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fayes-fics · 6 days

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

I: To Know You….

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II: …Is To Love You

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benedict has no response to that.

—

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

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

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Violet frowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, no…”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

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

The piano stops abruptly.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

III: … And I Do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

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

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“What on earth…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would she have?”

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

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

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

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

Even he can read between those lines.

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

—

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

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

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

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

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

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

A resounding yes.

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

And yet.

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are stunned. Speechless.

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

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

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

—

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

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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hysteria-things · 2 months

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OMG OMG I HAVE ANOTHER IDEA !!

So like what if the reader is one of the ghosts that lived in the hotel and they take an interest in matt(im convinced that all of the ghosts there were matt girls) and the ghost liked how he talks and they show themselves to him and like y'kkow y'knownsmut and thid and that

so like reader reveals ehat she looks like to him and they get all freaky

GHOST (part one)

read part two here

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: soft dom!matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: matt runs into a girl at the driskill hotel. he can’t explain it, but he feels immediately attracted to her somehow.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, making out, p in v

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 943

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i changed it up a smidge!

for @skadltmf :)

the long-awaited sam and colby x sturniolo triplets collab is in full swing at the driskill hotel in austin, texas.

the five of them were in the vault for a while and then walked around, but now they’re on a break from filming for an hour or two because they wanted to get something to eat.

“shit, i’m so sorry!” you apologize when you run into a boy who’s throwing something out.

he smiles down at you, shaking his head. “it’s all good.”

matt furrows his eyebrows when he sees you. he can’t explain it, but it feels like he’s being pushed toward you somehow. like a gravitational pull, despite never seeing you before.

“what’re you doing at the haunted driskill hotel?” you ask, wanting to spark up a conversation. you must admit, he’s a cutie, and you love the way he talks.

he crosses his arms. “i should ask you the same thing.”

you sigh. “touché. i’ve heard a lot about this place and wanted to see it with my own eyes. research, if you will.”

“ah.” he nods, still smiling. “i’m a youtuber. doing a collab right now.” he points behind him where the others are.

matt’s still freaked out. he’s just so attracted to you. there’s something about your presence that has him not wanting to leave your side.

he feels sympathetic to you. he feels like he wants to keep you safe at all times. he’s never one to start talking to a stranger, but for some reason, he has no problem mingling with you.

“what’s your name?”

“y/n l/n.” you bite your lip, caressing his shoulder flirtatiously. “you’re handsome, you know that?”

bold. he thinks.

“i-i’m matt.” he stammers, cheeks flushing at each movement you make.

your hand trails up to his hair right above his ear, and you play with it while looking deep into his eyes. he leans into your hand. “there’s a janitor’s closet over there.” you tilt your head. “will i see you in there?”

you wink, walking off in the opposite direction. he glances at you and then the group, taking out his phone to text chris.

i forgot something in the room, i’ll be back in a few.

waiting patiently in the small closet, the door opens minutes later. you smile widely, admiring the boy in front of you.

“for some reason, i need to kiss you.” he says abruptly out of breath. “can i kiss you?”

you exhale, snaking your arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss that soon turns into a make-out.

his hands roam your body, lastly going to your pants before he pulls away. “um… is this okay?”

“more than okay,” you say, pulling him in so his lips are on yours again.

matt pulls down your pants, lips still intact as he lifts you.

he removes his pants as well, pushing your panties to the side. you both know there’s not much time, so you guys must be quick.

pecking your shoulder, you moan when he slowly fills you.

his thrusts start soft, but he notices your discomfort. he can’t tell if it’s because you’re trying to adjust or if you’re not enjoying it. “you okay?”

your face turns red from embarrassment. “i haven’t done this in a really long time, and um… it’s hard for me to feel pleasurable unless you rub my… y’know.”

“you mean like this?” he smirks, thrusting faster and deeper while his thumb rubs circles on your clit.

you throw your head back and nod. “mhm! fuck.”

whenever he thrusts in, he applies more pressure with his finger and it sends you into a state of bliss. “you f-feel so good, matt.” you whine, squirming in his grip.

it makes it hard for him to move by how tight you’re squeezing around him, but you’re close.

he grunts, closing his eyes to take it all in. in his opinion, this is the best he’s ever had. he wants to keep in mind that he doesn’t even know you, but you’re so much different.

“i’m gonna cum.” you whisper, jolting slightly when he rubs your clit harder.

“cum all over me, baby,” he replies, making sure you cum first.

your release oozes around his dick, and that’s his queue to pull out to finish on your stomach.

the two of you stay there, engulfing each other to catch your breath. “how come i feel so connected to you somehow?” he says lowly, resting his forehead on yours.

you shrug. “you’ll find out soon.”

he’s a little confused by what you mean but doesn’t ask about it. instead, he holds you close until his cellphone ringing disrupts you.

sam, colby, and the triplets walk down a hallway, passing some portraits of the ghosts along the way. you had to take your separate ways when nick called matt complaining that he was taking too long.

“isn’t that the freaky one?” colby asks smugly, pointing to a specific picture.

“that is the freaky one!” sam exclaims, the triplets giggling along with them.

“who’s the freaky one?” chris asks, squinting to get a better look.

“she was nineteen when she died.” colby starts. “she was known to seduce men with her ‘looks of manipulation’, some might say.”

matt scoots in front of the group to have a look, and he could’ve sworn his blood ran cold. a girl is pictured sitting on a stool with a gorgeous smile and old victorian clothes.

the girl in question is you, and he has to blink multiple times to make sure he’s seeing right.

the gold plaque underneath confirms who he’s looking at:

y/n l/n.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @r4iyaa @sturniolotriplettoplover @mattybswife @freshsturns @loverrsposts @saturncanyon @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut

#matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #✎ ⤾ haleigh’s requests!

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 months

Note

HEYYYY

Soo I'm here to rq another Damian x reader(platonic). But real quick, I'm sorry if I'm requesting too much or being a nuisance. Pls lmk if I am so I can stop! It's just hard to find somebody that writes for him like dis.

Anyways, basically the same thing were theyre friends but this time it's a diff scenario. So Damian n reader are obvi friends but theyre also complete oposites. Like Damian is intelegent, focused and meanwhile has reader is a bit dumber, daydreams too much, and kinder. They also get walked over a lot.

So he invites reader over to the manor and she meets his brothers n dad. It's all fine n dandy but they can't help but notice how diff they are.

Bonus points if reader talks positively abt him to his brothers and they're all like "fym he's nice?" And readers all like "fym he isnt?" (They're just not used to being treated like a normal human being) ‼️

Honestly I love writing for platonic! Damian. So pls don’t apologise for anything bc I’m having so much fun rn. 🦦plus I don’t know if this will read well as I’ve written this late at night when o should probably be in bed.

‘Am I seeing things or has Damian finally made a friend.’ Dick whispered to Jason, his eyes unable to tear his eyes away from you and Damian followed Bruce through the manor.

‘Nope, I’m definitely seeing it too.’ Jason replied also looking at you and Damian as if he was looking at the human personifications of night and day.

‘The fact that the demon spawn managed to get a friend sure is…something.’ Tim piped up, having overheard his brothers conversation from standing in between them. ‘I can only hope he didn’t kidnap the poor soul.’ Dick added as he was quick to click onto how Damian kept a hand on your arm, tugging and pulling you along when you stop to stare at a painting in awe for a little too long, gently encouraging you to keep up with him and Bruce by promising to go back to the painting later. Jason then looked over at Tim, ‘any ideas on who they are?’ Tim shrugged. ‘Only the fact that they go to the same school as Damian, share the same art classes and is known for being a little bit of a daydreaming pushover, but despite all that they’re still a kind person.’

Dick smiled sympathetically as his heart ached for you. It wasn’t easy being nice in a city like Gotham, if anything nice ever wandered into the accursed city it seemed as though Gotham itself would stop at nothing to see it destroyed, decimated and become as miserable and as bleak as the city itself; So it was rare to find someone who genuinely could still bring it in themselves to smile whilst in a city like this. And for that Dick had to give you props for being brave enough -and strong enough- to be kind in a place that would gladly take pleasure in stepping over and on you at any inconvenience. For it was truly a sign of bravery at its finest.

‘That kid is sure brave.’ Jason signed, knowing that people like you don’t last in Gotham but it was people like you that Gotham needed the most, but how could a retched place like Gotham heal when it’s always been a rotten city since it’s very conception? He didn’t believe it could be possible but there were always solutions to fighting the problem that seemed impossible to overcome. So who cares if you weren’t the brightest bulb at school? The education system in Gotham was shit anyway the last time he checked and he doubted much had changed when he…well you know…

Tim was silent. He was too busy recognising the protective measures that Damian was taking specifically for you; mainly the hand tugging at your arm anytime he thought you were getting distracted or wandering off elsewhere and muttering about how you need to keep or you’ll get left behind, despite the fact that even if you did Damian would allow himself to fall behind just so that he could walk besides you. While he might be part of the majority that didn’t think he’s ever see the day that Damian brought a friend home, never less a friend who was the total opposite of him. He couldn’t help but feel a sort of relief that Damian finally found a friend, and he knew that both Jason and Dick felt similarly from the looks upon their faces, silently observing how you interact with one another.

The one thing that Tim was confident in was the fact that Damian needed you as much as you needed Damian because you were a beacon of opportunity for his younger brother in many ways that Tim was certain you weren’t made aware of just yet. So while he and his brothers may tease and take this piss about how different you were from Damian, they mean well and express their happiness the only way they knew best; teasing and taking the piss.

‘This library is beautiful Mr Wayne! Do you have any fantasy books?’ You could be heard asking down the hallway, followed by the sound of Bruce softly laughing as he showed you the grand library. ‘This library has any book you can think of and please call me Bruce, it’s not often that Damian brings anyone home for the weekend.’ He says as you looked the Damian confused and a little betrayed. ‘You’ve got friends other than me?’

Damian groaned. ‘No. I don’t, you’re the only friend I’m willing myself to have.’

You smiled and gripped his hand. ‘Aww Dami! That’s so sweet of you to say, despite how brash and blunt you may come across, I’m glad to say that you’re the only friend I’m willing to have too!’ You said without shame. ‘Everyone else isn’t a nice as you are.’ You trailed off while a rare solemn look appeared upon your face as Damian was quick to squeeze your hand reassuringly, Bruce smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m not smart like your son mr Wayne, I can’t help it if things don’t come to me as easy as they do others but I try! I try really heard to do my best at every test but…but people tend to laugh of me because to them I’m either slow or thick.’ Damian’s jaw clenched and his brows furrowed upon being remembered of what people tended to call you.

He hated it and whenever he saw it happen, he was quick to utter some threatening words before taking his usual position as your pseudo-bodyguard for the rest of the school day. At first he wasn’t bothered but when you became restless in your pursuit of being his friend, he remembered vividly how people were mocking and making fun of you for trying to be his friend, that he often regrets not accepting your friendship sooner if it meant being able to be there when it counts.

��When will you get it that Damian doesn’t want to be friends with someone like you.’ One person said.

‘Then I’ll just have to keep trying.’ You rebutted, still smiling somehow.

Another person scoffs. ‘Get fucking real. You’re a weirdo, no one wants to be friends with a weirdo who so fucking slow at everything.’

You merely shrugged, even when someone’s insulting you, your brain doesn’t recognises it as such. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind.’

‘God you’re so fucking useless that I’m surprised that anyone bothers with you. Let me say this in a way you won’t have to try so hard to understand dipshit. Damian. Will. Never. Be. Friends. With. Someone. Like. You. Ever.’ A third slowly spoke and Damian had heard enough and within a blink of an eye had laid them out flat. You blinked before looking at Damian with a bright smile. ‘Hi Damian! Did you hurt these guys, that’s not very nice.’

‘They insulted you and yet you defend their honour.’ Damian asked incredulously as you both walked down the hallway, leaving the three bullies to groan from their injuries. You shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘They were insulting you.’ Damian reiterated. ‘They insulted your intelligence and your abilities. People like them often hide bigger insecurities than others.’ Damian replied, finding your ability to keep smiling after such things both annoying as it was admirable.

‘Are we friends now?’ You asked innocently enough and Damian knew he had sealed his fate, and so he sighs and looks up to the ceiling. ‘Yes, we’re…friends.’ He mutters and doesn’t do anything to stop you from dragging him to art class.

‘I was alone before Damian.’ You admitted as you looked at Bruce with a smile as you squeezed Damian’s hand in kind. ‘But now he’s here and he’s my bestest friend ever!’ Damian honestly wishes that you respect yourself more because you could claim that he saved you multiple times, but you’d never acknowledge the times where you have saved him by being unequivocally kind, sweet and over all a better person then all of Gotham’s civilians combined. ‘I was finding my first week at school horrid before I befriended l/n.’ Damian admitted as you softly cooed. The boy then swallows thickly. ‘Their friendship is much appreciated.’

‘Aww! Dami!’ You cried as you crashed into him, causing you both to hit the floor in a heap of limbs.

While Damian was cursing mom lethal threats and you were laughing, Bruce had already made his mind up about you and was certain to make sure to have Damian invite you over as much as possible. It was obvious for him to see that you and Damian were good for each other despite your vast and glaring differences, however that’s what worked in your favour, the power to have over come all odds was incredible; not to mention the fact that your friendship with Damian had lasted as long as it has was another impressive feet on top of that. Bruce knows it’s been hard for Damian to fit in and find a friend, but he couldn’t have made a better friend than he did in the likes of you.

You were more than defiantly welcomed back to the manor if Bruce had anything to say about it.

‘Get off of me!’ Damian shouts.

‘Damian, I think my foot is stuck with yours.’ You reply, scared.

‘That’s your own foot- how did you manage to tangle yourself up in yourself? You landed onto of me?’ Damian asked incredulously.

‘Sorry.’ You apologised.

‘Don’t be.’ Damian said.

Bruce smiled one last time before leaving you both alone in the library to untangle yourselves, only to be greeted by Tim, Dick and Jason. ‘Can I help you three?’ Bruce raised an eyebrow at the boys.

‘Nope.’ Dick started.

‘Not really, just…seeing how the little scamps are dealing.’ Jason followed after.

‘Damian? Nice? The same Damian who tried to, oh I don’t know…KILL ME?!’ Tim asked, revealing to Bruce all he needed to know, their breathing behind the library door was telling that they were clearly eavesdropping on the three of you. Jason and Dick looked at him displeased as Tim looked back at them. ‘I’m not the only one of us who thought that.’ He defended himself. ‘I mean it’s nice that he’s looking out for y/n but still that’s not something someone casually forgets.’

Bruce merely leaves Tim, Dick and Jason to their own quarrel, he loves his boys he truly does, but sometimes they’re more trouble than what they’re worth. He can only hope that they don’t scare you off from coming back for good because he was already planning your next visit.

#damian wayne x y/n #damian wayne x you #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagines #damian wayne fluff #dc x y/n #dc imagine #dc x reader #dc x you #dc comics x reader #dc fic #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction

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sluttywoozi · 11 months

Text

Ditto | mingi x reader

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~4.4k

You've liked Mingi for a while now, but every time you try to hang out one on one, it turns into a group thing. Will you be able to act normal now that you've finally gotten him alone?

Warnings: friends to lovers, lots of making out, mingi likes to bite, fingering, oral f. rec., condomless sex, mention of birth control shot and sti testing, big dick mingi

Reader Notes: has breasts and vagina, hands are smaller than mingi’s

You sit next to Mingi on your couch, anime playing on the TV and a respectable amount of space between you, and do your best to pretend that this is normal, that everything is normal.

It’s not that you don’t like him or know him well enough to be alone with him, it’s that you both like and know him far too well. But unfortunately, all of the time you’ve ever spent with him has been in a group setting with at least one of his best friends present. You’ve been wanting to hang out one on one for months, basically since you and Mingi met, but you just couldn’t seem to make it happen.

You’d tried a few times too. The first attempt, you were grabbing drinks for the table together and you somehow worked brunch into the conversation, trying to invite him as subtly as you could. He caught on just as Jongho and Hongjoong approached the bar to help carry everything and immediately invited them along. You didn’t even have time to feel the consternation before he was beaming at you with excitement and melting your heart.

The second attempt had gone a bit better, with just Yunho tagging along to what you thought was a pasta date for two. Your small success came at the price of the sympathetic knowing look Yunho sent you when you deflated at the sight of him.

The third was the most disastrous and, dare you say, heartbreaking. You texted him to remind him that the new drama he’d been looking forward to finally dropped on Netflix and he, to your awe, responded asking if you wanted to go over to his place and binge it together.

You weren’t sure if it was a date but you looked forward to it all week nonetheless, rushing home from work to carefully select an outfit that was cute, comfortable, and easy to remove before making his favorite snack and speeding over to his apartment with the glass container steaming in your passenger seat. He’d seemed so excited to see you, grabbing your hand to pull you into his kitchen and presenting your own favorite food, plus a couple of beers, plates, and utensils.

You were well into episode two when a knock sounded on his front door. Mingi shrugged in response to the question on your face, seemingly just as clueless as you, and had barely unlocked the door before San and Wooyoung tumbled inside. Apparently, he’d mentioned your plans to them in passing and they’d taken it as an invitation.

This time was a fluke, a wild stroke of luck, a blessing from the horny and in love gods themselves. It was the reverse of what usually happened - a group hangout that became just you and Mingi after the rest of your friends had come down with something. You have a sneaking suspicion that ‘something’ is actually Yunho trying to do you a favor, and resolve to reward him with his favorite ice cream asap.

You glance over at Mingi surreptitiously, expecting his focus to be on the movie and hoping you’ll be able to fully take in his new hair, only to find his gaze centered on you. Your eyes widen and your shoulders bunch up, unused to having his unwavering attention and alarmed by the fact that you have no clue how to deal with it.

You look away for as long as you can stand before letting your gaze dart back to him. He’s still staring at you, his face contemplative and more open than you’ve ever seen. You don’t know what else to do but stare back, nervously letting your eyes meet his and trying to relax your face enough that the worry lines go away. His face splits in a grin as soon as you make eye contact, his uneven front teeth and gummy smile sending your heart aflutter and making you beam in return.

“I’m really happy we got to do this. Honestly…,” Mingi trails off with a sigh, bringing one long leg up to rest on the couch as he shifts to face you instead of the TV. His arm rises to rest on the cushions behind your neck and you fight the shiver that snakes down your spine at the decrease of space between your bodies. He smells so good, too, and the heat radiating from him makes you want to crawl into his pocket and never leave. “I’ve wanted to hang out with just you for, like, months.”

His teeth sink into that plump bottom lip, almost distracting you too much to notice the tinge of nervousness behind his casual admission, and truthfully, you’re confused as hell. “Really?” You ask incredulously, rushing to continue when you see his face fall in hurt, “No, no, no, I’m glad you feel that way! I’m so glad, trust me. It’s just that I’ve been lowkey trying to make plans one on one since we met, and it’s never worked out. I was starting to think I should give up,” you finish with a self-deprecating shrug.

Mingi’s mouth drops open and his eyebrows raise, his disbelief clear though you can’t tell what other emotions are hiding beneath it. “Are you being fucking for real?” He almost sounds aggressive and if you hadn’t reacted the exact same way to him before, you’d probably get your feelings hurt too. As it is, you know he’s likely shocked and, if you dare to hope, happy. One side of your mouth lifts in a smile and you roll your eyes teasingly, “Yeah, Mingi, I’m being fucking for real. I wouldn’t lie about something so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” He sputters a bewildered laugh, “That’s, like, the best thing anyone’s ever said to me. I have the fattest crush on you.”

“You have…,” you try to gather your thoughts but there aren’t any to gather, just his words ringing in your head like a timer you can’t turn off.

I have the fattest crush on you. I have the fattest crush on you. Ihavethefattestcrushonyou. IhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrushonyouIhavethefattestcrush-

“Yeah, babe, I have a crush on you. I have for a while. San and Wooyoung still fuck with me over how I blew up at them for crashing our Netflix date.”

“So it was a date!” You exclaim victoriously, bouncing in place on the couch and missing the fond, affectionate sparkle in Mingi’s eye. “Yeah, it was a date. And I had plans for that night, too,” Mingi sighs wistfully. “Plans? Like what?” You ask, breathless with all of the ideas racing through your head.

“Like… telling you how I feel. Maybe yawning and putting my arm around you. Maybe a kiss goodnight,” he says slowly, as if he’s nervous about your reaction.

“Mingi, honestly, you could have kissed me hello and I’d have been over the moon,” you respond, promising him with your eyes and a pinky hooked around his.

“So, if I were to kiss you now…,” he begins, inching forward.

“I would kiss you back,” you assure him, heart on your sleeve and in your throat.

Mingi hums, leaning in closer and closer until his plush lips can touch yours, even the barest hint of contact making your heart pound. He doesn’t approach with much pressure, letting you lead and show him what you like, and you hum back, pressing your mouth harder against his. Your tongue peeks out to brush over his perfect bottom lip and his moan surprises you, makes you bite down on his plump flesh and start to suck. He just keeps moaning, his sounds vibrating through your lips and into your bones, the pitch low enough to reverberate. Already, you want him so bad. Want him around and inside and on top of you and under you and every which way you can get him.

You feel like maybe he wants you too, if the way he pulls you closer with one hand on your cheek and the other on your back says anything. The kiss deepens before you can take a breath, his lips pursing around your tongue so he can suck on it, bringing to mind ideas of other things his talented mouth could do. You don’t expect to experience them tonight, knowing that Mingi doesn’t date much and not wanting to push him beyond his comfort level, but damn is it nice to imagine. You’ve imagined lots of things with him, and this is already fulfilling a good number of them.

It’s not enough for Mingi, you find, as he tilts you backwards on the sofa until he can climb on top of you, the hand on your back shifting to your stomach. It hovers there, unsure, until you grab and pull it under your shirt, pressing his palm flat on your belly with a sigh. You make out for a while, just content to feel him (and his tongue) until he starts to seem a little restless.

“You can touch me, Mingi,” you sigh, arching into his hands and dragging the one on your stomach up to cover your breast. You’re only wearing a bralette and you know he can feel the shape of you, feel your nipple pebbling under his palm, but you like it, like the heavy breath he exhales against your lips, the seemingly involuntary twitch of his hand on you. They’re almost intoxicating, his reactions, every sigh and groan going straight to your center. He feels so big on top of you, like if his arms relaxed he could crush you, compress you straight into the couch, and you wonder when exactly Mingi got so fucking thick. He was already tall when you met him but he definitely wasn’t like this, though, obviously, you’re not complaining.

“Can I take this off?” He asks tentatively, rubbing the hem of your shirt between his thumb and forefinger. Nodding, you sit up enough for him to tug it off, giggling when he throws it across the room with a flourish.

“You know you’re picking that up, right?”

“But of course, milady,” he says before cringing immediately and dropping his head into your chest with a groan, mumbling, “Milady? What the fuck is wrong with you, Mingi? You’re finally kissing her and you call her Milady, jesus fucking christ.”

His cheesiness only endears you to him more, as does his shame, so you pick his head up between your hands and plant one on him, kissing him until he seems to forget what he’d said. He deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth and cupping your cheek in one of his big hands. You love how he gets so lost in kissing you, like it’s the main event and not the opener, and you just know that given the chance, you could get lost in him too.

That’s okay, though, because you trust Mingi. You’d trust him with your body, and your mind, and your heart. Well, you’ve already trusted him with your heart because you’re lowkey in love with him, but that’s beside the point. The point is that you trust Mingi enough to let yourself get lost in him, so you do. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until the sun has gone down and you can barely remember your own name.

At some point, you pull away for water and a bathroom break, but soon enough, you return to the couch to kiss him some more. You undo your bralette on your way back, leaving it on so he’s still the one to take it off. His eyes grow wide and he visibly swallows when he catches sight of you, and by the time you make it to the middle of the room, he’s there too, waiting for you. His hands rise to your shoulders, curving up your neck and coming to rest on your cheeks so he can pull you into a gentle kiss. You sigh into his mouth when his hands smooth back down your throat and catch on the straps, his fingers giving a soft tug, pulling the fabric down slowly.

He doesn’t look yet, just keeps kissing you and making the hottest little noises against your lips, and it’s not long before he’s ushering you onto the couch and helping you to lay on your back. He takes his place between your legs and glances upward to make sure he can use his mouth, kissing his way down your neck and across your chest before sucking a nipple between his lips as soon as you start to nod. He groans deep in his chest like the taste of you is something sweet, nibbles at your flesh and sucks in rhythmic pulses, leaving your breasts littered in little indents from his teeth.

Your head swims, the onslaught of pleasure leaving you breathless, dizzy. You don’t want to rush him but you’ve been wet for hours, and you know he’s been half hard most of the time. There’s only so long you can wait before you either need to stop or keep going, and you’re about to reach that point. He must be able to sense your restlessness because he pulls away with a pop, looking up at you with hazy eyes and swollen, shiny lips.

“What do you wanna do?” He asks, coming up to hover above you on his elbows.

“Everything,” you breathe in response, wrapping your legs around his waist to tug him into you.

You both shudder out a moan, his hips pressing into yours and his hard cock aligned perfectly with the ache between your legs. It feels like so much after so little, the pressure and heat of him, and it makes you buck up against him in search of more friction. His head drops into your neck, the whine he lets out muffled by your skin, and his own hips grind into yours, giving you what you so desperately need.

But it’s not enough, you need more.

“Mingi, do you wanna fuck me?”

He grinds into you again, harder this time, and you can feel the swears he mouths against your throat before he answers, “So fucking bad, baby. You’re all I can think about.”

You resist the urge to wiggle happily underneath him, your heart pounding even harder at the idea of Mingi thinking about you like this. You know you’ve been thinking about him, about having him, in your bed and in your shower and in your car and just about anywhere with a little privacy and at least one surface. You wonder if he’d be down for any of those, but figure your couch is a good enough start.

Pushing him just far enough away to get to your pants, you finish stripping. Mingi takes the hint, yanking off his shirt and shucking his sweats. His boxers go with them and you freeze in place, halfway through bicycling your underwear off and completely unprepared for what the sight of his dick would do to you.

You can feel yourself pulsing as you stare, Mingi taking charge of pulling your undies the rest of the way down and gasping at what he finds. You knew you were wet, but you don’t think either of you expected your panties to be sodden, basically translucent with how much you’ve been leaking. You’d be self conscious if Mingi didn’t look on the verge of tears, his brows screwed up and his eyes misty as he gazes at you. He sets one knee between your legs on the couch, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips before whispering, “Can I eat you out? Please?”

Your whole body tenses in anticipation as you nod, letting him tug you to the edge of the couch and pull your legs apart. His hands feel so hot on you, his fingers clenching in your flesh, squeezing at the plush of your thighs just because he can. Another time, you’ll let him play with your body however long he likes but right now, you’re getting desperate.

He’s so close, his plump lips sucking kisses into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you need him to close that final distance, put his mouth to work between your thighs instead of on them.

“Mingi, I need-,”

He shoulders your legs further apart and leans forward, covering the whole of your pussy with his mouth and taking in a deep breath. Your thighs snap closed, boxing his head in, and you try to pull them apart and free him but his arms wrap around them and pull you closer to him. His face is buried in you now, his nose bumping against your clit as his tongue plunges inside of you, making your back arch and your heart stutter.

He groans and grumbles his way through you, the vibrations of his sounds sending you higher and higher. It’s like he can’t get enough, his head pushing deeper into your body and his eyes closed in rapture as he worships you. His agile tongue fucks in and out, spreading your walls and getting you ready for those long fingers.

You can’t wait to feel them inside you, feel them working you open and reaching depths his tongue can’t. You’re starting to feel achingly empty, but before you can even ask Mingi, he’s got two fingers primed at your entrance and his eyes on you. He notches a brow up and you nod quickly, chanting, “Yes, yes, yes,” and shivering when you feel them make contact.

They’re warm, longer than your own and thicker too. Normally, two would be a bit of a stretch to start but you’re soaking wet, relaxed from all of the foreplay to the foreplay, so they slide right in. He moans deeply, pressing his open mouth against your thigh and digging his teeth in as if to retaliate for how good your pussy feels around his fingers. You bite back a smirk and squeeze down around them, the contracting of your walls making them feel even bigger inside you.

Mingi looks up at you, his eyes shining and full of sincerity, and leans back in to close his lips around your clit and suck. Your reaction is instant, your pussy fluttering and your breath stuttering as he holds eye contact. You can’t look away, intoxicated by his movements and swiftly nearing the edge.

When he slides in one more finger and starts tonguing at your clit as he sucks it, you’re done for.

A flash of heat shoots through you, his arms anchoring you to the couch where you want to fly away, the coil in your belly tightening more and more until it bursts. Your walls clamp down on his digits, your hands flying to his head to pull him into you, making him whimper around your clit and suck harder as you cum.

You don’t know how long it goes on, just that Mingi never stops and you never want him to.

He easily pushes you into a second, a third, almost a fourth, before you clench your fingers in his hair and try to pull him up. He looks up at you with hazy eyes, his lips pink and swollen and shiny with your wetness.

“Wanna kiss you,” you mumble tiredly, pursing your lips and waiting for him to rise and grant you what you want.

He does, of course, getting to his feet and shaking out his legs before bracing a hand over you on the couch and leaning down to press his lips to yours. You can taste yourself on him but you don’t mind, like it even, the fact that there’s evidence of what he’s done to you. You’d like him to do more, but first you need to make sure he wants to.

“Do you still-,”

“God, yes,” he moans, nearly straddling you on the couch as he cups your jaw with his free hand and deepens the kiss, his tongue gliding against yours before his teeth close on your bottom lip.

“Condom?” He asks breathlessly, pulling away and sitting heavily on the couch. You take the hand he’s reached out to you, using it to steady yourself as you climb on top of him and respond, “Just got tested and I get the birth control shot, so…”

“Joong and Seonghwa took us all to get tested a couple weeks ago and everything was negative, so…”

“So, no condom.”

The thought of Mingi fucking you raw is enough to make your pussy start pulsing again, and you can tell he loves the idea too, his breaths coming faster and his hands growing possessive on you.

“Can I?” You ask, motioning down at his cock and waiting for him to nod before taking it in your hand. He’s hot to the touch, long and thick enough you’d need two hands to jerk him off, not that he needs it right now. He’s deliciously hard and already glistening with precum, and you feel the throbbing deepen, the emptiness inside you nearing pain.

“You gonna put me in?” He asks in a deep, soft voice as he rubs your thighs and squeezes your hips.

You angle his cock so you can slide it through your folds, the head bumping into your clit and making you jump before you roll your hips and notch it at your entrance. He lets you control the pace, his hands meandering over your breasts, stomach, and back as you start to work him inside.

“There we go, just like that, baby, fuck,” he murmurs, his grip getting tighter and tighter as you take more and more of him.

He spread you open on his fingers but it’s still a tight fit, gravity and determination pulling you down until your hips meet his and his cock sits fully inside you. You can’t speak, can’t keep your eyes open, the stretch so deep and your pussy so full you just might cry. You have no idea of Mingi’s reaction, can only hear the rapid filling and emptying of his lungs and the punched out noises that leave him every time you accidentally squeeze down. You have a feeling that if you could open your eyes, you’d find his clenched shut and his bottom lip bitten between his teeth.

The image you conjure is hot enough it gives you the strength needed to force your eyelids apart and look at him, your gaze finding a near exact match to that of your imagination. His head is resting against the back of the couch, his jawline sharp and his veins popping, and you have a sneaking suspicion he’s trying not to cum right now.

You can’t blame him, it was hours of making out and then another hour of him making you cum, and he’s had barely any stimulation through all of that. You have half a mind to clamp your walls down on him, squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until he breaks, but instead, you’ll give him the time he needs.

It takes a minute or two of you just sitting on his cock for him to calm, but when he does, he’s ready to go. He bucks into you one, two, three times before gripping your hips and opening his eyes, his gaze raw and his face slack.

“How do you feel so fucking good?” He asks like he means it, like he’s waiting for an answer. You don’t have one, so you just smile and roll your hips into him, your grin growing when his breath hitches.

He swears roughly, his dick jumping inside you and his grasp tightening as he responds with a thrust of his own, your call and answer soon growing into a true rhythm. Your head falls back as you bounce in his lap, your thighs shaking every time his cock fills you again, the slapping of skin on skin echoing throughout the room. One of his hands leaves your hips to cup the back of your neck and hold your head up, making you hold his gaze as you gasp and moan. You’ve never had so much eye contact during sex before, the connection usually feeling far too intimate and exposing, but you love having it with Mingi.

It feels like he’s burrowing deeper into your heart with every thrust, carving his name into it with every brush of his thumb under your ear, taking it for his own as he makes you his own, his cock reaching sensitive spots you didn’t know you had.

You think he might be going through the same thing because he tugs you closer until you’re chest to chest and he’s just grinding inside you, your air mixing with his and your walls massaging his cock. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him into a kiss that feels more like a promise and whisper against his lips, “Mingi, I really, really like you. Like a lot. Like probably too much.”

Your last word is broken by a sharp thrust, his hips bucking uncontrollably as he whines, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me-”

He cuts himself off with a low moan, his other hand leaving your hip so he can wrap his arm around you and hold you so tight you almost can’t breathe.

“Cum, Mingi,” you tell him, feeling the heat burst inside of you almost instantly, his cock jerking and jumping inside of you as he fills you with his cum. You’ve never let someone fuck you raw before and the feeling of him flooding you is strange but hot, something you could easily get used to and probably grow to love, if he’ll keep doing it.

That’s something to discuss later, but for now, you’re busy. Mingi is coming down, his eyes teary as he blinks the haze away and leans down to rest his head against your sternum. You pet his hair with one hand and rub his back with the other, feeling his cum starting to trickle out now that he’s softening.

You’ll need to get off this couch eventually, clean yourselves up and gather the clothes you’d flung, but you can’t find the will to move yet. Mingi is so soft against you, so warm and sweet, and you don’t want this bubble to burst.

It might when it comes time for the relationship talk, but considering the fact that he just almost came from you telling him you really like him, you’re pretty sure it’ll go well.

It does, and Mingi leaves your apartment the next day with rumpled clothes, the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, and good news for the groupchat.

Posted first on my patreon

my masterlist

#mingi x y/n #mingi x you #mingi fanfic #mingi smut #mingi fluff #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez fluff #ateez au #ateez smut #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez x y/n #kpop oneshots #kpop scenarios #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #✨emily writes✨

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pucksandpower · 8 months

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Oooh the grid kids series is pure joy! I think it's really cool idea, especially because the drivers spend so much time around one another. Can i request one where maybe back in the day, rbr!seb and y/n were the grid kids of like mark and michael and jenson and back to present times, seb's grid kids are weirded out to see jenson and mark treat seb and y/n as their grid kids please. If that makes sense

Grid Kids: Gentlemen, a Short View Back to the Past

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: once upon a time, the grid parents were grid kids themselves

Series Masterlist

When We Were Young

“Oi lovebirds! Stop canoodling in the garage, will ya?” Mark Webber chuckles, teasingly nudging Sebastian as you blush, having been caught stealing a quick kiss with your boyfriend in the middle of the chaotic paddock.

Michael, ever the protective figure, chimes in, “Leave them alone, Mark. It’s sweet. Remember when we were young and in love?” He winks at Sebastian, who grins, clearly relishing in having backup.

Jenson, leaning against a tire stack, chuckles, “Speak for yourself. Some of us still have it.” He sends you a playful wink and you laugh.

Sebastian wraps an arm around you, “Honestly, with the three of you as mentors, I’m surprised I’ve learned anything about racing.”

You smirk, “Maybe they're preparing you for the important race — the race of life?”

Mark snorts, “Deep, Y/N. Very deep.”

Michael smiles, a nostalgic look in his eyes, “You know, Y/N, you remind me a lot of my wife back in the day. Always grounding us racers, making sure our heads don’t get too big.”

Jenson nods in agreement, “True that. You have a way of making sure Seb here doesn’t drift into the clouds.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, “Oh come on! You guys are just trying to get on Y/N’s good side because she’s the only one who brings proper coffee to the track.”

You giggle, “Guilty as charged. Can’t have my grid parents falling asleep at the wheel now, can I?”

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Sebastian and you stand with Jenson and Mark, sheltering under an awning as rain pours down, delaying the race. Michael ambles over, shaking off his umbrella.

Sebastian grins, “Typical Spa weather, huh?”

Jenson chuckles, “Isn’t it just? Every year I hope for sun by some miracle and every year...” He gestures at the rain dramatically.

You sigh, “I packed for a summer trip. Look at this!” You motion to your very damp sundress.

Mark smirks, “Rookie mistake. Always pack a wetsuit for Spa.”

Michael nods sagely, “And flippers.”

Oh Simple Thing

The smell of grilled meat wafts through the air as Jenson mans the BBQ at his home. You and Sebastian arrive, bringing along a homemade salad and plenty of sides.

“Ah, the dynamic duo!” Mark greets, pulling you into a friendly hug.

Michael points to the salad, “Trust Y/N to ensure we get our greens. Good on you!”

You wink, “Can’t have you all living on steaks and grilled chicken alone.”

As the evening progresses, stories from their early racing days are exchanged, often leading to fits of laughter. At one point, Mark shares an embarrassing story about Sebastian’s rookie mistake during a test session.

Sebastian groans, burying his face in his hands, “Do we have to bring that up again?”

You pat his back sympathetically, “It’s alright, Seb. Everyone has their moments.”

Jenson, taking a sip of his drink, adds, “That’s true. Just remember, no matter how many times they tease you, you’ve got Y/N in your corner. And that’s worth more than anything.”

Prank or Be Pranked

“Seb! Did you move my helmet?” Jenson calls out, rummaging through his locker as the five of you prepare to go karting, his face a picture of confusion.

Sebastian, feigning innocence, replies, “Why would I do that?”

You, smirking, lean in and whisper to Mark, “Five bucks says he put it on the highest shelf.”

Mark grins, “You’re on.”

As Jenson continues his search, he eventually finds his helmet perched high up, just out of reach. Michael, catching on to the prank, laughs, “Looks like our young prodigy here has learned a few tricks.”

Sebastian shrugs, “Consider it ... training. For reflexes and stuff.”

Jenson, using the handle of a dusty broom to retrieve his helmet, retorts, “Wait till you find out what I’ve done with your boots.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen in horror, “You didn’t!”

“This is going to be a long season.” You lean back against the brick wall as the overgrown children in front of you continue to bicker, fighting a smile.

Thanks for the Memories

Jenson, lounging comfortably in the hospitality area, raises an eyebrow as he watches you try to subtly wipe some oil off Sebastian's face. “You sure you’ve got him all cleaned up for the camera?”

You laugh, looking at a sheepish Sebastian who had been poking around his car earlier. “It’s like looking after a kid sometimes. He’s always getting into something.”

Michael chuckles from across the room, “Ah, young love. Sebastian, she’s got your number. But honestly, Y/N, good on you. We older ones have been trying to teach him some discipline.”

Mark smirks. “To be fair, Michael, I recall a certain someone ending up in a pool with his clothes on in Monaco just last year.”

Michael grins mischievously, “That was different. And anyway, Seb, Y/N, don’t get any ideas.”

You playfully roll your eyes, “Trust me, if he ends up in the water, I won’t be the one pushing him.”

Sebastian wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “But you’d jump in to save me, right?”

You pretend to ponder, “Hmm, depends on how cold the water is.”

Jenson laughs, “Sebastian, you’ve found your match. But seriously, both of you, cherish these moments. The grid, the races, it’s all fleeting. But the relationships, the memories, they last.”

Michael nods in agreement, “Jenson’s right. One day you’ll be the veterans, guiding the young ones. Remember these days, learn from them.”

Mark clinks his water bottle to yours, “To memories and the journey ahead.”

Flintstones, Meet the Flintstones

Michael leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips, “You know, when I started in F1 we didn’t have all this fancy tech and simulations. We relied on instinct.”

Jenson, faking shock, retorts, “Wait, you mean they didn’t have cars back then?”

Sebastian chuckles, glancing at you, “I bet he drove a dinosaur to the track.”

You laugh, “A very fast dinosaur, mind you.”

Mark, trying to keep a straight face, adds, “Michael, be honest. Was your racing suit made of ... loincloth?"

Michael plays along, “Yes and our helmets were carved out of stone.”

You chime in, “I heard they used saber-toothed tigers as pit crews.”

Jenson nods, “Oh, absolutely. And the pit stops? Ten minutes. Had to give the tigers a break.”

Michael rolls his eyes, laughing, “Alright, alright, mock the legend if you must. But remember, young ones, we paved the way.”

Mark grins, “And we’re grateful, old man. But don’t forget, it’s their turn now.”

Sebastian, ever competitive, challenges, “Race you to the track?”

Michael raises an eyebrow, “You sure about that?”

You laugh, “Careful, Seb. He might just bring out his dinosaur.”

Passing the Torch

Michael stands, his presence commanding the room’s attention even without a word spoken. Holding a helmet delicately in his hands, he clears his throat. “In every racer’s life, there comes a time when the tracks call to you a little less, the roar becomes a distant echo, and you realize there’s a world waiting for you outside the paddock.”

He glances over at Sebastian, then to you, emotion shimmering in his eyes. “But before I step into that world, I wanted to leave behind something, a token of gratitude and hope.”

Sebastian’s brow furrows slightly, curiosity evident. “Michael, you’ve already given so much to all of us …”

Michael interrupts with a soft chuckle, “Seb, always impatient! Let me finish.”

He then looks at you, his gaze warm and fatherly, “Y/N, you may not race on the track, but you’ve raced in all our hearts, guiding, supporting, laughing, and cheering louder than everyone else.”

“Sebastian, Y/N,” Michael continues, his voice imbued with emotion, “This helmet, from my last race, isn’t just a piece of equipment. It’s a symbol. A legacy.”

Gently placing the helmet on the table, he pushes it towards the two of you. “It’s about the weight of responsibility, the dreams it carries, the hopes it’s seen, and the love it’s felt.”

The room is silent, the magnitude of the gesture palpable.

Sebastian, clearly moved, speaks up, voice choked with emotion, “Michael, this ... this is ... I’m not sure if we can ever fill the space you leave behind.”

Michael smiles, placing a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, then moving to hug you tightly. “That’s the thing about spaces. They evolve. They change. You two won’t fill my space. You’ll create your own.”

Pulling away, he raises his glass, “To new beginnings, to timeless legacies, and to family. Always to family.”

Back to the Future

As Max saunters into the room, he stops short, eyebrows raised in surprise. Jenson is teasing Sebastian, ruffling his hair like he’s a teenager, while Mark playfully nudges Y/N’s arm, offering her a drink.

Max blinks a few times, trying to process the scene. “Is ... is Jenson giving Seb a noogie?”

George peers over from his conversation with Lando, both their eyes widening. “It looks like it ... and Y/N’s being drawn into some sort of mock arm wrestling with Mark. What alternate reality did we walk into?”

Charles, mouth agape, chuckles, “It’s like watching a nature documentary: Here we observe the older generation asserting their playful dominance over the younger one.”

Lando giggles, nudging George. “Mate, should we jump in? Even the odds a bit?”

Before George can answer, Mick, who’s been observing silently, leans in. “Guys, it’s kind of sweet. You remember the stories they've told about the old days? This is just ... history repeating itself.”

Max, still trying to wrap his head around the scene, shakes his head with a laugh. “Never thought I’d see the day when Seb gets his hair messed up and doesn’t immediately fix it.”

Lance calls out, “Maybe we should start taking notes. This might be us in a few years.”

Grid Kids and Grand-Grid Kids

Charles saunters over to Mark and Jenson, holding up a race boot he’d just had signed by both of them. “Thanks for this, mates. It will be a special addition to my collection.”

Mark pats Charles on the back, “Anything for our grand-grid kid.”

Charles stops mid-stride, turning to look at Mark with a puzzled expression. “Your what now?”

Jenson chuckles, handing Lando a signed cap. “Didn’t Seb and Y/N mention? Since they’re your grid parents and they’re our grid kids ... well, that makes you our grand-grid kids.”

Lando bursts into laughter, while George, overhearing the exchange, raises an eyebrow. “Wait, so we’re like ... the second generation of grid offspring? This is getting complicated.”

Mick leans in with a smirk, “Hold on. So if I’m following this logic properly, that would mean double the birthday gifts, right?”

Jenson grins, “Well, perhaps but it also means double the expectations on the track.”

Lance playfully rolls his eyes, “Great, double the pressure. Just what we needed.”

Max joins the banter, “Are there grand-grid kid initiation rites we should know about? Because I’ve seen old photos of Seb and Y/N with you guys and let’s just say that fashion has come a long way.”

Mark feigns shock, “You’re dissing our style from back in the day? Careful, young one.”

Charles, cocking an eyebrow, shoots back at Max, “Especially considering the only thing in your closet is Red Bull merch.”

The group bursts into laughter, Max chuckling and nodding in acknowledgment. “Touche, Leclerc. Touche.”

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sanguinarysanguinity · 2 years

Text

To the authors who are unhappy about their hits-to-kudos ratio on AO3: as a kindness to yourselves, please stop. That hit counter doesn’t mean what you think it means.

First, not all those hits are people. A substantial chunk of those hits, as I understand it, are machines, looking to see what the page is. The hits-to-kudos is whack from the hour a story is posted, because a bunch of those hits are machines.

Second, multiple hits can be the same person on their first read of the story. If I open a story in a browser tab to read later, my browser sometimes/often unloads that tab in the interim, resulting in it reloading that tab and creating a new hit when I finally go to read it. If reading it requires multiple sessions, that’s multiple new hits. If I then leave it open for a while to remind myself to leave a comment, my browser will reload it again, generating another new hit, before it lets me write a comment. Altogether, my first read of a story, plus leaving a comment, can easily turn into five or more hits, depending on how hard I’m finding it to find reading and commenting time.

Third, if your story has been up for a while, the people who adore your story are driving up your hit counter with their re-reads. They go away, they come back, they re-read, and they do it again, and they do it again. It’s probably only a small subset of your total readers, but if one of your stories becomes someone’s go-to comfort read for times when they are stressed out (or, if it’s an explicit story, if it becomes their favorite jack-off material), that one person’s devoted re-reading might easily hit your story dozens of times. But most readers feel hella shy about admitting that they treat your story like a fuzzy blanket (or a vibrator); either way, it’s pretty rare for them to tell you about it. (Which I’m sympathetic to! Fuzzy blankets are a very personal thing, and no one wants to feel stared at by the author while they’re having a vulnerable moment.)

Fourth, stories get read by people outside of fandom, people who don’t think of themselves as your friends/neighbors/community-members, and who just... never think to hit kudos, at all, because their social context is so far removed from ours. I’ve got a couple of stories that were linked on TVTropes once upon a time, and their hit-to-kudos ratios are fucking absurd. If your story got linked outside of fandom somewhere, odds are that most of the people coming in from that link will never think to hit kudos, no matter how much they liked it, because they never quite connect that there’s a real live author, breathlessly hoping to be liked and appreciated, standing just behind the screen, and that maybe readers should be polite and say ‘thank you’ to them when they finish the story and leave.

tl;dr Do not assume every hit is new human reader who didn’t like your story and clicked out. Your hit counts will often be ten times greater than your kudos, just for stupid ordinary internet-traffic reasons, and the older a story becomes (and the more times bots and re-readers hit it), the wider the hits-to-kudos gulf will become. Do yourself a kindness and stop calculating that ratio -- and if you can’t stop making yourself crazy about it, go into settings and turn off your hit counter displays. Please be tender to yourselves; being an author is hard enough as it is.

#ao3 #hits #kudos

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kisskiss-slashslash · 9 months

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Haiiii could I get slashers chasing 2 victims (one reader/future s/o and the other one of reader’s friends) and the friend just grab reader and throw her towards them so they can save themselves? Kinda like that clown with the kid vid. Basically how they react and how they feel abt that

I understand if your not up to write this!

Pls and thanks 🙏

There you go!

Slashers when a victim tried to sacrifice another

Jason Voorhees

He is surprised at first, but then finds himself reminded of his past and the way he was treated, so he suddenly finds himself feeling fiercely protective of you. So at first he steps over you and goes after your so called “friend”.

If you’re still there when he returns, he might see it as an offer of friendship, or a challenge, depending on how you act towards him. If you thank him for avenging you and generally speak to him kindly, you will have found a friend (and possibly more) for life.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent finds himself being reminded of Bo when he witnesses your friend push you back. The unloved one, the one left behind, and he finds himself empathizing with that. When you react with fury to your friend’s betrayal, he may even see you as a potential new family member. If they can get you to kill that person that tried to get you killed… once the initial hesitation is overcome, there is usually always a second time. And a third..

Freddy Krueger

He usually doesn’t care too much and will find humor in your friend trying to sacrifice you to save their own hide. But when your eyes narrow in anger and you turn to him and start telling him all their secret and not-so-secret fears, he actually finds that he appreciates your willingness to help him.

Brahms Heelshire

Two nannies, and both are trying to run away. When the other one shoves you back, Brahms is there to catch you in his arms. Now you have to stay, you just *have to*. He saved you, after all. Right?

Bubba Sawyer

It is a reflex when he jerks the chainsaw back so you won’t fall into the blade when you tumble back after being shoved.

He coos sympathetically and helps you up.

You seem nice. Now he just need to convince Drayton that you shouldn’t be eaten.

#slasher x reader #jason voorhees x reader #brahms heelsire x reader #bubba sawyer x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #freddy krueger x reader

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symp4nat · 4 months

Text

"Even Aphrodite envies you."

clarisse la rue x fem!reader

authors note: post 10 pm cry write guys i need to pee, this is a vent fic. also, headcanon that you call clarisse "risse" pronouned Reese bc awwwwwww

summary - you talk about ur body negatively

warnings - talk about body image, over excercizing, not eating/skipping meals, descriptions of body, flashbacks, itty bitty mentions of praying to not greek gods

Thud.

I wasn't enough.

Thwap.

"You need to work out, you're getting too big, and you're only 14," my mother said. I gulped and sat down. "Can we just... pray," I asked. "You need to fix it, usually, girls your age are body conscious.... haven't you seen [friend's name]? That was such a transformation," my dad said.

Thump.

"She lost so much weight, Y/N/N, why don't you do the same? Most people will do things when they see their friends are doing it," my mother said.

Thomp. My mother put her hand on my shoulder-

I went to punch the person who put their hand on me. They caught my hand and I sighed as I saw it was my girlfriend. Clarisse grabbed both of my hands and rubbed my knuckles. "How about we take a break, hm?"

I shook my head. I had to do this.

"Please, no more boxing for the day, you've been overworking yourself," she continued. "Risse, I'm fine.. I've got this," I reassured her.

"Just please, you've been boxing for at least two hours, maybe take a break, okay," she squeezed my hands and walked off. I sighed and went to the archery range.

I grabbed a fairly sized bow and then a set of arrows. I began to shoot around, not necessarily being good at it.

Thwip.

"Y/n, why'd you get new clothes, your old ones were cute," my friends exclaimed. I shrugged. "No need for old clothes..."

Thwap.

"Why don't we all go for a run, some of us need it," my friends said. I looked down and said, "We aren't all wearing tennis shoes."

Shhhk!

They never necessarily spoke much about my own weight, but they all weighed less than me and called themselves fat. They all were skinny or at least average.

"Y/n/n? Please, go rest, I bet you're tired," Clarisse sighed as she noticed me at the archery range. "I'm fine," I defended. "Go get some lunch, or I'll get some for you," she said. I shook my head. "I got it. Thanks, babe," I said.

"C'mon, angel, wanna sit on my lap, maybe take a nap," Clarisse asked. I laughed and shook my head, "You rhymed. And, no, it's... alright.."

Clarisse's eyes became sympathetic. "Baby, is it because this," she asked as you placed her hands on what she called my "love handles" and my hip dips. I looked down and shrugged.

"Baby, that isn't a big deal, you're truly beautiful... do- do you not believe me," Clarisse asked. She pulled me onto her lap and I looked down at my hands. "Hey, eyes on me," she said.

My eyes darted back up to hers and she said, "Would you like to know something really cool?" I nodded and she continued, "I think.. no- I know... That even Aphrodite would be jealous of your beauty."

My eyes began to fill with tears as I buried my head into her neck. "I love you, I don't deserve you," I said as tears stained her shirt. "I love you most, and yes you do, okay? You absolutely do, pretty girl," she said gently to me as her hands relaxed on my hips.

She leaned back on the bed and pulled me back so I could lay on top of her. "I doubt you wanna talk about it later... but how about we nap for now? And just... please... never... over exercise or over work yourself, angel," I nodded as she spoke and closed my eyes. There wasn't anything I could have done to have just to have someone as caring and supporting her.

#clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse pjo #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue fluff #clarisse la rue #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo

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erospandemos · 7 months

Text

Umbrella Thief

Hanni x Reader

Length: 4.2k

With the help of beta-reader @leafostuff

A series of unfortunate events leads you to share the same hotel room as your umbrella thief.

Why did you even agree to come to the school trip? You asked yourself. How did you get the splendid idea to join this little stupid event? The day had been nothing but rain, delayed transportation, closed museums, tasteless food, and now that it was… You put your hand in your pocket, stuck to your thigh, soaking wet from all the rain, and reached for the phone. Fortunately, it was still working. 12 pm.

The teachers failed to contact the bus and everyone had to walk back to the hotel, which was an hour away from the restaurant, and without an umbrella. Someone stole your umbrella. You left it near your bag as you went to the bathroom and when you came back, poof, it disappeared—just as it started to rain. Everyone was too worried about themselves and going back to the hotel, so you were forgotten and had to walk all the way under the pouring rain.

You sighed, for the nth time, and waited for the teachers to announce the pairings for the hotel rooms. As they started calling for everyone and seeing couple by couple leaving the reception, running in excitement to their little cove, you got impatient. You silently accepted that you’d be the last one. The problem was when they didn’t call you at all.

“Excuse me, Miss Kim. What about my room?” you asked politely.

“Yeah, about that…” she started. She patted her head with an apologetic expression. “Someone made a mistaking while booking the room and you’ll have to share it with someone from the other class that joined us.”

“What do you mean someone made a mistake?”

“We actually were one room short. I just asked for the last room they got left,” the teacher admitted. She took out the card to access your room and gave it to you. “I don’t know who the other person was but, here you go.”

You found your place by looking at the number on the sign beside the stairs. In front of your door was waiting an oddly familiar girl. Her height was average, her hair was black, and decorated her round face with straight bangs. Her clothes were baggy and looked to be trendy, new jeans and a big hoodie, and they were almost completely dry.

After looking at her enough, you realized you actually knew her name. Hanni Pham. She was your crush, what were the chances she’d be here to share the room with you? You couldn’t absolutely give her any hints or make her realize you might’ve liked her.

“Hi, Hanni.”

“Oh, hello, how do you know my name?” she replied with a raised eyebrow. Shoot. Think of an excuse, quick, say something.

“I mean, you must be Hanni, right? My teacher told me I’d be sharing my room with you, did she tell you?”

“Ah, that thing, yes. Well, good to meet you…”

You couldn’t help but nervously glance at her—she was way prettier in person—and your cheeks got warmer, you felt embarrassed since you were dripping water all over the floor and she was in the same room as you. It was the most unluckiest encounter you could have hoped for. Your chances were thrown out the window at this point. The first time you got to have a proper conversation with her was when you looked your worst.

It’s just a night, you repeat in your head. Just a night. Eight hours or something.

She swiped the card and let you both go inside.

Hanni smiled and joked with her vibrant joyful voice, “Damn, did Zeus have a grudge against you? You’re drenched! Here, take this towel,” she said.

“Actually,” you started, recalling everything that happened before, “Can you believe it? Someone actually stole my umbrella!”

Hanni noticed how frustrated you were and answered as sympathetically as she could, “No way! Who would do such a thing? They must be the raincoat industry's secret undercover agent.”

“Oh, definitely!” you laughed. “They probably have a whole stash of stolen umbrellas hidden away somewhere.”

The girl laughed too, interrupted by a soundless hiccup, and rubbed the back of her neck. “Yeah, it’s such a shame that people can’t be trusted these days.”

“It’s incredible! I left it beside my bag… I just left for two minutes and… Wait,” you stopped for a moment and looked at the umbrella peaking from her half-opened backpack. Almost ironically, it fell to the floor and you recognize it. There was no doubt. It was yours.

“That looks an awful lot like my umbrella.”

“What do you mean?” she stutters, as her eyes start to flicker. “Yeah, uhm, it’s a coincidence. I mean, who hasn’t had the same umbrella, right?” Hanni raised her shoulders and hands in a innocent shrug but failed to look at you in the eyes.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Coincidence? So you’re telling me that my umbrella magically walked out of my hands and into yours?”

Finally, she sighed with guilt. “Okay, fine,” she admitted. “You caught me. But in my defense, it was raining, and I was unprepared!”

“Unprepared? So, stealing my umbrella was your brilliant solution?”

“I panicked!” Hanni sheepishly replied. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.” She stopped and raised her eyes from the floor to look at you. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” you said. “Buy me lunch tomorrow and I’ll forgive you.” You pick up the umbrella and take your card out. You put it on the sensor but it wasn’t working. No wonder, it was dripping wet and you couldn’t dry it on your clothes which weren’t any less drenched. Hanni took it from your hands, brushing your fingers for an instant. You held your breath. Why were you getting nervous from her? She was a criminal!

“Okay, let’s go inside,” Hanni said, forcing a smile. “Wow, it’s quite a nice room. Quite spacious,” she commented when she stepped inside the room. Her eyes were open wide, her mouth slightly open, childishly surprised and excited.

“Oh, even a king-size bed. I got dips on that,” she said. “Where’s the second one though?” It was then that the realization dawned on you. A boy, a girl, one room, one bed. That’s how you become a father. Wait, no, that’s wrong. Your brain wasn’t working correctly, not at all.

“I’ll sleep on the floor, don’t worry.”

“Huh? What are you talking about? You can’t sleep on the ground,” Hanni gave you a weird look. “It’s been raining all day, there isn’t even a mattress… you would catch a cold.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“This is not happening,” she said. “You are already drenched because of me… you’ll definitely die if you sleep on the floor.” You were already taking the blankets out of the closet and making a little makeshift bed in the corner in the room when Hanni stopped you and forcefully pulled them out of your hands. “What do you think you’re doing?” the girl jeered. “I’m not that much of a monster to let you sleep on the ground, you idiot.”

“You’re a girl, Hanni. I’m a boy.”

“It’s okay, we can talk to the teachers tomorrow and ask to get another room or a second bed. It’s just one night. I wonder where you are bothered. Are you nervous because I’m too pretty?”

You laugh loudly. “I just don’t want to sleep next to a thief.”

“Hey! I already apologized!” Hanni hissed and pouted. You stared at her cheeks, puffing out to two soft and round mochis. Damn it. Your weakness. You couldn’t get angry at her while she was acting this cute.

“Okay, okay. It doesn’t matter now,” you said. “So, do you have some sleep attire?” It was already too late, both of you were tired. You had to get some sleep before the next day of walking.

“Oh, look at you caring so much for a thief…” she grinned.

“What—” you cleared your throat. “What are you saying?”

“You almost sound boyfriend-material,” Hanni chuckled with amusement. “Sorry, are you embarrassed?”

Your pulse jittered somewhere around the 140 mark. Hanni must have noticed it and was having a blast teasing you. “I’m not embarrassed, these are just basic manners. This is what every gentleman would do.”

“Exhibit A.”

“Ugh,” you sigh. “Just get over it.” You took your stuff out and went to take a shower. You were a bit uncomfortable showing yourself in pajamas but it wasn’t like you could do anything else. The real problem was Hanni was done. She came out of the bathroom with a thin pajama made of short shorts and a small shirt.

She just stood there being all pretty and shy, playing with the hem of her shirt, her face a little down, looking at you through her eyebrows.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Am I supposed to say something?” you stuttered, matching her energy. Hanni doesn’t answer, instead, her lips quiver. You quickly ruffle your hair out of frustration. “What is this? This really feels like something a couple would do… Well—you look great,” you admitted. The second, the words came out of your mouth, you realize you made an enormous mistake. You quickly raise your head and look at Hanni, she’s already giving you the vilest of smugs, her embarrassment having disappeared completely.

“Heh,” she breathes. You close your eyes to prepare for what she’s going to say next.

“Have you been picturing me in sleepwear?” she giggles.

“No! I haven’t been picturing you in sleepwear. Get over yourself.

Hanni lowered her eyes to the floor, clutching her shirt and tightening her shirt with her hands.

You couldn’t help but look at her tremble a little. “It's pretty cold couldn't you bring something longer? I mean, look at your body. It's full of goosebumps.”

“No, I thought this would have been fine but turns out that—hey! You’re staring at my body!”

“What's up? I didn't look at your body inappropriately. I just noticed you had goosebumps.”

Hanni scuffs but you ignore her. Instead, you took a blanket and wrap her with it. She was startled at first, widening her eyes and glancing at you with a questioning glare, but then she just relaxed and covered herself better with it.

“Let's finally get this over with. At least the bed is comfy.”

“Okay, but,” Hanni started, raising a finger in the air and dramatically lowering it down to draw a line from the top of the bed all the way down, slicing it like a sandwich. “Don’t dare to cross the side of the bed though.”

“I won’t, I won’t… Good night.”

“Good night.”

And that was it. You were finally going to sleep. You closed your eyes and tried to forget that you were sleeping next to your crush and you succeeded for a second, until she started moving around. At first she just touched you with her foot. Then she literally pushed you off the bed. Sometimes, she’d wake up, holding her eyes half open half closed and scold you like, “I told you not to cross the line. Stop touching me.” You were too sleepy and didn’t have the heart to fight back so you just kept sleeping.

The worse was when she threw her arm over and slapped you. You got up and stared at her, debating whether to slap her back or make her sleep on the floor. You looked back at the clock. 1:42 am. You sighed and just put the blanket back on her.

The sixth time you woke up, it wasn’t for some unknown violent act. Instead, you felt a really warm softness on your back. You slowly turned around and saw Hanni hugging your back. Her arm was over and under yours, clinching your abdomen and squishing her face on you.

Very slowly, you took her arm and put it behind you, so she could roll over. You let out a satisfied sigh when you succeed, only for her to go back at hugging you, this time tighter, on top of that she threw her leg over and koala hugged you.

Hanni had a wide grin.

You decided to enjoy yourself. Afterall, feeling her embrace and her low breath on your back was quite relaxing and most of all, it was really comfortable. In fact, you fell asleep fairly quick, imagining you were her boyfriend.

After an hour, it was Hanni’s turn to wake up.

Someone was blasting music from the room next door, she wasn’t sure if it was from above or from the right but it surely wasn’t quiet. Hanni yawned, stroking her cheek on her very big hugging pillow, annoyed by the sudden disturbance that disrupted her very comfortable slumber.

But then her pillow started moving and breathing; and she realized it wasn’t a pillow at all.

“Oh no, oh no,” she whispered, panicked and flustered. You were still sleeping. Good. She peered through the dark to see the clock on the other side, it was three in the morning. “Stay asleep.”

Hanni started debating with herself on whether it might have been you or her who started cuddling. Well, she was definitely the one strapped to you but you were holding her arm too. Maybe, just maybe, it could have been a reflex. No, it was definitely on her.

“Wow, you smell good,” she let her thoughts wander. “Nope, stop it.” But that really wasn’t the moment. She had to slip out of there before you woke up and then it would have gotten really awkward. Hanni raised her arm and leg, trying to roll on the side but you started tossing and turning. I took a couple of turns and now you were back in the starting position but this time, you were hugging her a bit more.

And she didn’t mind.

Her bargaining stopped when she realized that after all she didn’t really want to detach herself from you because she was cold, you were warm, and soft, and nice… and cute. Again, Hanni couldn’t stop but let her mind race and enjoy the moment too much. “Oh my god, what's wrong with me?” she cursed herself. “Okay, well, you should stop pulling me closer, because that feels really nice. I can hear your heartbeat.”

Hanni liked you too and she knew it since when her friends invaded your classroom, dragging her together with them. She fell for you without knowing, you slowly crept inside her heart when you treated her so nicely and affectionately, not looking down on her nor admiring her too much. Sometimes you’d sit beside her, when her friends were talking with other friends—leaving her alone—and make her laugh during those very somber days. Hanni fell for you, but she never considered that you could be anything more but now it was too hard to ignore—glued to you—she was very aware of her blossoming feelings.

You woke up. And in the spur of the moment Hanni decided to accuse you of everything.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Oh my god, did you cuddle me in your sleep?”

“I didn’t mean to… Wait, you’re the one hugging me.”

“Hey, you know, it's not that big of a deal that you, like, held me in your sleep.”

“It’s you.”

“No, it isn’t. Hey, this ain't on me. This is 100 % on you, so yeah. And you've got your arm on me. I couldn't have done that. That's like pretty damning evidence right there.”

“You’re so red, Hanni.”

“Oh? Then why is your heart beating so fast?”

“You’re literally attached to me like a koala…”

“Hey, if you like want to confess something, that's totally cool.”

“It sounds like you do.”

“No, I don’t. I don't have anything. I'm not hiding anything. I was just giving you a safe space to get it off your chest.”

“Get off what my chest?”

“Well, you're hiding that you're like super into me or something stupid like that.” Hanni concluded. “Anyways, just go back to sleep, will you?”

As Hanni drifted again into a deep sleep, she started mumbling incoherently. You weren’t asleep yet and just laid there, debating whether you should tell her to shut up, maybe to tease her, or to continue listening to her. Suddenly, a brilliant crossed your mind: recording her. That was the proper revenge for the hell she made you go through that morning. You couldn't resist the opportunity, you slowly got up and took the phone without making a single noise and pressed the record button.

To your surprise, Hanni muttered your name and then, "You're the best. I love you so much."

Your eyes widened in disbelief.

Hanni, her voice filled with affection. You have never heard her talk this nicely and you were pretty sure it was directed to you. "I wish I could marry you. You're just so cute." Her words were confused but you could make out what she was saying pretty clearly.

Your eyes turned into a look of panic when Hanni whispered, "I wish I could tell you how I feel."

You realized that you might have uncovered something you weren’t supposed to. You decided to end the recording, but just as you reached for your phone, Hanni mumbled again, "I wish I could kiss you."

Now you were in full panic mode. He had no idea Hanni felt this way about you. You quickly ended the recording and put your phone away, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Your heart was beating so fast, that alone could’ve woken her up.

Moments later, Hanni stirred and woke up, her eyes fluttering open. She yawned and stretched, completely unaware of what you just did. Then she noticed your face, completely shocked and scared, you were sweating bullets and you were sure she could see a couple of droplets in the moonlight.

"What's going on? What’s with that face?"

You tried to play it cool. "Oh, it's nothing, Hanni. Just a weird dream, that's all."

Hanni wasn’t really buying it but she was to sleepy to really care and turned around. That’s when she saw your phone still on, the big pause button and the soundwave of the recording up. Hanni was sleepy but she wasn’t dumb—the smartest kid in the class earned that name for a reason—she snatched the phone up and put it to her ear. You cursed yourself for making such a mistake: why would you ever leave your phone like that?! Hanni woke up so suddenly and you had no choice but to drop everything you were doing and try to look like you were sleeping but that was a dead giveaway.

Her eyes widened in shock as she listened to herself confess her feelings for you. Mortified, she turned to you, her face bright red. "You recorded me talking in my sleep?!"

You chuckled nervously. "I didn't mean to. It was just a joke, I swear."

Your hand suddenly snatched the phone from hers. It was instinctive. You didn’t why you did it, it was a deep feeling inside you. But Sarah was having none of it. She leaped up from her blanket. "Give me that phone, you bastard! You have to delete it right now!"

You were surprised by her choice of words but didn’t have time to think about it, you tried to evade her, but Hanni was quick. She chased you around the room and your finger was trying to save the audio to your drive. But running and swiping wasn’t exactly easy, and you exited the app instead of saving the evidence.

And that was your second mistake: leaving your instagram open.

Hanni successfully tackled you, making you fall down and your phone flew out of hand. Hanni catched it and ran to the corner of the room, near the door.

She looked at the screen trying to find where to delete the audio but then she saw a picture of herself. It was her instagram account. Her most recent post had a like. Sure, he must’ve liked the photo randomly, she thought to herself but when she scrolled down and saw more hearts, some questions quickly started forming in her mind.

“Hey… you certainly liked a lot of my photos.”

“Hanni—w-what are you doing? What are you looking at?”

“Your instagram,” Hanni quickly said, busy scrolling on your phone. “Oh my god… you liked all of my posts. You even saved them.”

“Hanni please give me my phone back,” you begged her, trying to take your phone from her but she was faster than you.

“Let’s talk,” she said in a serious tone.

“Fine,” you agreed.

“You have a little too many pictures of me. What’s that about?”

“You said you wanted to marry me in your sleep.”

“Wha—you were saying you wanted to confess to me to your friend!”

“You watched my DMs?! What do you think you’re doing, Hanni Pham?! You’re violating my privacy!”

“Violating my privacy my ass! You literally recorded me in my sleep, just shut up.”

“Please, Hanni, put it down. I’m going to delete the audio and we’ll forget whatever happened today.”

“You really say the most random stuff to your friend. ‘Hanni is so cute, she is so pretty I can’t stop staring at her…’ Let me see some more.”

“Hanni please I’ll do whatever you want, just stop.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then say you like me,” Hanni said. She was trying her hardest to look threatening, to emanate a bit of authority but her bright red face showed that you she just as fluttered as you were. “I have seen everything, you might just admit it at this point.”

“Hanni, when you were sleeping you literally said—”

“If you don’t say it, I’m going to post the screenshots of your chat on the class chat.”

“NO! Okay, I’ll say it,” you reluctantly agreed. You took a deep breath and finally spoke, “I… I like you, Hanni.”

Hanni’s face turned into the biggest smile you have ever seen. “Say it again, I didn’t hear it.”

You sighed. “I really like you Hanni.”

“Is it the truth?”

“It… is. Yes.”

“Why?”

“Hanni stop being evil! You have already read everything in that fucking chat. There’s literally everything there—I said it, will you put my phone down now?”

“Okay, it’s fine,” she said and put the phone on the desk. You were to let out a sigh of relief but it remained trapped in your throat when Hanni said, “I like you too.”

“You what?”

“I figured, you already heard me saying it, so I’m gonna say it for real now. I like you too, a lot.”

You two started to laugh awkwardly to fill the silence between her words. When you stopped, the silence was even louder than before. You were looking at the floor and Hanni was looking at the ceiling.

“What do we do now?” she spoke.

“I don’t know.”

“Shall we sleep.”

“I don’t think we have any other option.”

You two climbed on the bed, hopefully for the last time that night. You laid there still, miles apart from eachother, for several minutes, without anyone saying anything. Hanni decided to speak first, “How long have you liked me for?”

“Oh, we’re starting with those questions?”

“I think I deserve to know.”

“Well… it was since I’ve seen you for the first time in your class.”

“Oh, that long ago?”

“What about you?”

“Since last month.”

“That’s cool.”

Hanni turned to you, her black eyes searching yours, and with a nervous smile, she asked, “Can I ask you something?”

You turned your head and met her gaze, “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Hanni hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Why do you like me?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion and you let out a happy sigh. “What do you mean, why do I like you. Hanni, there are so many reasons. Your smile, your laugh, the way you make everyone around you happy, your kindness, your intelligence… I can’t pinpoint a specific reason. Whenever I see your face, I feel little better, and I look forward to seeing you again the next day. That’s it really. Why do I love you? Because you make me live with more passion.”

Hanni couldn’t resist, your words were getting to her so she pounced on you, pulling you in a tight hug. You were started but just accepted it, because you loved it. You turned around, and hugged her back, leaving her head on your chest, just to get back at her.

“This is exactly why I like you so much,” she managed to say groggily.

A kiss was too soon, for each other, so when Hanni got close enough to your face, you nuzzled your noses and pinched her cheeks. They were extremely soft, they were chubby although her face didn’t look like it. The velvety texture of her skin was surprising, it was as if touching a delicate, plush petal. Her cheeks dimpled with the sweetest, childlike charm, and her silly laughter filled you with joy, making it impossible for you to resist her tenderness.

Hanni was blushing madly but she loved it.

“I guess we kind of are really like a couple now huh?” she said. “A thunderstorm outside, cuddling in a king-sized bed. I... I guess I do kind of like staying with you like this. Just a little bit. I guess this wasn't too bad.”

“We’re gonna talk about this tomorrow, let’s sleep for now,” you suggest.

“Yeah, good night.”

THE END

Written, 11 July 2023 - 02 October 2023

#hanni #newjeans #newjeans hanni #newjeans fluff #hanni fluff #kpop fluff #kpop #fluff

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

Text

To Hunt a Silver Stag (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Talks of war, death, blood, gore, wounds, stitches, injuries, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You struggle under the weight of the knight. So unused are you to have to travel as a regular, magic-less, being, that you feel your muscles tighten; coil. Aches form in places that have not had them since you were a small child…if an immortal being can even be considered a child, really.

You’d been walking for hours, and your hand was bright with the pain of iron affliction.

“Stag,” Gaz utters, eyes half-closed tight and his breath heaving. “You’re hurting yourself, Love.”

“I have it under control,” you level. Your lungs burn inside of your chest. “We have to keep moving to the border.”

“We can’t get there if you,” his voice cuts as he grits his teeth, though it comes back a moment later. “If you can’t walk.”

You slow, his arm over your shoulders heavy as you look over at him gradually. Sweat dribbles off of your nose, silver eyes dull and blurry. Your head is still light.

You’d both left the cliff-face cave with a long trail of blood leading behind—thankfully, the earth had been sympathetic to your cause. Without any magic to help, it had taken it upon itself to shatter the ground, erasing any trace along with your footprints. But even those forces can’t will the strength back into your body.

You stare into Gaz’s clenched face, his body shaking with all of his armor left behind except his cape, which hangs off of him to try and keep his bandages protected from dirt and dust.

Your expression goes grim.

If you wouldn’t stop for yourself…then you suppose you would have to stop for him.

“Alright,” you whisper, and your quivering feet stop. With a slow and easy motion, you slip out from under Gaz’s arm and grasp him carefully, letting his legs bend until he’s to the ground—back resting against a nearby rock.

“How are you feeling,” you ask, your lips already moving to his cheek. To give him a small sliver more.

Yet, before your flesh can move over his, a hand lightly grabs at your chin, stopping you. Freezing, you blink in surprise as Gaz tries a slow smirk.

“I’m flattered,” he chuckles weakly, nodding. “But you need to keep your strength. I can take it.”

You frown, only pulling back when his grip lowers back to his lap and he takes in a long inhalation, head leaning to connect to the stone behind him.

Lysander flutters over, resting atop the object as you watch him silently. Thinking.

Gaz won’t make it at this pace—those wounds all needed proper care, and even as experienced as you were, there’s little you can do without the proper tools.

You’d discarded your crown back near the cave, and while bone could be used as a needle in times of need, it would do the man more harm than good if you decided to take it up again. It had hurt something in you to leave it behind.

“You hand.” You blink, looking back to the knight after you register his words.

“Excuse me?”

Gaz smiles, head shifting on the rock as his chest rises and falls under his soiled tunic. Those browns of his are something of value to you, and your face heats even looking into them anymore. You glance away for a moment as he repeats himself.

“Let me see your hand, then. Haven't forgotten about it.” You sigh, fingers flinching.

Moving out your limb, you give it to him as his hands grasp your flesh, picking at his cape bandage until you watch it slip away like a leaf. The fabric is stiff with blood and puss, and under, burst blisters show themselves to air.

Your lips thin tightly at the sight, disgust in your heart before a hiss escapes you.

Gaz grimaces, sitting up a bit straighter. His fingers slide up your wrist, taking it softly and tilting your hand into the light. Looking, studying, he grunts and sends you a glance.

“I…I don’t know how to treat this.”

“You can’t,” you ease out, licking your lips at the knowledge.

Gaz’s brows furrow, a breeze going through the trees, ruffling your tattered dress.

“What’s that mean? Don’t tell me there’s no way to treat it. There’s freshwater—natural salves, I can make one if I can find—”

“Gaz,” you speak softly, tilting your head at him with a sad smile. The knight’s speech trails, his eyes hard on your face in an honest stubbornness. It nearly makes you chuckle as he squeezes your flesh as if trying to convince you of his skill.

“I have no doubt your understanding of medicinal herbs is vast,” you tilt your head. “But this is not a wound that even time can heal. The boils may fade, but the pain never will. It is a wound of iron. None of the Fae can fix such things.”

“Why in the bloody hell not,” he grunts, and this time you do chuckle. Gaz’s face becomes confused. “I’m not finding this all that funny, Stag.”

“No,” you sigh. “No, you’re not.”

Your eyes stare at him, those silvers glinting in the light of morning. He glares back, determined but losing that bead of understanding that he had been holding onto. Magic, the mortal man, was not used to. You explain the best you can, his hand still holding yours as if made of the finest glass ever melted.

“It’s just how we were made, Knight. Just as you were branded to die,” your heart seizes, “we were made to fear iron. It is one thing I will never have the privilege of knowing the answer to.”

Gaz’s face tightens, his body shifting until a prick of pain forces him to stop.

“It was my choice,” you try to relieve the burden.

“And a damn stupid one,” your eyes blink in shock.

A moment passes before your bell-like laughter echoes over the trees. The knight’s form stills to near statue-like motion as you do, gazing at your hand as the sound moves like starlight and caresses with its windish fingers.

“What is the word?” Your free hand covers your mouth, oblivious to Gaz’s heating cheeks and how his heart soars. “Lionhearted?”

“I’d move more to foolish,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders. But you had entranced him yet again. Everything about you was…strange. New.

Beautiful.

“Perhaps I was borrowing some of that from you, then, Knight,” you watch Gaz rip a strip off his cape once more. He moves to tie a new bandage, doing it gently as your eyes are as malleable as water. “It is more of a human trait than Fae.”

A glance, paired with a layered smirk. “Rubbing off on you?”

“Seems it,” you slide a calm look his way, fingers flinching when his knot goes too tight.

He mutters a small apology, face worried before he hesitantly lets you go.

Suddenly, your lips are near his cheek, pressing a delicate kiss. But there’s no magic in it—no power surge that enters his muscles. Just a whisper of passion before it’s gone with an utterance of, “My thanks, Kindly Knight.”

Gaz is left breathless as you stand up, feet shifting away a few paces and looking around. He has to blink away the haze behind his mind and clear his throat before he can speak beyond a heavy stutter.

“It’s…it’s no problem.”

You hum, looking around in a slow circle, your gold belt is still here, resting just under the broken straps of your corset. The gold glints for a moment, and just as Lysander flutters off with little more than a bird-ish call to stay near, you sigh and shake your head.

“We have to move soon,” you say. Gaz agrees, ever the strategic mind.

“There’ll be hunting parties until we’re caught,” he huffs a chuckle. “While I can put in my trust that you’ll be okay, I, on the other hand…”

Brown eyes look down, narrowing at the carnage of his body. His bandages are heavy with blood, and everything has a buzzing sheen of numbness to the flesh.

“Well, let's just say that my odds aren’t looking that nice, yeah?”

“I’m not leaving you here,” you pass a firm sweep of your even gaze to him. “You’ve far earned my loyalty, Gaz, and I will not falter in my steadfastness in return.”

Under his breath, he grunts out a teasing, “Was hoping you’d say that.”

Without another word, your arm is once more slipping his waist—Gaz’s long limb going over your shoulder to rest before you help push himself up.

The man strangles down a sharp cry, agony ricocheting through every nerve and splintering out like bark.

“Fuck,” he hisses, clenching his teeth.

You stare from the side of your eye worriedly, pausing.

“It’s okay,” Gaz grumbles, reassuring you. He blinks for a moment, clearing out the black dots. “But wait a second for me.”

“Of course,” you begin but are cut off by the knight's arm moving away from you. A hand is placed on your shoulder, and your body is gently turned to the side. Gaz struggles on his feet for a moment, but he pauses until the abyss at the sides of his vision is gone.

“Let me…” Fingers dance over your corset straps, moving to tie the laces as best he can. “Tell me when it’s good, then, will you, Love?”

Again with that nickname—but even you can admit that there was an intoxicating electricity to your skin now. A deadly heat.

You stare ahead blankly as shaky fingers glide over the fabric, you hear the pulse of a fluttering heart that reminds you of a grand war horse; strong and firm. Gaz takes a deep breath through his nose, licking his lips slowly as he takes up the items and begins pulling lightly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “it might end up being a bit loose. I have to leave the bottom loops open.”

Your gut swirls, moving to gaze over your shoulder with glimmering eyes. Gaz pointedly doesn’t meet it, fixing the stance of his feet. You stare, the fabric around your chest and back conforming as the corset is tightened to a comfortable degree, blinking softly as Lysander returns across the way.

“There,” Gaz nods, glancing into your unblinking eyes before he moves away like it burns to do so. “Is it too tight—?”

Your head snaps to the far right, and a shadow of a large body pushes through the bush. Swiftly moving in front of the knight, you blink through the rose-layered haze in your brain, startled. But what startled you even more was how Gaz tried to push you behind him at the exact same time you did to him.

Eyes meeting, you both stare, wide, before a body cusps the small patch of open grass.

All at once, every line of tension leaves in a calm exhale. A large smile peels your lips. Another laugh.

Gaz’s jaw drops.

“Gwendoline,” you move forward swiftly, hand outstretched to land on close-cropped white fur. You chuckle, moving to firmly push your forehead into the animal’s—careful of the horn protruding.

A delicate snort enters your ears.

Peeling back, a small and slender head shifts to show purple eyes to you; hooves move over the ground and a long tail with a line of flowing fur down the center whispers over the grass.

A unicorn.

“How?” You breathlessly ask under your breath, heart pounding. Her head elegantly tilts, needle-sharp horn poking out. “All this way, My Dear?”

Gwendoline’s eyes glint, as if laughing. Of all the beasts you’d come to know, this one still surprised you. Your head moves to Lysander, but the bird only flaps over and settles on your shoulder, cooing.

You hum. “Clever little bird, are you?”

“Am I already dead or is that a fucking unicorn?” Gaz bluntly asks, motioning weakly with a single hand as you bring the mythical beast over to him and ask her to bend down.

Hands grasp him, moving him forward swiftly to the awaiting beast as his feet skid for a moment. Your sly form comes into view in the side of his eye.

“Did you think I was lying when I said I knew one? Many I consider my friends, but none have I known longer than Gwendoline.”

Gaz’s lips open and close, blinking quickly as he’s forced to get on the thing, his injured body pushed over the kneeling side—in fact, he was a bit afraid he’d break the animal’s back, truth be told. It seemed so…delicate.

But as his hands had to settle themselves into the unicorn’s mane to keep steady, Gwendoline rising on sure legs, the knight was instantly proven wrong. Delicate looking, yes, but this best could break down stone with one swift kick. It had no trouble moving forward as you settled at her side, hand resting on her shoulder.

Your silver eyes stare at Gaz as he pants not from pain but from boyish wonder.

Smiling widely, you giggle at him. At his wide-open face and his honest smirk. It’s a magical thing.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

—

The border to your kingdom comes without a fight, and when the first river is crossed, and the bottom of your dress soaked by it, you feel the veil shimmer at your arrival.

“Rightly,” you begin as you set your feet to dry land, Gwendoline and Lysander listening in on your conversation. “I don’t believe I know what being here will do to you—this is a sensitive place, you understand?”

“I won’t stay any longer than what I’m allowed—”

“I am allowing you,” you interrupt, looking over with a heavy heat on your face. You stare at him, riding atop a unicorn with such grievous wounds he’d gotten defending you.

Gaz blinks before nodding slowly, smiling. “Then I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

The air here is different; everything is lighter. The grass is greener—the sky more blue. It sings.

“Do you not have family to return to,” your eyes narrow. Gwendoline knows the path—you need not guide her. “Loved ones?”

“Ah,” Gaz shrugs the best he’s able, nearly commenting on the unicorn’s perfectly smooth stride. If he were on a regular horse, his wounds would be burning by now. The man moves his eyes from you to the ground for a moment. “I don’t think they’ll be roaring to have me back now.”

Your face thins.

“I…” you breathe out a slow breath. Emotions. Such fickle things. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” is the easy and swift answer. “I made my choice—and I’d do it again, as well. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t, yeah?”

Soft eyes move your way, and you meet them, a gentle smile peeling your lips.

“I knew when I gazed upon you in that Hall that you were strange, Knight,” your words move between the both of you, hovering in the air. “You carry yourself with something long lost. I can no longer name it, myself.”

Gaz’s head tilts. A humored smirk, but his brows are quizzically raised. “What does that mean?”

You only stare, Lysander on your shoulder and your expressions hidden to all but the old voices of the wind, who’ve known you far longer than all else. Your throat hums, and you turn back to the forest ahead of you, safely home. Gwendoline’s eyes watch you closely from beside your face, glinting their periwinkle hue.

“Alright, then,” the man sighs, but a large smile moves across his face. A low chuckle. Hell, his heart was even pattering like a bird’s wings.

“When we get to my father’s court, I ask that you let me do the talking,” you speak some minute into the walk, your strength returning the longer you live here with the magic in the very fabric of the sky. It seeps back into you, swelling like a wave. “You’ll be received by the best healers we have, but my father will need answers from the both of us before long. He is a thorough Fae, even by my peoples’ standards.”

Gaz grimaces as his stitched wounds pull as he shifts his upper body. A hand settles on his leg, keeping it lightly grasped before his face returns to a tempered calm.

“Right,” he utters, fatigued. He glances at your hand and clears his throat softly.

“Keep your head high,” you utter. “You have my word, Gaz, and I believe that it will account for much. You are under my protection now.”

Your fingers travel the side of his breachers, peeling back the torn fabric to stare at the bandages you’d wrapped. It was bloody, but it would last until you got to the castle. You miss the way the man’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“I think you’ll like it here,” you whisper, your silver eyes shifting upwards to meet brown—Gaz watches with barely hidden reverence. A great awe that extends to his bones. “You’re…different.”

That's all you can call him.

He huffs, tilting his head. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

—

The healers had gotten him squared away in no time at all, and now, days later, he had his own quarters in the castle—an esteemed guest of your father’s. The mortal knight who defended his daughter’s honor with all the strength of a dragon, even when he didn’t need to.

Your wound had healed as best it could, but, like most nights, you were up because of it—walking the halls and rubbing at the skin of your palm. What you had told Gaz had been true; the blisters and the throbbing blood had ceased, but the pain underneath remained. A brand of sorts. Burned into your soul.

The both of you were such self-destructive creatures. If anyone would have commented on it, they’d say you were meant to be together.

Two sides of the same coin.

Your unadorned head swivels to the wide open windows of the corridor—sheer fabric curtains of unicorn hairs whispering beside you. There were no fires here, only the illumination of the moon and the stars. The courtyard below is filled with merriment that will move long into the coming weeks. Laughter and warm voices. Dancing.

Their princess was back, after all. The King of the mortals was dead. It was a time of celebration.

You smile to yourself, rubbing your thumb into your palm as you continue to walk on, flowing dress dragging behind you. When you hear the firm heartbeat following after, you entertain him for a while, a tiny smile stuck to your face.

“You’re getting better,” you call behind you, not turning around.

Before long, a shadow moves up beside your form with a smirk and a heavy chuckle. “Really?”

“No,” you hum and hear the honest laugh.

“Hell,” Gaz utters. “Got my hopes up.” You shake your head lightly, side-eyeing the man. His soul was more Fae than mortal now—the food and drink were in his veins, and that alone made people…less than they were before. Not only that, but his tunic and pants as well; Fae made.

You both walk in silence for a time, the man’s eyes still trying to take it all in even since the days he’d been here; it was incredible.

But then he notices your hand.

Brows furrowing, he gently takes you by the arm and stops you as you slow, glancing over. Gaz frowns, and just as he did in the forest, he takes your hand and tilts it to him.

His hands are warm.

“Can I really not do anything?” You smile.

“No, Gaz, you cannot.” He grumbles, grimacing, and it makes you chuckle at him.

“Come,” you whisper, shifting the limb to grasp his own—the man’s eyes blinking quickly. “I have something I want to show you.”

“Alright,” he says, quietly, a layer of worship slipping between the word and his low breath, staring at the back of your head as you lead him wherever you see fit. He wondered if anyone was really led away from the battlefields by Fae—he wondered if they’d just been as enchanted as he had become, by men and women of pointed ears and unnatural eyes. Flowing clothes and soft voices.

They’d gone willingly. They had to have—they’d snuck off and now dance in the courtyards below; they live in the woods, near the rivers. Learning the words of birds and beasts, lying in the sun, and sleeping under stars.

Being taken not by corruption of a name…but by love.

Gaz’s eyes glint as your hand stays gently in his, a grin on his lips as the moonlight casts shadows over his face. He squeezes your hand and tries to will away the pain that lives under your flesh with his own.

Your face heats a foreign fire, one that is becoming more and more common the longer you live around this man.

You lead him into a courtyard similar to the one from Michael’s castle, yet, at the same time, so very different.

Phoenixes sit in trees of silver and gold. Unicorns graze on grass greener than anything ever seen across the border. In the air, illuminated wisps looking like stars float to shine light over bushes that drop gems like water droplets into woven baskets. Much like the ones from your crown—the stones that Gaz had given back to you from his pouch; sighting how you had led him to your hiding place without even knowing it.

Perhaps that was when you knew you would love him for all of eternity.

“Sit with me, Gaz,” you breathily say, turning and pulling him closer, noses nearly brushing while walking backward. Feet moving through long grass as if a phantom.

Your eyes pierce him, making him lean forward. He shutters, noses brushing.

“Kyle,” he whispers, only to you. The word burns from the power that surges from that monumental confession. “Kyle Garrick. Say it,” your stare, “please.”

“Kyle,” the man wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close. His very soul lights inside his ribcage, and his body quivers. His lips brush against yours.

“You’re setting me on fire, and I don’t want to stop it.” Your smile dances, your heart rampages. An old creature, you are—an immortal thing.

But as his lips press to yours, and you breathe down every ounce of loyalty he offers as his hands skate your dress, you would give it all up in an instant.

Just as he had for you.

You haven’t told him, but when a Fae loves someone, really loves someone…that’s the only person they’ll ever love for the rest of time immemorial. Or at least until one of them dies. After that, if the Fae is left behind, they wither. They Fade. A broken heart, everyone says.

Your people are delicate things when it comes to emotions. Everything is heightened. Your soul already sings for him—your heart soars when he speaks; when he looks at you. It was still the beginning, after all, but this man was special. He had a mind that would be remembered well after his years.

He’d damned you from the moment you’d seen him under that stained-glass window. A Saint and a Stag.

What is love, except eternal damnation and memories stuck like gold thread into skin?

—

Far off into the world, sitting near that dark and shadowed cave, a deer antler crown sits motionless in the grass. It has no adornments—no gold thread or gems of starlight. No grand wealth to it.

Just antler and the hint of magic laid in deep like the dirt of the earth.

Flowers grow in a small patch around a single broken tine.

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