#fanfic in translation

[wistfulcynic]

savez-vous pourquoi on a les tournesols

i learnt about @ecclesiasticallatinfest um, yesterday, but i thought it was a great idea and wanted to participate so i knocked up a quick translation of my shortest fic. i'm an experienced translator but i always do french to english so going the other way was a challenge. Fortunately i knew exactly what the author meant by everything though she is a bitch for the flowery prose. i may have taken a few liberties with the french language, including disposing entirely with the passé simple because i cannot be arsed, so i hope gentle readers you will be kind.

original fic is here

translation is here

Stede Bonnet ressemble parfaitement à un des hommes dans son tableau préféré. Un jour, il rencontre l'homme qui ressemble à l'autre. Ça donne l'impression d'être destiné.

(Il l'est.)

savez-vous pourquoi on a les tournesols

Stede Bonnet adore les musées. 

C’était toujours comme ça, depuis sa première visite, lors d’un voyage scolaire. Un voyage qui était, à tous les autres égards, bien peu mémorable. Les tourments habituels des jumeaux Badminton et de leur cohorte, la solitude habituelle de Stede, lui seul avec ses livres et ses pensées. 

Mais il se souvient du tableau. 

Il se souvient de ces deux hommes sur le pont de leur navire, si vivement rendus par touches d’huile qu’il avait l’impression de sentir lui-même le vent qui fouettait dans leurs cheveux et gonflait les voiles de leur vaisseau. Il se souvient de la fierté de leur posture, l’absence total de peur. Il se souvient de leur unité, le fil de leur lien impossible de nier, palpable même depuis une peinture et à travers trois cents années. Il se souvient du désir ardent qui animait sa jeune poitrine. C’était ça ce qu’il voulait. Cette unité. Ce lien. Ce quelqu’un qui le regarderait du manière dont les pirates du tableau se regardaient. 

Personne n’avait jamais regardé Stede Bonnet comme ça. 

Même aujourd'hui personne ne le regarde comme ça. Ni ses parents, ni son ex-femme. Même pas ses enfants. Il traverse la vie comme il traverse les rues de Londres, seul parmi les foules bouillonnâtes des gens—familles, amis, amants. Mais pas pour lui. Jamais pour lui. 

Mais il adore toujours les musées. 

Il est aujourd’hui le conservateur de l’aile du XVIII siècle de la National Gallery de Londres, un boulot de rêves pour lequel il a travaillé toute sa vie. Il devrait se sentir triomphant, et il l’est, vraiment. Mais… doucement triomphant, et pour la plupart à soi-même. Le fait qu’il n’ait personne avec qui le partager ne fait rien, pas vraiment. Aller chaque jour au musée, savoir que c’est sa place, une place qu’il a méritée, c’est ça qui lui rend heureux. Plus heureux qu’il n’a jamais été. Ça suffit. 

Lorsqu’il acquiert le tableau, le tableau, celui qu’il a vu pour la première fois à Auckland il y a tant d’années, son bonheur est complet. Chaque jour il va dans sa gallérie et se tient debout en face de ce tableau et le regarde. Il se tient debout et il regarde et il ressent à nouveau ce désir presque douloureux dans sa poitrine. 

Peu à peu il se rend compte de quelque chose, une quelque chose très particulière dont il ne sait pas trop quoi faire. Un des hommes du tableau, celui du droit, l’homme blond à la barbe courte et pointue et à l’allure fringante, sa chemise blanche flottante et sa ceinture en soie turquoise autour de la taille, cet homme… il ressemble à Stede. 

Exactement comme Stede. À tel point que c’en est bizarre. Il ne l’a jamais remarqué autrefois, évidemment, comment aurait-il pu? Mais maintenant qu’il est plus âgé—du même âge, semble-t-il, que l’homme du tableau—le ressemblance est indéniable.

Il se laisse pousser la barbe, par curiosité académique, il se dit. Juste pour voir si la ressemblance est renforcée ou entravée. Il se laisse pousser également ses très courts cheveux, afin de mieux ressembler les boucles du tableau. Il introduit de la couleur dans sa garde-robe, les bleus vifs et les verts joyeux, même un petit jaune impertinent, de temps en temps. Il découvre qu’il adore la couleur, et la mode, et qu’elles l’adorent en revanche. S’habiller le matin devient un plaisir et non plus un corvée. 

Ne plus il se heurte les gens dans la rue parce qu’ils ne le remarquent pas. Plutôt, les inconnus hochent la tête à son passage et lui rendent ses sourires amicales. Ils arrivent même de faire la bavardage dans les queues. Ils gloussent s’il tente une petite blague. Il commence à faire des blagues exprès. Les gens rient. Ils rient d’amusement et pas de moquerie. Pour Stede, ça change tout. 

Ce Stede avec plus de confiance, plus de couleur, débordant d’une exubérance naturelle enfin libérée et tellement ravi de se ressembler si parfaitement à l’homme du tableau, commence à tourner plus fréquemment envers l’autre. Cet homme que, même enfant, il a trouvé presque trop magnifique pour apercevoir. Cet homme grand, beau, tout vêtu en cuir, sa barbe et ses cheveux longs fouettés par le vent et glorieux, qui contemple le doppelgänger peint de Stede avec le regard le plus doux qu’il n’ait jamais vu. 

Ce regard. La douleur dans sa poitrine devient insupportable lorsqu’il y pense, mais il y pense tout de même, et fréquemment. 

Malgré sa confiance en lui récemment trouvé, il n’existe toujours personne qui a jamais regardé Stede Bonnet comme ça. 

--

“Sacré tableau, n’est-ce pas, mon pote?” 

Stede se détourne de sa contemplation matinale du pirate vêtu en cuir, surpris et ravi d’entendre la cadence d’un accent familier. C’est rare qu’il rencontre un autre Kiwi à Londres, même si la ville accueille des gens venus des quatre coins du monde.

“Vous savez, c’est drôle,” reprend la voix. Elle est profonde et résonnante et elle caresse la peau de Stede comme du cachemire. “Je me souviens une fois, lorsque mon enfance en Nouvelle-Zélande, j’ai vu ce tableau. J’y suis resté en regardant pendant une bonne vingtaine de minutes. Les autres gamins se sont partis sans moi et le prof a dû revenir m’emmener pratiquement à l’écart. Je me rappelle plus le nom du prof mais je n’ai jamais oublié ce tableau.” Il se tourne vers Stede qui peut maintenant voir tout son visage. “Peut-être que ça vous paraisse fou, mais diriez-vous—pensez-vous que cet homme, celui de la gauche… vous pensez qu’il me ressemble?” 

Stede rest sans voix, bouche bée. Parce que oui, il dirait, oui. L’homme du tableau te ressemble vachement et s’il existe personne qui peut le déclarer avec autorité c’est Stede. C’est lui, après tout, qui avait regardé ce tableau chaque jour et tous les jours pendant tout de l’an dernier. L’homme à son côté a la même taille, les mêmes cheveux longs et barbe magnifique. Et lorsqu’il se retourne et leurs yeux croisent, Stede a le souffle coupé. Les yeux aussi se ressemblent, ce marron doux et chaleureux. Ils traversent le visage de Stede et ils s’écarquillent, signe de reconnaissance d’abord, puis d’émerveillement. 

“C’est toi,” il chuchote. “Cet homme, l’autre. C’est—c’est toi.”

Stede sait qu’il doit dire quelque chose, n’importe quoi, et donc il lance les premiers mots qui lui viennent de l’esprit. 

“Es-tu réel?” 

C’est une question de merde et il se sent ridicule pour la poser, mais les beaux yeux de l’homme se plissent sur les bords et il rit. Il rit d’amusement et non de moquerie. Le Stede d’aujourd’hui connait la différence. 

“Aussi réel que toi, mon pote. Je m’appelle Ed.” Il lui tend la main. 

“Stede,” répond Stede, en la prenant. Un frisson électrique parcourt sa peau, du point de contact jusqu’à l’extrémité de toute terminaison nerveuse qu’il possède. Il retient à peine son souffle. “Je suis le, um, conservateur. Du musée. Fin, pas du musée entier, seulement l’aile du dix-huitième siècle, mais c’est pas important en fait, ce que c’est important c’est que moi aussi.” 

“Toi aussi?” répète Ed. 

Stede hoche la tête avec enthousiasme. “Moi aussi, j’ai vu ce tableau lorsque mon enfance en Nouvelle-Zélande. J’arrivais pas à me détourner, moi non plus. Et je—” 

“Ne l’a jamais oublié?” 

“Ne l’ai jamais oublié! Je l’ai acquis à la première occasion. Ce n’était qu’après que je me suis rendu compte que, er—que l’homme dedans avait—” 

“Ton visage?” 

“Ouais.” Stede hausse légèrement les épaules. “Mon visage.” 

“C’est un bon visage,” dit Ed. La frisson électrique s’intensifie. Il découvre qu’il tient toujours la main d’Ed. 

“Sais-tu ce que j’aime le plus?” il demande. 

“À propos de ton visage?” 

“Non!” Stede proteste, avant de se rendre compte qu’Ed le taquine. Il sent ses joues rosir mais il continue. “Non, pas à propos de mon visage. Dans le tableau.” 

“Qu’est-ce que tu aimes le plus dans le tableau?” 

“C’est la manière dont ils se regardent,” dit Stede. “Ils sont si connectés et les expressions sur leurs visages, c’est—” 

“L’amour,” finit Ed. Sa voix est bourrue. “Ils se sont amoureux.” 

“C’est ça.” Les mots se coincent dans sa gorge. “En tant que garçon je ne pouvais pas le voir. C’est à dire, je l’ai vu mais je ne savais pas ce que c’était. Tout ce que je savais c’était que je voulais quelqu’un à me regarder comme ça. Mais personne ne l’a jamais fait.” 

“Jamais?” 

“Non. Pas—” Stede s’arrête, happé par les yeux d’Ed. Ce regard lui coupe le souffle. 

Ed maintient son regard tout en relâchant la main de Stede, tout en entourant la mâchoire de Stede de sa main, ses doigts s'enfonçant dans ses cheveux, s'enroulant autour de l'arrière de sa tête et l'attirant plus près de lui. 

"Pas jusqu'à ce moment,” murmure-t-il, puis ses lèvres se posent sur celles de Stede. 

Le baiser est d'abord doux, hésitant. Stede n'a jamais vraiment aimé embrasser ; il est peu expérimenté dans ce domaine et même moins enthousiaste, malgré ses dix ans de mariage. Mais ce baiser, ce baiser, l'illumine de l'intérieur ; ce picotement électrique travers sa peau et s’infiltre dans ses os. Il se retrouve penché sur le corps d'Ed, agrippant sa taille, poussant un petit gémissement impuissant qui attire un gémissement plus profond de la part d'Ed. Le baiser devient chaud, humide, tout à fait inapproprié pour un mardi matin pluvieux sur son lieu de travail, mais Stede s’en fout pas la gueule.

Après, ils restent en se regardant, yeux écarquillés et haletants, et puis en unisson parfait ils se tournent comme tirés par un fil, vers le tableau. 

Les deux hommes leur sourient, leur sourient, il n’existe pas la moindre doute. Le sosie d’Ed leur fait un clin d’oeil, tandis que celui de Stede hoche sa tête avec un sourire fier et content. “J’étais sûr que tu l’aurais trouver,” Stede entend dire sa propre voix, dans sa tête évidemment mais les mots sont aussi clairs que comme s’il les avait dit lui-même. 

Il se retourne vers Ed. “T’as entendu—” 

“Ouais,” réplique Ed. “J’ai entendu.” 

Ils regardent à nouveau le tableau, qui est précisément comme il a toujours été. 

“Viens déjeuner avec moi,” dit Ed, abruptement. 

“Il est dix heures et demie du matin!” 

“Un brunch, alors. Je sais un bon lieu, pas loin d’ici.” 

“Ah, oui?” Stede est tellement heureux qu’il a l’impression que son sang a été remplacé par du champagne. “C’est où ça?” 

“Mon restaurant.” Ed lui sourit. “Je viens de l’ouvrir. Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill, il s’appelle.” 

“Ooh, nom fabuleux. Et donc tu… vises rester à Londres?” 

“Aussi longtemps que Londres veut bien de moi,” dit Ed, et Stede sait qu’il ne parle pas seulement de Londres. “Et bien. Brunch? J’ai de la marmelade.” 

Stede reste bouche bée. “Comment—comment sais-tu que j’aime la marmelade?” 

“J’ai eu de la chance,” dit Ed. Ses yeux pétillent, de chaleur et affection et interêt et reconnaissance, et oui c’est enfin réel, ça se passe vraiment. Quelqu’un regarde Stede Bonnet Comme Ça. 

Ici au milieu de son musée bien-aimé, devant son tableau le plus précieux, le plus bel homme qu’il ait jamais vu, soit peint ou en personne, lui regarde de la manière dont il a si longtemps rêvé mais n’aurait jamais pensé savoir. 

Et dans sa poitrine il se sent à nouveau cette douleur mais ce n’est plus la douleur exquise. C’est la douleur d’une joie trop forte d’être exprimée. C’est le bonheur complet. 

C’est l’amour. 

“Le brunch serait super,” dit Stede. “C’est parfait.” Ça donne l’impression du début de quelque chose de spectaculaire. 

Et c’est ça qu’il est.  

#our flag means death #ofmd #Ecclesiastical Latin Fest #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #ofmd fanfic #fanfic in translation #français #savez-vous pourquoi on a les tournesols #do you know why we have the sunflowers #profdanglaisstuff

[poanist]

Optimus and his drunk wife 😋

#transformers #megop #megatron #optimus prime #actually it is a drawing of my fanfic #if I stop being lazy and translate it to English I will post it to Ao3 💀 #my art

[goldetrash]

Saw @unicornpopcorn14's silly fic of Dazai's house getting put onto a cargo ship from this post

#my art #shitpost #dazai getting ported to russia #why am i not surprised #little idiot baby #my god #bsd #bsd dazai #15 dazai #probably #or 16 dazai #the russian on the boat translate to silly #just fyi #fanfic rec #bungou stray dogs #bsd fanart #bungou stray dogs fanart

[selineram3421]

The reason for the question poll.

Writing Prompt:

Specifically for Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)

Can be for regular or human au

Can be used for Reader or other Characters

Alastor: Je vais vous manger ce soir~ *in a flirty way*

Y/n (who understands french): In a good way, right?

Alastor: ....

Y/n: In a good way, right?

Alastor: *grins*

🥀

If you understand french, do not translate in the comments please.

For those who don't understand, look it up. I wanna see your reactions in the comments for fun.

*skedaddles away*

~Seline, the person.

@willowaudreykeyes

#whoever understands this please dont translate #alastor #x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor the radio demon #gn reader #fanfic #alastor x reader #the radio demon #implied/suggestive #writing prompt #writing stuff #alastor writing prompt #look it up #implied #suggestive #but it also implies something else #quick edit #i think i spelled something wrong but idk if it is #aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh????

[ato-dato]

Spent an hour of my day just sitting together with my sisters and my mum showing each other gomens edits. Both sad ones and thirst traps. Family bonding time.

My mum also has fanart of aziracrow kissing on her phone home screen. And today she said sometimes she just stares at it longingly. Shes in her 3rd rewatch of s2 as well.

#She's David Tennants Nr. 1 fan Im telling you #And can you blame her #Honestly I think if we sent her a fanfiction to read she'd do it #But she doesn't speak English. Sadly. #Anyway #If you know of a good gomens fanfic that's been translated into German #Hit me up #good omens 2 #Good omens #Atospeaks

[bosbas]

Chapter 6: in a world of boys he's a gentleman

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy!fem!reader WC: 4.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, Eloise being the best, Colin finally having brain cell(s), but then very quickly losing aforementioned brain cells

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

May 30, 1816 – One week has passed since the unfortunate revelation of Lord Barlow’s true nature, and Lady Y/N Montclair has yet to make an appearance at a ball. Could it be that the Duke’s betrayal has left her too disillusioned? Perhaps the eligible gentlemen of London have failed to meet her exacting standards. One can't help but wonder if Lady Y/N be present at tonight’s ball, where the ton's most eligible bachelors will undoubtedly be vying for her attention now that she is decidedly searching for a new suitor. Who among them shall be lucky enough to capture her attention? This author does not know, but hopefully, this evening reveals more of Lady Montclair’s intentions.

Colin was grinding his teeth, his right eye twitching slightly as he glared at Eloise, with whom he had been arguing for the better part of the last hour. 

“It’s not like I haven’t tried to be agreeable! She’s just impossible,” he ground out.

Colin was about finished with having to face criticism from his sister when you were the one who had ignored his attempt at a truce.

“It certainly doesn’t help that you rile her up every single time you see her. She’s trying to find a husband, mind you!” Eloise shouted back. 

She had grown quite close to you in the past weeks, and she knew the kind of pressure you were under tonight. It was your first ball after finding out the Duke had sneaked away from the Bridgerton ball with Miss Barrington, and your full focus would be on finding a new suitor. Eloise generally preferred to stay out of your neverending conflict with Colin, but she knew he would never understand what you were going through. The very least she could do was ensure that he acted decently toward you, though it seemed like even that would prove a challenge. 

“Exactly! I was the one who wanted to warn her about Lord Barlow’s betrayal, and now she thinks I’m the one who gave him access to our courtyard,” snapped Colin. 

He couldn’t believe Eloise. How could she not see that you were one of the most infuriating, unpleasant, and insolent people in the ton? Why was she so intent on defending you? Colin was irritated beyond belief, and he wanted nothing more than to never speak with you again after the horse races. You had promptly ignored him after accusing him of orchestrating Lord Barlow and Miss Barrington’s escapade, and he spent the rest of the afternoon angrily stealing glances at you as you chatted pleasantly with his sister. 

And to learn that you still wanted to find a husband? You could become a spinster, for all he cared. And he didn’t. He didn’t care. About you or about Lord Barlow, or frankly, about anything that had transpired since the Bridgerton ball. All he knew was that tonight, he would be forced to watch you bat your eyelashes and giggle softly as you talked to countless men when all he got from you were angry stares and sarcastic laughs. 

“She’s the one who doesn’t want to be on good terms with me,” he added stubbornly, crossing his arms. 

Eloise let out an exasperated groan and rolled her eyes. “Colin! Can you not find it in yourself to set aside your dislike for her and understand that she is an unmarried lady who just lost a titled man she was practically guaranteed to marry? She is in a precarious situation, not to mention feeling heartbroken and betrayed.”

In truth, Colin thought, he didn’t understand. He couldn’t even begin to. He had never faced that kind of pressure before, certainly not about something as trivial as marriage, and suddenly he felt guilty for wanting to spend the entire evening tormenting you so he could avoid watching you amass suitors. 

Sensing that her words had struck a nerve, Eloise took advantage of her brother’s waning resolve. “You are Colin Bridgerton, Mayfair’s sweetheart! I don’t understand why you can’t act that way with her.”

“She doesn’t want that! She doesn’t want me!” Colin yelled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he screwed his eyes shut in frustration. 

But Eloise didn’t let up. “I’ll wager she wants that tonight. You don’t need to kiss the ground she walks on. Just be civil and refrain from any ungentlemanly conduct. It’s her first ball since the Lord Barlow scandal, and she doesn’t need to look bad in front of a crowd of eligible bachelors.”

“I don’t ever do it on purpose!” he defended. 

“You could’ve fooled me,” scoffed Eloise. Then, softening her tone, she added, “Just tonight. Please.”

“Fine,” he relented. 

If it was so important to Eloise, he would do it. He supposed he would want someone to do that to Eloise if she was ever in your same position. But he was already dreading the night. He had never particularly enjoyed balls, and he knew tonight would be especially dreadful. Usually, your arguments provided prime entertainment, and if he wasn’t allowed to fight with you tonight, he would just have to endure the monotony of the ballroom without any respite. 

---

You drew in a sharp breath as you entered the ballroom, looking around at the crowd nervously. Charlotte placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and led you toward the back of the room. Had she chosen to go to the furthest place from the entrance simply to torture you? You were nervous enough as it was; you didn’t need the added anxiety of having everyone’s eyes on you as you walked through the crowd. 

You had opted for an elegant white gown tonight. Well, your mother had suggested it and you had inevitably agreed to wear it. 

“It’s meant to look like a wedding dress!” she had exclaimed earlier. “It shows you’re still in the marriage mart despite everything that’s happened, and you’ll have gentlemen queuing up to dance with you.”

Whatever the reasoning behind the gown, you had to admit that it was beautiful. It accentuated your figure, and you could already feel plenty of keen eyes on you and more than a few furtive whispers. Though you couldn’t make out exactly what people were saying, you were sure you heard your name mentioned several times. However, you smiled gracefully at everyone anyway, wanting to avoid being seen as a complete laughingstock after losing Arthur. The Duke, you corrected yourself. He was no longer Arthur to you.

“Y/N,” you heard Eloise’s excited voice beside you.

You turned to see her smiling face and squeezed Charlotte’s hand to let her know she could go on without you. 

“Hello, El,” you greeted, smiling wide. 

“The balls have been torture without you! I’m so glad you’re finally here,” she gushed, taking your hand and leading you to a less crowded part of the ballroom. 

You relaxed slightly. At least one person here didn’t hate you. But perhaps she was the only one. As you kept speaking with Eloise, you realized that not a single bachelor had come to ask you for a dance. Usually, you had to reject quite a few gentlemen within the first few minutes of being at a ball, but your dance card remained empty tonight. 

Swallowing nervously, you looked around the room and assessed the gravity of your situation. Plenty of people were staring at you, but no one had moved toward you. Were they waiting for someone else to walk up to you? Did they not want to be the first to dance with you? Or did this mean that Lord Barlow’s actions had well and truly ruined you? Feeling the familiar beginnings of tears forming in your eyes, you quickly started to panic. What would your parents say? 

You were trying to focus on Eloise’s words, but all you could hear was your rapid heartbeat, and you were surprised people around you couldn’t hear it, too. Your stomach flipped uncomfortably as you realized that you might have truly fallen out of favor with the ton. The thought made you feel sick. This wasn’t how you wanted the season to go. How you needed it to go. 

Just as you were ready to bolt outside in search of fresh air, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Your stomach clenched, and for a fleeting moment, you hoped it was Colin Bridgerton. As much as you weren’t looking forward to the inevitable antagonism you would face from him, and as much as you knew that he wasn’t interested in anything from you other than an argument, the thought of engaging with someone of the opposite gender provided a fleeting sense of relief. Anything to momentarily divert your thoughts from the Duke's betrayal and the disheartening realization of your diminished standing in society. Although knowing Colin, he would probably bring up the subject just to spite you.��

However, as you turned around, you came face to face with your brother. A tiny rush of disappointment coursed through you, and you crinkled your face in confusion. It was a disconcerting realization, indeed, to find yourself yearning for the company of Colin Bridgerton, the very individual you despised most in the ton.

Leaning down close to you, Louis asked lowly, “Ça va?” (Are you alright?).

“Louis,” you rolled your eyes and nodded, trying to convince him­–and yourself–that you were fine. “Ça va” (I’m alright). 

“Excuse me just a moment,” spoke Eloise as she looked between you and your brother. She squeezed your hand and turned around, leaving you with Louis.

You cringed, internally hearing your parents scolding you for speaking French around her. But Louis, unphased by Eloise’s exit, spoke again. “Non, j’suis serieux. On peut y aller,” he insisted (No, I’m serious. We can leave). 

It was nice of him to check up on you. But it only left you feeling worse, a sobering reminder that your situation was dire enough that your brother was actually being sweet to you.

As much as you would have liked to, you knew you couldn’t leave the ball. It would only make it worse to flee now. Your parents had already allowed you a weeklong break from social events, and they would be most displeased to find out that you were giving up so soon after your re-entry into society.

So, you steeled yourself, forcing yourself to keep your tone light. “Leave the ball? For me or for you?” you asked Louis, poking him teasingly.

He relaxed upon hearing your light tone, letting out a breath as he smiled down at you. Your parents had asked him to be especially careful with you tonight, and he was left with sickening worry. You were his little sister, and as much as you had your differences, he still thought himself in charge, at least partially, of your wellbeing. 

The worst part was that he knew exactly the kind of man Andrew Barlow was, and he was beside himself with guilt that he had even let the man near you. But you seemed to be getting through it, he noted, relieved. 

Colin was rooted to the spot across the ballroom, staring at you as you engaged in easy conversation with your brother. How you could be so disagreeable toward him, and completely pleasant with everyone else was absolutely beyond him. 

But what really caught his attention tonight was your attire. You were wearing a white gown, and he briefly wondered if that was what your wedding dress would have looked like. He couldn’t help it; you looked positively stunning, and he was angry because he knew if he even attempted to talk to you, you would most likely bite his head off. 

Colin jumped as he felt a tap on his shoulder, slightly embarrassed at having been discovered staring at you. He turned around to face his mother and Eloise smiling far too innocently for his liking.

“Colin, go dance with Y/N, please.”

“Can’t Benedict do it?” Colin pleaded. He would do anything not to have to speak with you right this moment. It was far better to look at you from a distance, where he could pretend you didn’t completely despise him. 

“He’s dancing with Penelope Featherington at the moment, so no. Colin, it’s one dance!” Violet responded, exasperated.

“It’s not like she won’t have anyone else asking her,” grumbled Colin unhappily. Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t actually seen anyone ask you for a dance tonight. 

“Colin,” Eloise pleaded. “If they see you dancing with her, they’ll be more inclined to speak with her.”

Remembering his conversation with his sister from earlier, Colin accepted defeat, mumbling a low “just this once.”

He found himself growing increasingly nervous as he made his way over to you, and he clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. What had gotten into him? This was merely a dance like any other. He’d done it many times before, and he could do it with you. 

He cleared his throat as he reached your side, drawing you out of your conversation with Louis. 

“Not you, too,” you sighed upon seeing him. “I’ve had enough of a difficult time today without your input.”

Colin was momentarily unable to speak, though he quickly recovered. At this point, he didn’t know why kept being so surprised that you thought so lowly of him. 

He was not like the rest of the cruel members of the ton, he thought defiantly. And he would show you just how unlike them he was. This was the real Colin Bridgerton, not the insecure, combative version of him that seemed to slip out whenever you were near.

“A dance, Lady Montclair. I came to ask for a dance,” he said patiently, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t act like you’ve got a full dance card,” he rolled his eyes. Alright, maybe he couldn’t completely shake his hostile demeanor.

"Mr. Bridgerton, that is-” 

“Please.” 

“Why?” came your indignant response. 

“We can say we’re both doing it for Eloise if that will make you feel better,” he said, eyebrows raised. 

Unsure, you turned to look at Louis beside you, who gave you an unimpressed look and gently nudged you in Colin’s direction. 

“Fine,” you huffed.

He let out a breath and reached for your dance card. “Thank you.”

Suddenly, Colin became hyperaware of his surroundings. Every sensation was heightened, and it was almost too much for him to hold your hand as he led you toward the dance floor. He had never had this much physical contact with you, bar the times you had not-so-accidentally stepped on his foot, and he was struggling to maintain his composure.

Your hand felt so delicate in his, and he was actively resisting the urge to interlock your fingers with his. Where had that come from? Why was it that he could never get a grip when he was around you?

Colin was forced back to the present moment as you reached the dance floor, and he carefully set one hand on your waist and used the other to hold your hand, getting into position before the music started playing. 

His stomach was in about a thousand knots, and he awkwardly shifted his hand placement, unsure about whether he was making too much physical contact with you. With the way you looked tonight, Colin would have been happy to keep his hands on you all night, but he was sure you did not share the sentiment, and the last thing he wanted was to inadvertently make you uncomfortable. If he was going to make you upset, he would much rather have done it on purpose and off the dance floor. But that’s not what Eloise has asked of him, so he settled for gingerly holding your waist, his fingers carefully touching the smooth fabric of your dress.

Much to his chagrin, Colin stumbled slightly as the music started in an attempt to begin dancing with you. This was not at all how the most charming member of the ton was supposed to act, he scolded himself, cringing. Perhaps it was a good thing you had never agreed to dance with him before this, and that he never got the chance to properly pursue you as a suitor. If merely a turn about the dance floor with you had him feeling so out of sorts, he couldn’t even imagine what kissing you must have felt like. 

Except now he was imagining what kissing you would feel like. His gaze suddenly fixated on your lips, and he wondered why he had never noticed how inviting they looked. It would be so easy to simply lean down, ever so slightly, and touch his lips to yours. Perhaps it would cause a scandal, given that you were in the middle of a ball, but he rather thought it would be worth it. Just a few- 

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Bridgerton” your sharp voice cut through his musings. 

Colin blinked, brought back to the present moment in an instant. It appeared that, in his rather improper daydream, his hold on your waist had tightened considerably. Irritation bubbled up inside of him as he softened his grip. It seemed that nothing had changed between the two of you, after all. His attempts at playing nice had been, as per usual, futile.

“I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the concept of dancing, Lady Montclair, but it necessitates at least some level of physical contact,” he snapped, glaring but still unable to look away from your lips. 

Unfortunately, his words were punctuated by another stumble as he fought to stay upright and keep moving to the music, and he had to hold onto you to avoid toppling over. 

“What is the matter with you?” you hissed. “Did you never learn how to dance?” 

Colin looked down at you, grimacing and expecting to find the furious glare on your face he so often received. But your eyes were elsewhere. They were skittishly looking around the room, and your mouth was settling into a deeper and deeper frown. 

He noticed you anxiously chewing on your lip, your hand slightly shaky in his, though you were doing well to hide it. He felt like an idiot. Of course you were uneasy. It was your first dance trying to find a new suitor, and he was making you look like a fool in the middle of the dance floor. Colin felt his own anxiety melt away, replaced by a strange protectiveness he wasn’t sure he was familiar with.

“Just look at me,” he whispered as he twirled you.

You were too anxious to do anything but follow his instructions, and your eyes shifted to him instantly. He looked concerned, and you wondered whether it was concern for you or because he had almost fallen face-first in the middle of the dance floor. Either way, you were grateful you had something to focus on that wasn’t the constant obvious stares you were getting from everyone around you.

But, as Colin twirled you once again, you made eye contact with a man you had danced with on a few occasions. Before you could smile politely, he turned away to whisper something to the person beside him, and your face fell. As you returned to face Colin, you couldn’t help but look over his shoulder to see who would be the next person to prove that you were ruined.

You felt a squeeze at your waist, and your eyes came back to Colin’s.

“They don’t matter. Pretend it’s just me and you,” he said softly, reeling you in effortlessly. “Well, perhaps your sister as well, just in case you attempt to murder me.”

You couldn’t help it, you let out a soft giggle and bit your lip to keep from bursting into laughter. And though you were still surrounded by people surely itching to see you stumble and fall, you felt the rest of the ballroom fading away. As long as you kept looking at Colin, and he kept looking at you, there was nothing that could distract you. 

“I haven’t been in England that long, but I’m fairly certain murder is illegal here,” you quipped, smiling warmly at Colin for what was probably the first time.

“I’m fairly certain it’s illegal in every place I’ve been to, but I’m not so sure that would stop you,” he said back, a positively rakish smile on his face. But you were far too distracted by his mention of his travels to notice.

“You’ve traveled? Eloise hasn’t mentioned much,” you said curiously. 

“I’ve mostly traveled by myself,” he explained, now completely composed, previous stress forgotten, and finding himself enjoying your company. “My family doesn’t have the same penchant for adventure as me, so I usually set off on my own.”

You hummed thoughtfully. This, you hadn’t expected. Now you knew that you and Colin shared a love for travel, and it was a very unpleasant feeling, indeed. You had spent so long trying to distance yourself from him, and it was slightly disconcerting to know that the two of you had something in common. Especially something so embedded in who you were.

“Where was the last place you went to?”

“Greece,” he answered, smiling down at you. “I came back just before the season started. My mother was quite upset with me when she saw my tan.”

You laughed, perfectly picturing Violet’s hand over her chest as she saw her son after spending weeks in the sun. “You’re mad! If I had your kind of freedom, I certainly would not have stayed in England for as long as you have. Why haven’t you left since?”

“I- I’m not sure,” Colin answered. Why had he stayed so long? Usually, he liked to travel during the summer months, but he had stayed put so far and had no upcoming travel plans. “I suppose I am enjoying the season this year.” Was he really, though?

But you had already moved on to your next question. “The language is quite challenging, no? Did you learn at all? How long were you in Greece?”

Colin could have kissed you then and there. His family rarely showed interest in his travels, seldom responding to his letters, and once back in the ton, no one else bothered to inquire about his time abroad. Thus, he found himself pleasantly surprised by your curiosity, even if it was you—of all people—who displayed it.

As your conversation unfolded, Colin realized he was thoroughly enjoying himself. The effortless banter, combined with the tingling sensation that coursed through him whenever your hand grazed his neck, made him feel as though he were soaring high above the ballroom floor.

What if you had said yes that night at the Danbury ball? What if you had accepted his invitation to dance? Would it have felt as remarkable, as natural as this moment? Or was the allure of having you in his arms heightened simply because you had already rejected him?

Colin supposed he might have fallen for you that very night at the Danbury ball, had the circumstances been different. He could have seen himself, in a fit of romantic fervor, asking for your hand in marriage mere days afterward. Perhaps, then, it was lucky that you seemed to have an instant disdain for him. It likely spared him from acting the fool. Though truth be told, he often found himself behaving quite foolishly in your presence regardless.

As the dance ended, Colin found himself yearning to continue speaking with you. He grabbed your hand in his, feeling much more composed this time, and led you away from the dance floor. But he barely had time to turn back around to face you and continue your conversation before a trio of suitors came up and asked you to dance. Before he knew it, you were being swept away once more, this time on the arm of someone else. 

Colin congratulated himself on a job well done as he made his way back to where Eloise stood, deftly declining a gentleman's offer to dance. It was a triumph, he thought, that Colin had gone more than five minutes without arguing with you, and you had even laughed at something he said! It felt far better than whatever hostile rapport the two of you usually had.

“Thank you,” Eloise smiled gratefully at her brother. “Now, was that so difficult?” she added in a teasing tone. 

“I will have you know that yes, it was,” answered Colin stubbornly, but he knew he was lying even before the words came out of his mouth. Gliding across the dance floor with you in his arms had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Even now, as you twirled gracefully in the arms of another, Colin found himself not seething with jealousy as he might have expected, but rather in a state of awe. There was something enchanting about the sight of you, and he couldn't tear his gaze away.

Then, unexpectedly, your eyes met his over the shoulder of your current dance partner, and you bestowed upon him a heart-stopping smile, silently mouthing a 'thank you'. Colin had to feign a cough to cover up the giggle he had just let out. A giggle? From Colin Bridgerton, certified rake? What on Earth were you doing to him?

—

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#bridgerton #colin bridgerton #colin bridgerton x reader #enemies to lovers #colin bridgerton imagine #colin bridgerton fanfic #colin bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton fluff #colin bridgerton angst #colin bridgerton x enemy!reader #bridgerton x you #colin bridgerton x you #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton angst #lost in translation #lost in translation: writing

[fanworkspermissionstatement]

[Image description: The title, "Fanworks Permission Statement Builder," and black line-drawing-style pictures of a hand holding a pencil and of a microphone with a pop filter, over a background of crumpled paper. End ID.] (credit to @rystonlentil for the image ID)

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A permission statement is for anyone that creates fanworks! Yes, even if you don't think anyone would ever want to create something based off your fanworks. You never know! It's not egotistical to post a permission statement, it's HELPFUL. Yes, even if you don't want people making something based off your works. It means no one has to reach out to ask you, they can know your preferences right away.

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[gojhoes]

Geto Cuts His Hair

My first time posting anything like this! I'm bored at work and this popped into my head. - contents: nsfw(?), fem!reader, established relationship, hair pulling, fluff (i think), suggestive dialogue, brief description of oral - wc: ~600

"I can't believe you actually did it," you whined, dramatically burying your face in your hands.

Suguru sighed affectionately. "Baby, it's okay-"

You peered back up at him with wide eyes and the most convincing pout you could muster. He reached out to pull you into him, and you rested your head in the crook of his neck as he wrapped his arms around you.

"All I did was trim it."

You loved Suguru's hair. It was thick, shiny, voluminous, and always smelled of his sweet, clean shampoo. Every time he passed by, you would catch the scent that you now associated with the love you two were encapsulated in. Just the idea of him cutting it, even just a few inches, made you so nonsensically sad. It would be like losing a part of him.

His open palm rubbed small circles over your back soothingly. There really wasn't much of a difference in the length of his beautiful inky locks, but it was enough that you noticed.

"Still," you murmured indignantly into his skin.

Suguru placed his hands on your shoulders and pushed you back gently. A finger under your chin urged you to look up into his pretty brown eyes, which were so full of warmth and tenderness that it squeezed at your heart.

"I have to get rid of the split ends," he said gently. "Can't be looking all ratty for my girl."

Your heart soared every time he called you that.

Suguru knew why you were so upset. He also knew that you weren't really that sad, well aware that you just enjoyed being a little whiny whenever you didn't get your way. You took advantage of his soft spot for you and he gave right into it every time.

He'd let you practice braids and even agreed to curls once, trusting you not to burn any of his sensitive skin. And you hadn't, always treating him so gently and lovingly without trying to hide it. The curls had fallen quickly, but it had made you so happy even if it was short-lived. He loved seeing the beautiful smile that lit up your face when you were unadulteratedly happy.

He especially loved when you grabbed fistfuls of it when his head was being squeezed relentlessly between your thighs. The way you'd pull harder and harder the closer you got to cumming all over his face. It was a pleasurable pain, and you seemed to love it as much as he did.

And then at night when you laid together, skin flushed and bare, he'd lay his head on your chest while you ran your fingers through it lovingly. His eyes would always slip shut when you massaged his scalp just behind his ears. The comfort never failed to lull him to sleep, especially when you both were spent having drawn moan after moan from each other. Just thinking about it made his pulse jump.

You reached up to run your fingers through it now, a wicked grin on your face as you gave a light tug on his scalp. Suguru's eyes darkened as a rush of heat flowed through him. He wrapped his long fingers around your wrist and pulled it away less than gently.

You tried to jerk your hand out of his grasp, but he tightened his grip and pulled you back into him with a half-lidded gaze. You gasped, crashing into him so hard that you nearly lost your balance. He steadied you with a hand on your waist, and brought his mouth to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe gently.

"Careful," he whispered, reveling in the way you shivered. "You don't want to start something you can't finish."

You just smiled and chuckled into his ear.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto x you #geto x reader #suguru geto #geto suguru #geto smut #geto fluff #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #my first time writing geto #kinda scary #hopefully it translates well

[pikahlua]

MHA Chapter 413 spoilers translations

This week’s initial tentative super rough/literal translations under the cut.

tagline AFOとOFA精神の共鳴が見せるものとは⁉︎ オール・フォー・ワンとワン・フォー・オールせいしんのきょうめいがみせるものとは⁉︎ OORU FOO WAN to WAN FOO OORU seishin no kyoumei ga misero mono to wa!? The resonance between the spirit of One For All and All For One reveals [what]!?

1 師 マスター MASUTAA (kanji: shi) Master,

2 悲しそうな子が かなしそうなこが kanashisou na ko ga a child who seems sad

3 いたよ ita yo was there.

1 ーーィト！ --ITO! "--ight!"

2 オールマイト‼︎ OORU MAITO!! "All Might!!"

3 寝たら死ぬぞ‼︎意識を保て‼︎ ねたらしぬぞ‼︎いしきをたもて‼︎ netara shinu zo!! ishiki wo tamote!! "If you sleep, you're die!! Keep conscious!!"

4 …！ "...!"

5 通信機がなくて状況がわからんが つうしんきがなくてじょうきょうがわからんが tsuushinki ga nakute joukyou ga wakaran ga "I don't have a communication device so I don't know what's going on, but"

6 恐らく緑谷がまだ戦っている！ おそらくみどりやがまだたたかっている！ osoraku Midoriya ga mada tatakatte iru! "Midoriya is probably still fighting!"

7 夢…？ ゆめ…？ yume...? A dream...?

8 いや…この感覚は… いや…このかんかくは… iya...kono kankaku wa... No...this sensation...

9 あの時と同じー…‼︎ あのときとおなじー…‼︎ ano toki to onaji-...!! It's the same at that time-...!!

10 遠く離れている筈なのに とおくはなれているはずなのに tooku hanarete iru hazu nanoni Even though it should be far away,

11 OFAを感じる ワン・フォー・オールをかんじる WAN FOO OORU wo kanjiru I feel One For All.

12 "意志"が流れ込んでくる "いし"がながれこんでくる "ishi" ga nagarekonde kuru Its "will" is flowing back [into me].

1 紡がれてきた力が… つむがれてきたちからが… tsumugarete kita chikara ga... The power that has been spun...

2 解れる ほつれる hotsureru will be unraveled.

tagline No.413　鉛の塊　堀越耕平 ナンバー413　なまりのかたまり　ほりこしこうへい NANBAA 413  namari no katamari   Horikoshi Kouhei No. 413 A Lump of Lead  Kouhei Horikoshi

1 何だ今のは なんだいまのは nanda ima no wa What was the just now?

2 何故今アレが脳裏に過った なぜいまアレがのうりによぎった naze ima ARE ga nouri ni yogitta Why did that pass through my mind just now?

3-4 おまえは完全に消滅した筈だ おまえはかんぜんにしょうめつしたはずだ omae wa kanzen ni shoumetsu shita hazu da You must have been completely extinguished.

5 人が人を助ける限り ひとがひとをたすけるかぎり hito ga hito wo tasukeru kagiri So long as people help people,

6 英雄の意志を継いだ誰かがー えいゆうのいしをついだだれかがー eiyuu no ishi wo tsuida dareka ga- someone who inherits the will of heroes-

7 消滅して尚 しょうめつしてなお shoumetsu shite nao Even though it was extinguished,

8 残り火の如く…！ のこりびのごとく…！ nokoribi no gotoku...! [it lingers] like an ember...!

1 づ dzu "Dgh"

2 ハッ HA "Hah"

3 ーーッ "--"

4 …！ "...!"

5 君は きみは kimi wa You

6 ヒーローになれる HIIROO ni nareru can become a hero.

7 どういう…ことですか… dou iu...koto desu ka... "What do...you mean..."

8 ワン・フォー・オールを手放せって…なんですか⁉︎ ワン・フォー・オールをてばなせって…なんですか⁉︎ WAN FOO OORU wo tebanase tte...nan desu ka!? "Let go of One For All...what [does that mean]!?"

9 二代目…‼︎ にだいめ…‼︎ nidaime...!! "Second...!!"

10 心を荒げるな奴に聞かれる こころをあらげるなやつにきかれる kokoro wo arageruna yatsu ni kikareru "Don't worry yourself [or] he'll question [us]." (Note: I think Kudou is basically saying "Play it cool or else Tomura will catch on.")

1 死柄木の中にあった鉛のような黒い塊…あれは しがらきのなかにあったなまりのようなくろいかたまり…あれは Shigaraki no naka ni atta namari no you na kuroi katamari...are wa Inside Shigaraki [is a] lead-like black lump...that is

2 奴の中にあった幾つもの小さな怒りや不満……記憶… やつのなかにあったいくつものちいさないかりやふまん……きおく… yatsu no naka ni atta ikutsumo no chiisa na ikari ya fuman......kioku... the many small angers inside him......memories...

3 それらが引き寄せられ一つに集約されたものだ それらがひきよせられひとつにしゅうやくされたものだ sorera ga hikiyoserare hitotsu ni shouyaku sareta mono da Those are all drawn together and consolidated into [that] one thing.

4 いわば奴の決意そのもの憎悪で固められた精神 いわばやつのけついそのものぞうおでかためられたせいしん iwaba yatsu no ketsui sono mono zouo de katamerareta seishin So to speak, his determination itself is a spirit fortified with hatred.

5 だが dagaBut,

6-7 八木が隙を見つけた やぎがすきをみつけた Yagi ga suki wo mitsuketa Yagi found an opening.

1 あれは恐らく あれはおそらく are wa osoraku That is probably

2 スターアンドストライプとの戦闘でついた残り傷 スターアンドストライプとのせんとうでついたのこりきず SUTAA ANDO SUTORAIPU to no sentou de tsuita nokori kizu a gash left over from the battle with Star and Stripe.

3 再生の"個性"でも癒し切れぬ肉体ではなく精神の傷 さいせいの"こせい"でもいやしきれぬにくたいではなくせいしんのきず saisei no "kosei" demo iyashi kirenu nikutai de wa naku seishin no kizu Even the Regeneration quirk cannot heal the wounds of the spirit as it's not the body.

4 それと sore to "And then"

5 ワン・フォー・オールが… WAN FOO OORU ga... "One For All..."

6 どういう…… dou iu...... "what do you mean......"

7 AFOを飲み込んだ死柄木は強くなりすぎだ……このまま力比べを続けても勝ち目はない オール・フォー・ワンをのみこんだしがらきはつよくなりすぎだ……このままちからくらべをつづけてもかちめはない OORU FOO WAN wo nomikonda Shigaraki wa tsuyoku nari sugi da......kono mama chikara kurabe wo tsudzuketemo kachime wa nai "[By] swallowing All For One, Shigaraki has become too strong...... At this rate, if we continute to compete by strength, there will be no chance of winning."

8 だから裡から攻める だからうちからせめる dakara uchi kara semeru "So we'll attack from the inside."

9-10 ワン・フォー・オールを譲渡という形で傷にぶつける ワン・フォー・オールをじょうとというかたちできずにぶつける WAN FOO OORU wo jouto to iu katachi de kizu ni butsukeru "[We'll] strike* the gash in the form of transfering One For All." (*Note: This particular word for "strike" evokes imagery almost like "bust through," "smash through.")

11 傷をこじ開け きずをこじあけ kizu wo kojiake "[We'll] pry open the gash

12 奴の精神を直接叩く やつのせいしんをちょくせつたたく yatsu no seishin wo chokusetsu tataku "and strike his spirit directly."

1 "譲渡"して… "じょうと"して… "jouto" shite... "Transfer it..."

2 "ぶつける"……？ "butsukeru"......? "and strike......?"

3 待って言ってる事がよくわかんない！ まっていってることがよくわかんない！ matte itteru koto ga yoku wakannai! "Wait, I don't really understand what you're saying!"

4 渡したら…使われるだけだ！ わたしたら…つかわれるだけだ！ watashitara...tsukawareru dake da! "If you hand [us] over...[we'll] just be used!"

5 四ノ森さんのように取り込まれるだけだ！ しのもりさんのようにとりこまれるだけだ！ Shinomori-san no you ni torikomareru dake da! "We'll just be captured like Mr. Shinomori!"

6 "譲渡"の解釈を拡げるんだ "じょうと"のかいしゃくをひろげるんだ "jouto" no kaishaku wo hirogerunda "Expand your interpretation of 'transfer.'"

7 わからんか wakaran ka "Don't you understand?"

8 イメージで修練？ イメージでしゅうれん？ IMEEJI de shuuren? "Training through visualiation?"

9 ーーーああ… ---aa... "---Yes..."

10 なら…わかりやすいのがいるだろう nara...wakari yasui no ga iru darou "In that case...there's one [person] who'll make it easy to understand."

11 あの幼馴染はおまえにどうやってものを渡すかな あのおさななじみはおまえにどうやってものをわたすかな ano osananajimi wa omae ni dou yatte mono wo watasu ka na "How does that childhood friend [of yours] hand over things to you?"

small text 信じ難いや しんじがたいや shinji gatai ya "It's difficult to believe."

12 渡し方によっては怪我もするし わたしかたによってはけがもするし watashikata ni yotte wa kega mo suru shi "Depending on how you hand it over, you may get injured,"

13 物自体が壊れもする ものじたいがこわれもする mono jitai ga koware mo suru "or the item itself may be broken."

14 これをOFAで実行するだが… これをワン・フォー・オールでじっこうするだが… kore wo WAN FOO OORU de jikkou suru daga... "You'll implement this with One For All, but..."

1 確��はないだからまず俺で���す かくしょうはないだからまずおれでためす kakushou wa nai dakara mazu ore de tamesu "I'm not certain [about it], so I'll test it with myself first."

2 さっきは四ノ森さんだけが奪われた さっきはしのもりさんだけがうばわれた sakki wa Shinomori-san dake ga ubawareta "Earlier, only Mr. Shinomori was stolen."

3 一部だけ奪われるなら…一部だけの譲渡もシステムとして可能な筈だ いちぶだけうばわれるなら…いちぶだけのじょうともシステムとしてかのうなはずだ ichibu dake ubawareru nara...ichibu dake no jouto mo SHISUTEMU to shite kanou na hazu da "If only one portion was stolen...it should also be possible to transfer only one portion as a system."

4 俺たちはOFAに取り込まれた因子 おれたちはワン・フォー・オールにとりこまれたいんし ore-tachi wa WAN FOO OORU ni torikomareta inshi "We are factors taken into One For All."

5 OFAの一部……そして ワン・フォー・オールのいちぶ……そして WAN FOO OORU no ichibu......soshite "[Individual] parts of One For All...and"

6 強化された特別な因子 きょうかされたとくべつないんし kyouka sareta tokubetsu na inshi "strengthened special factors."

7 俺が砕け散る程に強く"渡せ"ば おれがくだけちるほどにつよく"わたせ"ば ore ga kudake chiru hodo ni tsuyoku "watase"ba "If you hand me over so strongly that I shatter to pieces,"

8 力が渡ることなく攻撃ができる ちからがわたることなくこうげきができる chikara ga wataru koto naku kougeki ga dekiru "I can attack without the power passing over [to him]." (Note: I believe Kudou is saying "If you send me over strongly enough to break me as a factor, I can attack Tomura without him being able to use my quirk.")

9 試すって…！なら「煙幕」を！ ためすって…！なら「おれ」を！ tamesu tte...! nara 「ore (kanji: enmaku)」 wo! "Test it, you say...! Then [send] me (read as: Smokescreen)!"

10 俺が今一番使い所ないでしょ おれがいまいちばんつかいどころないでしょ ore ga ima ichiban tsukai dokoro nai desho "I'm the one who has the least use, right?"

11 いや iya "No,"

12 俺からだ おれからだ ore kara da "it's from me." (Note: I think Kudou is saying "No, it was my suggestion, so I should be the one we test this on.")

1 でも"変速"はこの戦いの要だ！失敗したら死柄木に"変速"が でも"へんそく"はこのたたかいのかなめだ！しっぱいしたらしがらきに"へんそく"が demo "hensoku" wa kono tatakai no kaname da! shippai shitara Shigaraki ni "hensoku" ga "But Gear Shift is key in this battle! If it fails, Shigaraki will [have]Gear Shift!"

2 今 いま ima "Right now,"

3 動けなければ死ぬ うごけなければしぬ ugokenakereba shinu "[whoever] can't move will die."

4 "変速"を手放せば反動も手放せる "おれ"をてばなせばはんどうもてばなせる "ore (kanji: hensoku)" wo tebanaseba handou mo tebanaseru "If he can let go of me (read as: Gear Shift), he can let go of the recoil."

5 そして万が一奴が使ったとしても今の反動状態がそのまま渡ることになる そしてまんがいちやつがつかったとしてもいまのはんどうじょうたいがそのままわたることになる soshite man ga ichi yatsu ga tsukatta to shitemo ima no handou joutai ga sono mama wataru koto ni naru "And even if by any chance that guy used it, the current state of the recoil would pass over [to him] as it is now."

6 リーダー…俺はずっとあなたに従ってきた…けれど今回はリスクが高すぎる リーダー…おれはずっとあなたにしたがってきた…けれどこんかいはリスクがたかすぎる RIIDAA...ore wa zutto anata ni shitagatte kita...keredo konkai wa RISUKU ga taka sugiru "Leader...I've always followed you...but this time the risk is too high."

7 だから賭けだよ だからかけだよ dakara kake da yo "That's why it's a bet."

8 俺たちは過酷な時代を生きた おれたちはかこくなじだいをいきた ore-tachi wa kakoku na jidai wo ikita "We lived in a harsh era."

9 仕方がないと…無情な決断も重ねてきた しかたがないと…むじょうなけつだんもかさねてきた shikata ga nai to...mujou na ketsudan mo kasanete kita Literal. "[I thought] there was no choice... I piled up heartless decisions." Contextual. "[I thought] there was no choice... I made decision after heartless decision."

1 今　最も過酷な状況にあって いま　もっともかこくなじょうきょうにあって ima motto mo kakoku na joukyou ni atte Right now, [he is] is in the harshest situation,

2 それでも尚心を諦めないこの少年が それでもなおこころをあきらめないこのしょうねんが sore demo nao kokoro wo akiramenai kono shounen ga yet still, this boy will not give up on [his] heart. (Note: The "his" is ambiguous. This phrase literally reads as "this boy will not give up on heart.")

3 正しいのだと信じたい ただしいのだとしんじたい tadashii no da to shinjitai I want to believe that he is right*. (*Note: This word "right" can mean both "correct" and "righteous, just.")

4 オールマイトにここまでして貰えて オールマイトにここまでしてもらえて OORU MAITO ni koko made shite moraete For All Might to do all of this for me,

5 恵まれすぎてる… めぐまれすぎてる… megumare sugiteru... I'm too blessed...

6 づ… dzu... "Ddh..."

7 ふぐ…！ fugu...! "Ngh...!"

8 …この期に及んで… …このごにおよんで… ...kono go ni oyonde... "...Up to this phase..."

9 力が惜しいとか…死の恐怖じゃない… ちからがおしいとか…しのきょうふじゃない… chikara ga oshii toka...shi no kyoufu ja nai... "it's not that the power is precious [to him]...and it's not the fear of death."

10 どれだけ強大な使命を帯びてても… どれだけきょうだいなしめいをおびてても… dore dake kyoudai na shimei wo obitetemo... "No matter how powerful the mission with which he is entrusted..."

11 俊典…！ としのり…！ Toshinori...! "Toshinori...!"

12 この子はいつまで経っても…… このこはいつまでたっても…… kono ko wa itsu made tattemo...... "For this child, no matter how much time passes......"

13 この子にとってOFAは… このこにとってワン・フォー・オールは… kono ko ni totte WAN FOO OORU wa... "to this child, One For All is..."

14 肝に銘じておきな きもにめいじておきな kimo ni meijite oki na Keep this in mind:

15 これは君自身が勝ち取った力だ これはきみじしんがかちとったちからだ kore wa kimi jishin ga kachitotta chikara da this is a power you have won yourself.

1 憧れのヒーローがくれた宝物なんだよ あこがれのヒーローがくれたたからものなんだよ akogare no HIIROO ga kureta takaramono nanda yo ...a treasure given to him by the hero he admires.

3 何をごちゃごちゃと話してる なにをごちゃごちゃとはなしてる nani wo gochagocha to hanashiteru "What gripes are you talking about?"

4 万縄あんたはなるべく小僧の側に ばんじょうあんたはなるべくこぞうのそばに Banjou anta wa narubeku kozou no soba ni "Banjou, you [stay] by the boy's side as much as possible."

5 黒鞭が生命線だ くろむちがせいめいせんだ kuro muchi ga seimeisen da "Black Whip is the lifeline."

6 頼んだ たのんだ tanonda "[I'm] counting on you."

7 ああ aa "Right,"

8 マイヒーロー MAI HIIROO "my hero."

9 あとはお前だどうする緑谷出久‼︎ あとはおまえだどうするみどりやいずく‼︎ ato wa omae da dou suru Midoriya Izuku!! "The rest is up to you, Izuku Midoriya!!"

10 ……やります‼︎ ......yarimasu!! "......I'll do it!!"

1 …とても ...totemo "...You don't really"

2 腱や筋肉を内から直接補強… けんやきんにくをうちからちょくせつほきょう… ken ya kinniku wo uchi kara chokusetsu hokyou… Direct reinforcement of your tendons and muscles from within…

3 肌から透けて見える黒鞭が物語ってる はだからすけてみえるそれがものがたってる hada kara sukete mieru sore (kanji: kuro muchi) ga monogatatteru That (read as: Black Whip) that’s transparently visible through your skin tells the story.

4 ヒーローには見えねえな ヒーローにはみえねえな HIIROO ni wa mienee na "look like a hero."

tagline 動かぬ身体に黒鞭を打つ‼︎ うごかぬからだにくろむちをうつ‼︎ ugokanu karada ni kuro muchi wo utsu!! With a body that won't move, strike with Black Whip!!

#my hero academia leak translations #mha 413 #bnha 413 #my hero academia manga spoilers #final arc spoilers #big stretch #lounging all over the couch like a smug cat #i am the most validated #lol #now i have to try to fanfic about this before it's too late #IZUKU MY DEAR #YOU'RE GONNA BE OKAY #YOU CAN DO IT EVERYONE BELIEVES IN YOU #including the spirit gayyyyyssssss #yoichi my dude you are not beating the allegations like that

[superbat-love]

Kal-El’s spacecraft crash-landed on Earth in the heart of a bustling city. Confused and disoriented, Kal-El emerged from the wreckage and discovered that he had incredible powers under Earth's yellow sun. However, he had no control over his newfound abilities.

As Kal-El ventured through the city, he inadvertently caused chaos and destruction wherever he went. His superhuman strength damaged buildings and his accidental laser vision ignited fires. Despite his attempts to communicate his peaceful intentions, the city's people feared him and fled. Some even shot pellet-like objects at him, which didn't hurt but weren't welcoming either. Kal-El felt disheartened.

Amidst the chaos, a black creature resembling an eight-legged cat from his home planet (though this one walked on two legs) fearlessly approached him. Kal-El perked up, as he absolutely loved cats. His eyes sparkled in delight as he petted the creature's head, scratched behind its pointy ears, and cooed at it.

The cute creature looked unamused, but it put away the sharp object in its hand, made some growly sounds, and stomped off. It didn't seem hostile, so Kal-El decided to follow it. Along the way, he tried to pick it up for a cuddle, but the creature struggled so much that Kal-El had to put it down to prevent any harm. He did manage to land a kiss on top of its head, though.

And that’s how Kal-El met his first Earthling friend.

#au #the affectionate alien #batgrowl translation: alien is not hostile #just confused #alfred the alien is following me #alfred I think this alien just kissed me #where’s j’onn when you need him #dc headcanon #dc fanfic #drabble #text post #dc #superbat #superman x batman #batman x superman #superman/batman #batman/superman #superman #batman #clark kent #bruce wayne

[sidyashchiy-na-plakhe]

Lightgiver (Darkstalker). /Снегопад (Мракокрад)

Darkstalker from my alternate universe where Arctic and Foeslayer decided to fly on Pantala instead of Nightwing Kingdom. Since Arctic didn't kill guards in this universe, he's not afraid to use his animus magic. So he made his son more icewing and gave him different name. Lately I've been thinking a lot about this au and how much the world of wof has changed there.

(reblog > likes)

#wof #wings of fire #wof darkstalker #wof au #dragon #digital art #my art #драконья сага #wof icewing #wof nightwing #драконья сага мракокрад #yes in russian translation his name a “little” bit different #maybe I will write a fanfic about this au in the future #but idk #darkstalker #wof design

[forlorn-crows]

And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?” 

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back. 

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer. 

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.” 

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers. 

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack. 

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually. 

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow. 

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar. 

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply. 

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable. 

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this). 

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?” 

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul. 

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.” 

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?” 

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs. 

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat.  “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters. 

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south. 

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now. 

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft. 

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply. 

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue. 

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers. 

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more. 

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other. 

“F-fuck,” he stutters. 

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?” 

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants. 

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments. 

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll. 

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?” 

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes: 

“May I?” 

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards. 

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit. 

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.  

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand. 

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human. 

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them. 

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle. 

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum. 

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.  

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.” 

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture. 

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that. 

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second. 

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke. 

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by. 

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans. 

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly. 

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his. 

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is. 

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back. 

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs. 

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in. 

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled. 

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t. 

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch. 

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is. 

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one. 

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

#the band ghost #fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #dewdrop ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia x dewdrop #dewdrop x copia #papa x dewdrop #dewdrop x papa #copia/dewdrop #dewdrop/copia #papa/dewdrop #dewdrop/papa #CORRECTLY translated italian #dews gonna go back to the dorms and theyre gonna smell copia on him and then EVERYONES gonna want him

[inaflashimagine]

i truly am excited for the numerous miguel o'hara fics flooding my feed, but as someone whose first language is spanish i have one plea:

please do not use google translate for writing sentences in spanish bc 90% of the time they will sound quite off

some recommended resources:

spanishdict

linguee

deepL

word reference is also handy for understanding the context behind certain phrases or words

or maybe a friend you know who speaks and writes spanish!!

if anyone else has suggestions please feel free to rb!

-

Edit jun 7: shameless plug to read my Miguel O‘Hara x reader fic (latine reader) if you’re interested!

#i love the love miguel is getting and it's cool seeing writers branch out and try incorporating a language they might not be familiar with #but using the above resources will help with making the spanish in your fic flow better #i also might need to write another post on the latin lover stereotype bc phewww #that's for another day lol #a lil friendly psa from a tired latina lol #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #not sure if these are even the right tags? #discourse #just in case? #fanfic #there's a reason why the spanish teachers hated google translate LOL #man i also need to hop on the miguel o'hara fanfic train i'll get there

[mostlydeadlanguages]

I don’t post here much lately because I’m busy, well, doing actual Academic Writing. But I thought y’all might enjoy this piece that I wrote about Purim and Esther/Ishtar and reading the Bible as fan fiction. (This is what my next book is going to be about.)

Happy Purim to all who celebrate!

#not a translation #links #purim #book of esther #megillat esther #esther #ishtar #fan fiction #fanfic

[gallusrostromegalus]

Hi, if the asks for AEIWAM are still open, can you share some more regarding the 12th division transitioning to taking over R&D, thanks to Urahara? Did the other divisions take it well, were there fights over boundaries/responsibilities/secrets? Individual divisions holding onto research directly relating to their remits? And how did Mayuri taking over from Urahara impact relations with other divisions?

Urahara proposing a dedicated research and development branch was not a particularly unexpected move, and a wildly applauded one.

His predecessor, now-Royal-Guard Hikifune, had done extensive research and development on her own when she developed both the modern Gikon and the Mod Souls like Kon. The 4th was massively overworked but still doing their own medical research. The Kido corps had been doing their own R&D writ: spells for ages. The 7th division had been tracking death and soul statistics like where souls reincarnated in the Rukongai and who went to hell and why for centuries. "Science" is a very strong word for what the 11th was doing re: destruction, but by golly they were doing a lot of it.

So Urahara's idea to develop a cross-division group dedicated to connecting existing research and developing new lines of inquiry from there was an extremely logical step and one pretty much everyone regarded as a good move.

---

Everyone, except Aizen.

See, Aizen had been doing his own little experiments with creating and perfecting the Hogyoku and those experiments involved a shitload of murder and other crimes, not to mention the whole treason thing, and Aizen was worried that if Kisuke managed to say, actually collate and look over the Rukongai crime stats Aizen had been hiding or read up on the Kido corps work, he might be JUST smart enough to figure out what Aizen was up to.

So Aizen made sure that when they got caught, that the experiments he'd been running would look like Kisuke's work :)

I think Aizen also had a significant hand in making sure it was the literal clown Mayuri who got the job after Urahara fled. There were definitely better candidates to become the Gotei-13's quartermain, but I think Aizen either discouraged them, or figured out how to make Mayuri look way more sane than he actually was to the other captains when the vote came.

Mayuri was a disaster for R&D. Not only were his scientific methods dubious at best, none one the other divisions trusted him with their work, and all of them became a lot more secretive and paranoid.

The 4th resumed it's own medical research, which was slow because of all the other work the 4th needed to do as well. The 7th kept its statistics under lock and key lest Mayuri get funny ideas about killing people to measure things faster. This new cloaked way of doing business allowed Mayuri to engage in horrors that actively got in the way of progress. Like recruiting the top 10% of the academy's graduating class for his division and then using them as guinea pigs and/or explosives.

Aizen: All According to Keikaku :)

---

In AEIWAM, not all hope was lost.

Before he was a shinigami, Kaname Tousen was a Librarian.

It was all he ever really wanted to be- when he came to the seireitei it was entirely to investigate his sister's death. He had no intention of enrolling in the academy, or pursuing rank.

Aizen has a way of derailing people's lives.

By force, when necessary.

By pounding 44 magical nails into Tousen's spine and carving command kanji into his shoulders and inflicting a vile curse on him to force Kaname into being his co-conspirator, his own personal R&D, and his entertaining puppet, if necessary.

Well,

Maybe Aizen is having a little bit more fun than strictly "necessary".

Aizen might have cursed Tousen into silence and obedience, but he can't stop Tousen from keeping his own records. Meticulous notes about every excursion he is made to take, every crime he is forced to commit, every horrific act Tousen does through tears- everything is recorded, documented, and safely stored in triplicate in several locations and formats.

In fact, Aizen comes to rely on those records- Aizen is very good at Lying and Kido and Hubris but that is the extent of his intellectual prowess. He relies on Gin to keep track of what everyone else is doing, and on Tousen to do all the scheduling, lab work, provisions and actually keeping the aarancar in line.

And Kaname takes advantage to press the curse whenever he can- he was close, he was so. Fucking. Close! To getting the whole scheme exposed during Turn Back The Pendulum.

He tried. He tried and tried to say it when Yamamoto interrogated him, to confess his sins and bring Gin and Aizen down with him, to make himself understood.

-Who did this? Who killed captain Hirako?

-I know them! I know, but I can not say!

It's all Kaname can manage before the curse retaliates, and almost strangles him to death to keep his silence, invisible to Yamamoto because of Aizen's illusions.

---

...after the nature of the curse is revealed, Yamamoto listens to the recording of that interrogation and weeps. The captains are the closest thing he has to children. Yamamoto hears this man who is almost his son, screaming, begging him to understand -

Not "I don't know"

Not "I will not say"

"I know, but I can not say."

---

So Kaname bides his time, keeps his records and tries to distract himself form his situation by drawing what conclusions he can.

After the Winter War, there is some debate as to what's going to happen to R&D.

Mayuri is in a jar, battling for control of his body.

Nemu refuses to admit he's out of action. Akon refuses to be promoted.

Kisuke or whoever does run the 12 will be too busy shovelling leftover war crimes out of the basement to actually run R&D.

Yamamoto has a long-standing agreement with Unohana that if he makes her take on One More Thing, he will not get the privilege of dying.

Ukitake is running the Kido corps, but he's also already got a foot in the grave.

Yamanoto isn't sure he can trust anyone else with lab equipment.

" ...Tousen." he says, nonchalant, visiting him in the hospital. "You seem to be rather accomplished at record-keeping and lab work."

"Last time you promoted me while I was in the hospital after a catastrophe, it extended my recovery by a solid five years and lead to an even greater one. No. Tell Kisuke to buck up and run R&D, it was his damn idea in the first place."

"Yes, obviously." Yamanoto says as though he had been planning that at all. "-but the court guard still needs to be supplied, so if Kisuke is running R&D, who is running the 12th?

"Muguruma."

"Pardon?"

"Kensei Muguruma might be the second-worst boss I've ever had but he is rigorously punctual, has an incredible work ethic, and can be trusted to stick to rules and regulations to the letter. He's a rigid, grouchy, hard ass, and a terrible match for the ninth, but he'd make an excellent quartermain." Kaname sighs.

Yamamoto ponders that for a bit.

"Also, he's running the newspaper over my dead body." Kaname elaborates. "He's contracted horoscope brainrot from Mashiro, I'm afraid."

"He may attempt to dispute that he should be running the Ninth as his prior demotion was unlawful, as is his right." Yamamoto nods. "It would be resolved by some kind of combat."

"I've gutted him once, I'll do it again." Kaname grunts and Yamamoto barks a laugh.

"I believe your judgement is sound, and will abide by your recommendation." Yamamoto nods, patting Kaname's hand. "I will inform Urahara and Muguruma of their new responsibilities."

"...Thank you, sir." Kaname mumbles, listening to Yamamoto open his notebook and write something down. "For your trust in me, and not promoting me again."

"Hm." Yamamoto nods.

To-Do: Update last will and testament in regards to successor choice. He writes.

#aeiwam #an elephant is warm and mushy #bleach #bleach fanfic #kaname tosen #kisuke urahara #mayuri kurotsuchi #kensei muguruma #don't worry kensei will be fine he's got Mashiro to translate for him

[bosbas]

Chapter 9: I cannot be your friend, so I pay the price of what I lost

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy!fem!reader WC: 4.0k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, small part of the dialogue in French, colin being incredibly down bad it's insane, Penelope DOES NOT have feelings for colin in this, the bridgertons being tapped in as fuck

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

A/N: this one wrote itself basically. so enjoy! happy weekend and a big smooch

June 6, 1816 – It seems that one Mr. Nigel Berbrooke has returned after an extended unexplained absence. He was spotted at the gentleman's club last night, though only for a very short time. This author heard that Mr. Berbrooke was asked to leave only an hour into his appearance due to a particularly aggressive threat he made toward Simon Basset. It’s safe to say that he has been uninvited from the Duke’s ball this evening, and perhaps from the rest of the social season’s events as well, depending on how lenient the Duke and Duchess of Hastings decide to be. 

However, information regarding his whereabouts for the past month is scarce, and this author lacks any reputable sources about what the man has been up to while away from London. But rest assured, dear readers, that any information I receive will be relayed through this very column.

Colin looked nervously at his reflection for what seemed like the hundredth time, adjusting his cravat ever so slightly. He sighed in frustration, accepting the fact that his appearance wouldn’t look quite right no matter what he did. 

Tonight was Daphne’s ball, and he knew for a fact that you would be in attendance. As much as he was trying to convince himself that this ball was no different, he knew it wasn’t going to be the same. Not after his talk with Anthony. There were some concerningly similar aspects between Kate and Anthony and his friendship– could he even call it a friendship? –with you, and Colin was not too hard-headed to be able to admit that. 

But he didn’t want to scare you off. As much as he liked you, he knew you were skittish after everything that happened with Lord Barlow. Besides, Colin didn’t even know if you liked him, too, or if you considered all of this as just an attempt to make you look desirable to other candidates. 

Frankly, Colin wasn’t even sure he could convince you to ever marry him. Maybe just being friends, or whatever it was the two of you had now, would suffice. Truthfully, he would take anything. 

Tonight, he just wanted a dance. And perhaps a chat, too. 

Based on the past few times Colin had spoken with you, he had concluded that you might be his favorite person in the ton to talk to. The mere thought of speaking with you tonight stirred excitement in his stomach. Every time you engaged in conversation, he found himself utterly captivated, forgetting everything else around him. What's more, you seemed genuinely interested in his what he had to say, a rarity among the ton. For the first time, he felt truly understood, and he hoped desperately that you reciprocated his sentiment. 

“You look fine,” assured Eloise. “Now can we please go? We’ll never hear the end of it from Daphne if we’re late!” 

Colin grumbled in annoyance but begrudgingly made his way to the carriage. In truth, he'd do just about anything to be near you. Even if he didn’t immediately dance with you– knowing full well you would be flocked by hordes of gentlemen wanting your hand in marriage– he still liked to simply�� observe you. How your eyes crinkled shut when you laughed, the way you nervously bit your lip when someone you didn’t particularly like asked you to dance, the way you fiddled with your gloves when you were itching to get out of a conversation.

Bloody hell, Colin thought, maybe he did have feelings for you. Well, not love, that would be absurd. But certainly something more than the petty rivalry that had consumed your interactions for weeks on end. It was a sobering realization, especially after relentlessly antagonizing you for the better part of seven weeks.

He was so caught up in his thoughts about you that Colin barely noticed once the carriage had arrived at Daphne and Simon’s residence.

“Colin, darling, is anything the matter?” his mother inquired, tapping him on the arm and gently leading him toward his sister’s home.

“No, no, sorry. Everything’s alright, just got a bit distracted there,” he smiled back. 

Christ, he had to get a grip. You’d be put off immediately if you saw how he was acting now. He smoothed his coat down as he entered the ballroom, eyes immediately searching for you in the crowd.

He quickly spotted you speaking to a man he’d never seen before with Isabelle and Carlos by your side. Damn, thought. He’d have to wait to ask you to dance. 

But it was no bother. In the meantime, he attended to his duties as the most beloved Bridgerton. He sought out his sister and Simon to thank them for hosting the ball, of course, and danced with Penelope Featherington. 

Yet his focus stayed on you. He found himself glancing over to where you were every few minutes, just needing reassurance that you were still there. And also because he quite liked looking at you in general.  

Colin shook his head, bringing his attention back to Penelope. He had to remind himself to pull himself together. Even though Colin had spoken to Anthony, you had no reason to believe anything was different between you two. And it wasn’t. Everything was the same. It was only Colin who had changed. Who wanted something different, something more. 

“What’s on your mind?” asked Penelope after she noticed Colin’s drifting attention.

“Ah, nothing,” he responded dismissively. “Does Lady Montclair look particularly… subdued tonight, do you think?”

“Y/N?” Penelope clarified, looking over at where you were standing next to Louis. 

“Oh heavens, don’t look now!” Colin whispered, panicked. “She’ll see us both looking and know we were talking about her.”

Penelope laughed in disbelief. “Could it be? That my dear friend Colin Bridgerton is finally falling for someone? Have you truly found roots in England? Is that why you’ve stayed for so long this season?”

Colin could only smile bashfully. She had never seen him quite like this. And though it was unusual, it was fairly endearing to see him so flustered over a girl.

“Well, go talk to her, then. What are you doing dancing with me?”

“Penelope, I dance with you at every ball. I can go speak with her after. And don’t tell anyone! I’m not even sure if she likes me.”

“Very well then,” relented Penelope, but Colin did not miss the knowing smile she sent him.

After the dance concluded, Colin chatted with his brothers for a few minutes before making his way over to you and Louis, wanting to avoid seeming overly eager. But once he started walking toward you, your head shot up, as if you could tell that he was getting nearer. 

Your eyes met for a split second, but you immediately turned your head away, choosing instead to look at your gloved hands, which were fidgeting nervously. Colin frowned in confusion at your reaction, but continued walking, thinking that perhaps you had seen someone else behind him. 

As he reached your side, he saw you chewing anxiously on your lip and his frown deepened. But he pushed through. This was what he wanted, after all. You were what he wanted. 

“Lady Montclair,” he bowed. “Would you care for a dance tonight?” he asked, a hopeful smile on his lips as he reached for the dance card on your wrist.

But you pulled your hand away abruptly, refusing to meet his eyes. “No, thank you, Mr. Bridgerton,” was your curt response. 

Colin’s confusion morphed into frustration. What was the matter with you?

“That’s alright, I understand if you want to save space on your dance card for more…serious suitors,” he cringed as he heard himself speak. But at the end of the day, he was well aware that you were looking for a titled gentleman to be your husband. “We could take a turn about the ballroom and chat for a bit,” he offered, looking at you hopefully once again.

You finally met his eyes, and he could tell you were searching for something as you looked at him, a pained look on your face.

“No, thank you,” you repeated firmly, an edge to your voice. 

Colin rolled his eyes. This was so typical of you. You let him in for about three seconds and then went back to keeping him at arm’s length for whatever unknown reason.

“Are we really back to doing this?” asked Colin, exasperated. “I thought we were friends, at the very least.”

Your spine was suddenly rigid, and a fury ignited in your eyes. “We were never friends, Mr. Bridgerton,” you ground out. “You were simply doing Eloise a favor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone else I must dance with.”

Your voice was cold and uncaring, and Colin was slapped with a reminder of how things used to be as you sidestepped him to go toward the other side of the ballroom. 

Three steps into your journey, it was clear that there wasn’t actually anyone waiting to dance with you, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why you were so desperate to get away. Even at the peak of your hatred toward him, you were always open to verbally sparring. 

Colin turned around to Louis, shooting him a questioning look. But your brother could only shrug. Who knew what went on in the depths of your brain? Louis had noticed you had been slightly on edge ever since you returned from Hyde Park with your sisters yesterday afternoon, but he wasn’t expecting you to be this hostile, especially after getting along so well with Colin.

Feeling his desire to speak with you outweigh his pride, Colin turned back and grabbed your hand, turning you to face him. “If what you want is to go back to arguing, I’m happy to do that,” he said, heart sinking to his stomach at the thought of going back to how things were.

He sounded positively pathetic. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was keeping this fragile dynamic alive, keeping you near him. If Anthony and Kate could do it, couldn’t the two of you?

You seemed on the brink of tears, but your voice held an unspeakable fury. “What I want is for you to leave. Me. Alone,” you emphasized each word with a pointed jab at his chest. “Please,” you whispered, your voice faltering. “I do not wish to dance with you, or to chat with you, or even to be near you at all. Good night.”

With that, you pivoted away, heading towards the refreshment table, tears welling in your eyes. And Colin was left standing there, hand lingering over the spot on his chest you had prodded.

He felt a familiar anger rising through him. It didn’t matter that you were the only person in the world who understood him. It didn’t matter that you were completely beautiful and incredibly smart, either. And it certainly didn’t matter that he’d fallen for you. Because you still hated him. And he was a fool to ever think things could be different.

Colin was rooted to the spot, unable to move as he watched you smile and greet some gentleman or other. He flinched as he saw the man kiss the back of your hand, and watched, seething, as he led you to the dance floor. 

Deciding he needed something stronger than lemonade, Colin turned around and grabbed a glass of champagne, downing it in one go. He couldn’t believe you didn’t think he was your friend. What the hell else could you call it?

He spotted Eloise and Penelope chatting close by and stomped over to them. He was sure he looked like Gregory after a fight with Hyacinth, pouting with his arms crossed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

“I thought you were going to talk to Y/N,” said Penelope, confused to see him back so soon. 

Colin shot her a murderous look. “She wants nothing to do with me, apparently. She said the only reason I talked to her was out of a favor to Eloise.”

Eloise coughed awkwardly. “Well, didn’t you?”

“No!” shot back Colin defensively. “Not entirely, at least. I don’t know. I need to leave.” 

You were still dancing with the unnamed man, and Colin was very much still seething as he watched the pair of you twirl around and smile at one another. 

Usually, it was frustrating to watch you dance with other people because you were never like that with him. But this well and truly hurt. It hurt to see you like this when he knew, now for a fact, that he could never have that with you again. 

“I need to leave,” he repeated. He couldn’t bear to watch you do this all night.

Snatching another glass of champagne and downing that one, too, he bid his goodbyes to Penelope and Eloise and made his way across the ballroom to the exit.

“Are you leaving already, darling? You’ve barely been here an hour,” Colin heard next to him as a hand reached out for his elbow. 

Turning around, he faced his mother, who looked like she was in the middle of a conversation with Anthony and Benedict. 

Colin nodded. “I’m sorry, mother. I just can’t. I can’t stay,” he responded, voice breaking as he glanced back toward you again. 

Seeing you lean to whisper something in your suitor’s ear, he slumped forward, practically feeling physical pain at the sight. 

“I must go,” Colin said firmly, giving his mother a quick squeeze and rushing to the door. 

Violet nodded, bewildered, and followed where Colin’s gaze had been. Finding you dancing with Lord Norcliffe, Violet sent a knowing look to Benedict and Anthony. 

“I suppose Hyacinth was right,” she said sympathetically.

“And don’t you dare tell her! It’ll get to her head,” responded Benedict. 

---

“The Bridgertons will be in attendance tonight,” your mother informed you carefully as you sat in the carriage on the way to yet another ball. 

“And by the Bridgertons you mean…”

“She means Colin, yes,” answered Jacques, earning a stifled laugh from his wife, Chiara. 

Ever since they’d been back and learned of your intense hatred for Colin, Jacques had not been able to stop making a mockery of it. Usually, you were quite agreeable, and it was rare that you found yourself at odds with someone who wasn’t your sibling, so this seemingly unprompted hatred was quite amusing to your brother. 

You groaned and glared at him. “No one asked you to come tonight, you know. In fact, no one asked you to come to England at all! You could have stayed in Tuscany, and I would have been much happier.”

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to tease you about this,” answered Jacques, completely unbothered by your biting tone. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled in response, only slightly comforted by Chiara’s apologetic smile as she softly scolded her husband.

It had been four days since your run-in with Nigel, and three since you saw Colin at Daphne’s ball, and the thought of seeing him again made you feel sick. It was already bad enough that he was disgusting and had no respect for you, but it was made infinitely worse by the fact that you had let yourself grow to care for him. In a friendly way, of course. You could never have married him, anyway. But it was still embarrassing that you fell into his charming trap and thought that you could become something more than a conquest for him.

“Be nice,” your mother whispered in warning as you approached the Bridgertons. 

You shrugged her off, not needing a reminder. You had been brought up to be the perfect lady. You weren’t about to forget yourself now. You refused to give Colin that power. 

You greeted the family warmly until you got to Colin. “Mr. Bridgerton,” you said, giving him a curt nod.

Not waiting for a response, you moved to stand away from him as you looked out at the crowd. Perhaps you would find a gentleman who was actually enjoyable to talk to, though your chances seemed slim. 

Colin shifted uncomfortably on his feet, watching you intently. It seemed that your behavior at Daphne’s ball hadn’t been a fluke, after all. He ground his teeth in annoyance, growing increasingly irritated by the fact that you were just standing there.

Why weren’t you doing anything? It was infuriating. Perhaps it would have been less infuriating if it were anyone else, but it seemed like anything you did was particularly vexing to him.

Making his way over to you, he stopped beside you. Wanting to slip back into the comfort of your tumultuous dynamic, Colin took a shot at your attire. “I see the modiste-”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your voice shaking, barely above a whisper, and your gaze locked ahead of you. 

Colin was taken aback. You had never, in all the time that he had known you, backed down from an argument. It seemed that you just… didn’t want him around at all. You hated him enough that you didn’t want to be near him. And in any way that mattered, it was worse than when you were antagonizing him.

“I’m sorry,” Colin said desperately. “I didn’t mean- Look, can we please talk? Just quickly, I just want-”

But you didn’t even let him finish. “There’s nothing to say.”

Colin scoffed, a futile attempt to hide how hurt he was really feeling. “What do you mean there isn’t anything to say? I have things to say, at least. Just talk to me.”

You finally turned to face him, feeling your stomach drop as you looked at his desperate eyes searching yours for an answer. 

“Let me rephrase. I do not wish to speak with you, in any capacity, now or any time in the future. I do not care to hear what you have to say, Mr. Bridgerton, and I would appreciate it if you could respect that, though I know that’s not usually in your nature.”

Colin could only sputter, staring at you in disbelief as you walked away. He felt his stomach turn uncomfortably as you reached a man he didn’t know, but whom you’d danced with at Daphne’s Ball. 

He had to have done something wrong. Colin hadn’t the slightest clue what, but you obviously had something against him, and it clearly wasn’t just you being silly. 

He swore under his breath. You were impossible. Not even Eloise knew why you hated him! How on earth was he supposed to know how to fix this when you refused to speak with him? It was almost easier when all you did was hurl insults at him and step on his feet as he poured lemonade down your dress.

Over on the dance floor, you couldn’t help but steal glances at Colin, mentally scolding yourself every time you did. This was not how you were supposed to be acting toward the man who had jumped at the first opportunity to compromise you.

The only reason you were dancing with Lord Norcliffe now was because he had not arrived in London until after your whole debacle with Lord Barlow. You supposed he could have heard what happened from someone else, but he was safer than the rest of the men of the ton, you thought grimly. It would’ve helped if he was interesting to talk to, or even nice to look at, but you supposed you couldn’t be very selective.

Curtsying and thanking Lord Norcliffe for the dance, you made a beeline toward Carlos and Philippe across the room. 

“You look like you don’t want to be here,” commented your brother, amused. 

You rolled your eyes at him. “Astute observation, Philippe.”

Carlos laughed and gave you a comforting pat on the head. “But what happened to your season in England? I thought you were excited to be here?”

“My mother and father were certainly excited,” you mused, taking Philippe’s lemonade and drinking from it. 

Seeing their confused looks, you briefly explained your encounter with Nigel Berbrooke, and they suddenly became very concerned. 

“Ce connard! Il est où? Je vai le tuer,” growled Philippe under his breath, not wanting the rest of the ton to hear his threat (That asshole! Where is he? I’m going to kill him).

“Philippe, it’s alright,” you assured him, glancing over at Carlos and seeing that he, too, had understood your brother’s words despite not speaking French. “I believe Simon Basset took care of him at White’s a few days ago.”

“That’s just as well, or I’d have done it myself,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You can just come to Spain next year, cariño,” Carlos said warmly.

You smiled up at your brother-in-law, silently thanking him for the offer even though you knew your parents would never allow it. 

Colin watched enviously as you had a conversation with your older brother and your older sister’s husband. He wished he could talk to you again. Even if nothing got resolved between you, he liked to hear your voice. He loved how stubborn you were and how frustrated you got when you forgot the English word for something. He just missed you, he supposed. 

Which is why, as Colin watched yet another man approach you and write their name on your dance card, he decided he couldn’t do this anymore. The watching, the waiting, the wanting. He couldn’t do any of it anymore. 

“I need to leave,” he said firmly.

Daphne, who had been standing beside him, turned to face him, startled. “Leave where?”

“India, Egypt, Morocco, back to Greece. I don’t care. I just need to get out of here.”

“What? Why?” asked Daphne, still confused. 

“You know why,” Colin responded flatly, giving her an unimpressed look. 

Daphne instinctively turned to look at you, laughing as the man you were dancing with whispered something to you. She turned to look back at her brother with a disappointed look.

“I can’t imagine leaving would be the best option.” 

“Why not?” Colin shot back. “What good can my presence possibly do?”

Daphne put a hand on her brother’s elbow, giving him a sympathetic look. However, her voice was firm. “You always leave when it gets hard, you know? You’re always the first out the door and onto a different continent. Why are you so scared of staying?”

Colin was stunned. He didn’t know his motives were that obvious. But he supposed it made sense for Daphne to know since she knew him better than most people.  

“I’m not scared of staying,” Colin insisted defensively. “I just think it’ll be better for everyone if I go.”

Daphne furrowed her eyebrows and shook her head. “And do what? What could you possibly be doing that is so important that you would abandon the woman you love?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Colin argued, his voice growing strained as he felt his chest getting tighter. “None of it matters. She doesn’t love me back. I could be down the street or in Brazil and she wouldn’t even notice. She clearly hates me and wants nothing to do with me, so why should I stay?”

Daphne crossed her arms, looking more than a little disappointed. “Well, I won’t be the one to stop you if you decide to go. But really think about whether you want to be the person who leaves time and again. Things could change. It's only been a few days since she's been like this.”

She had a point, but Colin was too upset to admit it. Daphne was right. He couldn’t just leave now. If anything, it would hurt him more than being near you with you not speaking to him. It was the strangest feeling, knowing you loved someone but feeling powerless to do anything about it. 

Colin knew he couldn’t continue like this. Perhaps he couldn’t leave, but he could certainly stay as far away as possible. 

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