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fayes-fics · 1 year

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Target Practice [Drabble]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict teaches his wife how to handle a rifle...

Warnings: Mostly fluff, a couple of suggestive moments, and one explicit line of dialogue. Married couple teasing each other.

Word Count: 0.7k

Author's Note: This is a request fill from DM chat with a lovely mutual who wishes to remain anonymous. They wanted to see a similar teaching scene to the infamous Kanthony gun moment... but with Benedict and his wife. Sorry it's taken so long to write this and that it's so short, but I hope you still enjoy <3 This is set in the Innocence universe.

“Concentrate,” he murmurs, each syllable elongated, the tone teasing and resonant.

You purse your lips and shoot him a sideways glance, feeling his heated breath dusting your cheekbone.

“Maybe it would be easier if you weren’t crowding me out, husband,” you point out with more than a hint of snark.

Benedict lets out a quiet chuckle.

“I’m merely trying to provide ample instruction, my love,” his voice tinged with amusement as a gust of wind makes the trees surrounding you rustle slightly, whipping the points of his cravat up to tickle your neck.

You hum, sceptical of that assessment. He seems to be doing his darndest to distract you as much as assist you.

“Here, hold it… like this,” his arm snakes around your back and his long, warm, agile fingers curl around yours on the barrel of the rifle.

“You are just doing this in sport now, aren’t you?” you pout.

“Not in the slightest,” he lilts, “you just have to be the very best at everything, don’t you? So here we are.”

You almost hate how accurately he can sum you up with such an economy of words.

“Now look down the barrel of the gun along the aim line; line up your target with that v-shaped notch and fire at will,” he tutors softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You take a calming breath and line up your aim with the empty wine bottle he has placed on the old stone ruin in the forest, some distance away.

He is silent as you cock the trigger, but just as your trigger finger moves to fire, he leans right in and rumbles right in your ear.

“I love seeing you handle my weapon.”

The gun fires loudly and ricochets you backwards.

And… you miss—by a country mile.

Your whole body instinctively reacting to that bedroom voice he can affect whenever he wants to rile you.

“Not fair!” you huff loud and indignant. “I call shenanigans! I demand a redo!”

“All is fair in love and war, my darling,” he chuckles, already turned away to load and prepare his gun for the same shot.

“That was not done out of love,” you counter, brushing a stray hair from your face, “but it was a declaration of war, Mr Bridgerton.”

He guffaws louder. “Do your worst, my darling. I was a crack shot at Eton, and I'm still not bad now,” he simpers, the confidence oozing from him both attractive and galling.

He really needs to be taken down a peg or two.

To be fair, he looks an innate natural with his rifle as he checks the barrel and lines up for his shot, his hold one of practised ease and years of tutelage. You’re almost annoyed at how good he looks, just how damn attractive he looks—his tan britches and blue overcoat straining in all the right places over his muscular outline. Damn him.

“Now darling, once I’m done tutoring you, maybe you will be this good,” he states airily, shooting you a crooked, sideways grin without taking his eyes off the target.

So you deploy the one weapon you have in your arsenal that obliterates him—every time.

Just as you see his trigger finger squeeze, you lean in and slide a hand heavily over the front of his trousers.

“I am so wet for you right now….” you exhale, biting his earlobe, breathing hot and heavy into his ear.

The gun fires…. And he has missed by a mile too.

He swings his head to look at you, mouth hanging open in disbelief as you simply tilt your head and raise your eyebrow.

“What? You did it to me,” you shrug.

“You brazen little minx,” he growls, and its equal parts impressed and annoyed.

“Husband, you told me, on our wedding night, if I recall, if I were ever in such a circumstance that I should tell you right away,” you continue in that smug tone. “I am merely abiding by your ‘ample instruction’,” you volley, echoing his own words right back at him as it's his turn to quirk an eyebrow.

You squeal as he tackles you to the ground. And there is no more shooting for a while… at least not with rifles.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader

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dckweed · 9 days

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TORMENTED TRAGEDY, benedict bridgerton

summary: in which ruth archibald participated in her first social season in two years, re-introduced to high society after a years long retreat to a rest home after having had a horrid break down during her first season. she expects the whispers and sideways glances, the purely evident lack of suitors (what man wants a crazy wife?), however she doesn’t expect to find companionship in that of Benedict Bridgerton, and least if all the affect she so unknowingly craved.

warnings: brief mentions of abuse & attempted suicide. depression is going to be a heavy theme throughout the series so if you're uncomfortable, please do not read any further. cold and uncaring maternal figure, crazy twin brother who helps his sister be happy by sneaking off with her favorite bridgerton brother, loving father figure, its brigerton so ofc she's gonna be featured in whistledown and most likely bullied by the ton...eventual smut

series masterlist here. if you would like to be tagged in future parts, please comment on the separate taglist post!

i. seasons greetings

The sun rose over the blackened iron gates of the Archibald family’s city home, a grand structure (much too large for their family of five) situated on it’s own city block merely four streets over from the royal palace, and with it, Ruth Archibald woke to the sights of here own bedroom for the first time in two years.

The walls were still the peachy pink color of her girlhood, her room still decorated with that of the last things she’d touched, a book on the table next to her bed, her hairbrush and jewelry and in the corner, that god forsaken baby blue dress..She stared at the ceiling, unmoving from her bed despite the early morning light filtering in from behind the drapes. She felt like a stranger to herself in these four walls..Ruth had left a crumbling mess of a distraught girl, and had come home an entirely different person.

Two years in a glorified mental facility could do that to a person, though deep down, she had always quite felt like this, like she was just going through the motions and painting a bright smile on her face while doing what was expected of her, and there was always so much expected of her.

The Marquess and Marchioness were of one of the highest rankings, The Marquess, Lord Archibald serving as advisor to King George and Queen Charlotte. His children were expected to be intelligent and beautiful, sociable. They were expected to be prim and proper, to be knowledgeable in politics as well as being proper hostesses, fine horsemen and cordially impeccable. They were expected to be the most popular of the Ton’s high society, the most desirable for courtships and the perfect marriage for even someone as high ranking as a prince.

All of which, Ruth had been. Perfectly perfect in every aspect..though it seemed never perfect enough for her mother.

Marchioness Archibald was not an easy woman to please, the three of her children had learned that together, growing up competing for the womans cold affections their entire lives. It seemed that Ruth had finally won them two years ago when she had landed herself the fancy of a soon to be Duke, someone she had known her entire life..The boy was handsome, her mother had said, his father worked closely with the king and queen, he had troves of money..they would make a fine match, she had said.

Ruth couldn’t do it.

The soon to be Duke was not a kind nor caring man, something that Ruth had known growing up. Her brother had protested (having gone to eton and oxford with the man), her father had seemed angered by the arrangement that had happened behind his back. Ruth had tried to tell him no, but her other had already betrothed them, making the plans with his father,.the family would be receiving an ungodly amount in the form of her dowry.

Ruth tried.

She smiled politely, she wore her most flattering dresses, she spoke kindly and intelligently. She did everything she had been taught to, Cecil seemed to have responded well, though he spoke hardly in a cold tone not unlike her mothers. Her mother, though, had seemed quite pleased with her for once and Ruth basked in it, feeling the warm tickles of her conditional love.

The girl had managed to keep up with it, her upcoming nuptials the talk of the ton. She kept up the smile, the ruse of love drunk bliss, had done all that was expected of her by society, and most importantly, her mother. She thrived under the pressure, until she couldn’t.

It had happened on the eve of their wedding, the two families had been rehearsing how the next day was supposed to go, where each person would stand at the ceremony, what the couple would say as their vows..

Ruth couldn’t quite meet Cecil’s eyes as she repeated the vows after the priest. Something about the man she was set to marry the next afternoon seemed extra foreboding, his entire body looked rigid, tense, and his voice was cold and empty when he spoke his words. Short and to the point, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Honestly, Ruth couldn’t blame him, she herself would rather have been anywhere besides there.

The rehearsal came and went easily enough, and the entire party went back to the Archibald manor, where the grooms family was joining the Archibalds for a friendly, but formal supper.

Ruth had taken to her room nearly immediately, having politely mingled with her mother and father in law to be for a few minutes before feigning exhaustion and retiring herself upstairs, where se paced tirelessly, attempting to calm her nerves as she thought about the wedding, how in mere hours she would belong no longer to her own self but to a man that she had been afraid of when they were younger.

It had terrified her how unhappy she already was.

Ruth knew not how long she paced for, but a soft knock at her door brings her out of her reverie. At her approval the door opens and her lady’s maid Esther appears.

“Yes, Esther?” Ruth asks, feigning a smile as she looks her young maid in the face. The girl was a shy thing, her face flushing at being put on the spot by her mistress. Ruth envied her something awful.

“Your betrothed has asked me to come fetch you, Miss..your families are sitting down for supper and noticed your absence.” The girl can’t even meet her eyes, staring down at Ruth’s bare feet poking from under her skirts. “He seemed most irritated, Miss..”

Ruth sniffs, turning towards her window. “Kindly inform my betrothed and his family that I will not be joining them for supper, I am unwell. I bid them good evening..” She says, voice stiff. “And then please help me prepare for bed..” There was noway she was going to get the stays of her dress or untie her corset without help..her mother had been insisting on her wearing them as tightly as possible the past few weeks.

Esther rushes out, leaving Ruth alone to her thoughts once more. The girl, resumes her pacing, mind reeling about her impending nuptial. She so desperately did not wish to marry this man, but she saw no way out without facing her mothers wrath or ruining their family reputation, unless her father put his foot down of course..

An idea formulated as she paced, her mind working on what to say to her father that would make him give final say on the matter. The Marquess had always been soft on his daughters, so really, she knew it would be easy.

A short moment later a sharp knock sounds on her door, thinking it her maid she’s quick to allow entry, not even bothering to glance. “I should like a hot bath prepared, Esther” Ruth says, opening her wardrobe to find herself a nightgown.

“Well, i’ll be sure to let her know on my way out.” His vold voice sent her body rigid, a chill creeping along her spine. Ruth turns slowly to face him, offering a soft smile. His face was blank, eyes dark and empty. Slowly he walks towards her, as if stalking prey, until he comes to a stop merely inches from her. “Your young maid said you were unwell and had taken to bed, i thought i would do the husbandly thing and coem check on my bride to be..” His lips purse as he stares down at her, his hand raising to caress her cheek. Ruth felt no emotion behind what should have been a loving touch, and instead her nervousness increased. “Though it seems to be unnecessary, you appear quite well.”

Ruth wondered where Esther was, they weren’t yet married and she knew they still require a chaperone. “My apologies, your grace,” She says, hoping the smile she wore would help her matter. “I am feeling unwell, nervous about tomorrow I suppose..I was hoping to prepare for bed early so I could be well rested.”

Cecil purses his lips, removing his hand from her face. A feeling of relief flow through Ruth, though it is only for a moment as her cheek is met with an open handed blow, skin stinging as her head is flung to the side. The metallic taste of blood hits her tongue as tears fill her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Ruth looks to the man that she was meant to wed, eyes widened in fear as she presses a delicate hand to her smarting cheek. “I do not tolerate liars, darling. “ His voice is cool, uncaring that he had just struck his bride as if she were a man. “I will tell our families that you are unwell and wsh to not be bothered.” He caresses her cheek once more, almost affectionately this time, before turning on his heel and marching out.

A sob wracked her body as the door slammed shut, crumpling to the floor in front of her wardrobe. Esther had nearly fainted at the sight of her, but had stood by her mistress through the night as she lay in bed weeping. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning when Esther had gone to fetch something for the girls aching head that she had done it. Ruth wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to take the ornate silver letter opener to her arm, but she had done it. Panicked by the sight of her own blood, the girl had collapsed to the ground, a heap of sobs.

Her mother had shipped her off to the rest home quicker than she could eat breakfast. Hadn’t come to visit her but one time within two years, to tell her with contempt that it was time to come home and marry. That was how she wound up back here, with these memories plaguing her..

A sharp knock at her door moves her mind from the past and into the present as the heavy door swings open, a tuft of graying hair peaking around the edge.

“Papa?” Ruth asks, sitting up in her bed, worried that something may be wrong. The man sighs and steps into the room, he had not entered it since the morning of the almost tragedy.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright, my dear..” The older man speaks, placing a warm and loving hand to his daughters cheek as he takes a seat at the edge of her bed, near her pillows. “I know that your Mama didn’t give you much choice in coming home, I begged her to at least move your room, or for god sake get the damn dress out of here..” His jaw ticked as he stared at the scrap of fabric as if he had wished to burn it on the spot.

Ruth places a hand on her fathers arm, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be okay, Papa..” Her voice was soft as she spoke, as was the smile that her fathers face bore. “I’m sorry to make you worry, but I promise, it won’t happen again..”

A large hand covers her own along with a squeeze as he looks down at the smaller form of his youngest child, eyes watery. “I know my daring, I won’t allow it.” Another squeeze, an unspoken promise to do better. To protect her better. “What have you got there?”

And thus began a quiet morning of reading the novel Sense and Sensibility to her father, a fond memory of him reading to her in her youth crossing her mind. When she finally heads down for breakfast with her family, she notices her Mother and older Sister reading little leaflets, the words ‘Seasons Greetings’ emblazoned across the heading.

“Mama, when may i see the dress for tonights ball?” She asks, sitting down across from her twin brother, who tosses a melon ball in her direction as she’s being served. She rolls her eyes, returning the warm smile he offers her. She had missed her twin brother something awful. He had been her best friend growing up, always getting up to no good with each other.

Maybe being home isn’t such a bad thing, she thought.

taglist: @cherrylovers-world @little-boats-on-a-lake @imgondeletedis

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton romance #luke newton #bridgerton

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aloysiavirgata · 7 months

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Scully comes out to Mulder as bisexual he responds by also coming out as bisexual

They’re kicked back in Adirondacks by the fire circle, the logs popping and sparking when the flames lick dried sap. The air is just crisp enough to make the heat cozy. Scully brought home cider donuts from the farm stand along her commute, which they wash down with a pitcher of sangria. A cinnamon-sugar crust coats her lips.

It’s been two minutes since he asked her and she hasn’t answered.

“So?” he prods, nudging her foot with his. “It’s been long enough all the sin’s gone out of it, Dana Katherine. Fess up, did you experiment some in college? I’ll absolve you if you did.”

He puts the lewdest possible edge on “experiment” so that she can’t in good faith make a quip about organic chemistry or the effects of acetylcholine on Rana pipiens.

Scully flops her head back against the heavy wooden chair; who cares at this point? The meanest nuns are dead. “Yeah,” she says. “I did.”

She turns to him for a reaction

His eyebrows are up, but he looks genuinely interested rather than smirking. “Oh? Do tell.”

She stares up at the rising column of smoke, tracks it to Polaris. Tracks it decades back. “This girl, Elizabeth. Roommate’s boyfriend’s sister. We…um. We all went out to a bar one night while she was visiting.”

Scully leans into the memory. Calgon and ski sweaters and Aqua Net. Layered bangs, Jordache jeans. Liz’s rum and Coke.

Liz’s hazel eyes, Liz’s blue mascara.

“Anyway. We all had a lot to drink and Claire - that was my roommate - Claire and Elizabeth’s brother were making out in his Cutlass Ciera.”

Liz’s mouth like a taut August plum, the taste of her frosted Revlon lips…

“There was this couch in the back of the bar, some coffee tables, you know the feeling. Anyway, Liz pulled me over. We’d been dancing some, Fleetwood Mac I think, and she kissed me. I was shocked, good Catholic girl that I was. But I was three shots in, and it was college, you know? We settled on the couch, kind of drunk I guess….”

She swallows hard, looks at Mulder. “Is this weird? It seems kind of weird.”

He shakes his head, eyes bright in the flames. “Go on.”

“We were kissing, mostly. She touched my breasts through my shirt, slipped her hands down my jeans but not my underwear. It was pretty innocent, I don’t know. I didn’t see her again after that but it definitely changed my perspective some. I began noticing if I found a woman attractive. Got at least a bit more comfortable with the idea, anyway. Stopped telling myself I just liked her hair or her outfit.”

She hears his breathing thicken. Just a little, but it’s there.

“And never after?” he asks.

Scully wonders what else he isn’t asking her. Wonders what it must be like to be young now. She shakes her head, takes a pull of sangria. Chews a chunk of macerated pineapple.

“No,” she says. “I came close a couple of times, but no.”

She wishes she had a cigarette or a joint. Something to do with her hands and her mouth even after so many years. And even after so many years she doesn’t tell him about what she thought of Esther Nairn, about whether she wanted to kill Diana or be Diana or fuck Diana.

They watch the fire for a time. Hear it crackle, gaze into a vast and endless sky. There are old gods there, older than hers. She knows that now. She embraces it.

“What about you?” Scully asks. “All those posh Eton boys at Oxford, surely one struck your fancy.”

She doesn’t really expect anything of it, but she asks to make him confirm or deny. To deflect. It’s how she’s been trained. And she’s endlessly intrigued by his formative years, her well-bred, prep-school lover. They’d practically invented sodomy, hadn’t they?

Mulder makes a soft, throaty noise. Grabs a donut and takes a huge bite.

She turns to him. “Oh my god,” she says. “Did you sleep with Alex Krycek?” Where had THAT come from?

He coughs donut crumbs everywhere. “Scully!”

She clamps on to it. “Did you?”

His turn for the sangria now, blushing. Blushing! Fox Mulder, did you really? she thinks, oddly turned on.

Mulder clears his throat. “He kissed me, but no. He kissed me twice, actually. But no, I didn’t…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“Did you like it?” she asks, her voice sex and sandpaper. Arousing herself further, Jesus.

“Yes,” he says. Holds her stare. Runs his tongue over the lips she’s kissed so many times. That Alex Krycek and Diana Fowley had kissed. The sting is gone, only the fascination left.

All the sin’s gone out of it, he’d said. Yes, it had. Over fifty, of course it had.

“But it wasn’t your first time.” A little breathless, that.

“No.” Licks his lips again. “You guessed right, Agent Scullly, brava. This guy, at uni…we. We didn’t sleep together, but we’d. You know. Touch.”

Agent Scully.

The father of her child looks unimaginably shy. “Ourselves. Each other.”

She knows about Phoebe, all the details. She knows about the cemetery and the gothic drama and the kind of sex that feels like a revelation instead of a mind game.

He knows about Daniel. She sees the child she was then, has long since forgiven the silly girl.

But this is different and, in her mind, sweet. Two boys, lonely, away from home. She hopes they were comforted. Happy.

“Did you…keep up with him?”

Mulder shakes his head, mouth a little swollen in the primal orange glow. “It only lasted a term before he graduated. Never spoke after that. Phoebe, you know. Other women.”

“Alex.”

He grins at her. “You have to admit he was awfully pretty, especially for a complete piece of shit.”

Scully laughs. “That he was.”

She reaches for his fingers in the dark.

In the light.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #my fic #prompt #bisexual agents

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avocado-writing · 7 months

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Kinktober 14

14. Uniform, Suspension Bondage, Abduction/Kidnapping

It’s 2008 and your boys are about to go and try to halt the apocalypse by helping raise a baby. To you it all seems a bit convoluted, but you long since learned to stop asking questions about your lovers’ little projects.

Doesn’t mean you can’t have a bit of fun, though.

You tell your boys to come over to your house for dinner tonight. Dinner very rarely means just dinner (even though the promise of food is an easy lure for Aziraphale) so you’re not surprised when they say yes and hear the key go in the lock that night.

“Nightingale? Where are you?” Crowley calls, and you grin to yourself.

“In the dining room, love.”

Your lovers walk through and pause when they catch sight of the scene.

You’ve set up the dining table with two places. Candlelit. Got the fancy plates out. The good wine, the nice silverware.

And you’re wearing a maid’s uniform.

And it is a uniform, not just an ‘outfit’, from the amount you bloody paid for it. It hugs your every curve and leaves very little to the imagination with its frills and silk. The neckline is cut deep and shows far too much of your chest to be decent. You have a little collar tied with a bow around your neck to give the illusion of your being a present they’ll get to unwrap later.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, eyes hungry for more than just the duck pâté you’ve laid out.

“Hello, sirs. Please sit down. I’ve got the whole evening planned.”

Your lovers exchange a look, and then do as they’re bid. You make a show of taking their serviettes and placing them carefully across their laps, making sure to grab a decent handful of thigh as you go.

And so you play the scene.

You ate earlier, assuming you’d probably need the energy at some point later tonight. That means that you can take your time with it, too. Serve them slowly, course by course. Crowley doesn’t really eat but he’s so swept up with it that he finds himself clearing his plate every time there’s something placed in front of him. You pour their wine whenever they get to the bottom of their glass, simpering and giggling bashfully. At one point you make a show of knocking a spoon to the floor and reaching over to pick it up - revealing that not only are you not wearing underwear, but there’s a pretty little jewelled plug in your hole too.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale chokes, and you hear Crowley grip his wineglass so hard it shatters. When you turn around to check he’s miracled up the mess and is pretending nothing has happened.

Dessert is Eton Mess. It’s one of Aziraphale’s favourites. Well, that’s easy. All desserts are his favourite. But when they’ve finished their bowls and you turn to grab another bottle of merlot from your wine rack, you hear the sound of crockery being swept to the floor, and a hand closes around your wrist. With a gleeful giggle you’re pinned onto the bare dining table.

Your lovers stare down at you.

“Someone’s feeling particularly teasing tonight,” Aziraphale manages, his free hand reaching to undo his bowtie. You smile faux-bashfully.

“Just thought that it might be a while before I saw the two of you again. Wanted to make it special.”

“Oh,” Crowley laughs, huskily, fingers reaching under the skirts to stroke your plug and make you gasp, “I think you did that just perfectly.”

Turns out the real dessert was you.

@bootlmoth @elleofdragons @angelic-anarchy27 @yeethaw13 @candlewitch-cryptic @kwyn-q @rat-that-writes @buryustogether @letthenightingalessingagain @ltlthetrifecta @angiestopit @purplefrog1sblog @wereallbrokenangels @angelspathway @clarina04 @belilwen @chaospossum @eightsdoctor @oo-delallymrcrow @silcosmoke @climbingivy97 @live-logs-and-proper @project-sad @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @imagination-phantom @anonymously35 @corgis04 @peytonpenguin37 @catlynharper @unabashedgentlemenpirate @wolfe-houler @darktealrat @mxxny-lupin @willbedecided @detectiveapparatiagreen @shadowluna25 @kaylinelizabeth4004 @xquinn-bartonx @blue-bell22 @foolishprincipalitee @fandomawesomeness @eweweweewewe @latersgaters-steven @llamaproblem @night-affiliate @randompost18 @hunterispunk @jessica-laufeysdottir @uxcaran @bunnymallowo @jae-michael @jelly-terror @larkiesparkie

#fic: the light the dark and the spaces inbetween #avo's kt 23 #aziraphale x reader x crowley #crowley x reader x aziraphale

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chelseajackarmy · 11 days

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Erin Cuthbert goal at 40 minutes

Barcelona 0-1 Chelsea

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beansidhebumbling · 6 months

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Wait I have another one:

Ship of your choice but Person A accidentally seals the mate bond with Person B after doing body shots and sucking a lime out of their mouth. 🙂

The Chemistry of Regret

Okay I had to do college AU Rhysta for this. Hope you like!! This got out of control.

Also the first hands then voice structure is inspired by a line in the fabulous @bittermuire's The Cape which you can read here. Read it!!

Nesta knows of Rhysand Velaris long before she ever has the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance.

He haunts the Biochemistry department like a spectre.

His overly styled hair gleaming even in the faded newspaper clipping framed outside Professor Wysten's lab.

His black eyes sparkling in picture after picture on the college's socials. Medals and grants and awards the only weight that anchors the Prince of Oíchad College.

The golden boy of the hallowed halls, gone but not forgotten.

And Nesta, living the cruel life of a fresh PhD student grows to hate that curving smirk of a stranger, his sloping signature on the near-empty bottle of Trypan Blue that Wysten refuses to bin, his crisp embroidered lab coat that lies draped over a chair in the dry lab awaiting the return of its owner.

***

Imitator, the dye taunts each time she stains her cells watching blue seep into their crevices, a damning marker of death.

Imposter, the message Wysten imparts in every gushing compliment he in his absence is bestowed that she in her unfailing presence is never good enough to earn.

Lesser, a voice, that must be his, whispers in her ear as she lies awake and wonders if life should feel easier than this.

***

His return from his year in Paris is anticipated like a public holiday. Outfits planned between centrifuge spins, tables booked at his favourite club.

The days are counted down in blood red Xs on the calendar in the study room and when D-day arrives the entire department leaves in a flurry into the cool chill of a January night.

The building is empty, only she and security remains.

Nesta is eager to take advantage of the free slots on the flow cytometer, normally booked until the wee hours. As the sequins on her dress dance like stars and the machine whirs quietly in the background, she runs her cells and finds solace in solitude.

But her cells are soon studied, peace is temporary and then she's queuing on Court Street to enter the Night Palace.

She can feel the bass in her bones as she enters, the dim lighting making the whirling mass of bodies on the dance floor look like art.

***

She has a plan, stay for a drink, long enough to be seen by the tenured professors, long enough to look like she belongs, long enough that she'll be able to nod and smile at the lunch-time conversation.

Not so long that the loneliness erodes her from the inside out, corroding through tissue and bone.

That is the plan.

But then Gwyn, the pretty lab assistant has Sambuca and Emerie has rum and the strobe lights start looking closer to shooting stars.

With alcohol loosed limbs she remembers how much she likes to dance, how the pain of being seen has never stung when there is a rhythm to movement.

So between shots she moves until she gets lost in the art of writhing bodies.

***

She is on the dance floor, hair loose and glitter trailing from her eyes like tears when she meets him.

First, he is large veined hands tentatively touching her waist, awaiting further permission.

She is Nesta Archeron, made of Sambuca and starlight, so she grinds back onto the stranger, the tall stranger she amends as his body presses against her back.

Then he is voice, rich and smooth, as his lips touch her ear lobe, his clipped accent conjuring schooldays at Eton and summers on yachts.

'You're very beautiful.'

The words hit her like sleet in summer.

How...boring.

She is unimpressed and turns to tell him as such.

She is shocked when finally he is no longer solely hands nor voice but Rhysand Velaris in all his tangible glory.

'You!'

She shouts, struggling to be heard over the pounding music, attempting to create a cavern between them even as the crowd presses in from all sides.

'Me.'

His cocky smile turns into a grimace as he reads the disappointment in her expression.

She does not stay long enough to introduce herself.

Sobriety looms too close for that.

She disappears in the grinding groping bodies until his voice melds with the rising melody.

***

He finds her at the bar.

Of course he does. His ghost has been haunting her for the better part of a year why wouldn't his corporeal form do the same.

'Rhysand Velaris.'

His hand, previously branding its heat on the soft wide curve of her waist, is now outstretched and open.

She extends hers, grasping firmly.

'Nesta Archeron.'

Her smile is a tight thin mimicry of what it should be.

His strong brow raises and his eyes widen.

'You're Nesta Archeron, the new PhD?'

She dips her head ignoring the question, too focused now on arranging her cleavage to attract the bartender.

Rhysand's eyes stay fixed to her face, as she successfully obtains her Tequila shots.

'I've been looking forward to meeting my new lab buddy who has booked every afternoon slot in the wet lab for the next month.'

She feels a grin tug at her lips at his pointed tone.

'You snooze you lose, Velaris.'

And in an impulse she wished she could blame on the undrunk shots before her she snipes,

'If it's a problem get Daddy to build us a new lab.'

His laugh is unexpected and far too enchanting for a handsome face. Because he is handsome, Mother damn him.

'Would you like me then? Because I'm very motivated for you to like me Nesta Archeron.'

He caresses the syllables of her name, his teeth clicking on the t and lingering like he wants to hold the letters a beat too long.

'Why? Because I'm beautiful.'

She scoffs.

His posture stiffens.

'No. Because you're brilliant. From what I've read, from what I've heard.'

A pause.

'Of course, you being beautiful is a welcome addition. Not as beautiful as me though.'

A giggle escapes her because he is ridiculous. This is ridiculous. He isn't allowed to be charming, not when she has decided to hate him.

***

'Let's do shots.'

She gestures clumsily to the glasses almost knocking them in the process.

And because she's lost her mind, for that must be the only reason, she grasps his inner forearm licking the tanned skin, letting her tongue drag lightly along, following a vein towards his elbow, ignoring the electricity that sparks through her body as she does.

He is tense, eyes pools of darkness she could drown in, the leather and chocolate of his cologne muddling her brain.

She salts his arm pushing the slice of lime his way. He obediently inserts it into his mouth, moving like a man dazed, eyes transfixed on her lips.

Like a film reel she sees the next three years play in her head if she carries on with this insanity, awkwardness and avoidance abound.

So why is she compelled to continue this mistake?

***

You'll regret this.

Her brain screams as the Tequila slides a burning fire down her throat.

You'll regret this.

It pleads as she kisses the white crystals from soft skin of his arm, nipping slightly so he moans her name in a way she definitely cannot linger on.

You'll regret this.

It begs as their lips meet in a citrus clash that sets fireworks off behind her eyes. He breaks momentarily to spit out the wedge of lime before returning to capture her lips, kissing her like lonely women dream of, hot and expert and claiming.

***

When she opens her eyes to meet a panting Rhysand, those hands still clutching her like she might mean salvation from an unknown damnation, dark hair tousled from her fingers grasping and tugging mere seconds before.

When he touches his ribs before looking in awe at her, like she is more than her frame can contain.

When he says her name like a prayer, like a curse, and she feels the golden links tying them together in a way science can only vaguely explain, she finds their damnation.

And she knows.

She'll regret this.

#rhysta #nesta #rhysand #college au #acotar #gemwrites #so glad im not in the labs anymore

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littlefaefeather · 1 month

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Black Butler manga foods/drinks

I'm sure I missed some things, but it was all things that weren't really named or specified, or I couldn't tell with certainty what they were. @sebastian-ciel-mutual-bullying this is for you! feel free to take and use as you need o7 Book 1 breakfast: poached salmon and mint salad with toast, scones, and pain de campagne on the sides, ceylon tea horribly salty lemonade dinner: Japanese green tea, gyuutatakidon, Italian red wine, apricot and green tea mille-feuille dessert: orchard fruit cake with pears, plums, and blackberries dessert: deep-dish apple raisin pie milk

Book 2 assam tea afternoon tea: keemun and summer pudding of currants and other berries lunch: stuffed cabbage and minted potato salad chocolate earl grey afternoon tea: cornmeal cake of pears and blackberries salty rosehip herbal tea

Book 3 hot milk with honey or brandy peeled apple assam tea with milk oranges with shalimar tea steak and kidney pie and salmon sandwiches messy birthday cake and donburi strawberry-decorated birthday cake

Book 4 fish chai with ginger breakfast: shrimp curry and French toast with ginger mackerel with gooseberry sauce and cottage pie

Book 5 British-style Bengali chicken curry chicken curry afternoon snack: gateau au chocolat beef curry blue lobster with seven curries curry bun assam tea white darjeeling tea champagne sushi

Book 6 Christmas pudding cookies shaped like bones fish and chips, meat pies, bread

Book 7 rice porridge dinner: milk risotto with a three-mushroom medley, a pot-au-feu of pork and wine, and a warm apple compote with yogurt sauce

Book 8 oranges afternoon tea: chocolate macarons with fruits and three-berry shortcake

Book 9 custard cream puffs red wine white wine brunch: herring pie and spinach quiche dinner: curry, and chopped vegetables for an appetizer

Book 10 dinner: soybean hamburg steaks

Book 11 elevenses: darjeeling tea and petits fours tonkatsu, shougayaki, tonjiru, tonshabu, yakiton

Book 12 cake with strawberries on top

Book 13 spiny lobster saute, roast turkey, sticky toffee pudding, fairy cakes (cupcakes) warm milk with honey

Book 14 watered-down darjeeling tea darjeeling tea dinner: roast duck and gateau chocolat

Book 15 golden syrup sponge pudding tea cakes lemon myrtle souffle glace with milk tea

Book 16 lunch: beef mince pie

Book 17 dessert: strawberries, cream, and meringue (Eton mess) with a side of iced summer pudding

Book 18 chicken pie coffee and walnut cake

Book 19 ravioli (maultaschen) and wurst soup, stewed pork with herbs and spices (eisbein), and rote grutze (sour berries boiled and chilled to jelly, served with cream) evening snack: caramel macarons, coffee cream eclairs, dark chocolate florentines. black tea ceylon tea

Book 22 earl grey tea with orange almond cake and berry tarts

Book 23 smoked salmon sandesh (milk sweets)

Book 24 soft licorice candy apples

Book 25 berry-filled pudding fish and chips and steak and ale pie gulab jamun (fried balls of dough drenched in syrup)

Book 29 kidney pie, fish and chips, and ale wild-hare pie tapioca steak

Book 30 nilgiri tea breakfast: pea soup, meatballs, croissants, boiled egg, orange jelly chicken and steamed vegetable salad, oxtail stew, pain de campagne with butter oolong tea

Book 31 candy cigarettes

#speaking #black butler #kuroshitsuji #food

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bitbybitwrites · 1 month

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A number of lovely folks have tagged me in both Six/Seven/Some Sentence Sunday and WIP Wednesday ( and even the last line tag game) these past couple of weeks and I haven't been ignoring you. I actually have been meaning to post something. I've just been busy with Real Life.

So thank you so much for thinking of me: @sunnysideprince, @iboatedhere @onthewaytosomewhere @wordsofhoneydew @getmehighonmagic @daisyishedwig @forabeatofadrum @itsmaybitheway @nocoastposts @fallevs @taste-thewaste and I apologize if I've forgotten anyone😳

So here's some words for you ( definitely not 6 sentences) from 2 WIP (one Klaine and one RWRB)

From how ardently I admire and love you (RWRB online auction fic)

“Alexander, darling, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Pez leaned back in his chair, grinning. His hair was electric blue today, as were his nails. His suit was bright, bold and couture, but only something that Pez could pull off. “Help me, Obi-Wan Okonjo, you're my only hope.” “With what now? You do know Hazza is at a luncheon with more prospective donors for the shelter. He should be back in an hour or so.” Alex huffed as he plopped himself down in the chair in front of Pez’ desk. “It’s why I came now. I didn’t want him to be around to overhear. I need help with his birthday present. I can’t figure out what to get him.” Pez’ laughter rang out rich and warm. “Alex, my dear Padawan, why are you stressing out about this? You do know that you could just tie a bow around your . .” Pez coughed lightly, his eyes drifting downward as he smirked suggestively. Alex groaned. “I know. I know. I was thinking something else would be better. . . I don't know . . something more spectacular.” “You are seriously underestimating how spectacular Haz finds your dick, my sweet strumpet.”

from I Know You Wanna Take Me Home (Klaine Valentines Challenge 2024/Pretty Woman!AU)

“Kurt!” a familiar voice said happily. “You made it!” Kurt sighed as he looked over to his ex, and now best friend, Adam Crawford, who was clutching a whisky glass in hand, his eyes scanning the various young men that were cruising the room for attention Some of the young men were scantily clad in tight boxer briefs and barely buttoned Oxford shirts. Some were in actual full private school type uniforms, wearing a navy blazer piped with red, each with a distinctive “D” monogram on the chest. They sauntered about the room: ties undone, hair rakishly disheveled. All of them gorgeous. Adam was obviously searching for someone in particular and barely seemed to hear Kurt who snarked: “Were you missing home, Adam? Does this posh-boys-private-school atmosphere do something for you?” “Ahh, Kurt, tease all you want, “ Adam said as he slung his free arm around Kurt's shoulders grinning widely. “You've never enjoyed the delights of British boarding schools. These Dalton boys would fit right in with the chaps from Eton any day.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. That was what he heard. The young men from Dalton House weren’t just lookers. They were well versed in everything from English Literature to economics. They could hold their own in academic debates while also using those dexterous mouths and tongues to suck your brains out of your cock. Brains and beauty - and all of them looking for older (preferably more financially well off) “patrons”. Or so the rumors went.

I'm going to leave this as an open tag for anyone who reads this. :)

#bitbybitwrites #fic: how ardently i admire and love you #fic: i know you wanna take me home #rwrb fanfic #rwrb fic #rwrb fanfiction #red white and royal blue fanfiction #rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #percy okonjo #klaine fanfiction #klaine fanfic #klaine fic #klaine #klainevalentines2024

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agostobuwan · 3 months

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forged by fire and crafted with care

firstprince | Henry holds the high expectations of the Crown on his shoulders, and it crushes him to the point of self-doubt and self-sabotage. That is, until he finally chooses a life for himself and chooses to live truthfully. He refuses to hide among the shadows no longer. He is Henry Fox, and no one will take that away from him.

OR The story of Henry's bravery and journey towards happiness as told through different pieces of jewelry.

5.5k words, rwrb-compliant, henry-centric, based on this beautiful piece of artwork by @artofobsession

Also read on AO3

Bea makes him a bracelet of beads and thread when he is six years old. It’s pink and sparkly and fits loosely on his small wrist when she puts it on for him. He can spell his name out just fine—he tells his Papa he’s a big boy almost everyday—so he can see that his sister added beads to spell out his name.

H-E-N-R-Y.

He traces his fingers over the letters and the sparkly pink beads around his wrist. It’s very pretty.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s a friendship bracelet, Henry. All my friends at school were making one, so I thought I could make one for you, too.”

“But you’re my sister.”

“Sisters can be your friend, too, silly.”

“Oh. Well. But I don’t want you to be my friend. I want you to be my best friend, Bea.”

His sister laughs, and it’s the best thing he’s ever heard—well, second best, next to his Papa’s voices when he tells him his bedtime stories.

“Okay, okay, fine! I’ll be your best friend, Hen. As long as you’re mine.”

That night, when he is all tucked in under the covers and in his warm pajamas, he traces the black, blocky letters of his name and smiles, big, unrestrained, and most importantly, happy. He doesn’t have to wonder what his grandmother truly thinks about boys who play with their sister’s dolls and wear pink, sparkly bracelets. That will happen another day.

For now, as he falls asleep with Bea’s friendship bracelet secured around his tiny wrist, he doesn’t have to worry about the entire world’s burdens bearing down on his shoulders just yet.

****

His grandmother gifts him a watch that sits heavy on his wrist. It is a present fit for a man—fit for a king (even though he is only the spare)—and at thirteen years of age, he is already expected to act like one. She tells him that the watch will build character. That it will finally make him focus on playing the part of the dutiful Prince of England.

“A prince’s wardrobe will not be complete without a solid timepiece,” she tells Henry as she passes the box to him on the evening of his thirteenth birthday, and her voice has yet to adopt the tinge of disappointment that always seemed to be reserved for her two youngest grandchildren. That will come at a later time.

While the craftsmanship is objectively beautiful, the watch is rather bulky, interlaced silver brackets for the wristband with a deep blue face, gold accented numbers, and sturdy hands fixed meticulously to its center. It is the kind of accessory a boy his age is expected to wear. If it is quiet enough, he can hear the solid ticks and tocks of the watch’s inner machinations, a foreboding countdown to something further down the line.

But the line doesn’t seem far enough, and he is sent to Eton that following fall. He is terrified.

He is a sensitive soul, or that is what he overhears his family, but mostly his grandmother, says about him. He doesn’t know what it means, but he guesses it has something to do with why he’s so poor at making friends, even if he is a prince. During the first few months at school, he struggles to open up to the other boys in his year, choosing instead to hide away in the library or in his dormitory and bury his nose in a book when he isn’t in his classes.

The extra-curriculars he is expected to accomplish break open his shell, but only just. It isn’t until Percy Okonjo forcibly inserts himself into his life that he starts to feel the armor around his heart begin to crack.

****

Pez is a whirlwind, a summer storm, a rogue wave violently crashing into a wall of stone. He barrels into his life and never leaves, taking him by the hand and showing him a new world beyond the palace walls. He chips away at his armored heart with relative ease, and Henry has no idea how he is able to let his sensitive soul be placated by this boy of ultimate exuberance. He is gregarious where he is not. He is the extrovert that somehow has given one look at Henry and decided to keep an introvert like him forever.

And somewhere along the line, he decides he wants to keep him, too.

Their later years at Eton are spent hopping between dormitories, with the other uppercrust boys in their year and above, who are one day going to run England to the ground. They sneak in liquor from their father’s cabinets, the head boys pointedly looking the other way so they can join in on the merriment. They do ridiculous, stupid things, and drink themselves even stupider.

For the first time in a while, he feels free.

Henry is absolutely sloshed from stolen vodka and sambuca shots when Pez suggests he stick a needle through his earlobes. At least he has the wits about him to ask him why.

“Because! It’s what the cool kids do, Hazza.”

“You are fucking mental. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Just live a little, darling! Look, I’ve done this before, so you just need to hold still, sit pretty, and let Auntie Pezza do all the work. And besides, don’t you just want to absolutely piss off your old Gran?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but the rebellious part of him takes over, and he decides that yes, he does want to piss off the Queen of England . He doesn’t need much convincing, piss drunk and all, and against his better judgment, he takes another huge swig from the vodka bottle right before Pez pushes the needle into the fleshy part of his ear. He chases down another mouthful when Pez has to the other one, and all he’s thinking about is how horrified his Gran will be if she sees the right state he’s in now.

The alcohol does enough to mask the stinging pain, and everything becomes a right blur after that. When he wakes up hours later, head pounding and mouth dry as sandpaper, his ears are throbbing, the skin pink and angry, and there is a silver stud in each of his earlobes.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

****

His father leaves and the only thing left of him is his memories and the signet ring on his little finger, the one he had presented to him when he’d just turned eighteen. He presses his thumb hard against the ‘H’ engraved into the face of it, feeling the grooves etched into the metal and thinking about his father all the while. He can almost feel his warmth embedded in the metal, but he knows it is only his grief blinding him with wishful thinking and a vibrant imagination.

He twists the ring round and round, mimicking the downward spiral he feels himself succumbing to as he watches his father’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

Then, he loses a mother, a brother, and a sister not long after. Mama loses her heart. Pip loses his love. Bea loses herself. And he is all alone with nothing but the memories of his loving father to remind him of what he has lost.

The world is heavy on his shoulders, and he doesn’t know what else to do.

****

It’s his birthday, and he feels a little less like the world’s closing in on itself now that his psychiatrist has re-adjusted his medication. He still doesn’t sleep all that well at night, but it is still a start.

He doesn’t hear from his mother, but he does receive a message via Shaan to “buy himself something special” along with an envelope full of banknotes. He understands why she travels so much, but one can only do so much to distract themselves from the pain of losing a loved one. He tried. Bea tried. Even Philip tried. It’s been years, and his mother is not the same person he used to know.

He asks Bea to accompany him for lunch, their PPOs trailing a few paces behind them. He hopes he can use his birthday to establish some kind of normalcy since it is just the two of them. Twenty-two, after all, is just a number. There isn’t anything significant about the age. No extravagant milestones attached to its connotation. But still, there are only two things worth noting on the day he turns twenty-two years old: Bea is sober, and he is gay.

After lunch, Bea takes him shopping to make use of the money their mother sent to him to spend, but nothing catches his eye. That is, until they’re in an antique shop, and he sees a pearl necklace sitting in the display case.

The string of pearls is delicate, reminiscent of the friendship bracelet Bea made him all those years ago. It looks as if it is glowing, like tiny moons held together by a gossamer of stars, and he wonders, wistfully, how it would feel on his skin.

“Oh, Hen. It’s so beautiful. I think you should get it.”

Bea is the only one who knows who he truly is. She is the first one he tells, after all. She hadn’t judged him then, and she still doesn’t judge him now. In fact, she openly encourages him to explore the part of himself that he keeps hidden away because of the watchful eye of the Crown.

“I- I don’t know. It’s just- It isn’t fitting for a prince, is it.”

Even he can hear how defeated he sounds in his own ears. An echo of his grandmother’s biting tongue, tutting at his behavior like an ever-present devil. A prince like him would have never been allowed to wear, let alone have, a piece of jewelry so…feminine, so insinuating of a life he isn’t meant to lead, a life his own grandmother would never approve of. Heavy is the Crown he wears, and it is suffocating.

He leaves the shop empty-handed and heavy-hearted.

Days later, he finds a box addressed to him sitting on his bed. He lifts the lid and what rests inside it knocks the air right out of his chest.

“I know it’s a few days late, but…do you like it?”

“Bea…you didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t. I wanted to. You’re my best friend, Hen. I like seeing you happy.”

He looks down at the pearl necklace, delicate in his hands, and his gaze becomes blurry with tears.

“Can you…can you help me put it on?”

“Of course, Hen.”

They stand in front of the mirror as she helps him close the clasp around his neck, the pearls sitting perfectly, gently, against his collarbone, and the boy staring back at him looks inexplicably…happy.

****

The constant appearances and camera-ready smiles have slowly begun to whittle him down to a shell of himself. The engagements have only seemed to ramp up since his father’s death marked the beginning of the Fox family’s detriment. The Crown has a reputation to uphold, and so under the orders from the Queen herself, Henry is carted off around the world, as the family’s sole representative, to make sure everyone sees how normal and happy the royal family is, when truly, they are anything but.

But it all becomes too much eventually, and he sneaks off needing a moment alone, a moment to be Henry Fox and not Prince Henry of England. To breathe and not have the heavy weight of the Crown looming over him.

He buys the earrings on a whim. He tells the jeweler they are a gift for his mother as he watches her pack them into a small velvet box. She gushes to him about the pearls, telling him how they’re ethically farmed from their supplier in Japan. She explains how the cooler waters in which they’re farmed cause the pearls to grow more slowly, making them more compact and giving them more luster than the average pearl.

He simply smiles and nods, half-listening. He glances over his shoulder and sees the lone PPO he wrangled onto this impromptu journey and his equerry still stationed at the door.

He takes the bag, cream and discreet, and turns to leave immediately.

“Finished, Your Royal Highness?”

He wordlessly nods at Shaan and disappears out the door and into the black car waiting for him at the curb. When they arrive back at Kensington Palace, he goes to his room, feigning exhaustion as an excuse. Shaan fortunately leaves him be, letting him know that he does not have any more engagements for the rest of the day.

Henry sits on the edge of the bed, pulls out the small felt box containing the earrings and sets it down. He then reaches into his bedside table and pulls out the box that holds the necklace Bea had gotten for him on his twenty-second birthday and places it down next to the earrings.

He releases an unsteady breath and waits a beat, before getting up to check that the door is locked. He knows no one will bother him at this time of day—Shaan will make sure of it—but he still goes to check anyway. He takes both boxes to the dresser, the mirror sitting right above it. He takes the necklace out first and caresses the pearls with his fingertips. He doesn’t have Bea’s help this time, so it takes some moments of fumbling before he manages to clasp it around his neck. He runs his fingers along the smooth surface of the pearls once it’s secured, cool against his skin, and lets out another breath.

Then, he opens the second, smaller box. The hinges are smooth as he lifts the lid and reveals the pearl earrings sitting prettily on a bed of felt. He lifts one to examine it. The silver hoop is cool between his fingertips, and a droplet of pearl hangs from it with a chain of delicate filigree.

He takes extra care to put them on. The left ear goes on first, and then, the right. They slip right through the holes that have miraculously not closed up after years of not wearing any earrings.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment and watches as his eyes turn bright with tears. They spark with a newfound confidence that had laid dormant for years, beaten out of him by his grandmother’s incessant rules and expectations. But he sees now, as he stands there adorned in pearlescent jewelry, that she was not successful.

This is Henry Fox. Not the Prince. Not the grandson of Queen Mary. And absolutely no one is allowed to take this away from him.

Continue on AO3

#firstprince #firstprince fic #rwrb #rwrb fic #red white royal blue #henry fox mountchristen windsor #alex claremont diaz #henry is a pretty pretty princess #my fic

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