to him all those weeks ago. She doesn't want attention because she slept with him, and she'd be silly to think it meant anything to him anyway. It's easier to ignore it. He hasn't mentioned it, so she hasn't either.

Despite her best efforts, she does like him. More than she should. Normally, the attention would leave her with butterflies fluttering in her chest, like a schoolgirl with a crush. But today, she feels too seen, too exposed. she focuses her attention on controlling the unwanted emotions this case continues to dredge up. Aaron has seen her undressed, he’s seen her let down her walls and crack jokes. He knows her better than the rest of the team, but this is not a side of her he needs to see.

Under the table she plants her feet, pressing the soles of her boots hard against the linoleum. She reminds herself who she’s with and why she’s here. When she’s able to breathe without gagging she speaks up, “If it looks like domestic violence maybe that’s exactly what it is”. Hotch’s head tilts up, his eyes moving off of the files he’s been pretending to read for the hundredth time, “What do you mean?”

“This morning Morgan said these murders looked like cases of DV. Maybe that’s exactly what this is. We know he had some kind of relationship with the victims-- maybe they were dating him,” Sweets holds her breath waiting for a response.

“It would help to explain the gaps in our profile-- Prentiss, call Garcia and have her look into any recent purchases by the victims. New clothes, new shoes, restaurants, anything that might suggest they’ve been dating,” Hotch instructs, “Sweets, you and JJ should speak to their friends and family; ask if they’ve mentioned anyone new in their lives”.

Like with any case, she hopes her insight helps, that her perspective and thinking might get them one step closer to finding the UNSUB before anyone else gets hurt; and that they might be able to bring closure to the families of the victims.

She's learned that personal experience can help as much as it can hinder. Seeing things from an angle that no one else can is certainly an advantage, but it doesn't make it easy to live with either. But, her stomach churns. His face. His touch. The bruises he left behind. She tries to remember she has nothing to be ashamed of. She has nothing to hide. It's no secret everyone on the team struggles with different types of cases, JJ has always found it difficult working cases involving children, and Hotch becomes snappier when they're searching for family annihilators.

She can feel Aaron's eyes on her again. She prays the twisting in her gut and the scratching in her mind are worth it.

The next morning begins with news of a third victim. A Jane Doe was found outside the fire station. Aged between 22 and 25. Beaten beyond any kind of recognition. The M.E. will have to try to use dental records to ID her.

The crime scene photographs are a gruesome addition to the already horrific crime board in the conference room. “It would take an incredible amount of rage and power to beat someone to death like this,” Rossi points out.

Hotch’s fingers buzz. His usual ground method of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together isn't working. He clenches and unclenches his fist willing the memory of bone cracking, and blood splattering beneath his knuckles away. He hates that even years after his death George Foyet continues to find new ways to sink his teeth in; the mere memory of him is enough to leave bile rising in the back of Aaron's throat.

Their profile is ready. A white male, mid 20s to early 30s. Traditionally attractive. He's well-groomed and takes pride in his appearance. He more than likely works in an office setting. At work, his desk is neat and well-organized. He does everything by the book. He aspires to a role above his own and will talk about it often. In his eyes, he's overworked and under-appreciated; but, in reality, it's his quick temper and outward frustration that have kept him in his menial role. He may be flirtatious towards the women around him but likely won't pay them any attention when it comes to business matters. As a child he would have grown up in a working-class household, and more than likely faced abuse at the hands of his father. As a teenager, he learned to place blame on his mother for this abuse and began looking down on her the same way his father did. But no amount of hatred could ever win him his father's attention. This made him hate his mother more and allowed his misogynistic views to solidify in adulthood. He will have a history of violence throughout school and early adulthood, and more than likely charges for battery or assault.

A call from Garcia confirms that the first and second victims both had paid for dinners at restaurants within the same two-block stretch despite living and working on opposite sides of town. Their cards had been used at the restaurants only 25 minutes before their attacks.

“And he didn’t pay for their dinners either. Chivalry really is dead,” Prentiss dismisses. Predictably, their collective disdain for the UNSUB continues to grow as they learn more about him. Penelope manages to rustle up security footage from one of the restaurants, she's unable to get a facial ID on the man leaving with the first victim but promises to search for other footage from the area and call back when she has a new lead. One step closer, Hotch reminds himself.

Twenty minutes later word from the M.E. Office arrives. A positive ID on Jane Doe. Grace McKinney, 24. Aaron watches as Sweets pins a photograph of Grace to the victims' board. Her hands shake as she takes a step back, and then she's rushing out of the room before he can ask if she's alright.

His body feels lead-heavy, his limbs so hebetudinous that he’d swear he was melting into the floor if it weren’t for his feet carrying him out of the room without instruction. Sweets is doubled over in the alleyway behind the station, remnants of her breakfast splashed across the ground. She has nothing left to bring up, but still she dry heaves as if trying to expel more than the contents of her stomach. He knows the feeling.

“Sweets?” his voice starles her, and Hotch is quick to hold his hands out in a surrendering motion as he approaches, “Are you alright?” He knows the real answer, and he knows that she’ll look right at him and lie; but he asks anyway. “Are you asking as my boss, or as my friend?” She asks. “Would it make a difference?” it’s his turn to wonder. Finally close enough to touch her, he places a hand on her back. It’s impossible to miss the shiver that runs up her spine. Sweets hides her face, angling herself away from her, shrinking in on herself. She tries to hide from him, as unwilling as ever to show any kind of weakness real or perceived. “I’m asking as someone who cares,” Hotch tries again, snuffing out the burning sensation that seems to grow in his chest; his fear of vulnerability fighting hard to shut him down. He won’t let it. “It’s me,” she tells him as if it’s obvious. “Yes”. He's confused. Of course, it's her, he can see her standing right in front of him. “It's me. I'm the Jane Doe; Grace. Abigail. Stella”. His heart stops. She continues, looking at him for the first time, her eyes tearing up, “Not literally-- I just mean…”

“The victimogy. I understand. Same age, hair colour, similar backgrounds--”

“Yes,” She admits, “but we see cases with women who look like me all the time”.

Aaron nods, taking her openness as an opportunity to guide her out of the alleyway, waiting patiently for her to continue in her own time. “I had a boyfriend a few years ago…I just-- I need some time to collect myself”.

Again, Aaron nods, understanding, “Would you like me to leave?”

She shakes her head, her hand shooting up to hold to his arm. She’s shaking less now than she was before. More than ever he wants to hold her, but he doesn’t want to overstep; and during a case, there are lines he cannot cross as her boss. It’s the crux of the predicament they’ve found themselves in. Their personal lives and feelings bleeding and blending to create this strait. Deep down, he’s sure that a line of open communication between them would ease this impasse, but he’s far too shy to suggest it. For now, he settles for being glad her breathing has slowed, and her tears have stopped. “Thank you,” Sweets breathes out. Her hand slips down to squeeze his before she lets go and steps away from him. “Anytime,” he swears. He means it.

They find their UNSUB three hours later. Garcia’s scanning of security footage gives them a few license plates from cars within a two-block radius of the restaurants the victims went to. Only one owner fits their profile. He’s at work when they find him. Sweets takes great pleasure in cuffing the man. Hotch has no complaints.

When they arrive back in Quantico it’s nearing midnight. The team takes their leaving swearing they’ll finish their paperwork tomorrow morning. Sweets takes advantage of the rare silence in the bullpen to complete her reports. She’s not ready to go home. Not yet. At work, she has a shield, a carefully crafted persona; as cracked as it may be at the moment, it holds back the onslaught of personal fallout she’s sure waits for her at home. Sure her apartment is warmer and cozier than the office ever is. Her bed is far more comfortable than any desk chair. But, at home, she has nothing to distract her. At home, she has no obligation to maintain a facade sewn up by professional self-preservation. At home, she’ll be alone without the steady presence of Aaron Hotchner working away in his office.

The room is bathed in warm lamplight, a comfortable difference from the overhead fluorescents down in the bullpen. Something like a moth, she’s drawn to it by an instinct stronger than her willpower. She knocks on the door frame before leaning into the room. “I finished my report,” she tells him when he looks up. “You didn’t have to finish that tonight,” he tells her with furrowed brows. He sets down his pen and shuts the file he was working on to give her his attention. She steps into the room, setting her report on the edge of his desk. “I didn’t want to go home yet”. She explains though she gets the feeling that he understands. If there’s anyone she knows with a mutual streak of using workplace responsibility to avoid personal turmoil, it’s Hotch. Still, he nods, validating her most simply. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Are you asking as my boss or something more?” she wonders.

“Would it make a difference?” He asks. “Yes,” She responds. Sweets watches as he swallows, his brows knitting together as he considers his answer carefully, “I’m asking as someone who cares about you very much, in whatever capacity you need me to right now”. It’s a diplomatic response. Gentle and inviting without being outright hopeful. Quintessentially Aaron Hotchner.

“Will you come home with me,” Sweets allows herself to be bold enough to ask.

“Yes,” he tells her simply.

In the morning he slips away only to return with two cups of coffee and a box of breakfast pastries. They don’t need to be in the office until 10:00 and he plans on taking advantage of the time they have together until then. Sweets accepts the cup he holds out to her with an eager smile, and a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch x reader #criminal minds fic

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jomiddlemarch · 1 year

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So, I watched The Age of Innocence this week just because I wanted some period drama post-The Empress and I started thinking about the timeline. How little impact there seems to be on everyone from the Civil War, which ended only 5-10 years earlier. How Newland Archer should have been in his late teens during the War, too young to fight, but plausibly aware of what was happening, whereas May would have been a younger child.

How Newland goes to Washington to visit Ellen at a dinner party-- and then I started thinking about a crossover with Mercy Street folks (especially given our murder mystery round robin set about 10 years after the end of the War.) What if Emma Green (married either to Jimmy or Henry) had been at Ellen’s party? What if Jed Foster was the physician called in to look after Mrs. Manson Mingott after argument with Regina in New York? What if Anne Hastings was doing her best to insinuate herself into New York society?

#the age of innocence #mercy street #crossover potential UNLIMITED #emma green in washington city #jed foster doctoring to the rich in New York #anne hastings #chaotic neutral unleashed on high society

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warrioreowynofrohan · 8 months

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After a reread of Persuasion, I’m thinking about how it relates to Austen’s character types discussed in this post. It stands out from S&S, P&P, and Mansfield Park in not haveing a ‘charming rake’ type as the main male antagonist, but instead a reserved, intelligent, courteous, cold-blooded and selfish man. There is no counterpart to Willoughby, Wickham, or Henry Crawford.

Instead, if Mr. Elliot is a counterpart to any of the characters in Austen’s other novels, he feels like a dark mirror of Darcy. They are both reserved; both (at least at the time of the main plot of the book) place a high value on social status, and look down on commonness and vulgarity. However, while Darcy’s arrogance makes him rude, Mr. Elliot has impeccable manners; and where Darcy in has strong principles and treats the people for whom he is responsible well, Mr. Elliot is a hypocrite and, though voicing good principles, is in fact cruel and uncaring to those who are dependent on him. Mr. Elliot is, really, the type of person that Wickham portrays Darcy as being. The other thing that brought this comparison to my mind is Mrs. Smith’s description of the friendship between her husband and Mr. Elliot, which very much recalls the one between Bingley and Darcy (as an additional note, both Mr. Smith and Bingley are named Charles):

From his wife’s account of him she could discern Mr. Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend and very unlike him - led by him

I think this all goes with one of Austen’s common themes, and one that is especially important to Persuasion - the importance of not marrying in overmuch haste and without good knowledge of and, at a minimum, respect for your partner. Darcy is decidedly not like Mr. Elliot in character - but at the time if his first proposal, for all Elizabeth knew he might have been.

And on the flip side, Frederick Wentworth is not like Willoughby or Wickham - but given the short time Anne had known him when he first proposed, he might have been, and Lady Russell certainly sees that danger. He is, at that time, daring and charismatic, but not prudent, having saved none of the money that he won in his naval career. There’s also another reference to the ‘charming rake’ type in that, like Henry Crawford, he for a while courts two sisters, the elder of whom is attached (though, unlike Maria Bertram, not engaged) to another man. In Wentworth’s defence, he isn’t aware of the latter, and isn’t trying to make them both fall in love with him, just being his (naturally charming) self, and keeping his eyes open for who he might like to marry; and he very nearly gets himself badly entangled and, later, freely acknowledges that as his own fault. Really, Wentworth has elements of all three of Austen’s main male character types, and is the better for it. (Anne herself has, I think, the most in common with Elinor Dashwood in being the only sensible and intelligent person in her family, and in being very perceptive, and with Fanny Price is being rather quiet and imposed upon.)

On the whole, this combination of characters makes the book feel less on the side of intelligence and judgement, and more on the side of a warm and open heart, in making for happiness, whereas S&S and P&P focus more strongly on the need for ‘sense’ and intelligence. Intelligence may well be a necessary quality for a truly good marriage, but it is not a sufficient one, not when it is combined with a cold and selfish heart.

#jane austen #persuasion #pride and predujice #anne elliot #mr elliot #mr darcy #frederick wentworth

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fideidefenswhore · 2 years

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the recent outpouring of s.eymour apologism i’ve witnessed on twitter recently seems a bit like goalpost moving...

im not going to link it bc i really don’t care . that much (any of y’all can dm me if you really want); but i’ve looked into the dynamic being spoken of a lot and i think ‘no words of b.oleyn’ speaks a lot to how this family saw themselves and what they had taken part in.

im going to try to put this more succintly / abbrev version of what i messaged a friend recently:

as to the levied charge of hypocrisy, the emotional reality when we speak to c.atherine of aragon vs a.nne boleyn vs j.ane seymour is just vastly different...

while i don't think anyone would say c.atherine’s reproductive history was not sad, there was at least, a buffer...

did the boleyns take advantage of the fact that she had no surviving sons? absolutely, without a doubt. arguably that is rather morally grey

but there is a HUGE difference btwn taking advantage of an opportunity that presents itself nine years after the queen's last pregnancy & stillbirth

and taking advantage and discrediting one ...what, a week? a month? after her last miscarriage... i judge the circumstances differently because they are different...

& im just not about humbly accepting this false equivalency being banded about , like...

there is a huge difference btwn encouraging a trial into the validity of a royal marriage again, near-decade after, vs a woman being arrested FOUR MONTHS after she has had a miscarriage

& whether or not the s.eymour involvement encouraged arrest specifically, clipping along at a nice pace to accept it and enjoying your sister living & dining in style as queen-to-be while the woman with that title about to be tried is confined in the tower... they're not the same, i do find it egregious and very different than the 1st scenario.

there were people ousted from power in every promotion the b.oleyns and their affinity rose. anne was made marquess after c.atherine’s exile. cranmer was promoted after warham died of natural causes. im sure g.eorge was made viscount at the expense of ... someone, certainly t.homas b.oleyn was made earl of ormond at the expense of some relatives. anne became queen after c.atherine’s demotion. e.lizabeth became princess after mary’s.

there were people executed for not recognizing the royal supremacy, which one could argue was the same as denying the b.oleyn marriage (it’s a grey area, arguably they were connected, but it’s hard to argue anyone was executed for eschewing the act of succession alone, more and fisher both pointedly said they were not against that element). but there’s hardly the brutal 1:1 that exists in regards to the b.oleyn downfall. henry & jane received a dispensation to wed on the day anne was executed, they were betrothed the next, wed ten days after that, and j.ane was queen. e.dward s.eymour was made viscount eighteen days after his technical predecessor (brother to the queen) , the viscount rochford, was beheaded.

‘but you’re just a hypocrite for admiring the b.oleyns and not the s.eymours’, eh, i think the reason that there are more fans of the former than the latter is that they operated differently & there were different circumstances surrounding their respective rises to power. to ‘win’ in this system always required ruthlessness, and it always meant someone else lost. ‘to the victor, the spoils’, sure, but ‘to the victor, the spoils’ hits different when the ‘spoils’ are inextricably tied to the reality of the orphaned children & widows of the judicially murdered upon the exact moment of victory (respectively, the moment of the betrothal of h.enry&a.nne, & the moment of betrothal of h.enry&j.ane...only true of the latter, and essentially-- what, thirteen days gone-- only true of the latter, even if one switches ‘betrothal’ to ‘wedding date’- -the closest it comes to for the former is the arrest of bishop fisher in march 1533, previous to annulment of henry’s 1st marriage).

& that’s what bothers people, as far as i understand it. this wasn’t game of thrones, this really happened. whether or not someone ‘agrees’ with the kind of language used to describe what happened, there isn’t any denying the order in which it did, nor the coinciding events. if it doesn’t disgust you, it’s your prerogative. if you believe animus towards the complicit actors/beneficiaries is mutually exclusive to animus towards the principal agent/s (depending on which theory you go by, henry himself vs henry and cromwell vs cromwell alone, although any besides the middle is a bit of a stretch imo-- henry was at the very least the final say/ultimate power), well, that is, too, but you would be incorrect, even if you have, at times, personally come across one or the other.

#'it could not have been FORESEEN' (re: the boleyn downfall)#to the fatal degree it came to #is that* what bothers people?#is that what people believe? bcus i haven't seen that outside of mantel (fictionally) positing it was jane that left the poison pen drawing #in anne's household #or is it that no one of the faction (as the argument goes there was) seemed to think it was a bridge too far when it did go that far #that no one expressed many qualms and the haste with which it was all done also seeming readily accepted #that they readily accepted all that bloodshed with no compunction for the 'greater good' of an aim that was never reached #'your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayad yourself for nothing.' fin.#and im speaking more to the faction in that sense #i have very little sympathy for the most complicit members of that faction.#i have a hard time shedding a single tear for carew in the same way i have a hard time shedding a single one for cromwell #'well all these people had to die but at least mary was reconciled to her father after doing exactly what anne had exhorted her to do for #two years! oh wai-'#*any qualms #*betrayed #more abbrev: well. failed step one #the closest we get to qualms is someone (idr who exactly)#saying it would touch henry's 'honor' if no one except smeaton confessed #well. sucks to suck .

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dreamwritesimagines · 1 year

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Garden of Secrets [6] - Hibiscus

A.N: Thank you so much for your amazing feedback and support my loves!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: Whispers are made for midnights.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, mentions of possibility of physical abuse, past trauma and violence.

Word Count: 5600

Series Masterlist

No matter what anyone else thought or assumed, you weren’t jealous.

That would have been ridiculous. Getting jealous of someone like him, someone who was the complete opposite of you with his silly fixation of love was out of question, so at best you were merely annoyed by this whole…

Charade.

That was what it was. It was an absolute charade, and you still found it hard to believe that you were somehow caught in the middle of it.

“Clover my dear, you’re not going to believe this,” your aunt’s voice made your head snap up from the geraniums you were currently tending to in the garden.

“Good morning to you too auntie,” you said, wiping the sweat off your brow before taking your gardening gloves off. “What’s happened?”

She waved what looked to be the newest issue of Whistledown at you.

“Look at this!”

“What?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat. “Don’t tell me she wrote about me again. I didn’t even attend the last ball, there’s nothing to write about.”

“Well, you were not there but Kitty Morris was,” she said, still waving the paper. “And she has made use of your absence, if you don’t mind me saying. Look at the first paragraph.”

You frowned and reached out to take the paper from her, then skimmed the lines.

Dear Readers,

It seems that the ton’s favorite artist Benedict Bridgerton’s attention is quite easy to sway. As if it was not enough that Charlotte Harlowe’s hopes for a matrimony with him has been shut down quite brutally with Miss Y/N’s sudden raise to suitors’ demand, it certainly looks like Kitty Morris might have just gotten what she has been trying to get since the beginning of the season. The guests of the Phillips ball couldn’t help but notice how happy Miss Morris was during her dance with Mr. Bridgerton whose eyes kept searching the crowd. This writer can only assume that his dance partners, as pleasant as they were, were not very entertaining seeing that he left the ballroom quite early, and was seen returning home in the early hours of the morning.

The rest of it was about Daphne and Duke Hastings along with Mr. Phillips’ dance with Lady Anne at the said ball, and you tried your hardest to ignore the way your stomach sunk, that bitter taste climbing up your throat but when you raised your head to look at your aunt, your expression was completely blank.

“Good for Kitty Morris.”

“Clover.”

“What?” you asked as you gave her the paper back, then put your gloves on again. “I gather they’d make a good couple.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you said through your teeth as you dug the small shovel into the soil and accidentally hitting the big rock underneath. “I have better things to think about than Benedict Bridgerton’s many romantic dalliances.”

“It’s alright if you just told me if it bothers you,” she insisted. “It’s just me my dear, and I know you have a soft spot for him—”

“I do not have a soft spot for him auntie,” you cut her off. “I barely know him.”

“You do not have to know everything about him to have certain…feelings for him.”

“The only feeling I have for him is annoyance,” you said, now forgoing the shovel to dig your fingers into the soil, trying to pull out the rock but it didn’t budge. “And who he dances with does not bother me at all.”

“Why didn’t you go to the ball?”

You stopped trying to pull out the rock, huffing out a breath. You had planned to go to that ball at first, in fact, you had even picked your dress and such the day before, and then…

And then that dream had happened.

Even remembering what it was like was enough to send a fire over your face. You could still taste his kiss on your lips, both of you tangled in each other’s arms in your bed, his mouth swallowing your gasp as he—

You shook your head slightly to snap yourself out of your thoughts and bit inside your cheek.

“I told you,” you managed to say. “I had a stomachache.”

She tilted her head, giving you a knowing look.

“Nervousness?”

“…Lemonade,” you ended up saying. “Why would I be nervous?”

“Because you like his presence?”

“No, I—” You were cut off when you pulled out the stone so fast that it accidentally hit the wood of the small fence around the geraniums with a loud crack and you cleared your throat, then put the stone aside. “I barely notice his presence if I’m honest.”

“Oh is that right?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Whistledown is right for once, his attention seems to be easily swayed as all other artists. I couldn’t possibly like his presence if I tried.”

“Regardless,” she said. “You’re still coming to the poetry recital?”

You clicked your tongue. “Will he be there?”

“I think so,” she said. “But it shouldn’t bother you at all. After all, you barely notice his presence, do you not?”

You paused only for a moment before you took a deep breath and smiled.

“Precisely,” you said. “Should be easy enough.”

“Y/N!” Teddy’s voice echoed through the garden and he ran up to you. “A really pretty lady came to visit you!”

You pulled your brows together and took off the gloves again. “What?”

Teddy pointed at the house and you turned your head to see Charlotte entering the garden. Your aunt was as surprised as you were but she managed to cover that much faster than you did.

“Miss Harlowe!” she said, “What a lovely surprise!”

“Lady Thorne,” Charlotte said with a quick curtsy. “Hello Y/N!”

“Hello?”

“Teddy dear, come with me, let’s go back to the house,” your aunt said as he took his hand and Teddy stole a look at Charlotte before looking up at your aunt.

“She’s so pretty auntie,” he said with a very loud whisper, making you smile and Charlotte pressed a hand over her chest.

“Aw you’re the sweetest, Teddy!” she said and Teddy bowed in an exaggerated manner, no doubt mimicking older lords he had seen before and took your aunt’s hand before going back to the house with him.

“Your brother is adorable,” Charlotte said as she sat beside you on the ground. “Are these geraniums? I love geraniums!”

You blinked a couple of times. “Lottie, what are you doing here?”

“I came to spend time with you of course,” she said. “I was thinking perhaps after this, we could go to the bookshop? I’d like to get familiar with the poetry that will be read this evening beforehand.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Well I don’t like it when they read it and I hear it for the first time,” she said. “That’s also why I always read the ending of the novels first before starting on them, I like knowing what happens beforehand.”

“Lottie—”

“Anyway, I know it’s not the same with poetry but it’s still nice to know the themes. I heard the theme will be longing, that should be interesting! I don’t really understand why people do that though, it cannot be that difficult to talk of one’s feelings, especially if you’re in love.”

“Lottie, did we make plans before and I forgot?” you asked and she shrugged her shoulders.

“No,” she said. “I just did not have anything to do today, so I figured we could spend some time together.”

“Because…?”

“Because we’re friends!” she said as if that was all the explanation you needed, but that explanation just made you even more confused. Her smile widened at the surprised look on your face and she clapped her hands together.

“So,” she said. “Tell me more about geraniums and after we’re done here, I’ll tell you about my favorite poems.”

You thought for a second, then shook your head slightly and pulled the gardening gloves off your hands.

“Alright then,” you muttered, trying to repress a smile. “Why not?”

Spending time with Lottie was genuinely entertaining. It was as if she was raised in a perfect world where everyone was happy and had no problems other than picking what book to read next. After your visit to the bookshop, you had gotten back home, written your sister a letter talking about Lottie and put it on the small desk to make sure it would be sent tomorrow, then started getting ready for the evening.

You were going to attend a poetry reading on longing and if this was not a sign that the universe had decided to give you a hard time personally, you didn’t know what it was.

“At least the garden is pretty,” you commented to your aunt as you both walked through it to approach the big house and your aunt looked around.

“Oh it really is,” she commented. “Not prettier than yours though.”

“You’re such a master at lying auntie, has anyone ever told you that?” you joked as you linked your arm with hers and she let out a laugh.

“I only say what I see,” she said. “For example, now I see Lord Shaw making his way to us with a hopeful look on his face.”

You repressed a groan and came to a slow stop with your aunt as Lord Shaw more or less threw himself your way.

“Lady Thorne,” he greeted your aunt. “Miss Y/N.”

“Lord Shaw.”

“You look so beautiful my lady.”

You tried not to roll your eyes. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t aware you liked poetry.”

“I do not,” you said and your aunt discreetly poked you on the ribs, making you clear your throat. “I mean…I have yet to find one that is appealing to me, so my search continues.”

“Perhaps tonight your search will be over and you will be taken by one of the poems.”

“I doubt it,” you muttered and he tilted his head.

“Pardon?”

“I hope I will,” you answered him and turned your head when you heard your name being called, your eyes falling on Daphne who was waving at you.

“Oh my goodness, I see my dear friend over there,” you said. “I hope you enjoy the evening Lord Shaw. Auntie.”

Your aunt repressed a smile and shook her head slightly but didn’t comment on it as you walked away from them to approach Daphne

“I swear to God the next man who tries to make small talk with me…” you grumbled and she let out a laugh.

“I could tell,” she said. “You looked truly tormented.”

“I am tormented.”

“Because you have suitors?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I can only be so intimidating when I’m in front of my aunt. Have you seen Charlotte?”

“She’s not here yet,” she said. “I heard some of them were intimidated by the way.”

“Not enough of them,” you said. “How about you? Where’s your favorite suitor?”

“The Duke will not attend as I’ve been told by Lady Danbury,” she said. “Which means I will be approached by less….favored suitors as soon as I’m alone.”

“You could be mean to them?”

“The same way you could be nice to them?” Daphne asked with a grin, then held her breath as if a thought struck her, her eyes stopping somewhere over your shoulder for a moment. “Y/N, I would like to make a deal with you for tonight.”

You pulled your brows. “What is it?”

“I shall be mean to the first person who talks to me, and you shall be nice to the first person who talks to you.”

“I’m unable to be nice Daph.”

“As nice as you can be,” she insisted and you rolled your eyes, heaving a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” you grumbled, “I guess I will be nice to the first man who starts a conversation—”

“Miss Y/N,” Benedict’s voice cut through your sentence as he entered your sight, almost out of breath. “Hello.”

You frowned, looking around. “…Did you just materialize out of thin air?”

“How are you?”

“No I swear to God you weren’t anywhere near here a moment ago—”

“This is a conversation that I’m starting,” he said as if he didn’t hear you and you threw your head back to look up at the sky, then turned to him.

“Of course it is,” you said and turned to Daphne. “I take it back, you can be mean.”

“I have no idea what you speak of,” she told you with a grin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go talk to mama until a suitor comes along that I can be mean to. That’s the deal after all.”

“You will pay for this Daphne.”

“I’m not intimidated at all,” she called back as she walked away from you and Benedict, and you crossed your arms, turning to look up at him, willing to push the memory of the dream to the back of your mind.

“What do you want?”

He tilted his head. “This is you being nice?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned. “Can’t you tell?”

Benedict shot you that playful smile of his and despite your better judgement, your heart skipped a beat.

“I thought you’d hate poetry.”

“I don’t know why you would think that,” you said as you grabbed a lemonade from the tray a maid was holding. “I happen to be a lover of poetry.”

A surprised look crossed his face. “Really?”

“No!” you grimaced. “Obviously not. I find it incredibly vexing when people talk about their feelings, what makes you think I’d read about them willingly?”

Benedict’s smile widened. “Right, of course.”

“You love it, I gather,” you said before you took a sip. “As artists do. I heard you’ve been getting quite the inspiration lately.”

He was smart enough to understand the double innuendo, no doubt thinking back to the last time you had snapped at him at the ballroom and he bit down a smile.

“I don’t know where you’ve heard it from Miss Y/N,” he said. “And I know better than to assume anything about you or how you feel—”

“That’s a welcomed surprise.”

“But a simple listener would think you’re jealous.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, your stomach doing a flip.

“Jealous?” you repeated with a scoff. “Of you being—being inspired?”

He shot you a mischievous smirk. “Seems that way, would you not say?”

“Not at all.”

“No?”

“No because I doubt the outcome would be worth much if inspiration is that easy to be at anyone’s service,” you pointed out, your voice like a silk and then let an innocent smile pull at your lips. “And that enthusiastic to sate their desire for…art.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was impressed as he raised his brows, letting out a breath of disbelief.

“Well played.”

“Why thank you,” you said as you sipped your lemonade again but both of you turned your heads as a giggle reached you. Kitty Morris stole a look at you before turning to talk to her friends and you repressed a laugh.

“That’s your cue,” you said and he tilted his head.

“What?”

“Your dance partner is giggling in your direction, what more of a sign do you need?”

“My dance partner?” he asked, then heaved a sigh as the thought hit him. “Lady Whistledown.”

“Mm hm. Off you go.”

“I’m not going,” he insisted. “If only you were there at the ball, you—”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Kitty’s voice reached you two as she approached you and you arched a brow. “And Miss Y/N. Good evening.”

“Miss Morris,” Benedict said and a smile lit up her face.

“I was just telling my friend how excited I am for tonight’s poems,” she said. “I’m such an admirer of every aspect of art you see.”

“With no inspiration, apparently,” you muttered under your breath and Benedict managed to stop the small chuckle threatening to leave his lips by clearing his throat.

“That’s lovely to hear Miss Morris.”

“And what is your favorite poem that will be read tonight?”

You could feel the fire of the anger bubbling at the pit of your stomach as Kitty shot him a glance from under her lashes and you clicked your tongue.

“I’d better leave the poetry admirers such as you to your conversation,” you said and Benedict shook his head fervently.

“No we’re just—”

“No it’s alright,” you said. “Enjoy your evening Mr. Bridgerton. Miss Morris.”

She shot you a forced smile before turning to Benedict who looked genuinely disappointed that you were leaving but you refused to let it make you linger there any longer. You turned around and made your way to your aunt, still trying to repress that unfamiliar anger threatening to take over you.

But for some reason, trying to repress that did not work.

You had zero idea what the poems were really about or what their overall themes were; apparently tonight had to test your patience since Kitty had sat right behind you with her sisters. They hadn’t stopped whispering for the last hour and it was only when the person at the front row asked a question about a line that their whispering became clear enough for you to hear.

“Mark my words, he will ask me for a dance at the next ball as well.”

“Perhaps you are his muse!”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if I was. He is very fond of talking with me as you can see.”

“Oh Kitty!”

“Perhaps he will propose to you by the end of the season!”

You could taste the bitterness climbing up your throat and you gritted your teeth, pressing a hand over your bodice before reaching out to touch your aunt’s hand.

“Y/N?”

“I will go to the washroom and be back,” you whispered and walked out of the room, but instead of going down the hallway, you descended the stairs and stepped out of the house. The cool fresh air was a great remedy to the bitter fire in your chest so you took a deep breath, then stood on your tiptoes to get a better look at the garden. The flowers were as expected from any rich house, rows and rows of roses and tulips and looked around to see whether there was anything different, but it was a bit hard in the moonlight. You approached the flower beds, inspecting the roses closer but you turned around when someone cleared their throat, your heart climbing up to your throat as soon as you saw Benedict.

“What are you doing here?”

Benedict put his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “This is the one night you will be nice to me, I’m not wasting it sitting in a room where I can’t even talk to you.”

You repressed a smile and crossed your arms.

“And you decided to risk my reputation?”

“No one will be leaving that room for a while, they just started on Byron.”

“Of course they did,” you muttered and turned to the flowers. “Whose house is this again?”

“Lord and Lady Lowell.”

“Who told them to spare the whole garden to tulips and roses and nothing more?”

“It’s not just tulips and roses.”

You motioned around. “Do you see anything else?”

Benedict tilted his head, giving you a mischievous grin. “I’m guessing that means you haven’t seen the greenhouse yet?”

Your head shot up. “There’s a greenhouse?”

“Mm hm,” he said. “There’s mostly fruit and vegetables and some herbs though. Do you want to see it?”

“It’s probably locked.”

“They don’t keep it locked.”

You raised your brows. “And you know that how?”

He looked a bit taken aback and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh…I—I heard it from…someone.”

You scoffed. “Oh I’m sure,” you said. “You remember that I carry a knife, right?”

“Trust me, that knowledge refuses to leave my mind.”

“Even if I go there with you, the moment you think you can try something I would not hesitate to cut you.”

He held up his hands. “I swear on my honor,” he said. “I just…haven’t seen you for a while, that’s all. I was hoping we could talk, I do not expect or ask for anything more.”

“What makes you think I want to talk to you?”

“You haven’t walked away from me yet.”

You pulled your brows together and rolled your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with a dramatic sigh. “Lead the way.”

The greenhouse was on the other side of the garden, away from anyone else’s gaze. Benedict opened the door and stepped aside so that you could slip into the greenhouse before him and your eyes searched the place, and you tilted your head.

It looked more like a food garden than a greenhouse.

This was what you didn’t understand about the people owning greenhouses. They didn’t appreciate it, if one day in the future you had a greenhouse, you were going to fill it with all kinds of rare plants and flowers rather than growing only vegetables and fruits.

“You were not jesting,” you muttered as you walked in the greenhouse slowly and he leaned back to the glass wall.

“No flowers though.”

“No,” you said as you approached to look at the tiny strawberries, then ripped one out to toss it at Benedict. He caught it mid-air and shot you an exaggerated look of shock.

“Scandal, Miss Y/N,” he said. “Where are your manners?”

You shrugged your shoulders and popped a strawberry into your mouth.

“Do you honestly think Lady Lowell steps a foot here?” you asked. “Most probably her gardener does, and something tells me he would not mind. Besides, I thought you wanted me to be nice to you.”

“It does make a lovely change now that you mention it,” he commented as he sat back on one of the narrow wooden counters, keeping his gaze on you while you made your way around the greenhouse. “Why did you leave me with Kitty Morris of all people?”

You looked at him over your shoulder before taking a look at the hibiscus flower in front of you.

For tea, probably.

“I merely assumed you two had much to talk about.”

“Y/N.”

“She likes poetry too,” you said, trying to repress the smile threatening to pull at your lips as you approached the rosemary plant in the pot. “And art.”

“Can you be nice to a person for only half a minute? I will not judge, I just wish to know.”

“I am being nice to you, I haven’t even insulted you yet,” you played along before you turned to glare at him. “That being said, if you ever told about this to anyone—”

He grinned. “No worries. The rest of the ton shall remain intimidated by you. It does not leave here.”

“Good,” you commented and ran your palm over the rosemary, then went to the next potted plant to take a closer look at it.

Mint. It was mint.

“Well this brings back memories,” you muttered as you ripped a leaf to chew on it and Benedict hummed.

“How come?”

“Me and my sister used to play this game…” you trailed off before you stopped yourself. “Never mind, it’s foolish.”

“No I want to know,” he said. “What game?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “There wasn’t much of entertainment back in the countryside so us and some of her friends, we would go to a garden, and we would ask each other questions and point at a plant or whatever was there. You had to either answer the question truthfully or eat whatever the others pointed at.”

Benedict clapped his hands together and pushed himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders back as if he was getting ready for some sort of a sport.

“Let’s do it then.”

You blinked a couple of times. “What?”

“Come on. Unless of course you’d rather go back to that room to hear more about Byron’s feelings when he wrote She Walks in Beauty.”

You arched a brow. “Is that bitterness I hear?”

“I do not like his lines,” he said curtly. “Let’s play.”

“You cannot beat me at that game.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” he said. “Will you ask first or shall I?”

You heaved a deep sigh and walked among the counters, then ripped a tiny tomato and tossed it his way. He caught it and shrugged his shoulders.

“If I didn’t know you, I’d think you’re going easy on me.”

“It’s just the start,” you said. “Will you propose to Kitty Morris by the end of the season?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head fervently.

“What?” he asked. “No! Who told you that?”

“She hopes for it,” you said with a small grin and he scoffed.

“No thank you. I would never,” he tossed you back the tomato. “My turn. Why did you not come to the last ball?”

You wiped the tomato with the skirts of your dress and popped it into your mouth, shooting him a smile.

“Fair enough,” he commented and you looked around, then grabbed the small green pepper off the plant and threw it for him to catch.

“What did you do after you left the ballroom until the morning?”

He held up the pepper as if toasting you and popped it into his mouth, then started coughing.

“Jesus Christ…” he said as he swallowed it and hit his chest with his fist, grimacing. “My compliments to Lady Lowell’s gardener, this is extremely hot.”

“That one is going to be even worse,” you nodded at the red pepper and he heaved a sigh.

“Of course it will,” he muttered and ripped an asparagus before tossing it your way. “Are you still angry at me because I was late to the ball that one time?”

You bit off the asparagus and chewed on it, making him frown.

“Jesus, is there anything you don’t eat?”

“Told you that you couldn’t beat me at this,” you said. “Josie once made me eat a whole radish with the soil and everything on it on a dare, this is nothing.”

“Josie?”

“My sister,” you said. “Josephine. My turn.”

You reached out for the tiny red pepper this time, making him let out a groan that somehow made a spark of lightning shoot through you but you bit inside your cheek and tossed it at him.

“Here.”

“Please ask me something I can actually answer.”

You raised your brows. “Is there really nothing between you and Lottie or are you two just keeping it a secret?”

“There’s nothing going on between me and her,” he said, his voice completely clear as he shook his head in a determined manner. “We have never seen each other that way, nor will we ever. Charlie is one of the best people I’ve ever known in my life and whoever she marries will be the luckiest man in the world.”

“But not you?”

“Not me,” he said. “She’d tell you the same if you asked her. It’s just… we’re friends.”

You hummed and shrugged your shoulders.

“Very well,” you said. “Your turn.”

He looked around, then walked to rip a stem of grapes, causing you to scrunch up your face.

“Pick something else.”

His jaw dropped before he shot you a smug smile and tossed the stem your way.

“Not a chance, I pick this one.”

“Come on,” you whined as you turned the grapes in your hand. “I hate grapes, and these aren’t even ripe!”

“You know everything you say convinces me not to pick anything else, right?”

“I hate you so much.”

“Mm hm.”

“Fine,” you murmured, still glaring at the grapes in your hand before raising your glances to meet his eyes. “Go on. Ask me something.”

“What of your many suitors?”

“They’re annoying,” you said with a grimace, “What of them?”

“There’s no one among them that you…?”

“What?”

“That you like?” he asked. “Lord Shaw seems quite persistent.”

“Oh I would never marry Lord Shaw,” you brushed him off. “He’s too young.”

“He’s in his early thirties,” he reminded you. “He’s older than you.”

“Not enough,” you pointed out. “I have a clear idea of what I require in matrimony. My husband will be much older, in his fifties or sixties, and a widow if possible.”

He scoffed a laugh. “You’re supposed to answer truthfully.”

“I am answering truthfully,” you said and Benedict’s eyes flickered across your face as if trying to find a tell that you were dishonest.

“…Why?”

“Many reasons,” you said. “I don’t want to wait for years and years for him to die to gain my freedom, I’d like it to be fast. I do not even have to like him, I just need him to die fast.”

His jaw was slightly slack as he gawked at you. “You’re jesting.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re willing to marry someone you don’t even like to…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Do you even know what happens when you get married?”

“Do you?” you asked back. “Just because we’re talking about different aspects of marriage does not invalidate either one of them.”

“So you’re willing to go through that with someone who you don’t even like just because he might die faster?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this Benedict, but the majority of wives in the ton go through that with their husbands whom they don’t like,” you pointed out bluntly, the back of your eyes stinging before you blinked back the tears, surprised at yourself but thankfully managing to remain completely calm. “And it happens again and again, and I refuse to be subjected to that any longer than I must.”

His jaw clenched upon hearing the unpleasant truth and he swallowed thickly.

“Y/N it doesn’t have to be like that—”

“I can assure you it is not going to be so sad for me,” you cut him off. “When my future husband dies, I’ll have…” you trailed off. “I’ll have…”

“Solitude.”

“Solitude is not the threat you think it is for me,” you stated. “The way I see it, marriage is debtor’s prison. I will spend some time waiting for it to be over until I’m free, that’s all. Until I’ve paid the price I’m expected to pay.”

“And love?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Don’t you find it ironic that only artists have the luxury of looking for love, or believing in it for that matter?”

“Don’t give me that,” he said as if he was too impatient to argue with you on that. “What of your heart?”

“I told you,” you forced yourself to say as you shot him a bitter smile. “I don’t have one.”

“What of your desires?” he asked and with the worst timing possible, your dream from the night before flashed before your eyes, with him kissing you, and touching you, and—

“I don’t have those either,” you managed to lie through your teeth as you played with the grapes in your hand, wiping at the dust over them and he took a step towards you.

“That cannot be your plan for your future,” he insisted, breathing fast as if you were going to run away at any moment. “What if he doesn’t die fast? A lot of old people live long lives.”

“It’s the safest bet,” you pointed out. “It would still prove to be useful.”

“How?”

“Old husbands move slower,” you said as you rubbed at your wrist and shrugged your shoulders again. “I will have to be faster than him for when he tries to hit me.”

A stunned silence fell upon the greenhouse and you lifted your glances from your wrist to find him completely frozen in shock in his place.

“What?” you asked and he frowned as if the mere idea was so unthinkable that it confused him.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

You tossed a grape in the air and caught it again. “I will have to be faster than him for when he tries to—”

“No one will hit you.”

“Precisely,” you said. “I’m making sure of it. We’re talking about the same thing here, honestly.”

“No, even if…” he trailed off and for the first time since you had met, a darkness crossed his eyes, something dangerous, something that was more than enough to raise goosebumps on your arms even if you somehow knew that it was not directed at you. “If somebody so much as touches a hair on your head, I—”

“Wouldn’t be able to do a thing,” you finished his sentence for him. “No one would, you know how it goes. Once I’m married it’s over, there’s no one that can stop anything. Not my family, not the law, not the ton. So I’m going to protect myself because if I don’t do it, no one else will.”

He looked at a loss for words as he stared at you and you threw the grape stem aside as if your heart didn’t feel like it weighed a ton, then cleared your throat.

“I won by the way,” you told him, wiping your hands on your skirts. “I’m going back to the house before my aunt sends Queen’s guards after me.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh cheer up, will you?” you forced your voice to come out completely nonchalant as you opened the glass door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sure you will find love. Shouldn’t be that hard if you believe in that nonsense.”

You walked out of the greenhouse without so much as a glance back, leaving him there frozen. You took a deep breath, gritting your teeth and rubbed at your arms, the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the weather rushing through you.

“Pull yourself together,” you muttered to yourself and made your way back to the house, digging your fingernails into your palms in an attempt to focus on anything but the tears burning your eyes.

Chapter 7

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #regency fic

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