#about: love is a winged cupid painted blind

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

The Agony of Desire

Part 11 // Masterlist

Warnings: 18+, Smut, fingering, p in v sex, mild choking, talks of pregnancy, canon typical themes, drugging, assault, guns.

A/N: Brace for impact...

~

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

~

It's kind of annoying that good things don't last. Who designed a world like that anyway? Where you could get a taste of something so perfect, so peaceful, and so explosive. The rekindling of a lost love, the burning passion of two years of agony, the desire to stay in a blissful paradise with the one person who ever made you feel... seen.

To have it ripped from your hands without a forethought, taken by the universe with five simple words.

We have to go back.

But you didn't want to. You wanted this, here, with him and the quiet moments in between careless laughter and the shared breath of lovers before a kiss. And you wanted to grip it tightly and tell the universe to fuck off because Billy Russo was yours and nobody would ever take him away from you again.

And he sees this all written on your face when he gets the words out.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says, finding his way to you as you look down, your throat tight beyond compare, your eyes watering as you try to pretend that you're fine. His hands on your shoulders, "We'll be okay," his voice interjects, "I'll keep you safe, it's just that Kingpin needs something more from me, and then we're done. We'll be back here- or free to be in New York together- wherever you want- it's just one more thing and it'll all be over." He rambles into your ear, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him to you.

You take a deep breath, listening to his heart race in his chest.

"I don't want to lose you. I only just got you back." You sniffle.

"Oh baby," he kisses the top of your head gently, "You're not losing me. Not that easily. You told me no several times and I still kidnapped you anyway."

That makes you laugh, which makes him laugh.

"When you say it like that, it makes you sound like a villain." You say in between breaths.

"I am a villain. I'm a really bad man." He confirms with a nod and you shake your head in disbelief.

Your stomach picks that moment to make a loud gurgling sound and your mouth drops open.

"Oh my god did you hear that-?"

"-I know right, what the fuck is living inside of you?" He says with mock horror in his face and you laugh, pulling him back into a hug that he returns easily.

You sway for a moment, before pulling back.

"Come, let's talk strategy over dinner." You say decidedly, pulling him toward the kitchen.

~

You're staring at his sleeping form, from your seat opposite him.

He always looks so young when he sleeps, appearing so innocent about the ways of the world, and you acknowledge that it must be his eyes that give him his age. The look in them, the weariness, the distrust, the way you can see him analysing things as they happen. It's what makes him look close to the age he always claims to be. Now though, he could pass for at least a decade younger. Billy's got eyes that have seen so much, and you just wished for one moment you could ease his burdens.

He'd explained to you last night, that some of the money hadn't gone through, that Fisk was demanding the remaining twenty million and would restart his pursuit of your family if he was not compensated. It was one thing to be hunted by the Meachums, but you would most likely never survive if they managed to put their differences aside long enough to pursue you.

It made you nervous. To be going back into the lion's den no matter how reassuring Billy was, that everything would be okay.

How could he know something like that? How was he so sure, that the minute you two landed in New York, that both groups wouldn't descend on you both and take it all away? Take what you'd just been given...

You unbuckle your seatbelt, standing, and smoothing out your black dress for a moment. Billy peeks an eye open sleepily, looking up at you as you take the few steps to him.

"Are you okay?" He asks, his voice laced with heavy sleep, undoing his seatbelt and opening his arms for you to climb into his lap. You accept the invitation, straddling his body easily, burying your head in his chest, listening for a quiet moment to his heart, feeling fear and anxiety rise in your throat, and letting the soft scent of him calm you.

"I'm okay." You say after a little bit, "Just scared."

His arms encircle you, a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

"It's easy, in and out, nothing to be afraid of."

He'd said the same thing last night, but fear, held no care for rationality. Fear's only job, was to remind you of everything you could lose.

You grip his sweater, taking a deep breath, contemplating whether to tell him what you'd almost spilled yesterday- that you loved him, beyond words, beyond reason, maybe even beyond fear.

And yet, you still couldn't figure out if you could forgive him for the last two years.

It was... strange.

To love someone so deeply and still be burdened by the weight of their actions.

Maybe that was love. Imperfect, flawed, cracked, but so blissfully warm at the same time.

The Japanese art form, Kintsugi comes to mind next, and you wonder if that was something possible for you and Billy. An object, made more beautiful after being broken.

It's what lulls you to sleep.

The comfort of broken things, and the hopes that you have the chance to put them back together.

You wake a little later when the plane shakes, you stiffen in fright and his hand is immediately on the back of your head.

"Just turbulence baby, you're okay." He soothes.

You make a little hum, crawling off his lap to give a big stretch.

He watches you carefully, and you turn to look at him in question.

"What are you doing?" You ask, wondering why he's just staring at you.

"Nothing, just... remembering." He says, giving you a sly smile.

"Creep." You say, with mock malice in your tone.

"Careful," he warns, "You'll get me hard if you keep talking like that."

You almost choke on your spit with the speed you inhale at. Holy fuck what gave him the right?

You grin when a comeback flies right into your head.

"I bet it doesn't take much to get you hard, Russo." You tease, reaching under your dress to tug your panties down your legs. You watch the muscle in his jaw pop as he clenches his teeth together, never breaking eye contact with you as you free your panties and ball them into your fist.

"I bet it just takes the right move at the right time and that big cock is all swollen and leaky, hmm?" You tease, tossing your panties at him. The soft material hits his chest.

He doesn't say a word, looking at you with amusement as you silently dare him to say something.

He takes a deep breath, tilting his head to study you a little, before he extends a hand to give two swift pats to this thigh.

Holy shit that did not just make you tingle.

"Do you want something, Russo?" You ask evenly, and his smile deepens.

Shit. He had that quiet dominance about him that made you want to get on your knees and have him fist your hair in his large hand-

Christ almighty, where did your feminism go?

"Come here." He says casually, looking away from you for a moment, as if the clouds could ever be as interesting as the little brat of a girlfriend he had, one that he knew craved a firm hand.

"Bite me." You quip.

"If I have to get up from here," He warns "You're not getting to come."

You lick your lips.

"You're bluffing. You like me too much."

When he stands, your entire body gives you a warning that you were now in danger of being punished.

"I do like you," he acknowledges, "but that's not going to stop me from teaching that bratty cunt some manners."

Oh boy.

You take a step back as he begins to approach you, adrenaline spiking in your system, but in this private jet, there really was nowhere to go.

"Lesson number one, when I say 'come here,' do you know what I expect you to do?"

You keep backing away, knowing that your space to evade him is getting smaller and smaller.

"Do I look like I give a shit?" You ask, looking back to see how much space you have left.

It's all the distraction he needs to grab you. You gasp as he pins your lower half against a seat, you wriggle your body, but can't seem to get any leverage to push him away.

"I expect you, to bring that needy little cunt to me." He says lowly, as if you haven't spoken.

"Who said I was needy?" You gasp out, between small grunts as you struggle to get away from him.

His warm hand is sliding between your thighs in the next second.

"Oh please," he says, doubling down on you, using his body to stop any hint of struggle, "We both know how hot and wet this cunt gets for me."

Your mouth drops open when his middle finger slides over your clit. You bite down on your bottom lip, going still.

"There she is," he hums in appreciation, "Just ready for me, hmm?" His finger circles your clit slowly, you feel your thighs relax involuntarily, opening up for him to take what he wants. Your head is turned to the side, avoiding his stern, but deliciously warm gaze to listen to his sultry voice.

"Say my name, baby. Tell me whose cunt this is."

You can't deny him here. Not when you're in the air flying back to your ex-fiance, you wouldn't give him any doubts about this.

"Yours, Billy." You say so softly, still avoiding his gaze.

You're rewarded with firmer circles to your clit. You hiss, tilting your head up to expose your neck to him reflexively.

You were made to be taken. And he was made to take.

"The things I want to do to you, baby, the ways I want to ruin you would probably get me arrested in some countries."

Your mind fills with all the terrible possibilities. A small moan slips from your mouth.

"You want that too, don't you? You want to give me what I want?"

You nod your head, sighing as his finger on your clit pauses for a moment, only to push into you a second later.

You gasp as his thick finger breaches your entrance, filling you and pressing right against your g-spot. You go rigid, gasping as the pleasure builds inside you, teetering on an edge that doesn't come because he then holds his hand still.

You let out a low whine and he chuckles in response, your noses bumping affectionately as if he isn't a finger deep inside you.

He makes a small movement, something of a 'come-hither' with his finger, that creates a tapping motion on that spot inside you.

Pleasure blooms from your cunt all the way up your spine, exploding in your brain, before his finger stops moving.

Your eyebrows are scrunched together, mouth parted as he torments that sweet spot deep inside you.

"Why?" He asks, as if you can remember what was being said.

"What?" You question, out of breath, as he makes a few pumps of his finger into you. You gasp, tightening your walls around his finger in a silent plea not to stop.

"Why do you want to give me what I want?"

You shiver as his thumb begins slow circles into your clit, your knees wobble.

"Because..." you trail off.

"Because?"

He stops all movement and your frustration peaks.

"Because I'm yours." You say under your breath, finally looking into his dark eyes.

Is that what he wanted to hear?

His mouth stretches into a predatory smile.

Suddenly, his finger withdraws from you. You gasp, desperate to keep him close, but your hands are unable to grab him before he's pulling away from you.

"Good. Don't forget it." He says, his back is to you as he heads back to his seat.

Oh this asshole...

The fasten seatbelt sign pings on and you huff in frustration.

You make your way back to your seat angrily, sitting down and fastening your seat belt, glaring at him the whole time.

He sits too, fastens his seatbelt, but not before giving you a good show of sucking your arousal off his finger.

Which only throws you back into the memories of his tongue, and how much he genuinely loves tasting you.

You couldn't even fathom how that was possible. How his head between your thighs, his tongue working you over could give him so much pleasure, when Ward before wouldn't even-

You suck in a breath, heart squeezing as you look at him. Really look at him.

He looks at you too, from his spot opposite, and you're not even touching, but you've never felt this connected to him. It feels like he's in your head, like you're in his, like you know everything he feels from one look at him.

Billy Russo is a part of you now, he's in your bones, running deep in your veins, and he always will be.

And from the burning look in his eyes, he feels the same way about you.

~

Your face is pressed to the bed, a little bit of drool slipping past the edge of your lips and soaking into the soft sheets as he ruts into you from behind.

There's a couple of pillows under your hips, propping your boneless body up, presenting your body for his railing.

Your eyes roll back in your head, an unintelligent sound floating past your lips and you hear him chuckle above you between forceful thrusts.

"Do you like that, baby? Does it feel good?" He asks, and you can only make another dumb sound in response.

'Feel good' was an understatement. It was more than that. If your pleasure was the big bang, he was at its center. He was the source, the fuel, the reason. All emphasised by each rough motion of his cock.

"So perfect for me, baby. So fucking perfect." He gasps, his brain short-circuiting with the abundance of pleasure.

You clench fistfuls of the sheets between your fingers, your pussy tightening around his cock, warning him that you're going to come. He grunts, hips slapping against yours loudly, his hands smoothing over your skin, scraping at the curve of your back and ass with his blunt nails.

Open and pliant below him, you whine as you're brought right to the edge.

"Gonna come so hard, hope you taste it." He grunts out, and you let out another whine, so close... so close...

But he pulls out of you at the very last second and you whine in distress. He flips you over forcefully, the pillows still haphazardly beneath you, raising your hips so that he can reenter you easily.

You gasp his name, pulling the wild strands of your hair away from your face. His hands are firm on your hips, squeezing so tightly, you think it may bruise.

"All mine. Isn't that right?" He asks.

"Mmhmmm." Is all the noise you can make.

"Only me?"

"Yes Sir." You murmur.

He pushes one of your legs up, you gasp as you feel him go deeper, a droplet of sweat trickles from his forehead, down his nose and lands on your hip. You've been going at this for a while, and you know you're going to be so sore tomorrow.

Your back arches, you were on edge again. Shallow breaths and desperate sighs and the gasp of his name and the clenching of your core and he stops again and you swear you're going to murder him.

"Stop. Fucking. Edging. Me." You gasp out angrily between breaths, and you hiss when his hand wraps around your throat tightly.

"Lose the fucking attitude, baby. You're mine and I can do what I want." He grits out.

He pulls the pillows from below you, so that you're flat on the bed, it makes a good position to cover the entirety of your body with his and then he's back inside you again.

Your ankles lock behind him as he delivers swift thrusts, one hand cups the back of your neck to pull your mouth to his.

You bury your fingernails into his back and he groans into your mouth. You want to leave evidence on his skin that you were here, below him, taking his cock inside you.

He breaks the sloppy kiss to catch a breath, but you barely let him, before you're pulling his mouth back to yours in a heated frenzy.

There it is again. You whine as you get close, your body tightening around his, begging him not to stop.

He takes the message this time, speeding up. Your teeth sink into his bottom lip, your nails grip and scratch along his skin. His cock fucking you open faster and faster until an explosion goes off in your head.

Your scream is silent. Voice too gone to make an actual sound, your body squeezes down on his cock firmly.

He grunts at the feeling, your cunt fluttering around his cock so blissfully he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop himself from exploding.

It doesn't work, because in the next second you adjust your head to bite down on his shoulder- and the explosion goes off inside him any way.

He fills you right up, all the way to the brim- you can both feel it. The way his spend slips out of your pussy while he's still deep inside you. Billy knows it's the hardest he's ever cum in a while.

And it's all for you.

You both pant, your skin uncomfortably hot, but unwilling to detatch your body from his. His nose brushes yours, the shared breath between you is hot as well, sweltering and likely to become uncomfortable soon.

'I love you,' you say with your eyes, and he smiles, kissing the tip of your nose in a gesture that lets you know that he loves you too.

Finally, he slips out of you, and you get your first breath of Billy-less air, and you sigh when you feel his come begin to dribble out.

You blink suddenly, realising that it's been a week since you took your last pill. You let out a shuddering breath, remembering that the last few days have just been you, being filled with his come over and over again.

"You okay?" He asks, noticing that you've been holding your breath for a little.

Your eyes flit to his concerned ones.

"Yeah...I'm okay." You answer quickly, pretending that you're not in a state of panic. Damn, when was your last period? What if you were-

"Want a bath?" He offers, and you turn to look at him. He links your fingers into his large ones, pulling them to his face to kiss the tips.

Would it be so bad?

"Yes please," you say softly, "A bath would be amazing."

He's careful. Like he always is, gentle to your body after thoroughly sating it. You lean against him, head tilted back on his chest, half asleep in the warm bath. The water makes gentle swiping sounds as he moves, raising his hand to gently trickle warm water over your neck and collabones.

"Billy," you whisper, the thoughts in your head going too wild for you to keep it in, he hums in question.

"We've never spoken about it... but... do you ever want kids?"

He pauses for a long moment. You squeeze your eyes shut, the silence is honey thick and you struggle to breathe while waiting for the answer.

"I've... never thought I could have something like that." He lets out a little laugh, "Hell, I'm probably the last person on earth that deserves that kind of life, and I definitely shouldn't be in charge of a kid, with a head as fucked as mine."

You listen intently, relating to his fears as best as possible.

"I'm not gonna tell you what you are, and what you aren't." You say, turning your head to speak against his neck, "But I know you're a fast learner, and if you wanted something, I don't see why you wouldn't be able to learn." You smile, kissing his neck, "As for deserving, there are worse people out there with families of their own. Don't judge yourself too harshly."

He makes a low hum, one that implies that he doesn't believe you, but he's not dismissing your words either.

"What about you? Do you want kids?" He asks, lips brushing your temple.

Another long moment as you think about your answer.

"It's....scary... not a simple yes or no, I'm terrified of both- having and not having." You reach to link your fingers into his, he squeezes tightly for a moment, "But it's just a little less scary with you."

The corner of his lip rises.

"I can confess one thing though," he murmurs lightly, dropping his hands to grip your hips, you gasp as his fingers press into your sore spots,

"The idea of getting you pregnant, makes me so fucking happy, I just want to fill you up all day long."

You laugh.

"You're insatiable." You comment, with a shake of your head.

"You have me this way, baby." He replies easily.

When you're almost asleep, face pressed into his chest, legs tangled together, he repeats the plan to you.

He's not going to be here when you wake, getting an early start on gathering the money he needs and assessing the meeting point for possible traps. There's a security team monitoring the hotel, so you'll be safe as long as you don't leave unnecessarily. Later tomorrow evening, he'll meet Fisk, and hand off the remaining money and he'll be back before you know it.

He kisses the top of your head and in your sleepy state, you hum something that sounds very similar to 'I love you.'

It makes Billy's heart skip a beat.

~

When you wake at around midday, he's gone as expected.

You stay in the hotel room all day, watching TV and catching up on random news, finding out what you'd missed in the little time you'd been gone.

Around six in the evening, the phone in the room rings, and you click the TV off before reaching for the receiver.

"Hello?" You answer, your heart pounding, unsure of who it might me.

It's the receptionist at the front desk who greets you on the other end.

"There's a Mr. Meachum here, requesting to speak with you." She says casually, as if you don't go rigid.

"Which Meachum?" You ask cautiously.

Ward, she tells you. Ward has found you and is waiting downstairs to speak to you.

Your heart hurts a little, remembering that the last time you were supposed to see him, you left him at the altar instead.

"Can you tell him to wait for me in the restaurant? I'll be down in ten."

She relays the message to him and confirms his acceptance to you.

You hang up, your stomach twisting into knots, the anxiety of facing him again is so strong, the worry of how you've hurt him is visceral, it makes you want to hide.

But you knew you had to face him, you knew that you had to go down there and look him in the eye and apologise for the embarrassment you caused him.

So you stand from the bed, determined to make it up to him in some way.

The elevator opens up to the restaurant on the top floor, a beautiful modern design with large windows to see the sun setting on the city.

Your heart pounds, smiling at the waitress and giving her your information.

You spot Ward, sitting alone at a table for two, sipping on a drink.

He stands when he sees you approaching.

He takes you into a hug when you get close enough, and you allow it, though it's not your favourite feeling.

"I'm so glad to see you're okay." He says, as his arms tighten around you, and you smile.

"I'm glad you're okay too."

You smile at him when you pull away.

"I hope it's alright that I ordered a drink for you," he says, pointing at the fruity drink on your side of the table.

You not at him in appreciation, sliding into your seat, and taking a small sip of the concoction. It's something slightly sour, and you appreciate the flavours.

He takes his seat as well.

There's a moment of silence.

"When you didn't-"

"I'm so sorry that I-"

A pause, filled with shared smiles.

He nods his head, silently indicating for you to speak first.

"I really meant to show up. It- It wasn't my intention to leave you there. I'm sorry if I hurt you in anyway, or made you look... bad, but, in the end, marrying you- it- well- I-" You give him a sad smile, trying to find the words, "I realised it wasn't something that I wanted. I'm sorry for that."

His face is stoic, all harsh lines and even breaths. He nods, sweeping a hand through his hair.

"When you didn't show up at the church, I knew something went wrong. But I was hoping, that it was just jitters, I waited there for hours. And then I found out that you'd disappeared. I spent the last week combing the world for you, hoping you didn't leave me there without a word."

You take another long sip of your drink before speaking.

"I- well- Billy paid my debt and got me out. But it's a good thing too, because- Harold- he tried to have my parents killed."

"That's not true." Ward immediately says, and you look up into his eyes.

You can see it now, something around the edges, something about his appearance is... off. He isn't as put together as he'd like to seem, and you feel like he's a spool about to be unravelled.

Too bad you didn't owe him a single thing.

"I trust Billy with my life." You say firmly, "He told me that Harold tried to kill my parents. They would have died if Billy hadn't gotten them out."

He grips the edges of the table, leaning closer.

"And you believe him? My father was about to pay off your family's entire debt- and you believe some low-level scum like Billy Russo?"

"Ward." You say his name in warning, letting him know you don't appreciate his words or his tone.

He blinks, catching himself, realising that his words have rubbed you the wrong way.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, "But, Russo has always had his own interests first. He lied to you, he told you he paid off the debt, and he didn't, he told you that my father tried to harm your family, and that was a lie too."

You bite down on the corner of your lip, deep in thought.

"What does he have to gain from lying?" You ask Ward quietly, afraid of the answer. You lean back, taking another casual sip as if his words will have no effect on you.

"You might not realise it, but your family name has a lot of weight. Even though it's been dragged through the mud in the last couple of years, a combination of our families opens a lot of doors."

You swallow.

"A combination of our families? By that, you mean that fancy clause in our contract to have me pregnant within the year?"

He blinks, "Y/N-"

"-No." You say, "No, I'm sorry Ward, but I think I've heard enough." Your drink hits the table with a quiet sound, "Billy might not be honest with me, but at least I know he wants me for me, and not for whoever's last name I'm carrying." You stand from your seat and he stands too.

"I'm sorry, please, wait." He says, taking a step, reaching for you slowly, but you dodge his hold, walking away from him with a muttered 'Goodbye.'

He doesn't follow.

The emotions are a mess in your head and it sticks in your throat, there's a permanent frown on your face as tears spring to your eyes.

You don't understand why, though. You wish someone would take your brain out, map it, and show you exactly why you felt like crying your eyes out.

Maybe they'd circle a spot, "This is where your trust issues come from," point to another spot while saying, "Your low self worth comes from your body image issues, only reinforced by the fact that your family almost sold you to make babies and look pretty for the rest of your life."

You press your face into your hands, letting out a muffled sob.

You no longer knew what to believe, who to trust but at least you were sure of one thing.

Regardless of his motives, regardless of any lie he's told you, Billy loved you. And he would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe.

You couldn't wait for him to come back to you, so that maybe you could forgive him for the lies he's told, and admonish him for the lies he would tell in the future.

You smile, shaking your head. No, you couldn't settle for being lied to, no matter how strongly you felt for him.

You begin to feel a little sleepy as the elevator doors open, yawning as you begin to make your way to your room. Your vision swims for a second and you frown, wondering why you feel so tired all of a sudden.

Were you drugged?

You sway, the panic setting in, and your first priority is making it back to your room.

You're at your door when someone calls your name. You look up in surprise, hoping that it's Billy- but it's not- it's Ward, making purposeful strides toward you.

"Ward?" You say confused, squinting at him as your body sags against the door.

He grips your shoulders forcefully, and you try to push at him.

"I think I've been drugged." You murmur, looking into his face, pleading for his help.

"You have." He says ominously and you whimper, realising that it's been him all along.

"Why?" You ask, your knees buckling as your body is forced to relax against your will. You feel so sleepy, you fight to keep your eyes open, pushing at him. Why won't he budge? Your fingers reach up to claw at his cheeks but your hands won't cooperate.

"Why?" He says, and you think he finally shows you his unravelling.

"Because I was promised a wife. And I will have one."

It's the last thing you hear before your vision goes dark.

~

His footsteps echo in the church as he steps in. There are candelabras scattered around the area, he counts them as he counts the pews. He also counts the number of people that are sitting with their heads bowed, praying, and the number of exits.

He sees the back of the marine's head, walking with purposeful steps to him. The marine doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge his presence, doesn't move as he slides into the seat beside him.

He's sure that the marine has counted the same things he has, made a similar assessment of the safety of the surroundings, maybe even knows the approximate number of steps it would take to get to the back exit if the situation requires it.

"Mister Fisk appreciates your cooperation, and sends his regards for not being here in person." He says.

Billy Russo turns to give him a blank stare.

"I suppose everything can't go the way I want," he says.

James Wesley smiles.

"I suppose not." He responds.

~

You wake with a groan, your head is swimming, packed with cotton, preventing you from forming a thought.

Where? What? How?

You can't find any answers.

Another deep breath and you open your eyes a little.

Your vision is blurry at first, but you recognise the surroundings of a hotel room, just not your hotel room.

You're lying on the bed, pressed against someone who is petting your hair softly.

You sit up suddenly in shock, swaying as you turn to look at the person. Something else draws your attention at the same time, and you look down to find that your hands have been cuffed together. You tug at them experimentally.

"Just in time," Ward says, sitting up, and you squint at him, trying to figure out exactly where everything went south.

"You drugged me." You say to him accusingly.

"Yes. I did." He acknowledges, sitting up easily.

He's changed into something different, a dark tuxedo with a black bow tie around his neck.

"Do you like it?" He asks, looking down at the suit, "It's the exact same one I was wearing the first time. I tried to get you the same dress, but I got something that was easier for you to get into by yourself.

He stands, and you just look at him, eyes following his movements as he grabs a garment bag lying over the small couch. He unzips the bag, tugging a wedding dress free.

You can't focus on any of the details of the dress- not the beading or the neckline, in your hazy state  none of it makes sense to you.

"Put it on." Ward says.

"No." You answer.

"I'm not asking." He tosses the dress beside you on the bed.

"I'm still not putting that on." You struggle to say something witty with such a cloudy head.

He takes a step forward, and you scramble back, slipping off the bed and backing away from him on shaky feet. When you try to get to the door, he intercepts your move- pressing you back against the wall.

"I don't have time for this." He says angrily and you seethe along with him.

"Fuck you." You spit at him.

The slap is sudden. You barely register the sound of it, your head is turned to the side, as your cheek screams in pain.

Did he really just hit you?

"I can't believe I ever defended you." You whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

"Karen once suggested you might hurt me, and I told her you weren't like that."

You raise your hand to touch your stinging cheek, it's tender and hot to the touch.

"You'd be mad too, if you were left at the altar to be laughed at by the entire city."

You swallow, looking up at him, fully awake now with the pain and adrenaline coursing through your system.

"You're delusional." You whisper with conviction.

"And you're not getting it. If you don't put that dress on, then I have no use for you." He leans forward, getting into your space and you grimace with disgust at the feel of his body pressed to yours.

"Do you know what I do with useless things, Y/N? I throw them away."

You wish for his death when your eyes meet his next. He smiles, raising a hand to cup your face, his fingers pressing painfully into the spot where he hit you. You don't make a sound, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of your pain.

"Get dressed." He says, stepping away from you finally.

~

James Wesley is appraising the contents of the briefcase for authenticity when the church doors open, and several footsteps can be heard.

Billy doesn't look back, he'd anticipated a move like this. And honestly, it might be exactly what he needs to get his plan back into action.

Harold Meachum steps into his peripherals. James closes the briefcase, looking up at said man, knowing James, there's only vague curiosity painted on his features.

"Sorry to interrupt your business, boys, but I have business of my own I'd like to take care of."

Billy is just, downright tired of looking at Harold's face, bored with this man's entire endeavour into making himself more powerful when he can hardly manage the power he currently holds.

"James, would you please call Mr. Fisk and tell him that is audience is requested?"

James doesn't hesitate.

"My apologies, Harold, but Mr. Fisk does not deal-" he pauses his sentence when Harold draws a gun, pointing it at James' head.

There's a moment of tense silence.

"Very well." Wesley says, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket.

Billy listens to half of the conversation, unable to hear any of Fisk's responses. James lets him know that an urgent matter has arisen that requires his presence, and that Harold Meachum will not accept no for an answer.

When James ends the call, he informs that Wilson will be here within the hour.

"Excellent!" Harold says, reaching to take the briefcase seated on James' lap, "That's just enough time to have a wedding in the meantime."

Billy's stomach drops.

It drops even lower when he sees the younger Meachum, Ward, step up to the altar.

"Now, if either of you move from here, the man sitting behind you is going to shoot you in the head."

Billy turns to look at the man. One of Meachum's bodyguards sitting in the pew behind, he's large, maybe even larger than Frank, which means he's probably slower. A mistake on Harold's part to have this man guard him. The other five or six people that were here before are being shuffled into the other room.

He watches a priest, step up slowly to the altar, he raises his hands, and then the doors at the back open with a slow groan.

Billy almost doesn't want to look. He knows what he's going to see. It fills him with murderous rage. He watches Ward's smug face instead, a man that looks like he's already won, as an unwilling bride walks down the aisle toward him.

He knows when he sees you there, the shock, and rage and fear of it all with sear like lightning down his skin.

Billy waits until the very last moment to turn and look at you.

He can't see much of your face, covered by the thick veil, but he can see the tremble of your hands as you hold the bouquet and Billy decides, that he's going to wipe the Meachum line off the face of the earth.

.

.

.

A/N: Heeyyyyyy guyssssssss, how are we doing?

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #the agony of desire #ben barnes #my writings #billy russo x female reader #the punisher

[citrinemystic]

The Major Arcana in Shakespeare Quotes

The Fool - "The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” As You Like It.

The Magician - “My high charms work, And these, mine enemies, are all knit up In their distractions. They now are in my power.” The Tempest

The High Priestess - "Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak." As You Like It

The Empress - "Age cannot wither her, not custom stale Her infinite variety." Antony and Cleopatra

The Emperor - "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." Twelfth Night

The Hierophant - "Every subject’s duty is the king’s, but every subject’s soul is his own." Henry V

The Lovers - "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." A Midsummer's Night Dream

The Chariot - "A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" Richard III

Strength - "That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion." Henry V

The Hermit - "To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." Hamlet

The Wheel of Fortune - "Though this be madness, yet there is method in't." Hamlet

Justice - "In a false quarrel there is no true valour." Much Ado About Nothing

The Hanged Man - "And thereby hangs a tale." As You Like It

Death - "Goodnight, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!" Hamlet

The Tower - "What's done cannot be undone." Macbeth

Temperance - "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in our philosophy." Hamlet

The Devil - "The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose." The Merchant of Venice

The Star - It is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Sonnet 116

The Moon - "The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked, I cried to dream again." The Tempest

The Sun - O, for a muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention. Henry V

Judgement - "if powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then but innocence shall make False accusation blush and tyranny Tremble at patience." A Winter's Tale

The World - "All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts." - As You Like It

#witchblr #tarotblr #tarot #tarot cards #major arcana #shakespeare #shakespeare quotes

[phanfictioncatalogue]

University (6) Masterlist

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

(and I spent all night) stuck on the puzzle (ao3) - carltzmann

Summary: It's Phil's first week of his final year of university, so really, he should be used to it by now. He should be able to behave normally when the cute guy down the hall is stepping out of the shower at the same time he's entering the bathroom.

Evidently not.

begin and never cease (ao3) - palomeheart

Summary: Dan is a grumpy second year law student living with reclusive, perpetual grad student named Phil. When the holiday season brings out a side of Phil that Dan’s never seen before, Meanwhile, when Phil finds out Dan hates all things festive, he makes it his goal to change Dan’s mind before Christmas. And also to find the perfect mince pie.

Change Will Come (ao3) - rainbowchristy

Summary: Dan’s a depressed university student. Phil’s just a cute coffee shop barista who writes notes on Dan’s hot chocolates.

Electrify My Heart (ao3) - counting2fifteen

Summary: Dan Howell picks his college major almost at random. Even after a gap year, he doesn’t know what he wants to do, so he supposes he might as well pick whatever will make him the most employable and impress the largest number of his relatives. Within his first semester, he knows he made a mistake and switches out. Except Dan’s major isn’t law. It’s computer science, and Phil is his TA.

Five Seconds (ao3) - starboydjh

Summary: Five seconds in a dusty university bookshop one night is all it takes to change Dan the work study master's student and Phil the PhD candidate’s lives for the better.

Flatmates (ao3) - intoapuddle

Summary: oh my god they were flatmates / the fuckboy!phil au we all deserve

give me all your hopeless hearts (ao3) - itsmyusualphannie (itsmyusualweeb)

Summary: Dan is a university student who doesn't believe in love, but when Valentine's Day rolls around, he feels himself suddenly falling for the boy who sits next to him in his writing 101 class. When they're assigned a project together, Dan has the brilliant idea to ask Phil out - for research!

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

i don't know why (i can't keep my eyes off of you) (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Starting a new university is hard enough without Phil having to convince his best friend PJ he doesn't have a crush on their other flatmate, Dan. He definitely does not have a crush on Dan.

knowing the way (ao3) - watergator (orphan_account)

Summary: dan meets phil at a party

based on the line in BIG, "trust me, i've known a lot of straight guys until a couple of drinks, some deep conversation and lingering eye contact, and suddenly they just start leaning in."

light through an open door (ao3) - queerofcups

Summary: The only thing Dan’s trying to do is finish grad school and avoid talking about the very public crash and burn of his last relationship as much as possible. Meeting Phil, who’s working on his PhD in Philosophy, just like Dan’s ex was, is a coincidence. Now Dan’s just trying to finish grad school, avoid talking about his very public break up and try his hardest not to fall for a man who might hurt him the same way he’s been hurt before.

Pictures Of You (ao3) - CanDanAndPhilNot (enbycalhoun)

Summary: Punk Phil and (softish) Dan find out they are roommates after a couple stressful encounters.

Project with Phil (ao3) - Cuddlelester

Summary: Dan is an art student in his second year of college when he meets Phil, a film student in the same school. After getting paired for a project about queer expression they begin to grow close. Even though falling in love wasn't in the outline for the project, it had definitely happened.

robot in the dorms (ao3) - itsmyusualphannie (itsmyusualweeb)

Summary: dan goes to university in florida and meets his roommate phil. after a few months, and despite dan's facade of disinterest, he begins to actually like phil and his nerdy ways. the robot that phil designs doesn't help.

or: another "oh my god they were roommates" fic but COOLER because robots

snails kissing (ao3) - cloud-gays (wind_brewed)

Summary: Phil wants to be smooched and Dan wants to rescue snails.

Also called: Dan: the snail saviour; and Phil: the “maybe the real snails saved were the cuties we met along the way” guy.

snuggle up close, let me hold your pieces in place, even if just for a night (ao3) - natigail

Summary: It was just one thing after another really.

Broken down bus with a whole class of freshers.

Dingy hotel room that was cold as fuck.

No one wanting to share a room with Dan.

But then the TA Phil stepped up to the plate and defended Dan. Of course, it meant that the two of them ended up sharing a bed, and then the heater had to break. It's the perfect excuse for sharing body warmth and confessions.

Soft Speak with a Mean Streak (ao3) - Nefertiti1052 (Succubusphan)

Summary: Phil was a lonely film student; Dan was a mysterious new classmate he got stuck in with for a big project. It was only a matter of time and the right circumstances.

The Literal Other Half (ao3) - Nefertiti1052 (Succubusphan)

Summary: Dan arrives at Manchester University and feels a bit lost, luckily he gets an upperclassman as a tour guide and mentor of sorts. Coffee dates, friends and a lot of laughter finally enter his life - along with love.

This Could be the End of Everything (ao3) - rainbowchristy

Summary: Dan’s finally starting university, the phase of his life he’s been waiting for since he was a small child. His first real chance at freedom, away from his parents. Unfortunately, the universe has other plans for him.

time won't be enough, to make you fall in love (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: phil lester's first year of university, and how he's oblivious to how much he and dan howell like each other

Unlocked Doors (ao3) - TearDrop1234

Summary: Prompt: a university getting together au

What Phil Saw (ao3) - counting2fifteen

Summary: After their first night together, Phil knows he made a mistake sleeping with one of his students. Dan disagrees, but he's too busy having a crisis about his major to press the issue too much.

Or, the conversation Dan and Phil had after their first night together in Electrify my Heart, from Phil's point of view.

When the Weather Breaks (ao3) - sierraadeux

Summary: Sitting across from Phil on that worn out velvet Starbucks sofa, sharing sickeningly sweet coffees and what they would like to think were hushed giggles, was the first time Dan felt a glimpse at what real love could feel like.

or

Perception checks, pining, and peppermint mochas.

with a bullet (ao3) - waveydnp

Summary: phil returns to his room after a party thrown by his housemates only to discover that there’s already someone in his bed

#phanfictioncatalogue #phanfic #phan #phanfiction #masterlists #university #university masterlist #au

[heavenlymorals]

Feather Kisses and Romanticism

Summary: Heahmund wakes up before his boyfriend and takes the time to admire him.

Sometimes, a man just wants to write short pure, meaningless fluff about one of my favorite fluff tropes. It feels strange to write stuff without angst to be honest haha!

As far as Heahmund was concerned, he was the luckiest man to ever exist on God’s beautiful green earth. Did he deserve that self-inflicted title? Probably not, no matter how much he kept the Lord close to his heart. But it didn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, he was King Midas if King Midas was able to control what he transfigured into gold. Selfish, quick to anger, and prideful Heahmund was the luckiest bastard to ever exist, and to him, that was a simple truth, like how the sky is blue and how water is NOT wet (Don’t get him started with that). 

What in the world could make a man think this way? 

Well, it’s usually one of three things. Money, fame, or love. Or two of the three or all three. 

Heahmund was so lucky because of lucky number three. Love. He was in love. In love so deeply and vehemently that it seemed almost ridiculous, sort of like when you skim through some cheap, paperback romance in the back of a seedy bookstore and start cackling because of the absurdity of the wording and syntax and literary devices that the author was so sure would make the reader tear at their heartstrings in agony when in truth, they just wrote the longest joke to ever exist. 

What a strange emotion love is. The most beautiful thing to perhaps ever exist. No wonder so many poets and authors and singers will harp on about love. Love this, love that. No wonder. True love is a strange paradox of being the most selfless person you can be for another person all because of a selfish desire. Perhaps that was a bit pragmatic, but it was definitely not prosaic. 

In this soft sea of blankets and pillows, the sun shines photogenically through the blinds, making golden strips on the floor that trail onto the white sheets of the bed. The entire room was blanketed in a sea of morning gold. The lighting reminded Heahmund of the canvas strokes that those romantic painters in the nineteenth century were so fond of, with their warm colors that can automatically put any man’s soul at ease. Works that came to his mind were The Ninth Wave by Ivan Aivazovsky and Ophelia by Friedrich Heyser. Perhaps it was a bit ironic to think about sweet Ophelia and how she became mad because of her love. Nevermind that. 

As the golden light trailed onto the linen, it crept onto the back of a certain someone’s head, carding its ethereal fingers across the back, making his dark umber hair shine like a halo. 

Heahmund smiled as he looked at the boy across from him. How the hell did he get so lucky? In what way did he please God for God to send him Ivar Lothbrok? Whatever he did, he probably couldn’t amount to it ever again, for goddamnit, how could he? He had all he could ever want or need right next to him, and the best part of it all? Ivar was his. His. It still felt strange on his tongue sometimes, knowing and saying that Ivar was his boyfriend, and not only knowing it, but feeling it so vehemently in every single vein, muscle, and bone in his body. He’s had numerous flings before, relationships too, but they never made him feel like this like his heart sprouted wings and is looked at as the most perfect and truest work of art in the eyes of Cupid or Eros. 

He stared dreamily at Ivar, so enraptured by his beauty. He looked like a painting. With the golden light seeping through the windows and hitting the back of his head, he looked like a beautiful painting, with his dark hair and his puffy strawberry lips. Not even real. But he was real. 

What drove him to love Ivar was his laughter, his manic gleam, his overwhelming intelligence, the way he could make him feel as if he was floating and weighed nothing, and so much more. He didn’t love Ivar because of his looks, but he certainly did not mind that part about his lover. Gorgeous fae. Dazzling Angel. He had a chuckle to himself the last time he called Ivar his angel.

“You do know that angels are just…masses of eyes and wings and rings and stuff, right? Literal Eldritch beasts? You'd go mad just by looking at them?" 

Heahmund rolled his eyes and gave Ivar a small peck on the lips. "Alright then? I go mad everytime I look at you. You're too beautiful for my mortal eyes." 

Ivar blushed, his pale skin turning a vibrant pink. He returned Heahmund's small kiss and wrapped his arms around the older man's waist, hugging him close. "Gods, you're something else." 

"I try." 

Ivar was still asleep. His thick, dark lashes fanned over as his eyes were still locked in sleep. They looked like doe lashes. One of Heahmund’s arms was thrown lazily across Ivar’s waist, filling the dip where his waist met his sides. His other arm trailed forwards, slightly, and gently brushed his finger against the lashes, feeling them tickle him slightly. He then brought his hand to trail gently across the rest of Ivar’s face. He gently moves a lone strand of hair that fell across Ivar’s face and pushed it to join the rest of that dark waterfall. He brushes his fingers across his temple, his beautiful cheekbones, and the underside of his jaw. Ivar felt that one, as he shifted a bit and Heahmund grinned. 

Bolder, he crept even closer to his sleeping angel and began to kiss him. On the tip of his nose, on both cheeks, on the crook of his neck. His incoming stubble no doubt tickled Ivar, ushering the boy to wither gently. 

At last, Ivar's eyes fluttered open. They call the eyes the windows to the soul and as Heahmund looked lovingly at Ivar's eyes, he could definitely understand why. Ivar's eyes pulled on the forearms of his soul, dragging him into an abyss of ecstatic bliss and joy. The blue looked like the blue where the sky would meet the sea. Gorgeous. Everything about him was gorgeous. Heahmund remembered that terrible day where Ivar broke down into tears at the thought that Heahmund would abandon him because of the scars that streaked his legs. Such baseless thoughts! Perfect. His Ivar was perfect.

The slits of his eyes showed the soul of the sea that took its place in his irises. In his sleepy state, his mouth formed an adorable smile as he reached upwards and gave the older man a peck on his lips. 

"This is the third time you've woken me up like this, Heahmund…"

Heahmund smiled, somewhat shyly. "I'm sorry, Love. I can't help myself." 

Ivar grinned and crawled on top of Heahmund, pinning him down with his weight. Heahmund wrapped his hands around Ivar's back, his fingers drumming on the smooth skin. Ivar started leaving feather-like kisses on Heahmund's neck, trailing down to his shoulder. 

"Oh, Heahmund…I can't help myself either." 

They stayed like that for a while, basking in each other's presence, bathed in golden light, a modern rendition of a romanticism painting. 

#vikings #vikings fanfic #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #modern ivar #bishop heahmund #ivar x heahmund #heavar

[morningsound15]

Hey just dropping in to say I'm rereading winged cupid painted again and it really means a lot to me. I'm also a writer so I know it always feels a lil weird to have people focusing on super old work (my ancient ass PJO and X-Men fics from high school 8+ years ago somehow still get more engagement than anything else lol) but I appreciate the care put in doing research about blindness, and the little things like frustration with people moving stuff around or being touched randomly. This is stuff people complain about all the time in blind circles I run in, like just yesterday on this discord server I'm in. The writing is gorgeous and I love the way you write the characters. I was never into the 100 really but am always starving for decently written disabled characters that don't fall into the magical/medical fix, "O Woe I A Blind Character Written By A Sighted Author Am Doomed To A Life Of Misery How Am I To Exist With This Cursed Affliction", or just generally painfully stereotypical with face touching and the like. As I said, never super into the 100 for its own right and consequently the characters have taken on a life of their own in my head, they feel like your characters, really. Anyway, I'm rambling but this story is very close to my heart and while I know it's likely a bit too old to be something that'll continue, I'd even love to commission something from you if that's ever feasible. Even if not, your work means a lot to me and I'm probably going to go and comment chapter by chapter as I reread.

thank you so much for this ask! I'm sorry I didn't see it when you first sent it, I've been on the app and you know how weird the app can be with notifications.

I really appreciate you sending this! That story is something that I wrote a really long time ago, it was one of the first long multi-chapter fics I ever attempted, and though I can't necessarily speak to how well it holds up as a piece of writing (my writing style has changed so much since I wrote it that reading it is like reading something by a different author), I am really so very glad people still find something meaningful in it. Realistically I don't think I'll ever finish it, I'm just too far removed from the mindset I was in when I started to write it, and I'm too distant from the characters to satisfyingly wrap up their stories. But knowing that you found it after all these years and enjoyed it really means a lot to me.

Readers who find old stories, even old unfinished ones, and take the time to message and/or comment about them are the backbone of fandom, really truly! Thank you for the kind words.

#anonymous #asks #winged cupid painted

[dhr-fics]

Author: Katia Dashwood (HBPrincess922)

Absurdity (7KB - One Shot - PG) Draco gets on Hermione's nerves, and she gets on his. At first...

Cup of Tea (15KB - One Shot - PG-13) Hermione had a secret. That secret was that she harboured a burning, forbidden longing and desire for Draco Malfoy.

Finding The Right Side (43KB - Incomplete - PG-13) Draco writes a letter to Hermione, not of his own accord, of course. Then, she writes him an owl in return... after a fashion... Snape and Draco get yelled at, Narcissa is humbled, and McGonagall wants Hermione to return to school.

My Future With You (65KB - 15 Chapters - PG-13) Draco and Hermione are blasted into the future! Where, they are not only married to each other, but they have a daughter.

Now That I'm with You (26KB - 5 Chapters - PG) Hermione arrives at Grimmauld Place, and must wait until it is safe for Draco to join her. What will happen next in the sequel to My Future With You?

One Would Have Thought (11KB - One Shot - R) Hermione reflects on recent events and that which might have been...

Owing to a Nightmare (16KB - One Shot - R) Hermione begins having a recurring dream about a sinister corridor and a dead man. Will she be able to save him?

These Are Things Your Mama Shouldn't Know (23KB - One Shot - R) Hermione finds herself in a difficult situation, and comes to a bold conclusion... DHr Loosely based off of the WIKTT Marriage Law Challenge

Tumultuous Relations (13KB - One Shot - PG-13) Hermione finds Draco cheating on her with Pansy, and he has the nerve to assume she will take him back.

Un Conte de Fée (16KB - One Shot - PG-13) Hermione sighed. She should have seen it coming, really. While Harry’s life seemed to mirror the great epic tales of yore, she should’ve known that as his best friend, her life would more closely resemble a conte de fée.

Winged Cupid Painted Blind (30KB - 5 Chapters - PG-13) Shakespeare once said 'And therefore is winged cupid painted blind.' But my belief is that Cupid is not blind: he's deaf. Surely, that is the only explanation for me falling in love with Draco Malfoy, and certainly the reason he fell for me.

#author: Katia Dashwood #author: HBPrincess922 #published: 2005

[daimonclub]

Saint Valentines Day

Saint Valentine's Day History and quotes Saint Valentines Day. Without Valentine's Day, February would be... well, January. Jim Gaffigan I claim there ain't Another Saint As great as Valentine. Ogden Nash If you are really interested in this topic and you want more quotes you can also download and read this book of Quotes and aphorisms on Love Edited by Carl William Brown

Quotes on love Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine! Thomas Hood Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough. George Edward Moore I got a Valentine's Day card from my girl. It said, 'Take my heart! Take my arms! Take my lips!' Which is just like her. Keeping the best part for herself. Robert Orben Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. William Shakespeare Love is not finding someone to live with; it's finding someone you can't live without. Raphael Montanez Ortiz Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. William Shakespeare God is a mystery, Faith is a mystery, Love is a mystery, Death is a mystery! Hey, but wait a bit, I have never liked mysteries. Carl William Brown The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved. Victor Hugo Love is the poetry of the senses. Honore de Balzac Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. Aristotle Love is a game that two can play and both win. Eva Gabor When love is not madness, it is not love. Pedro Calderon de la Barca Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love. Albert Einstein

Saint Valentine's Day quotes One word Frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love. Sophocles We loved with a love that was more than love. Edgar Allan Poe Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be a man's last romance. Oscar Wilde Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. Laozi Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be. William Wordsworth Sympathy constitutes friendship; but in love there is a sort of antipathy, or opposing passion. Each strives to be the other, and both together make up one whole. Samuel Taylor Coleridge If my Valentine you won't be, I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree. Ernest Hemingway If only St. Valentine was around to see his memory celebrated through the mindless marketing of whipping cream and lingerie. Dov Davidoff If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular? Dorothy Parker Love cures people - both the ones who give it and the ones who receive it. Karl A. Menninger Today is Valentine's Day - or, as men like to call it, Extortion Day! Jay Leno from your Valentine Saint Valentine (Italian: San Valentino, Latin: Valentinus) known as Saint Valentine of Rome was a widely recognized 3rd-century Roman saint, commemorated in Christianity on February 14. The name "Valentine" derived from valens (worthy, strong, powerful), was popular in Late Antiquity. About eleven other saints having the name Valentine are commemorated in the Roman Catholic Church. From the High Middle Ages his Saints' Day has been associated with a tradition of courtly love. He is also a patron saint of epilepsy, which is a central nervous system (neurological) disorder in which brain activity becomes abnormal, causing seizures or periods of unusual behavior, sensations, and sometimes loss of awareness.

Saint Valentine's Day story and legends Valentine’s Day occurs every February 14. Across the United States and in other places around the world, candy, flowers and gifts are exchanged between loved ones, all in the name of St. Valentine. But who is this mysterious saint and where did these traditions come from? Find out about the history of Valentine’s Day, from the ancient Roman ritual of Lupercalia that welcomed spring to the card-giving customs of Victorian England. The history of Valentine’s Day, and the story of its patron saint, is therefore shrouded in mystery. We do know that February has long been celebrated as a month of romance, and that St. Valentine’s Day, as we know it today, contains vestiges of both Christian and ancient Roman tradition. But who was Saint Valentine, and how did he become associated with this ancient rite? Saint Valentine was a clergyman, either a priest or a bishop, in the Roman Empire who ministered to persecuted Christians. He was martyred and his body buried at a Christian cemetery on the Via Flaminia close to the Ponte Milvio to the north of Rome, on February 14, which has been observed as the Feast of Saint Valentine (Saint Valentine's Day) since 496 AD. Relics of him were kept in the Church and Catacombs of San Valentino in Rome, which "remained an important pilgrim site throughout the Middle Ages until the relics of St. Valentine were transferred to the church of Santa Prassede during the pontificate of Nicholas IV". His skull, crowned with flowers, is exhibited in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome; other relics of him were taken to Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin, Ireland, where they remain; this house of worship continues to be a popular place of pilgrimage, especially on Saint Valentine's Day, for those seeking love. The Catholic Encyclopedia and other hagiographical sources speak of three Saints Valentine that appear in connection with February 14. One was a Roman priest, another the bishop of Interamna (modern Terni, Italy) both buried along the Via Flaminia outside Rome, at different distances from the city. The third was said to be a saint who suffered on the same day with a number of companions in the Roman province of Africa, of whom nothing else is known. Saint Valentine is commemorated in the Anglican Communion and the Lutheran Churches on February 14. In the Eastern Orthodox Church, he is recognized on July 6; in addition, the Eastern Orthodox Church observes the feast of Hieromartyr Valentine, Bishop of Interamna, on July 30. In 1969, the Roman Catholic Church removed his name from the General Roman Calendar, but continues to recognize him as a saint, listing him as such in the February 14 entry in the Roman Martyrology, and authorizing liturgical veneration of him on February 14 in any place where that day is not devoted to some other obligatory celebration, in accordance with the rule that on such a day the Mass may be that of any saint listed in the Martyrology for that day. The inconsistency in the identification of the saint is replicated in the various vitae that are ascribed to him. A common hagiography describes Saint Valentine as a priest of Rome or as the former Bishop of Terni, an important town of Umbria, in central Italy. While under house arrest of Judge Asterius, and discussing his faith with him, Valentinus (the Latin version of his name) was discussing the validity of Jesus. The judge put Valentinus to the test and brought to him the judge's adopted blind daughter. If Valentinus succeeded in restoring the girl's sight, Asterius would do whatever he asked.

Saint Valentines Day Valentinus, praying to God, laid his hands on her eyes and the child's vision was restored. Immediately humbled, the judge asked Valentinus what he should do. Valentinus replied that all of the idols around the judge's house should be broken, and that the judge should fast for three days and then undergo the Christian sacrament of baptism. The judge obeyed and, as a result of his fasting and prayer, freed all the Christian inmates under his authority. The judge, his family, and his forty-four member household of adult family members and servants were baptized. Valentinus was later arrested again for continuing to evangelize and was sent to the prefect of Rome, to the emperor Claudius Gothicus (Claudius II) himself. Claudius took a liking to him until Valentinus tried to convince Claudius to embrace Christianity, whereupon Claudius refused and condemned Valentinus to death, commanding that Valentinus either renounce his faith or he would be beaten with clubs and beheaded. Valentinus refused and Claudius' command was executed outside the Flaminian Gate February 14, 269. Other stories suggest that Valentine may have been killed for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons, where they were often beaten and tortured. An embellishment to this account states that before his execution, Saint Valentine wrote a note to Asterius's daughter signed "from your Valentine", which is said to have "inspired today's romantic missives", an expression that is still in use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories all emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic and, most importantly, romantic figure. By the Middle Ages, perhaps thanks to this reputation, Valentine would become one of the most popular saints in England and France. While some believe that Valentine’s Day is celebrated in the middle of February to commemorate the anniversary of Valentine’s death or burial, which probably occurred around A.D. 270, others claim that the Christian church may have decided to place St. Valentine’s feast day in the middle of February in an effort to “Christianize” the pagan celebration of Lupercalia. Celebrated at the ides of February, or February 15, Lupercalia was a fertility festival dedicated to Faunus, the Roman god of agriculture, as well as to the Roman founders Romulus and Remus. To begin the festival, members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, would gather at a sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or lupa. The priests would sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. They would then strip the goat’s hide into strips, dip them into the sacrificial blood and take to the streets, gently slapping both women and crop fields with the goat hide. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed the touch of the hides because it was believed to make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would each choose a name and become paired for the year with his chosen woman. These matches often ended in marriage. Lupercalia survived the initial rise of Christianity but was outlawed, as it was deemed “un-Christian”, at the end of the 5th century, when Pope Gelasius declared February 14 St. Valentine’s Day. It was not until much later, however, that the day became definitively associated with love. During the Middle Ages, it was commonly believed in France and England that February 14 was the beginning of birds’ mating season, which added to the idea that the middle of Valentine’s Day should be a day for romance.

Saint Valentines Celebrations The English poet Geoffrey Chaucer was the first to record St. Valentine’s Day as a day of romantic celebration in his 1375 poem “Parliament of Foules,” writing, ““For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day / Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.” Valentine greetings were popular as far back as the Middle Ages, though written Valentine’s didn’t begin to appear until after 1400. The oldest known valentine still in existence today was a poem written in 1415 by Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London following his capture at the Battle of Agincourt. (The greeting is now part of the manuscript collection of the British Library in London, England.) Several years later, it is believed that King Henry V hired a writer named John Lydgate to compose a valentine note to Catherine of Valois. Cupid is often portrayed on Valentine’s Day cards as a naked cherub launching arrows of love at unsuspecting lovers. But the Roman God Cupid has his roots in Greek mythology as the Greek god of love, Eros. Accounts of his birth vary; some say he is the son of Nyx and Erebus; others, of Aphrodite and Ares; still others suggest he is the son of Iris and Zephyrus or even Aphrodite and Zeus (who would have been both his father and grandfather). According to the Greek Archaic poets, Eros was a handsome immortal played with the emotions of Gods and men, using golden arrows to incite love and leaden ones to sow aversion. It wasn’t until the Hellenistic period that he began to be portrayed as the mischievous, chubby child he’d become on Valentine’s Day cards. In addition to the United States, Valentine’s Day is celebrated in Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, France and Australia. In Great Britain, Valentine’s Day began to be popularly celebrated around the 17th century. By the middle of the 18th, it was common for friends and lovers of all social classes to exchange small tokens of affection or handwritten notes, and by 1900 printed cards began to replace written letters due to improvements in printing technology. Ready-made cards were an easy way for people to express their emotions in a time when direct expression of one’s feelings was discouraged. Cheaper postage rates also contributed to an increase in the popularity of sending Valentine’s Day greetings. Americans probably began exchanging hand-made valentines in the early 1700s. In the 1840s, Esther A. Howland began selling the first mass-produced valentines in America. Howland, known as the “Mother of the Valentine,” made elaborate creations with real lace, ribbons and colorful pictures known as “scrap.” Today, according to the Greeting Card Association, an estimated 145 million Valentine’s Day cards are sent each year, making Valentine’s Day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year (more cards are sent at Christmas). Women purchase approximately 85 percent of all valentines.

Saint Valentine wishes cards The 25th of January is the most romantic day of the year in Wales. As a matter of fact on this day, St. Dwynwen is celebrated. She is the Welsh patron saint of lovers. Dydd Santes Dwynwen is the Welsh equivalent of St. Valentine's day. She was a fourth-century princess, who was unlucky in love. She became a nun and prayed for others to have better luck. You can also read the posts about: 100 Great quotes on Love Great quotes on Love Best quotes on Love Quotes on Love Aphorisms on Love Great proverbs on love Find out what Shakespeare thought on love reading our Dictionary of Shakespeare quotes But if you are really interested in this topic and you want more quotes you can also download and read this book of Quotes and aphorisms on Love Edited by Carl William Brown Read the full article

#celebration #culture #custom #Day #Dwynwen #feast #holiday #legend #love #lovebirds #lovers #quotes #religious #romantic #Saint #story #Valentine #Welsh #western

[ao3feed-marymatthew]

Where Cupid’s Arrow Strikes

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/PUNRAwh

by lupine_phoenix

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” – William Shakespeare +-+--

When his wife Sybil dies of the Spanish Influenza in April, 1919, Tom Branson is left in Downton Abbey with no way back to Ireland and no money to start over again. He’s essentially trapped.

When Matthew leaves for America in June, 1919, Mary has to reevaluate her character, her life, and what she wants when her fiancé becomes the earl. She’s got no one to lean on.

They’re left alone in that big house with nothing but a stack of books and a yearning for memories. So, what’s a pair to do?

Words: 4010, Chapters: 1/31, Language: English

Fandoms: Downton Abbey

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Tom Branson, Mary Crawley, Matthew Crawley, Cora Crawley, Robert Crawley, Violet Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Edith Crawley, Lavinia Swire

Relationships: Tom Branson/Mary Crawley, Tom Branson/Sybil Crawley, Mary Crawley/Matthew Crawley, Matthew Crawley/Lavinia Swire, Tom Branson & Mary Crawley

Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Tragic Romance, Widowed, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forbidden Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Emotional Baggage, Falling In Love, Second Chances, Dorks in Love, Slow Burn, the best man has a crush on the bride, I'm so sorry about this it's kind of dramatic, Lavinia doesn't die, Sybil dies when Lavinia was supposed to, it's an AU so I don't mind, falling in love through books

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/PUNRAwh

#fanfiction #Downton Abbey #Mary Crawley/Matthew Crawley #Mary/Matthew #ship:matthewxmary #ao3feed

[chaoticdrcolleen]

↳ INSTAGRAM: @CHAOTICPEPPERMINTSCOLLY​ UPLOADED A NEW PHOTO

i should have a lot to say, but i think @rosyoconnor​ said it much better than i ever could. this year has been a wild ride, but one i am forever grateful to have gone on. i have gained so much this year and i can only hope 2020 is even better.

thank you to @snapshotadeline​ for the photos, they turned out wonderful.

#instalifeafter #sociallifeafter #sm: insta #sm: all #about: batfam #about: chaos and peppermints #about: little dove #about: little robins #about: love is a winged cupid painted blind #about: mamas boy #about: the oconnorwaynes

[darkmasterkattsvault-arc]

#ship: love is a winged cupid painted blind #[bringing this back cos i can] #about: el mayarah colleen #o: el mayarah rosy (chaoticscribblings)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

ValenTWST Day 1

Day 1 Prompt: Cupid / “Do you want to play a little game?”

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, / And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

[You’re on Day 1!] / [Day 2] / [Day 3] / [Day 4] / [Day 5] / [Day 6] / [Day 7]

For the week leading up to Valentine’s Day last year, I wrote a series of platonic imagines between Jade and a poor mob student (Octa A-kun). This year, I’m going to indulge myself and cjdbdhdheyekdn just write a bunch of Raven x Jade and Rook and maybe someone else, who knows 😷

Imagine this...

“Shall we play a game of tag, mon petit oiseau? The weather today is perfectly ripe for indulging in a round or two.”

“No thank you.”

Her answer was certain and swift. Raven hadn’t even bothered to glance up from scribbling in her notebook, to gauge what would undoubtably be another one of Rook’s over-the-top reactions. An exaggerated expression, animated hands, as if acting out a tragic line from a stage play—she had seen it all before.

“I’ve no interest in being pursued around the campus.” Raven dotted the period in her sentence as she spoke. Heartbeat, a deep red enchanted ink, dried quickly and left behind a pulsating warmth upon the page.

It was the ideal color to conclude a morbid story—the tale of a man with a deadly kiss, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake as he sought out his One True Love... the only person immune to his poisoned lips. Driven mad by his quest for love, he gazes upon his collection of preserved hearts—each gleaned from past lovers that had fallen to his perilous kiss, she penned. He laments his life of loneliness, not realizing that his own heart had stopped beating long ago.

“I don’t see what you find to be so amusing about it,” Raven continued. “It’s a common schoolyard game for children.”

“Since the dawn of time itself, mankind has sought to give chase to that which captures his eye! Be it a ray of sunshine, the gossamer wings of a butterfly, or love itself... Nothing eludes an enthralled man’s pursuit!” Rook extended an arm, his booming voice stretching to fill the entire courtyard. “Even Cupid himself would be envious of such an unadulterated passion! It is the pinnacle of romantique, non?”

“... No, I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

Rook nodded, carefully tracing the path of her still moving quill with his eyes. “Perhaps you’ve experienced far too much of being chased during your time in the wild to find amusement in it. Escaping birds of prey, I’d imagine, would be difficult for a smaller creature such as yourself.”

Raven shivered. How many times had she just narrowly dodged the talons of a hawk, or scraped by the watchful eyes of an owl? “Precisely why I’m not in the mood for more of it.”

“D’accord.”

“... Huh?”

Her hands were suddenly empty, and her book and quill were in Rook’s grasp.

“Um, senpai... My belongings?” She held out a hand, palm up, expectantly. “May I please have them back?”

He beamed down at her, as radiant as the flaxen hair that framed his face.

“... Please?”

His lip curled, his smile broadening.

A familiar chill caressed Raven’s heart in spite of glimpsing such cheer. Uncertainty and vague apprehension curled together in the pits of her stomach.

Normally, she found comfort in his smile. But no, not this one. Not with the half-lidded eyes and the crafty curve to his mouth, not when he appeared so foxlike.

She saw another tricky predator before her, and its name was Rook Hunt.

“Now is your golden opportunity to be the one giving chase,” he sang.

The items book dangling in Rook’s clutches, the bait... and he, the huntsman, her target. Realization slammed into Raven like a freight train, but she was much too slow to react.

By the time she managed to scramble onto her feet to tackle him, he was already off like a bullet.

If Raven had to put a word to playing tag with Rook, it would be torture.

She was already not well suited to feats of athleticism, for she lacked strength, speed, and endurance—tag only highlighted those physical shortcomings. And stacked against a seasoned outdoorsman? Raven had a snowball’s chance in the Scalding Sands.

In fact, she was less like a raven and more like a chicken with its head cut off, running around erratically and shouting after Rook for his return.

Two times she had circled the courtyard before, halfway through the third, a barking pain began nipping at her legs. Breath ragged and face warm, Raven propped herself against the wishing well to steady her feet. She leaned into it, mumbling under her breath into the waiting water below.

Her lungs felt as though they were on fire. Her heartbeat so fast, it was nearing a hum. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping the poison of pain from immediately overtaking her senses.

She took one large, grounding gulp of air. “I didn’t take you to be so cruel.”

Raven knew that he was listening—and watching, for that matter—from the trill of laughter ringing out. For as much as he outmatched her, Rook was at least merciful enough to ensure he was always in her sights... but just out of reach. Indeed, he lurked a bit ahead, ducking behind a slim shrub when she passed a tired look his way.

His profile was visible, rich in both life and in color. A curtain of gold locks, emeralds set in his eyes, a complexion tinted with a slight shade of rose from not exertion but from excitement.

“Le Chasseur d’Amour is nothing, if not cruel,” he chuckled, “for in loving everyone and everything, how is it possible to put ‘one true love’ above all else?”

“Maybe Cupid should shoot you with another arrow to properly align your thoughts.” Raven said dryly.

“Oh la la~ An archer versus another archer... I gladly welcome the challenge! It would truly be a battle to end all battles!”

“... Cupid is just a naked baby with wings.”

He turned to look at her head-on, his smile now playful as he waged a finger. “Non, non! You mustn’t underestimate him. As young as Cupid may appear to be, he commands love—a most terrifying and powerful force. A single arrow could rewrite history, bring anyone to their knees.”

“... Even you?”

“Oui.”

She raised an eyebrow.

A ridiculous idea dashed through her mind. Like a deer dashing across a meadow, making leaps and bounds on lithe legs. If theatrics were Rook’s game, then...

Raven pointed at him, drawing back her other arm with fingers poised as if pulling on a bowstring. Her amber irises were fixed in intense concentration, her lips pursed. A sharp intake of breath, and she let an imaginary arrow fly.

Rook’s eyes widened.

“Tag. You’re it,” Raven declared, letting her hands fall to her side. “I win this game.”

“Mon dieu...!!” He grasped his chest, taking a staggering step back—as if struck by a real arrow. His face crumpled, twisting with agony. “I’ve been shot!! Delt a direct blow to my tender heart!! Oh, woe is me...!!”

Rook dramatically dropped onto one knee, still cradling his (supposedly) wounded heart. With his head bowed low, the wide brim of his hat and his bangs hid his expression from view.

“So this is how it is to end! Le Chasseur d’Amour, defeated at the hands of a rival most clever and insidious... In such a desperate bid for love, my Achille’s heel was left exposed. what a careless oversight! A massive blunder!! For this, I shall pay the ultimate price... with my life!”

“... You really don’t need to go this far make me feel better about being bad at tag,” Raven sighed. Nearby, a few mob students were whispering to each other and passing her strange looks. The bird scooched closer to Rook and whispered, “Please just... just stand up. You’re attracting unnecessary attention.”

As per usual.

“Fufu.” He remained kneeling, but lifted his head to meet her gaze. “My apologies, it was but a jest in good fun.”

“Pretending to be dying is your idea of ‘fun’?” She shook her head in disbelief. “And in any case, you had your mythology all wrong. Cupid’s arrows aren’t meant to kill, only alter the affections of his targets.”

“Ah, but sometimes that kind of a fate can be worse than death.” Rook’s eyes creased, a curious twinkle dancing within them. “Forced to renounce one’s original love for another... seeking a love forged under false pretenses... That is a tragedy in of itself.”

“A fair point. However...” Raven held out a hand. “The time for tag and playing pretend is over. I would like for you to return my journal and my quill now, if you ple--”

The huntsman placed his hand in hers, and closed another over it.

“... What are you doing now?”

“Oh? Is it not clear what I’m doing?”

There it was again--his foxlike grin.

“I’m professing my undying love to you, the one who has caught my eye after being struck by Cupid’s arrow!”

“H-Huh?! That was all obviously just a game, a game...!!” Raven sputtered, attempting to pry herself away--but her strength failed her, and Rook held fast. “And it’s over!! Done! Finished!! You can go back to being sane now!”

“I assure you that this love of mine is no game, nor an untruth.” He laughed, a jovial sound that reverberated like a song in the recesses of one’s mind. “Mon petit oiseau... I would travel to the ends of Twisted Wonderland and back for you. Even if Cupid were to attempt to lead me astray, I would find you once more. You are my home, my hearth, my solace.”

Rook sealed his vow with a kiss planted in her gloved palm. The warmth of his lips radiated outward, spreading across her entire hand. Raven’s fingertips tingled, as if crackling with electricity.

Her cheeks flamed.

“Y-You’re so weird,” she mumbled. Yet the bird stubbornly closed her fingers into a fist, the memory of his kiss a mere phantom contained in her grip. “You really are insane.”

“When one is in love, there is no such thing as sanity.”

(... Somewhere in the background, a mob student retched at the sickeningly sweet display.)

#twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Raven Crowley #valentwst2022 #Rook Hunt #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #disney twisted wonderland #something no one asked for

[cozydoe]

inspired by this iconic post by @inahallucination, i would like to present: the dead poets at build a bear workshop

the boys decided to take advantage of a day off from welton and go to the mall

todd and neil convince the boys to go to the bookstore

they end up scattered about

meeks and pitts end up in the science and technology section

cameron in the history section

neil and todd in the classics section comparing pretty editions of shakespeare plays

knox in the romance section (before he gets dragged out for being a weirdo)

charlie tells the other poets he’s not a nerd (affectionate) so he decides to roam around the mall and wait for the other poets

when todd and neil emerge from the bookstore, they notice charlie staring at the build a bear workshop across from them

“well if i didn’t know any better, i’d say mr. dalton has a childish side to him” neil says, nudging his friend jokingly to get his attention

“what can i say? i have a refined taste” he smirks and swings an arm around todd as he inspects the contents of his shopping bag with a nod of approval

once the rest of the poets are done at the bookstore, charlie informs them of the plan

by which i mean he shouts “gentlemen, let’s build some bears!”

(this totally scares the employee at the front of build a bear but the boys are so excited they hardly notice- except for todd who shyly says hello and apologizes as they walk in)

knox thinks about making a bear for chris and they all shout “NO!”

don’t worry, they buy him a pug plushie and dress it in pyjamas

cameron jokes that they’re not kids anymore but he ends up making a black bear plushie and dresses it in a tuxedo

meeks and pitts get a bunny and they dress it in a lab coat

charlie builds a brown bear and buys it several outfits because “god damn it, this is a serious responsibility”

(he names the bear nuwanda and takes it to every meeting)

todd is reluctant to build a bear at first until he sees a bear that reminds him of the colour of neil’s eyes

he dresses it in a flannel and pair of black pants

neil finds a blond-ish coloured bear and dresses it in a dark blue sweater and khakis

it’s not until weeks later that todd makes the connection and he’s not able to look at the bear on neil’s bed without blushing afterwards)

they attempt to record messages for their bears: the thoreau passage read aloud at each meeting, their version of welton’s four pillars

neil sheepishly asks todd if he can record a message for todd and todd agrees but “only if you let me record one for you too”

neil recites lines from midsummer nights dream: “so i, admiring of his qualities// things base and vile, holding no quantity. //love can transpose to form and dignity. //love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, // and therefore is winged cupid painted blind.”

todd, being ever the oblivious fool, thinks “aw how sweet!! neil must really enjoy running lines with me!!” when he hears the message for the first time

todd’s message to neil would be something along the lines of “hi neil!! just wanted to say you’re a great friend and i really l-like spending time with you. i hope you always chase after your dreams and we stay friends for a really long time. o-okay, bye.”

neil sobs the first time he hears the message

they all get in to ridiculous antics when it’s time to stuff the bears and make wishes

reciting poems, stomping their feet, squaredancing in the middle of the store, you name it

they all print out birth certificates for their bears and hang them up in the cave (and hold birthday parties for their stuffed animals every year afterwards)

once they’re done they all head out, carrying their new stuffed companions in boxes

they all agreed this was a fun day!!

also they probably take the plushies to keating’s class and he’s super confused but happy to have some new scholars in his class

anyways i’m gonna go build a bear now!! thanks for reading 🥰

#dead poets society #dead poets headcanons #neil perry #todd anderson #charlie dalton #steven meeks #gerard pitts #knox overstreet #richard cameron #anderperry #can this be considered that? i think so 👀 #this was so fun to write even tho it was ridiculously nerdy AHAHAHAHA #m.txt

[iliveiloveiwrite]

winged cupid painted blind // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: I’d really love something based on love story by Taylor Swift. The lines “We keep quite cuz we’re dead if they knew” and “take me somewhere we can be alone” stick out to me //  I was thinking that the reader could be from a family that isn’t well off and her and Anthony meet at a ball somehow. They create a ruse that she’s from a well known family so that the gossips in the ton don’t attack her because Anthony has fallen in love with a “commoner.” All the Bridgertons are in on the ruse and at the end of the story Anthony proposes - @whovianwholikesgirls

A/N: Why is it that every Bridgerton fic I write, I end up writing thousands and thousands of words? This is long and I am sorry for that! As always, I hope I have done your request justice and that I hope you like!

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, class divides, pining, mutual pining, lots of fluff, dancing, kissing, happy ending, Anthony in love.

Word count: 7.7k

Madame Delacroix’s took up the central property on the most prosperous street coming just off of Grosvenor Square. The most popular modiste in London, many of society’s richest families flocked to her door in order to claim their own dress made by the talented seamstress.

Anthony sighs as he climbs down from the carriage. His mother must be in a particular benevolent mood to send him to pick up her newest dress from the modiste. Anthony would much rather be spending his day at his club, but he finds himself ringing the modiste’s bell for service.

“Monsieur Bridgerton!” Madame Delacroix smiles, delighted at the sight of the Viscount. “How can I help you?” She asks, her smile turning flirtatious.

Anthony responds with his own flirtatious smile. “I’m here to pick up a dress for my mother.”

“Of course, of course,” Madame Delacroix sings, “I have it over here. I finished it last night. It is divine!”

“My mother will surely thank you,” Anthony states earnestly, his gaze dancing around the room filled to the brim with fabrics and ribbons, models and hoops.

“No need,” Madame Delacroix, “The Bridgertons are my best customers.”

Anthony takes the offered box, marvelling at the lightness of its weight. For all the skirts, for all the numerous pieces of fabric that go into making a dress, Anthony will always remain shocked at the featherlight weight of it.

“Will Lady Bridgerton be wearing this to the Hastings’ ball tonight?” The modiste asks, her tone light as she tries her best to keep the burning curiosity out of her voice.

“Most likely,” Anthony smiles, tipping his head in goodbye.

The modiste calls out her goodbyes as Anthony walks out the door. He doesn’t pay much attention to where he is going; only knowing that he needs to turn left in order to reach his carriage. The very thought has him rushing, safe in the knowledge that the quicker he got his done, the quicker he would be at his club.

It’s that self-indulgent thought that had Anthony distracted enough to walk into something hard.

“Oh!” A feminine voice gasps as Anthony catches her elbow whilst keeping a tight hold on the dress box.

“My apologies,” Anthony offers, steadying the unknown woman.

“You’re forgiven,” She murmurs dryly, turning her attention back to the seamstresses window.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, Lord Bridgerton.”

“My pleasure, Miss…”

“(Y/L/N).”

“My pleasure, Miss (Y/L/N),” Anthony repeats, adjusting the dress box in his hands. He goes to say something else but notices her slyly counting the money in her purse, watching her frown when she realises she cannot afford the prices set by Madame Delacroix.

“Have a nice day, Lord Bridgerton,” Miss (Y/L/N) remarks, stepping away from the Viscount to begin her walk home. She didn’t need a Viscount to be witness to her money troubles; she had thought she had enough, but the prices must have been increased since the last time she had wandered past the window. It would be another two weeks of saving before she could afford a new set of ribbons; it wasn’t worth it at this point, she sighed to herself.

“You too!” Anthony shouts to her retreating figure, feeling upset on her behalf that she could not afford the ribbons she was so dazedly admiring. Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling, Anthony climbs into the carriage, thinking of the young woman all the way home.

-----

“Jayne!” (Y/N) laughs, “Slow down! I’m going to lose a shoe.”

“Alright, Cinderella,” Jayne snickers, slowing her pace as she climbs the winding staircase to the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

“Have you ever seen such a home?” (Y/N) gasps; eyes widening as she takes in the grand structure. The brickwork is immaculate; many red bricks painted black to give the impression of a crosshatch pattern spreading across the building. This is only highlighted by the many windows; all seemingly lit by a countless number of candles and sconces.

“(Y/N)!” Jayne shouts, “Stop admiring the building! We have a dance to get to.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” (Y/N) laughs, hurrying after her friend who has already handed over their invitation.

Jayne grips (Y/N)’s hand tightly as they enter the ballroom together. The event is in full swing; the dancefloor already full with couples dancing a quadrille.

“Would you dance with me?” The handsome brunette asks of Jayne, staring at her hopefully. Jayne casts her gaze to (Y/N), not wanting to leave her friend, but wanting very much to dance with the handsome man.

(Y/N) nudges Jayne forward, answering for her. “She would be delighted.”

Jayne sends her a thankful smile as she joins more and more couples on the dancefloor.

The drinks table isn’t busy at all as (Y/N) wanders over. She makes sure to keep an eye on Jayne, watching her dance with what looks to be a Rokesby. (Y/N) shakes her head fondly at her friend; ten minutes into a ball and she’s already caught the attention of a member of one of the richest families in England.

Turning her attention away from her friend, (Y/N) reaches for a glass of lemonade when her hand brushes with a man clearly wanting the same glass. (Y/N) pulls her hand away, not wanting to cause any trouble at a ball she wasn’t even invited to.

“My apologies,” She murmurs, grabbing another glass from the many.

“You’re forgiven,” A voice drawls. (Y/N) glances upwards through her lashes to find Anthony Bridgerton watching her with a confused expression.

“Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) greets, curtseying lightly at the sight of her superior.

Anthony nods. He remains silent as he stands next to her; it’s not an awkward silence, rather, one where (Y/N) can practically hear the cogs and gears winding in Anthony’s mind, trying to figure out where he knows her from. If he knows her at all.

“I met you this morning,” Anthony recalls suddenly, snapping his fingers together when he remembers why he recognises the woman standing next to him.

“You almost knocked me over,” She states wryly, lifting her glass to her lips to take a tentative sip of the lukewarm lemonade.

“I believe I apologised for that, Miss (Y/L/N).”

“Call me (Y/N). And I forgave you,” She states simply, “But It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you forget it, however.”

“I’d be disappointed in you, if you did.”

(Y/N) laughs. The very sound music to Anthony’s ears and he briefly wonders whether he could have the sound imprinted on his brain; to hear her laughter for an eternity.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asks, taking a pull of his lemonade before wrinkling his nose. Too sweet, not sour enough. “Are you here with your parents?”

“I wasn’t technically invited,” She confesses to the Viscount in a conspiratorial whisper. Anthony’s eyes widen when her words land, “What?”

“I came to chaperone my friend, Jayne. You may know her, she’s Lord Dorchester’s daughter.”

Anthony nods; he knew the man well, drank with him a few times at his club – dreadfully dull with a fascination for military history. Much like many of the men of his father’s generation.

“Anyway,” (Y/N) continues, “Jayne wanted to go, but needed a chaperone as her mother has taken ill – nothing serious thankfully. I was the next best option so here I am.”

“Here you are,” Anthony parrots, enunciating every syllable as his eyes pour over her figure. “If you weren’t invited, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a governess for Lord and Lady Saville,” She answers proudly; a happy smile on her face as she thinks of her students.

“I hated my governess,” Anthony confesses with a laugh. “I don’t care much for Latin which she knew so she would make me do double the work.”

(Y/N) snorts. “Latin is a very useful language; it’s a good skill to have.”

“I know that now,” Anthony gripes, “I just didn’t know that at ten years old.”

Silence descends between them. Again, not uncomfortable, but a natural stopping point in their conversation. After all, titled gentleman such as the man stood beside her didn’t speak to her occupation outside of a brief conversation about their child’s progress in their education.

(Y/N) places her finished glass of lemonade back on the table before smoothing out the deep blue skirts of her borrowed dress. She clears her throat, ready to make her excuses and check on Jayne when Anthony speaks first.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a governess, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Call me Anthony, please.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re supposed to dance with someone of your own class, Anthony.”

“I don’t want to dance with them. I want to dance with you.”

His argument is straight to the point; no beating around the bush that (Y/N) finds it hard to find fault with it. Instead, she sighs, “One dance.”

“One dance,” Anthony promises, holding out his hand for her to grasp.

She didn’t expect to find herself the centre of the Viscount’s attention, but she cannot bring herself to mind much. Not as he holds out a hand for her to take; not as he leads to her to the dancefloor and not as he settles a palm against her lower back. The feel of his hand feeling so right that she loses the power of speech.

The music begins and (Y/N) travels to a new place entirely. The room melts away; the couples, the families. They all disappear. The only two people in the room are her and Anthony; his blue eyes fixed on her as they start to circle the room in waltz. There’s no need for conversation; all words passed by looks alone.

When the music dies and the room fades back into view, (Y/N) only wonders whether she would feel like this again, whether they would be anyone to make her feel like this again. As Anthony bows and kisses her hand, (Y/N) has her answer.

----------

He doesn’t stop thinking about her. She left soon after they finished dancing; her friend finding her and asking whether she was ready to leave. Anthony wanted to argue; wanted to reach for (Y/N) and pull her back to his embrace where they could dance the night away.

Anthony returned home and went straight to his room. He undressed mechanically; still thinking of her as he slipped between his sheets and tried to fall asleep only to find that sleep was a fickle friend that would not be granting him a visit tonight.

He remains awake; thinking of every aspect of her. He didn’t think he would see her again after the modiste; it was a shock to find her at the ball, but he took the opportunity with both hands to find that he had quickly become infatuated with her.

Could this be called love? Anthony rolls over in bed; tangling himself up in the sheets as he runs a hand up and down his bare chest, thinking the question over and over.

He felt as if he had hit by the arrow of Cupid; as if he had handed himself over voluntarily to be pricked with one of the god’s arrows. He’s never felt like this; no woman had ever kept him awake at night in such a manner.

Groaning, Anthony reaches for the pillow on the other side of the bed, hugging it to his chest. All the while, he dreams it was her body he was pressing close to.

The day after the Ball, Anthony strides from his study to his mother’s drawing room. There, he sits next to his beloved mother, and asks her to gather his siblings for a family meeting.

They arrive one by one. The youngest arriving first; a simple call from the bottom of the stairs has Gregory and Hyacinth rushing to the drawing room, each one adamant that they didn’t do it, but rather their sibling. Anthony shakes his head in exasperation, not wanting to know what they were referring to and instead, asks them to take a seat on the pale blue couch in front of the window.

Over the course of an hour, Anthony’s family arrive. Each one just as curious as the last, each one just as questioning as the last. “Why have you gathered us here, Anthony?” Daphne sighs, her hand resting on Simon’s knee.

“I’ve met someone,” Anthony announces. He frowns at the shocked gasps from Daphne and Eloise; was he really so incapable of finding himself a wife? He ignores the jibes from them both, turning to face his dear mother.

Violet Bridgerton sits in her favourite chair; the one next to it empty as it has been for the last decade. Edmund Bridgerton died so suddenly, and their love was so strong, Anthony knew that there was no recovery from it. “Do we know her?” She asks; her face showing the happiness she feels for her eldest son.

“No,” Anthony sighs, settling down next to his youngest sister, Hyacinth. She offers him a sweet smile as he sits; Anthony cannot help but return the smile and ruffle her hair. When the moment is over, Anthony focuses his attention back onto his family who he finds is watching him intently. “She’s a governess,” He admits, straightening in his seat.

“A respectable profession,” Eloise states with a smile. Anthony feels a rush of affection for his sister; he had always been wary for her outspokenness, but right now, he could thank her heartily.

“What’s the problem, Anthony?” Eloise continues, crossing her ankles, leaning forward in interest.

“I think she may have feelings for me as well, but she’s hesitant to act on them because of our differences.”

“Differences?” Hyacinth questions curiously; unaware of such class differences at such a young age.

“(Y/N) is a governess. I am a Viscount,” Anthony explains, “It would be the subject of gossip for years to come should anything happen between us.”

“So we come up with another story,” Francesca suggests, shrugging her shoulders as if her suggestion was always the answer.

“Another story?” Daphne wonders, eyes glancing between her husband and her family.

“We create a ruse,” Francesca explains to her elder sister. “A story for (Y/N) and Anthony to follow when out in public.”

“Do you think she would go along with this?” Benedict asks; his tone wary as he thinks of the possible implications this could have for his family.

Anthony remains silent, tapping a finger against his cheek as he thinks of whether (Y/N) would follow such a ruse. “Why don’t we ask her? I can send a summons.”

Violet, who had been watching the whole exchange in silence, nods. “Send her a message asking her to come as quick as she can. Tell her it isn’t an emergency, but that you would like to talk to her.”

Anthony nods; rushing from the drawing room to his study to pen such a message. After that, he calls on one of the footmen, handing them the letter and the strict duty of delivering this to (Y/N) personally. The footman nods; his face serious as he takes the letter from his employer’s hand, all but sprinting out of the door.

Anthony returns to the drawing room; taking his seat next to Hyacinth.

“Did you send the missive?” Violet asks. Anthony nods; doing his best to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. “I sent it with one of the footmen,” He answers, “It shouldn’t be long now.”

His family all nod, breaking off into separate conversations whilst Anthony remains stoic and silent. His leg bounces repeatedly; the only outward sign of his anxiety. Internally, he nerves were fraught. He couldn’t help but wonder whether this was all too much; he knew from their first meeting that Anthony would do anything for her, but if (Y/N) didn’t return such feelings then it was all for nothing.

Worries and thoughts continue to plague him as Anthony catches sight of Daphne leaning into Simon. It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony cannot miss the devoted smile that crosses Simon’s face when he feels his wife press against him.

Longing breaks within Anthony’s chest, spreading through his body, leaving behind an ache that he doesn’t know how to heal.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” introduces the Butler, breaking Anthony’s longing in half.

He stands all too fast, appearing all too eager. Anthony shoots a glare in his brother’s direction when he hears their sniggering.

(Y/N) rushes into the room; her eyes filled with panic when she finds herself in front of the whole Bridgerton clan. “Anthony?” She whispers; her eyes finally meeting his from across the room.

“(Y/N),” He breathes, “Thank you for coming.”

“You told me not to worry, but you sounded so urgent.”

“We wanted to talk to you,” He explains, gesturing to his whole family. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

(Y/N) sits; her mind running a thousand miles a minute as she finds herself being watched by every Bridgerton/Basset in the room. The room is silent; too silent – no-one dares broach the subject first. They don’t want to anger Anthony or ruin his chances with (Y/N).

“Whatever is the matter?” (Y/N) finally asks, breaking the silence.

“We’ve come to understand that you and Anthony have feelings for each other,” Violet states quite plainly.

(Y/N) fidgets, somewhat uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I guess you could say that,” She offers, smiling smally at the aforementioned man.

“We also know that you’re worried about the differences between Anthony and yourself,” Violet continues to which Eloise huffs, crossing her arms in anger at the state of the class differences within England.

“It’s not so much worried,” (Y/N) explains, “It’s more resigned to the fact.”

Violet nods, understanding where the young governess is coming from. “Francesca,” Violet starts, nodding to the brunette sitting by one of Anthony’s brothers, “Has come up with an idea that we would like to run by you.”

“Oh?”

“It would mean that you and Anthony would be able to begin a courtship.”

(Y/N) feels herself flush; her face heating with how open the Bridgerton family were about their emotions. Their family unit so healthy and happy that everyone felt at ease to talk about whatever was on their minds.

“What did you have in mind?” (Y/N) asks, turning to face Francesca who responds with a large smile.

“We’re going to create a backstory for you. Not something terribly complicated, but something that you and Anthony can follow whilst out in public.”

“Okay…” (Y/N) whispers hesitantly, “What’s the backstory you’ve created?”

Francesca begins to look sheepish. “I haven’t thought of that part yet… I didn’t think Anthony would go for the first part.”

(Y/N) laughs; a light and airy sound that has Anthony straightening in his seat, smiling automatically. “Why don’t we come up with it together?”

“So you’re willing to go along with it?” Anthony asks; his voice unwaveringly hopeful as he refuses to look at anyone but (Y/N).

Something in his face has her nodding. “For as long as you’ll have me,” She answers earnestly, almost breathless when Anthony smiles widely in return.

“This is what I’ve thought of so far,” Colin announces, breaking the moment between Anthony and (Y/N).

The family turn to Colin to find him sat forward on his seat, an eager look across his face as he begins to lay out his plans. Anthony smiles and nods; happy with every word leaving his brother’s mouth.

(Y/N) cannot help but feel an ounce of doubt; not so much at the plan, but for longevity of it. How long would it be before Anthony realised she was not worth it? How long would it before the class difference between them became too much? She dreaded the day but knew it would be upon her before she realised.

----------

The annual picnic in Hyde Park drew in every affable family in London. After all, it was another excuse for mother’s to parade their daughters to the many eligible gentleman. For the gentlemen, it was a free lunch with whichever gazebo they chose to throw themselves upon.

The Bridgertons had been attending this picnic for many years; their station in society meaning that they were personally invited by the monarch. Violet took pride in her set up, making sure her cook’s famous biscuits were on display and that there was plenty of tea to go around. She also ensured that her family had the perfect view of the Serpentine; not too close for her children to fall in, but not too far for it to be out of sight. It was not a sorry affair.

(Y/N) had joined the family happily; talking briefly with Colin and Eloise before Hyacinth monopolised her attention. (Y/N) didn’t mind; she had taught many young girls the same age as Hyacinth and found them all a delight to educate. Hyacinth would be no different.

It wasn’t long, however, before Anthony joined her side. His hand settled comfortably on the small of her back, liking the way that she stepped closer to him, as if wanting to be in his presence all the time.  

“Did you have fun the other night?” Anthony questions, thinking back to Daphne’s ball when (Y/N) had smiled at him as he lead her across the dancefloor.

(Y/N) smiles. “I did. I had a lot of fun.”

“How are you feeling about our ruse?” Anthony queries, catching sight of Lady Featherington marching across the many blankets in the direction of the Bridgerton patch.

“Confident,” (Y/N) answers, “Why do you ask?”

Anthony smiles; shifting his position slightly so he can hear every word of the conversation about to happen. He ducks his head, his mouth close to her ear as he answers, “Because it’s about to be put to the test.”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington calls; her gaudy green gown shimmering in the sunlight as she teeters her way to the matriarch of the fine family.

“Lady Featherington,” Violet greets, her voice as polite as ever. “How are you?”

Lady Featherington smiles at Violet; her gaze glancing around the colourful blankets and gazebo set out for the Bridgerton family to remain comfortable as the picnic progresses. Lady Featherington smiles when her eyes find the figure she was looking for. (Y/N) stands to the side, wrapped up in a conversation with Anthony that certainly looks to be a private one.

Lady Featherington nods towards (Y/N); the fascinator attached to her threatening to slip into her eyes. “You have a new addition to your family, Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington states; no infliction of a question but one inferred all the same.

“(Y/N) is a distant friend of the family,” Violet answers breezily, “She hails from a wealthy family just outside of Leeds.”

“Leeds?”

Violet nods. “Yes, Leeds. It’s just over 20 miles outside of York, perhaps you’ve been?”

Lady Featherington smiles tightly at Violet. She smooths down the green panels of her dress. “A handful of times, Lady Bridgerton. After all, my side of the family hails from Manchester. The two aren’t so far removed.”

“Of course,” Violet appeases, “How does your family fare? I’d heard your mother was ill.”

Lady Featherington continues to smile graciously at the Dowager Viscount. Her eyes are brimming with warning and curiosity, but her smile is forced. “Mother is doing much better, she travelled to the coast. The latest journals are saying sea air helps with fragile conditions.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Lady Featherington nods her thanks to Violet before making her excuses. Violet’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she watches the notorious gossip walk away from her gazebo. Lady Featherington’s shoulders are tight with displeasure as she marches back to her own plot.

Violet returns to the stitching in her lap after a brief glance towards her youngest children. Gregory and Hyacinth occupied with Benedict and Colin as the older of the set teach their younger siblings games from their youth. Violet smiles at her children; content to return to the pattern at hand, the Dutch Tulips would not stitch themselves.

“What was Lady Featherington talking to you about?” Anthony asks. His face the very picture of innocence as he breaks his mother’s concentration and grabs two biscuits – one for him, the other he hands to (Y/N).

“She was fishing for information on our dear (Y/N),” Violet comments, observing her stitching to ensure it remains straight. “She didn’t find out a thing other than what we discussed.”

(Y/N) lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet waves away her gratitude with a dismissive hand. “You’re making my son happy; I’ll protect that and you with all that I have.”

(Y/N) flounders for a moment at the quick acceptance by Violet. She smiles at the matriarch; whispering her thanks to Violet, ducking her head as she tries to come to terms with rush of emotions coursing through her body.

Anthony returns his attention to the conversation; his mind no longer focused on way to distract Lady Featherington. He flashes a smile in (Y/N)’s direction; his heart racing when she sends her own smile back.

“(Y/N) and I are going to promenade, mother. You’ll be fine without us?”

Violet snorts. “Yes, dear. I have my seven other children to keep me company.”

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly at his mother. He presses a sweet kiss to her cheek before offering (Y/N) his arm.

They amble along the path; all the while aware of the maid sent by Violet shortly after they departed. Violet trusts (Y/N) implicitly, but she knows the reputation of her eldest son. The poor opera singer being prime evidence of his abilities to break hearts as quickly as he mends them.

“You look beautiful, by the way. In case I haven’t told you,” Anthony flirts, a handsome smile spreading across his face.

“You haven’t, but I’ll take the compliment now.”

Anthony laughs, throwing his head back in delight as they both pause their walk. “You are though,” Anthony murmurs, reaching out to brush a finger down (Y/N)’s cheek, “You’re beautiful.”

(Y/N) averts her gaze; her cheeks flushing from the unexpected compliment. Anthony glances on either side of them, catching sight of the maid only a few feet away, doing her best to nonchalantly follow them. Anthony turns his attention back to the woman in front of him, desperate for a moment alone with her. A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“Follow me,” Anthony repeats, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He gestures to a faint path; one less travelled. “Do you trust me?”

(Y/N) answers by taking his outstretched hand, letting herself be led down the lesser known path.

Their pace slows when they are certain they have lost their chaperone. (Y/N) feels a twinge of guilt as she thinks of the poor maid who was only doing what she was asked by her employer, but then she catches sight of the unbridled glee on Anthony’s face and her guilt is quickly replaced by anticipation.

“Where are we going?” She asks; her voice jostling slightly as she tries to watch Anthony and not trip over any loose twigs or stones.

“Nowhere in particular,” Anthony confesses, “I just wanted you to myself for a little bit.”

His pace slows; they’re a good distance away from the picnic party, they wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Anthony wonders as he comes to a stop. His hands settle on her waist and she has do all that she can to focus on the conversation and not the fact that she can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her dress.  

“You can tell me anything.”

“I like spending time with you. You make me…” Anthony trails off as he thinks of the word, “Happy. Yes, you make me happy.”

“You make me happy too.”

“If you want me to stop,” Anthony whispers, bending to press a line of kisses from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, “You need to tell me now.”

“Don’t stop,” She whispers, fisting her hands in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him forward.

Anthony kissed her carefully, as if afraid he would ruin her from the very moment their lips touched. What he didn’t realise, however, was that he had ruined her from the instant they met. He might not have realised it, but she knew. She knew that from that one conversation, that one touch to her elbow, she would be ruined for other men.

His mouth is gentle, hesitant. By the way he groans low in his throat, Anthony does not expect (Y/N) to react the way she does. Gasping against his mouth, pressing herself against him as her lips open under his. The kiss becomes hurried; oxygen becoming a distant thought of the past as (Y/N) tastes the lemon biscuits Anthony had stolen from his mother’s table.

Breaking the kiss, the couple each suck in ragged breaths. Shy smiles break out across either of their faces, not having expected such a thing to happen to between them. A short laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he keeps (Y/N) wrapped up in his embrace. Neither of them feel the need to say a word; happy to let the time pass between them in complete silence.

“We should probably get back,” (Y/N) eventually murmurs against Anthony’s cheek, the slight stubble scratching her skin.

Anthony releases a choked sound. “I don’t want to,” He confesses, “I want to stay here with you.”

(Y/N) pulls back, brushing a gloved hand against Anthony’s cheek. He leans into the touch; finding himself enraptured by the woman in front of him. “I want to stay with you too,” She whispers, “But your family will be looking for us.”

Anthony sighs, breaking the embrace entirely. He holds her hand; tangling their fingers together. If he could, he wouldn’t let go of her at all. He would keep her with him at all times; he likes to be in her presence, doesn’t want to be without it. However, society and duty calls, and he must return. However, he would be damned if he was to let go of her hand before then.

“Alright,” He concedes, beginning the walk back to the picnic.

The walk is quiet, but comfortable. Their hands remained tangled even as they arrive back to the Bridgertons. His brother’s throw Anthony a knowing glance which Anthony ignores. He knows his mother will have a strict word with him later, but he has more pressing matters on his mind – his future and the woman now sitting with his youngest siblings.

He’s found his forever; he just needs to keep it.

-----

“Miss (Y/L/N),” the Butler begins, interrupting the governess as she marks her student’s latest set of handwriting, “A Viscount Bridgerton to see you?”

“Oh!” She gasps, standing from her seat far too quickly. The inkpot on her desk spills, sapphire blue ink spreading across the multitude of papers thrown about her desk. As she watches the puddle grow, she begins to feel a deep sense of dread spread through her being.

“Shall I show him in?” The Butler asks, also watching the ink stain spread.

“Have you already made Lord and Lady Saville aware of his presence?”

“Yes, miss. They’re the ones who told me to fetch him to you.”

“Then yes, show him in please,” (Y/N) answers, staring forlornly at the ruined paper and wasted ink. The Butler makes a sympathetic noise before opening the door further for Anthony to enter.

“Darling,” Anthony greets. He goes to speak further but spies the growing blue stain. “What happened here?”

“I stood up too quickly,” (Y/N) complains. “It’s gone everywhere, and I can’t afford another bottle right now.”

“That’s no problem. I’ll get you a bottle.”

(Y/N) fixes the man with an unimpressed look. “No you won’t. I don’t want you buying things for me.”

“It won’t be bought. I have a stock of ink back at Bridgerton House due to the amount of correspondence I have. You can have a couple of pots; I will not miss it.”

“Oh… well, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Anthony smiles. “Now that’s sorted, I came here to ask you a question.”

“You have?”

“I have. Would you attend the Shakespearean ball? With me?” His voice has a note of vulnerability in it as he voices his question.

“What?” She asks, “As in arrive with you, on your arm?”

“Yes,” Anthony states slowly, “You would come with me and my family.”

She begins to pace the room; her hands wringing together as she tries to calm the pounding of her heart and mind. “Are you sure this is the path you want to go down?” She asks Anthony; her voice begging for a truthful answer.

“What do you mean?”

“This is getting very serious very fast, Anthony. This plan isn’t going to work forever; the ton will find out that I’m a governess and the ruse will be over. This could ruin your entire family, Anthony.”

“Hey,” Anthony hushes, interrupting her pacing. He reaches for her hand with one hand whilst the other cups her cheek. She automatically leans into the touch, sending a thrill through Anthony’s aching soul. “Nothing’s going to happen,” He reassures with a gentle tone, “Should anything happen, we can do damage control.”

“I don’t want to be the ruin of your family, Anthony,” (Y/N) whispers, her eyes lined with unshed tears. She could never forgive herself if the Bridgertons were socially injured by her lack of money relating to her lack of status. (Y/N) could not help the hand of cards she was dealt at birth, but society dictates her station, and hers was so far below Anthony’s it was any wonder that he noticed her in the first place. It was a dream to be accepted by his family; she didn’t want to be the cause of their ruination.

“You aren’t going to be the ruin of my family,” Anthony assures, brushing under her eyes with his thumbs to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “You’re going to be the making of it. I want you in my life, (Y/N). I want to see where this goes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I haven’t felt like this for a long time, I want to see where this feeling takes me.”

“Okay,” She concedes, doing her best to stop the tears falling, “I’ll go to the ball with you.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

The smile that spreads across Anthony’s face makes it all worth it. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then another to her nose, to her cheek before finally kissing her in earnest. She hums against his mouth; getting lost in the feel of him.

“It’ll be worth it,” Anthony whispers. “All of this is worth it.”

“You’re worth it,” (Y/N) states quietly, pulling him back in for another kiss.

----

Lady Danbury was one of two women in London that could throw a memorable ball. The other being Violet Bridgerton. For her theme this year, Lady Danbury had chosen the works of the Elizabethan bard, William Shakespeare. For what could be more romantic than dressing as characters immortalised in his plays and sonnets?

Anthony would not tell (Y/N) one whisper of his costume; kept it a secret from her despite her barrage of questions. As revenge, she kept quiet about her costume, refusing to tell the man the colour of her dress.

The two walk into the ballroom with (Y/N)’s hand resting on Anthony’s forearm; her nerves rattle as she walks further into the room. She knew she had no reason to be nervous; Anthony and his family would protect her from whatever form of gossip falls her way, but she could not help the turning of her stomach as she walked passed many disappointed mothers who had hoped Anthony would pay their daughters the slightest bit of attention.

The music is loud; the laughter lightening the atmosphere and the dancers in full swing as (Y/N) begins to feel comfortable. Having taught many a child Shakespeare, (Y/N) spent a lot of time trying to decipher the characters in attendance tonight. She had already seen three Violas, four Benedicks, and six Olivias.  

“I have to go talk to someone,” Anthony says apologetically, interrupting her guessing game, “I won’t be long. Will you be okay without me?”

(Y/N) nods. “Go. I’m sure I’ll find someone to talk to.”

Anthony presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, whispering as he does so, “A marvel amongst women.”

“You’re nothing but a flirt,” She laughs, batting the love of her life away. “Go talk business.”

“As you wish,” Anthony laughs, mock-bowing before leaving (Y/N) to wander the ball alone. Moments pass before she finds someone she recognises. “Colin,” She greets happily, “Who have you come as?”

“Romeo Montague,” Colin answers, stretching his arms wide to show off his rather fetching garb.

“How wonderful,” She laughs, watching the Bridgerton strike a pose in his costume.

“Who knows,” Colin teases, “Maybe tonight I’ll find my Juliet.”

(Y/N) laughs once more, batting the man away when he wiggles his eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner. “Off with you,” She snorts, “I’m sure there are plenty of ladies for you to dance with.”

Colin departs with a bow of his head. (Y/N) rolls her eyes at the antics of the younger man; Colin knew full well of the line of ladies waiting for his signature of their dance cards, but something warms in (Y/N)’s chest when she watches Colin walk straight to Penelope Featherington.

“They’d make a fine pair if he would pull his head out,” A voice full of humour sounds from behind her.

(Y/N) startles. She turns to find Anthony watching her; his lips curled in a manner that suggested he was holding back the laughter he so desperately wanted to let out.

“You made me jump,” She hisses, batting his outstretched hand away.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Anthony coos, pulling (Y/N) into his embrace by pulling on one of the many skirts about her waist. (Y/N) flushes at the term of endearment, but also at the many pairs of eyes now watching the young couple.

“You’re forgiven,” She sighs. “Who have you dressed as?” She asks, changing the subject.

“Ferdinand,” Anthony answers, “From The Tempest.”

“How odd,” (Y/N) muses, “I’ve dressed as Miranda from The Tempest.”

“‘Admired Miranda!/ Indeed the top of admiration, worth/ What’s dearest to the world!’”

“Only you could quote Shakespeare from the heart,” (Y/N) states wryly.

Anthony preens, puffing out his chest slightly. “All the Bridgertons can. We would do dramatizations of the plays.”

“Of course,” (Y/N) laughs, picturing Anthony as a young boy, dressed in breeches with a make-do ruff around his neck. The very image brings a fond smile to her face.

“What are you smiling about?” Anthony questions, wanting to be privy to the thoughts running through her mind.

“You,” She flirts, hooking her arm through Anthony’s as they start to take a turn about the room.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Anthony states pompously though his heart races at her words.

Her laughter chimes as Anthony steers (Y/N) around the room, pausing only to grab two glasses of lemonade from the drinks table. She sips at it delicately, not risking a spill of a single drop on her outfit.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Anthony murmurs into her ear. “Truly. I would have been lost without you.”

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” (Y/N) teases, enjoying the blush that begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. She briefly touches a gloved hand to his cheek, smiling fondly at the brunette. “I’m glad I came too.”

Anthony clears his throat; clearing his throat of the emotion clogging it up. He takes her drink from her, placing it on a nearby table. As ever the gentleman he was raised to be, Anthony bows towards the women he vows is the love of his life and offers his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

“Always,” She answers with a breathtaking smile, taking his hand to be led onto the dancefloor for the start of the new song. Couples on the floor take up the position of the quadrille as upbeat music sounds through the hall.  

It’s hard not to smile as Anthony takes her hand to begin the first steps of the lead couple. The first dance figure is performed before copied by the other couples in their square.

Anthony keeps a tight hold on her as he begins the next set of dance figures; spinning (Y/N) out before drawing her back in. Laughter falls from her mouth, setting his heart alight with the love he feels for her.

She catches the eye of Lady Featherington through one of many of Anthony’s spins. The Lady smiles knowingly, raising her glass to the young woman spinning in the arms of the Viscount.

(Y/N)’s breath freezes in her chest; she makes a choked sound and her steps falter. Luckily, no-one but Anthony seems to notice, but he recovers his hold on (Y/N) fairly quickly. It’s the end of the song; couples slowing on the floor, the audience beginning to clap their approvals.

“Darling?” Anthony calls quietly, breaking her out of her reverie. His hand remains in her hold; refusing to let him take even a step without her.

“Take me somewhere we can be alone,” She pleads, suddenly overcome by the sheer amount of people milling about the hall.

Anthony doesn’t need to be told twice, leading (Y/N) away from the dancefloor with a guiding hand on the small of her back. Anthony catches Benedict’s eye as he leaves the hall; his brother offers him a single nod to which Anthony relaxes – Benedict would make sure no-one would follow or interrupt, there was something important Anthony had to do.

The night air is cold against her heated skin as she inhales hurried breaths. The stone of the railing is cool under her fingers as she grips the stone tight; needing something to tether her to this place. It feels like a dream; a total dream that she would find herself costumed as a character from a Shakespeare play brushing elbows with some of the most powerful people in the country.

At this time of night, the gardens are dark, but she can still make out their heavenly fragrance perfuming the air, providing the perfect backdrop for this night.

“Are you alright?” Anthony asks, removing his jacket and settling it over her shoulders.

(Y/N) pulls his jacket tighter around her; inhaling the comforting scent of musk and sweet orange washing over her. “I’m fine now, it got to be a bit too much in there.”

“That’s an understatement,” Anthony murmurs, “I saw Lady Featherington.”

(Y/N) cringes internally. Her face is a mask of polite interest as she murmurs, “Oh? You saw that did you?”

“She only acts as if she knows everything, darling,” Anthony reassures, settling his hands on (Y/N)’s waist, desperate to be touching her.

“I know,” She murmurs, but his words do nothing to settle the panic tying her chest into knots.

“We’re fine,” Anthony promises; hands rubbing up and down the sides of her bodice. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” She repeats, sighing heavily, leaning back into his embrace. His chest is strong against her back, but she doesn’t get long to admire his strength. He turns her in his arms, peering down at the expression on her face.

“You’re who I love. I couldn’t give a damn what the rest of London society thinks.”

“I love you as well,” She answers, a small smile on her face, letting his words wash away any and all of her worries. “You do have a way with words.”

“Flatterer,” He teases, dipping his head to kiss her.

(Y/N) gasps at the first press of Anthony’s lips against hers. She had kissed him before; a hurried meeting of mouths before their chaperone caught up to them. This kiss differed from that; languid, unhurried. Anthony took his time to memorise the feel of her lips against his; the small whimpers sounding at the back of her throat.

Each brush of his lips against hers spoke of what he found it hard to put into words. He had never been a wordsmith; could never write poetry or recite the romances of the past, but with every butterfly kiss placed on her lips in time to the shuddering of her heartbeat could Anthony translate the sheer scale of what he feels for her.

She reaches up to cup the back of his neck, fingers carding through the dark brown locks. Anthony’s grip on her waist remains firm as he presses her further into the railing. The gentleness of Anthony’s kiss soon turns to a burning passion as his hands splay across the small of (Y/N)’s back, pressing her to him.

As Anthony’s kisses begin to travel the expanse of her jawline, (Y/N) is suddenly grateful for the railing behind her. If he was to let her go now, not only would she feel the keen absence of his touch, but she would surely sink to the floor. The feel of his mouth, pressed hot against her, has her knees feeling unsteady.

“(Y/N),” Anthony whispers, nuzzling the side of her neck, “(Y/N)…”

“You keep whispering my name,” She murmurs into the night air; her ragged breath leaving behind white plumes.

“Marry me,” Anthony all but pleads, pulling back from (Y/N)’s neck to gaze into her eyes. “Marry me and always be mine.”

It seemed that time had stopped and lost all of its meaning; there was no party, no gardens, no laughter of lifelong friends. No. In this moment there was only Anthony.

“Yes,” She whispers, laughter beginning to fall from her mouth as fresh as a morning rainfall. Once it starts, she cannot find it in herself to stop. Tears soon join the laughter as a smile breaks across Anthony’s handsome face. “Yes,” She repeats, “I will marry you.”

********

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