#please oh latin distract me enough to get this fic OFF my mind

[iliveiloveiwrite]

winged cupid painted blind // Anthony Bridgerton

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

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

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

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

Word count: 7.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

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

“My pleasure, Miss…”

“(Y/L/N).”

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you care to dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a governess, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Call me Anthony, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leeds?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad to hear it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can tell me anything.”

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

“You make me happy too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh… well, thank you.”

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

“You have?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

“You do?”

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

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

“You will?”

“I will.”

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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#anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #anthony x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton imagines #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagines

[detectivesofty]

like fine wine | j.h.

Summary: your first meeting with Jay’s team didn’t go down as you had it expected it to go.

Pairing: Jay Halstead x younger!Reader (this might get more parts (as in a series), if you guys like it)

Song I listened to while writing: Pump It by the Black Eyed Peas

Author’s Note: I legit have no clue how old Jay is (and believe me, I was doing some intense research) so let’s just say he’s in his early thirties (aka 31) for the sake of this fic, okay? Okay. Happy reading!

Warnings: cursing, unusual age gap (??)

Word Count: 2,2k

Requested: yessir

Anonymous asked: Can you write an imagine about the reader being quite a lot younger than jay and the reader overhearing the unit talking about her

“Okay, you can do this,” you muttered to yourself, nervously running a hand through your hair before you walked the rest of the way to Jay’s district, careful not to jostle the baked goods in your hand. The moment you stepped inside the building, you realized that you couldn’t have picked a worse day to visit him though. The station was packed with police officers, civilians and in the middle of the room was the infamous Sergeant Platt, whom you’ve heard a lot about. Intimidated, you approached the desk, smiling shyly at the older woman. 

“Hi, I am here for Jay Halstead, my name’s Y/N Y/L/N,” you said but Sergeant Platt barely looked at you as she rifled through a stack of papers.

“Detective Halstead is on a case right now, if you’re here to give a statement, I can redirect you to one of my officers. Officer Elliot!” she called but your eyes widened and you quickly shook your head. 

“Oh, no! No, no! I am not here to give a statement,” you quickly said, “Uh, I am Jay’s girlfriend?”

Sergeant Platt paused at that and for the first time she looked you in the face with raised eyebrows. “Oh! Oh. I see, I see.” She eyed you very distinctly, before she cleared her throat, putting the paper stack down. “I’ll check upstairs and see if he’s busy right now. Please just… Wait here?”

You nodded and Sergeant Platt came out of behind the desk and made her way upstairs slowly, while looking back at you several at times. With a sigh, you leaned against the desk, startling when you heard your name being called. 

“Y/N!”

“Kim, hey!”

Kim Burgess came up to you with a surprised smile, wrapping an arm around you. “It’s so good to see you! What are you doing here?”

“I know how important the team is to Jay and he always tells me he wants to introduce me, so I thought I’d come by and bring you some bribes,” you answered, bashfully showcasing the baked goods in your arms. “But I probably should have checked in beforehand, Sergeant Platt seemed really irritated at the intrusion.”

With laughter, Kim shook her head. “Nonsense! Don’t mind Platt, she’s always like that. And we always appreciate treats. Come on,” she said, inclining her head. “I’ll bring you up.”

Despite Kim’s reassurance, you felt incredibly nervous walking upstairs to the Intelligence unit. Kim pushed you forward gently, pushing you to introduce yourself, but the team seemed to be deep in a conversation, standing around a desk. Jay was nowhere to be found.

“Y/N Y/L/N, 22. English major at the University of Chicago, trying to live my best life?” a bearded man, sitting at a desk, read out. “I mean, Jay’s not on any of her socials, so there’s no proof of them dating.”

“Guys,” Kim said, trying to make them aware of your arrival, but they were far too deep.  Were they looking you up on the internet? This was going to be fun.

“Ha ha Sergeant. Good joke. There’s no way Jay has a girlfriend, least of all her. She is way out of his league. She even has a tattoo.”

“Oh my god.”

“Get it together, Ruzek,” a Latin woman snorted. “You’re still on probation with Kim.” 

So that must be Adam, Kim’s on-and-off, currently on, boyfriend.

Sergeant Platt put her hands at her waist, shaking her head. “I am telling you. She introduced herself as Jay’s girlfriend. Why would she lie about that?”

“Maybe she isn’t lying,” a dark skinned man said, shrugging his shoulders. “Jay has been quite secretive recently. Maybe he has a new girlfriend.”

“To be fair, if I were Jay and had a 22 year old girlfriend, I wouldn’t have told me either,” Adam said, leaning back in his chair. 

“Yeah because you’re an idiot.” A new voice popped up and Jay suddenly appeared next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Guys, this is my girlfriend Y/N. Babe, this is Adam, Kevin, Hailey, Vanessa, Sergeant Platt and you already know Kim of course.”

“Hey guys,” you said, waving at them with a huge grin and Adam promptly toppled out of his chair, cursing. 

“Fuck.”

With a roll of her eyes, Sergeant Platt gave you a acknowledging nod before she went back downstairs. The rest of the team greeted you warm heartedly with hugs, immediately feasting on the food you’ve brought while Hailey held you at an arm’s length, nodding appreciatively at you. “I do not know how you pulled her Jay. She is way out of your league, I stand by my words.”

“Yeah Jay, where’d you guys meet? Was she one of the volunteers at your nursing home?” Adam cackled, which earned him a slap up the head by Kim. 

“Told you,” Vanessa mused and Adam only glared at her. 

With a laugh, you leaned into Jay. “We met at a coffee shop,” you said, keeping the story short on purpose, but your boyfriend immediately pounced on a chance to tell the story of how you met.

“She poured coffee down my lap!” he added and everyone laughed, while your cheeks tinged pink. 

“I didn’t pour coffee down your lap. I knocked a coffee cup into your lap, that’s different.”

Jay rolled his eyes fondly at you. “Semantics,” he said, before launching into the story.

Yawning, you read through the last page of an article and you dotted down some notes before you closed the tab of the article, stretching your arms. You’ve been at the coffee shop for a couple of hours now, trying to catch up with some work. For some reason, you worked the best in a coffee shop. At home, there were too many distractions and the library was just… Too quiet.

A coffee shop was the perfect balance of quiet and loud.

You opened up a new document, feeling ready to begin writing. Grabbing your coffee cup, you realized with a grimace that it was empty. Another coffee then. With your wallet in hand, you walked over to the counter, Clarissa already giving you a smile. 

“Another cappuccino?” 

“Yes please,” you chuckled. “And perhaps a blueberry muffin?” 

“Coming right up.”

“Thanks Clarissa,” you said with a smile, paying before you moved over to the bar stools to wait for your order. You allowed yourself to check out social media, looking up when Clarissa called your name. In a haste, you stuck your phone into your pocket, reaching over the counter to grab the plate, but in the hurry, your hand knocked over a coffee mug and the liquid spilled directly into the lap of a man next to you. The lap of a very gorgeous man. 

“Oh crap, I am so sorry,” you quickly apologized as the man jumped up, hissing as the coffee seeped into his jeans. 

“It’s fine,” he ground out but judged by the look on his face, it wasn’t fine at all. You grabbed a stack of napkins and started patting down the wet patches on his jeans in a panic, until two large hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you. 

“Would you stop patting down my crotch?” he asked with a hint of a smile and your cheeks got even redder, which you thought was impossible. 

“I am so sorry,” you said, straightening back up when you saw the badge around his neck, your eyes widening. He was a cop. Oh god, he wasn’t going to arrest you for touching him inappropriately, was he?

“I am not going to arrest you.”

Fuck, did you just say that outloud?

“Yes,” he answered and you willed the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Meanwhile the cop looked amused and he let go of your hands, taking the remaining napkins to dry himself off. “You know,” he said. “I usually take women out for dinner before we go to second base, but I guess there’s a first for everything.”

You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Please stop, this is already embarrassing enough for me.”

Tossing the used napkins in a nearby trash can, he gave you a smile. He was really hot. You just wished you hadn’t just made a fool out of yourself in front of him.

“I’m Jay. Halstead.”

“Y/N Y/L/N. Officer Halstead…?” You guessed but Jay shook his head with a laugh. 

“Detective actually.”

“Damn it,” you muttered, shaking your head. “That’s even worse. You’re probably a part of some fancy task force, too, aren’t you?”

“Have to disappoint you there, I am in Intelligence with the CPD,” he told you and you sighed.

“Perfect, you handle all the hardcore cases, right?”

Jay shrugged, tilting his head. “Eh, you could say that.”

“I am an idiot.”

“You’re not. Let me buy you a coffee?”

“Absolutely not!” you exclaimed, frowning deeply before you turned to Clarissa. “One cappuccino and one of whatever he was drinking please.”

“One cappuccino and one black coffee, got it.”

You gave Jay a look. ‘Black coffee, really?’ you mouthed and he just shrugged with a grin, handing Clarissa his card, which you nearly slapped away. 

“Clarissa, don’t you dare let him pay,” you told her and the both of you offered your cards to the barista. 

Clarissa luckily took your card and shrugged at Jay’s look of affront. “Sorry, seniority rules.”

Jay raised an eyebrow at that and took his defeat, turning to face you. “So how old are you?” he asked, somewhat curious but at the same time, really nonchalant. You were sure that Jay knew that you were younger than him. But you didn’t want to read too much into it. 

“22.”

You weren’t sure if you had imagined the flash of disappointment that crossed his face but he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. 

“So not really seniority then?” he joked and you huffed in exasperation. Your conversation was cut short by Clarissa calling your name. 

“A cappuccino and a black coffee.”

Along with the two coffees, Clarissa handed you your long forgotten muffin with a conspiratorial grin, to which you rolled your eyes. You then stood in the middle of the coffee shop with Jay, coffee mug and muffin in hand. 

“So, you’re studying here, huh?” Jay asked, nodding towards your made-shift study space in the booth.

“Mhm,” you hummed, cracking a smile. “For some reason I can focus really well here.”

Jay smiled at you before rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, uh so… I gotta go. Lots of bad guys out there to catch.”

“I am sure there are,” you mused and he gave you one last smile before he turned to leave. You bit your lip and as he reached out to push the door open, you called out.

“Wait!” 

He turned back to look at you with a raised eyebrow. 

“How about that dinner?”

“That is hilarious,” Adam snorted and the rest of the unit laughed in agreement. You huffed, turning so you could hide your face in his arm. Every time Jay told that story, he got the same reaction.

“I hate it when you’re telling the story of how we met,” you mumbled and you felt the vibrations in his body when he chuckled.

“I know you do, but I love it.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re slumming it with old Jay,” Vanessa said and you snorted out a laugh. 

“Are you kidding? Jay is hot, have you seen his arms?” You asked, wrapping your hands around his bicep. “Besides, everyone knows that men are like wine. You gotta give them time to mature.”

Now it was Jay’s turn to flush and the entire unit ooh-ed simultaneously. Kevin nodded with a grin. 

“Never let go of that one, Jay.”

The group was suddenly broken up when an older man came into the room. “What’s going on in here?” he asked with a husky voice. So this must be the infamous Sergeant Hank Voight. 

“Sarge, this is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Jay said and you smiled at Voight, holding out your hand. 

“Pleasure to meet you sir.”

Voight raised an eyebrow at you, shaking your hand gently. “Pleasure’s all mine. How old are you, kid?”

“22, sir.”

“I could be your dad.”

Jay scoffed, rolling his eyes and squeezed your hand. “You could be my dad, Sarge.”

“Fair enough,” Voight grunted with a laugh. “Alright we got a case.” He motioned for the rest of the team to follow him while Jay turned to you with a smile. 

“Thanks for coming. I know I always told you that I’d introduce you to the team but never did it. Figures you’d take it in your own hands, huh?” he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and you grinned at him, shrugging with your shoulders.

“Thought it couldn’t hurt.”

“‘course you did. Listen, I gotta go, but how about I’ll take you out for drinks tonight and we’ll hang out with the guys? Properly?”

“Sounds like a great plan,” you nodded and Jay grinned at you, kissing you softly. 

“Awesome. I’ll see you tonight then.”

“Can’t wait.”

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[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Sleepy Holloween

A/N: This Ichabbie Halloween fic is pure fluff and cuteness. No plot to be found here, just flirts and enjoyment.

“I’m sorry, Emily. I had to wait 300 years for a virgin to light a candle.”

An orchestra played an epic few bars of music, a drumroll sounded, and Abbie turned the TV off as the credits started to roll.

“Well, Crane, what’d you think?”

He turned to Jenny, who was cuddled up with Joe on the opposite end of the couch. “It was…palatable.”

Jenny gave him her blank stare of disbelief, and Joe smiled knowingly, but it was Abbie, who’d stayed tucked into his side for the duration of the movie, who prompted, “Come on, tell us what you really think.”

He glanced down at her, noting her sincere, if amused, look. “Is this, in all honesty, a children’s film?” he asked, genuinely perturbed.

“Well…not small children,” Joe supplied.

“And what is considered ‘small,’ Master Joe? I dare to presume there are parents who’d rather not expose young minds to witchcraft and the occult. It’s difficult enough for the four of us to manage it—but to appropriate it for entertainment on our youth…”

“You mean to tell me children in your day didn’t watch real life horrors worse than a little Halloween fantasy?” Jenny countered, forceful but kind. “That they weren’t exposed to hangings and gunfights and war? Not to mention the treatment of slaves.”

Crane looked duly reprimanded. "I suppose I can see where…times have altered enough that All Hallow’s Eve fantasy films are less traumatic than real life has been known to be.”

“And that’s your only comment on the film?” Abbie asked.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Certainly not. The inaccuracies in this movie are quite numerous.”

“Here we go,” Joe murmured good-naturedly, eliciting knowing smirks from the Mills sisters and a slightly offended look from Crane.

“To begin with, most cabins in the 17th century would be much smaller than the one Binx and Emily shared, and they likely would have slept in the same room as their parents, perhaps even in the same bed, depending on their economic status.”

“Oh! We’re starting at the beginning,” Jenny teased, extracting herself from Joe and stretching.

Crane tilted his head at her in disdain but continued as Joe and Jenny rose to take their leave. “By dawn, the entire town would have been roused and already about their day. The witch Sarah would not have had the opportunity to lure young Emily to her demise at daybreak.”

“Speaking of a break, we need to head out,” Joe explained, waving at them as they headed for the door.

“Good luck, Abbie,” Jenny threw over her shoulder, smirking as they exited the house.

Abbie smiled and waved, content to stay securely tucked into Ichabod’s side for a few more minutes, even if she had to listen to another historical inaccuracy rant in order to do so.

“You get three,” she stated.

He peered down at her questioningly. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell me three issues you had with the movie. Only,” she held up her hand against his coming dispute, “three.”

“Very well. One: If the witches had spent 300 years in eternal damnation, should they not have recognized that ridiculous man dressed as the devil wasn’t him? We’re supposed to believe they think Lucifer takes on human form, has also left the depths of Hades—the place they’ve just escaped from—and lives in a modern home with a wife and a dog?”

“Everyone’s gotta live somewhere,” Abbie teased, earning her a classic Ichabod glare.

“Two: When the sisters are chasing those poor children, Witch Winnifred mocks young Max’s words, ‘it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus.’” His professor’s finger came up, and Abbie did her best to refrain from smiling at him. “Regardless of the fact that ‘hocus pocus’ is a sham-Latin phrase that jugglers employed in the 17th century—not to mention a common stage name both they and magicians used—how would she have known he said such phrase since he hadn’t yet lit the black flame candle, and therefore she wasn’t in this realm?”

Abbie nodded, considering his point, but refrained from answering, instead holding up three fingers to remind him he was about to round home.

“And three: Since the sisters only returned for one All Hallow’s Eve and they spent it chasing those children around all of Salem, how in Heaven’s name did Witch Winnifred know what a driver’s permit is? It took me months to get mine, and that only after you spent every waking hour explaining the 21st century and all of its advancements and gadgets to me and teaching me how to master the iron horse.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded, mildly entertained by his nitpicking, though she couldn’t help adding, “It is a fantasy film, though.”

Ichabod looked pleased she agreed with him and nodded. “I do admit, it was a bit of fantastical fun though,” he allowed, his voice calmer now that he’d aired some of his grievances. “Quite comforting to know others fight the tyranny of evil, even if it is merely make-believe. Will we watch this every year?”

“It’s a requirement in this house. And since you live here too now…”

“Indeed I do.” He lifted an eyebrow, a flirty smile teasing his lips as he kissed her.

“Come on.” Abbie patted his thigh as she pulled away from him. “It’s time to get ready. The kids’ll be here soon.”

*****

“Abbie…are you coming down?” Ichabod called up the staircase.

“On my way. You dressed?”

She heard him mumble something about ‘infernal style,’ but then his voice carried up to her. “Yes, and most anxious to see your costume.”

Abbie didn’t know what to prepare for, either in terms of what costume he’d chosen or what he’d think of hers. She couldn’t help hoping he’d appreciate her outfit choice even more than he had her Beyonce get-up from last year—which he’d enjoyed just fine. She recalled how his appreciative gaze roamed from her full head of faux curls, across her face where she’d applied a classic but simple make-up style, lingered a few seconds too long on her lips before dropping down to her neck where her ‘Queen’ necklace caused him to smirk approvingly at the statement before sliding down to her unusually low-cut shirt, which provided a rare and revealing view of her cleavage. His eyes lingered again, then traveled down the length of her body to stare at her shorts with the bling on the pockets and her bare legs. After a few moments, he suddenly seemed to remember himself, and his eyes snapped up to her face where her knowing smile made him a bit embarrassed to have gawked at her so.

This outfit didn’t reveal her attributes in the same way, but she’d bet money it’d please him all the same.

She smoothed down the sides of her costume, then started down the stairs. Ichabod came into sight, standing tall, proud, regal, and ramrod straight, and she nearly tripped over her own feet. His hair had disappeared beneath a white sailor’s cap with a black bill and gold trim. The white jacket with epaulets on the shoulders and gold buttons running down the middle made his blue eyes shine even brighter than usual as he heatedly watched her descend the stairs. A single, thin, gold ribbon encircled the jacket’s wrists and striped down the sides of the white pants he wore, the entire uniform making him appear nobler and even taller than his 6 foot-plus frame.

She’d never expected to see him in a contemporary costume, having long since given up trying to get him to wear anything modern, and she had no clue what had possessed him to go military for Halloween. But he certainly didn’t disappoint, and she suddenly wished she had one of those old handheld folding fans ladies used to carry around to cool herself off with.  

Ichabod watched Abbie float down the stairs, mesmerized by her costume. She’d pinned all of her hair up, leaving a single, thick curl falling over her shoulder. Her dress, a deep green that complimented her beautifully flushed brown skin, had long sleeves that ended with a frill of off-white lace at her forearms. The court neckline, cut down nearly to her armpits, highlighted the length of her neck, her collarbones, the glow of her skin, and her bust. The dress’s bodice, an inset corset also in off-white, contrasted beautifully against the dark green of the rest of the dress and emphasized her petite frame and small waist. From her hips, the dress flared out and down to the floor, her tiny feet hidden beneath its layers.

She looked stunning, as though she’d stepped out of the Revolutionary War era with him. He knew his gaze lingered in awe, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d admit he loved seeing Abbie wear her modern-day clothes—blue jeans, form-fitting shirts, a silk robe, a tank top and short shorts to bed—though Heaven knew they all left little to the imagination, which he was both forever grateful for and infernally distracted by. But seeing her like this, resplendent in Colonial couture, left him speechless and mesmerized as she came to stand in front of him.

Abbie recovered first. “Hello there, sailor,” she cooed, a full smile gracing her face.

Ichabod mentally shook himself out of his stupor and swallowed hard. “Ah-ah, it’s Captain,” he corrected, pointing to one of the stripes gracing the left side of his chest.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, impressed. “O Captain, my Captain.”

“And no other’s,” he assured her, his voice dropping low. “Abbie….you look…” While his words trailed off, his hand started at her wrist and slid up her arm, over her shoulder, across her bare collarbone.

“Colonial?” she supplied, delighted her endeavor to please and surprise him had elicited this effect.

“Well, yes, but I was going to say 'magnificent,’” he explained as he tipped her chin up and kissed her, his other hand finding her waist.

He felt her smile against his lips, and he pulled away, then changed his mind and gave her another peck before taking her hands in his and a step back to drink in the sight of her once more.

“You seem very pleased, love.”

“I am,” she confirmed, smiling, watching his eyes roam over her again. “I wanted to surprise you with a little something from your…previous life.”

“Mission well accomplished,” he affirmed, tugging her towards him with their still-clasped hands. He leaned in close to kiss her neck. “Though I can’t wait to take this off of you,” he whispered against her skin.

“Ah,” she gasped, simultaneously easing away from him and pushing him away, though her hands remained on his chest. “Don’t start; it’s much too early for that. Besides…” Her eyes roamed heatedly over him again. “I need some time to enjoy you fully embracing the military style of today.”

“Mm,” he hummed, taking a step back from her and holding his arms out wide for her perusal. “So this suits you?”

“It suits you,” she returned cheekily. “It pleases me.”

He arched one brow. “How much, we shall find out later.”

“Indeed,” she agreed in a teasing tone, mocking his go-to affirmative.

One side of his mouth turned up, amused. “Shall we get on with the festivities, Mistress Abbie?” he asked, changing the subject before things got too out of hand. Heaven knew he’d need to try to keep things neutral in order to make it through the rest of the evening without ravishing her.

“Mistress? You know…that designation doesn’t mean the same thing now as it did before,” she informed him as she headed towards the kitchen.

“No? What, pray tell, does it mean now?”

She reached into the cabinets for the bags of candy she’d bought, handing them to him. “It usually refers to a woman in a relationship with a married man.”

“Has this generation found no end to the butchering of the English language? In my day, a mistress was the head of her home, holding a position of control and authority; it was a title of respect. It boggles the mind how a term of female empowerment has been subverted such that it now refers to something…tawdry.”

“Agreed; your definition is much better,” Abbie stated, pulling the large orange bowl with black bats all over it from another cabinet, setting it on the island between them. “You can call me Mistress, if you feel the need, with the understanding that you’re referencing the original meaning. How’s that sound?”

“But you are my Mistress,” he said matter of factly.

Abbie splayed her arms wide, gripping the countertop, and stared at him questioningly, waiting for him to explain himself.

“You’re the head of the household. And respected, of course. But you’re also a woman in a relationship with me, a married man.”

“But you’re married to me. That’s not…tawdry,” she mocked his phrasing again.

With a glint in his eye, one side of his mouth quirked up. “Not yet…but the night’s still young, my mistress Abbie.”

She shook her head, amused and not a little warmed by his flirtations, the smooth way he breathed her name sending heat dancing up her spine. “You’re incorrigible. And if you don’t stop, this will be the last time you see me wearing this costume.”

“That is the idea.”

Needing levity, she pointed to the bags of candy in front of him. “Will you open those and pour them in this bowl while I go turn on the porch light? Light on means free candy. Light off, kids skip the house.”

Ichabod tipped his sailor’s hat at her. “Your wish is my command, Mistress.”

“Mmhmm.” Though her heart thrummed wildly, she threw him a disbelieving look as she headed to the entryway, her dress swooshing around her as she moved.

She chosen her costume to surprise her dashing husband, but truthfully she enjoyed the dress herself. It made her feel feminine and stately. Not that she’d want to wear the layers and corset-style bodice every day—thank God she’d been born in the 20th century—but it was a nice change. Her childhood and her profession hadn’t allowed for many of life’s pleasures so she’d always made a point to have fun on Halloween as an adult. Choosing a costume each year—the range varying from Wonder Woman and a mermaid to a Greek goddess and Beyonce—gave her the opportunity to pretend she was someone else, imagine all the fantastical lives she could live if given the chance. It’d become one of her favorite holidays, and she hoped Ichabod would come to love it and all the ways to celebrate it too.

He’d certainly taken to it more this year than last. He’d huffed and chuffed as they’d searched the Spirit Halloween store the previous year, becoming more horrified by the evil nature of most costumes and more offended by the lack of creativity of women’s outfits with each passing aisle. After perusing the entire store, he’d resolutely decided on a colonial figure, which really hadn’t required a costume at all, and wouldn’t budge. This year he’d suggested they choose costumes separately. She’d thought he’d just rather avoid the pretense of shopping for an acceptable get-up when he knew one couldn’t be found to appease his colonial sensibilities, but he’d deliberately surprised her, just as she’d done for him.

“Why are these called 'fun size’?” he called out to her.

She saw him warily eyeing the miniature Snickers bar he held and smiled, making her way back to the kitchen. “Because they’re smaller than average.”

“Hmm,” he rumbled with uncertainty, tossing the candy back into the bowl before he realized he had an audience. His eyes landed on her again, taking in the exquisite dress and the beloved woman wearing it, and his expression changed. “I’m most certainly of the opinion that smaller than average is 'fun size,'” he teased, dropping a kiss onto her temple as he grabbed the candy-filled bowl and made his way into the living room.

Another 15 minutes passed before the doorbell rang with the first trick-or-treaters seeking candy, and the two jawed on about their day: the pumpkin carving fun they’d had with Joe and Jenny before they’d watched Hocus Pocus, how they’d each selected their costumes with one another in mind, how they’d spend the upcoming holiday season, and what they’d do with any candy left over if they didn’t give it all away tonight.

Sitting closer to the front door, Abbie got up to answer it, and Ichabod sprang up to accompany her. She unlocked the deadbolt and reached for the doorknob when she felt his hand upon her arm, restraining her.

“Hold on a moment, Fun Size,” Ichabod’s voice rumbled from behind her as he curled himself around her and slid his hand down her arm to cover hers. “A captain must ensure his mistress is safe at all times.”

She smiled at his flirtation as he peered through the window at the top of the door, a full head above her own height. “Such chivalry,” she preened.

“Tis my duty,” he corrected.

“And your pleasure.”

“You’ve no idea,” he informed her, leaning down to kiss her bare neck. But before he could, Abbie ducked beneath his arm and out of his embrace.

“Not as of yet,” she taunted, throwing him a brazen smile and opening the door with one hand, grabbing the candy bowl off the entryway table with the other.

A small princess, Thor, and a clown stood on the porch, candy baskets held aloft as they all chimed ‘Trick or Treat!’ together.

Abbie grinned at the excitement on their faces and graciously dropped candy into each of their bags, waving as they skipped away to the next house.

“My, I do see the joy of celebrating All Hallow’s Eve in this fashion.”

His voice came from behind her, and she turned a bit to see him watching the children roam around on their street in a myriad of costumes: dragons, superheroes, monsters, pumpkins, fairies, and Disney characters.

“No wonder children enjoy it so immensely.”

“And you, Captain Crane?” she wondered, happy seeing the delight on his handsome face. “Are you enjoying it?”

He peered down at her and smiled contentedly. “Yes,” he affirmed, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned back into him as they stood in the doorway waiting for their next visitors, and he dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, causing them both to smile. “Yes, I most certainly am.”

#floof and happiness found here #that's it #ichabbie #ichabbie halloween #ichabbie fanfiction #ichabbie fanfic #ichabbie fan fiction #ichabbie fan fic #abbie x ichabod #ichabod x abbie #abbie x crane #crane x abbie #sleepy hollow #sleepy hollow fanfiction #sleepy hollow fanfic #sleepy hollow fan fiction #sleepy hollow fan fic #married ichabbie #my ichabbie writing #my writing #personal

[no6secretsanta]

Gala Grind

WOO SECRET SANTA! 

@allxkka this is for you! YOU ASKED FOR AN AU, high school, college, or theater and well, THIS HAPPENED. All three of those things get mentioned in this fic? So… : ) Hope you enjoy.

(should be up on my archive by now, if it isn’t, it will be shortly)

---

Hours earlier, Nezumi had watched as the average hotel lobby transformed into an expensive-looking Gala hall, courtesy of staff members with dead eyes. At the time, he’d found it impressive, the way the white cloth tables, goody-bags, and endless floral arrangements were able to grant the blank room a weighted sort of potential energy.  

Now, though, he was confident that he had only watched the room go from one form of emptiness to another. Goody-bags were swept under chairs in an unending flood of expensive champagne and cheap conversation. Nezumi could feel the flowers wilting.  

“What’s the name of this company anyway?” he asked the man sitting across from him. The placard at his seat read: “Yoming”.

“Civitas Rosis. You don’t know of us?” Yoming replied. As he spoke a shiny gold watch on his wrist caught the light.

Nezumi’s finger traced the rim of his champagne glass - of course it was empty, now when he needed it most. “I’m a plus-one,” he said. “Guest of a guest. That is quite a name." 

"It’s Latin. The title is from one of our parent companies we outgrew,” Yoming said, with the air of a proud conqueror. “The taking of their title was a sort of symbolic representation of our independence. We’re the kind of place that never forgets the little steps that helped us get where we are.”

“Oh, I see. A real rags-to-riches Cinderella story.”

“We consider it more David and Goliath,” Yoming said, dark eyes glinting. Nezumi envisioned a future where he strangled him with his necktie, unbuckled the watch from his wrist, and pawned it off for a lifetime supply of macaroons. It was a bright future.

“Of course,” Nezumi drawled. “Although…in this David and Goliath story David would have to put on Goliath’s skin after he took him down. A little too graphic to market, don’t you think?”

The businessman fluffed up like an offended bird. “What did you say your name was?”

“My name? Rikiga,” Nezumi simpered, and then flashed his teeth. “Most sincere apologies. Are you always so defensive or did you steal that from your dead parent company too?”

The silence between them stretched for a full minute - not that anyone could tell over the boot-licking and networking chatter that filled the rest of the dining area. 

“Who are you guest of?” Yoming asked, slowly.

The caterer, Nezumi thought, but he wasn’t about to get Shion into trouble with his millionaire undercover boss. He pointed blindly at the name plaque next to him. Yoming’s face scrunched.

“Tori, I should have known.”

Nezumi had no idea who this Tori was, but he felt a fleeting sort of guilt for the resigned way Yoming said his name, and the speed at which he stood.

“Good day, Mr. Rikiga,” Yoming said in a tone of voice that made it abundantly clear nothing good was about to happen.

“A pleasure meeting you!" 

Yoming was dialing a number on his cellphone with frightening speed as he ducked out of the room. Poor Tori.

Oh well. It was time to leave that table anyway. First though…

The goody-bags were mostly filled with useless nonsense: Business cards and Civitas Rosis plastic shot glasses and salt-shakers, but there was a gem at the bottom. Nezumi dumped the junk into Tori’s abandoned bag, but rescued the carefully-wrapped bag of cookies and a card to Karan’s bakery - painfully sincere amongst all the company-labelled knick-knacks and trappings. 

Like a certain someone.

Nezumi exhaled. He probably shouldn’t have picked a fight. He hoped this minor tiff wouldn’t reflect negatively on Karan and Shion’s impeccable skills and service. He popped one of the cookies in his mouth, chewed.

"Nezumi!”

Shion. He was clumsily weaving through the tables - balm to Nezumi’s exhausted soul, relentlessly appealing in his all-black formal catering uniform.

“You look nice,” Nezumi swallowed appreciatively, before popping another cookie in his mouth, looking him up and down.

Flattery and exhaustion warred on Shion’s face. He pulled out the seat next to Nezumi, but then pushed it back in, evidently, deciding standing would be better.

“Something to say, Shion?”

“I have a favor to ask,” Shion said.

He held Nezumi’s hand in both of his. Nezumi stopped chewing.

 —

“Please Nezumi, their singer is sick!” Shion grumbled, following Nezumi into the bathroom so they could keep the conversation private. “They need someone to sing a few songs and say just a few nice things about the company and I know you’ve done galas before—hey. Don’t look like that. You have the training for this!” 

“I dropped out, Shion,” Nezumi replied, colder than he meant to be.

Training was a bit of a trigger word if he was being completely honest. As a proud college dropout, he had recently come to terms with the fact that the best thing his stint in academia had given him was ecologist-turned-caterer Shion.

Shion was not deterred. He shook his head, quickly slipping an OUT OF ORDER sign onto the door to the men’s bathroom.

“Listen to me—"

“—Why are you carrying that?” Nezumi asked, temporarily distracted.

“Sometimes caterers need some time alone,” Shion clarified without hesitation. “I’m not giving up on this. You’re the only one who can do this Nezumi, and your voice is beautiful. You have soul. That’s all an audience needs. A diploma doesn’t matter— You taught me that.”

Ugh, Nezumi had. Theoretically. Shion had been miserable in grad school, signing up for all the most difficult labs to challenge his own brilliant mind. It had been a mistake. A brilliant mind wasn’t what his professors wanted— cutting corners was, and Shion wasn’t going to do that.

Shion had dropped first. A month later, Nezumi made the same call, but for very different reasons.

Pursuing a degree in theater, in all honesty, had been a mistake.

His heart had wanted it, though. Nezumi’s stupid heart, still beating, ever-longing, ready to make important life decisions with the loudest possible voice no matter how deeply he buried it in his chest. His heart had won him over during the lonely years after high school— singing in bars for tips. It had convinced him that with education maybe that could be a job—his full-time job. A job where he wouldn’t have to scrape by and beg.

So, he had saved. He had saved and he paid for some classes. An education. Rags-to-riches, right?

As it turned out, Nezumi paid a lot for academia to teach his heart what his head knew already: love was disappointing. Love didn’t fill your stomach, or your pockets. Love left you with debt—left you with dreams. Singing wasn’t a career—it was a survival mechanism.

So yeah, he didn’t much like to be reminded of his training. He didn’t particularly like to be reminded of his soul, either.

“Shion—” he started, but Shion kissed him before he could finish, pressing him gently into the wall of the nice hotel bathroom. His heart took over— no more thoughts— as he wrapped his arms around Shion’s shoulders and felt the fabric of his stupid hot catering uniform. Warm. Shion was so fucking warm, all the time.

He had just about forgotten what they were talking about when Shion broke away, eyes impossibly bright.

“I know you,” he whispered, voice low and urgent enough to send a tiny, tiny tremor down Nezumi’s spine. “I know you, Nezumi, and you love to perform. Why are you resisting? What’s holding you back? Let me help.”

His hand was on Nezumi’s cheek, and Nezumi felt his resolve crumble.

Dammit. Damn him. Damn this. Damn the excitement in Nezumi’s veins, the stupid thrilling call of the stage. Damn this man, this infuriating, wonderful man that knew Nezumi’s stupid, stupid, stupid, theatrical heart.

“I’ll sing, Shion,” he said, finally, meeting the torrent that was Shion’s eyes. “I just can’t promise any miracles. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m not asking for miracles, Nezumi,” Shion replied, grinning victoriously. His lips were red; his cheeks appealingly flushed. “Just you. Just your voice. That’s always been enough, you know.”

Nezumi’s heart may have lost when it came to his college education, but with Shion…Well. Maybe the debt was worth it.

—-

Nezumi stood in front of the crowd, microphone in hand. His set list and suggested script sat on a music stand in a black binder. No one would have to know there was actually no paper in the binder, but rather that everything had been hastily scrawled on a napkin by the company treasurer.

Nezumi tapped the microphone once. Feedback echoed through the gala hall, but hey, it caught everyone’s attention so mission accomplished.

“Having fun tonight?” he offered to the stuffy suits and ties. He was rewarded with polite applause.

God, Nezumi thought. Sounds like a fucking golf game. He almost missed the constant cat-calls of his bar. Almost.

His heart was beating though, thudding in a way that clearly never got the message this was stupid and pointless. His eyes scanned the crowd and found Karan and Shion at their modest table in the back. He smiled, for them, slipping into the role of gala MC.

Shion really did look great in that uniform.

“Let’s give another round of applause for our lovely host Civitas Rosis — long may they reign!”

The sarcasm didn’t slip through to his voice but judging by the rewarding scowl on Yoming’s face and the expanding smile on Shion’s— it was understood by the parties that needed to hear it.

Shion, to Nezumi’s surprise and delight, couldn’t stand Yoming either. He had apparently been flirting at Karan for almost the entire party, and Shion, for all his gullibility, had a bullshit detector that could rival Nezumi’s. When he had heard about Nezumi’s earlier argument, seconds before Nezumi was shoved to the stage, his face had changed. There was a rare, vengeful glint in his eyes as he whispered: Honestly, I’m glad you did— now maybe I’ll be able to resist arguing with him, myself. Maybe.

Fuck, Nezumi loved him.

It was a stray thought, but a true one, and one Nezumi didn’t have time to over-consider as he picked up the mic and began to sing, voice echoing through the lobby.

Yoming, pleasingly, had a deep scowl on his face, but Karan was mouthing the words next to him. Yeah that wouldn’t last.

Nezumi’s life hadn’t really gone according to plan.

He was a college drop-out singing in a hotel lobby that meant nothing to him, and for a company he couldn’t stand.

But still, he smiled as he sang. It wasn’t to survive— wasn’t for an ill-advised money-making dream, but for the caterer watching with enamored eyes in the back of the room.

It was fun. His heart pulsed in his chest, poor, but satisfied.

It was his best performance yet.

#secretagentfan #allxkka #no6 #no 6 #no.6 #no. 6 #no6secretsanta #gala grind #nezumi #submission

[grison-in-space]

so, collections of meta on explicit f/f...

...because I’m still reading through a bunch of tabs my on my laptop, and I figured other folks might like the links.

Where’s my lesbian porn guide? by amaresu, who always has some of the best meta on DW, asking where the resources and tools for writing this are five years ago. Responses are interesting, and include one link to longstanding LJ comm lez_sex_tips, which isn’t exactly fandom oriented but does apparently have a whole lot of women talking frankly about f/f sex and how to make it good. 

Someone attempted to put the guide together but apparently got distracted after the first entry. Shame, but the discussion’s good. Requested topics:

mechanics of particular acts, along the lines of “one finger, two fingers, three fingers, dick!” for anal sex, as well as “oh god that will hurt if she does that”

notes about nail trimming came up for fingering; it was pointed out that femme folks with long pointy manicures can and do engage in fingering and even fisting without cutting anyone’s vag to shreds via the magic of nitrile gloves and cotton balls; whether this is in character for any particular person you’re writing at any given time, eh. ehhh. 

descriptions of variety and how to handle that for different characters

multiple orgasms: how does that feel?

what the fuck is a g spot and does it even exist? what is the feeling like?

what words can you use without being either too clinical or too, idk, explicit? people seem to get pretty vague; is this a bug or a feature?

strap-ons: how do they work, how do you negotiate the feeling of using one?

how realistic do you have to be, anyway?

More discussions on words to be used in smut. Unsurprisingly, this is a topic for femslash writers. (mons, man. Mons is a good word. Gotta remember that.) 

Elsewhere, some anon threads:

What words do you use?  I remain horrified at the concept of describing anyone’s “creamy core” mid sex scene, but there’s a lot of good discussion here. Personal takeaways: mons is a nice word, pudenda sounds great unless you, like me, speak enough Latin to know it literally means “the thing she’s ashamed of” or “the thing she should be ashamed of”, quim is just fuckin’ confusing, and I too kind of dislike “vagina” as a word for anything on the outside bits. 

Why can’t a lot of femslash writers write good/hot/sexy porn? (Oh my god, nether pearl, no.) Contains a lot of good conversation, including “is femslash really that much more personal to y’all than dudeslash?” Spawned the discussions above.

Otherwise interesting:

How do/should het writers (especially woman-centric het, for lack of a better term) interact with femslash writers? Interesting discussion, if edging into a bit wanky at times. Contains contemplation about whether het shippers and other fans interested in proactively enjoying and celebrating female characters should be paying more attention to femslash. Tends to lump het and gen together, which mildly aggravates me, but eh. 

What should I do when I notice heteronormative stuff bleeding into my f/f? I want to be a good queer feminist! Personally, my answer is “breathe, don’t worry about being perfect, because no one is perfect and expecting that out of yourself is mostly just a way to silence yourself. Create what you create, and if you notice themes in your own work that make you uncomfortable, play with what makes you uncomfortable and turn that into art, too. 

Because it blew my mind a bit, a perfect description of the stylistic shit that turns me the fuck off so much femslash, which is then attributed to what is apparently a very popular/cliquish femslash archive/LJ comm back in the day. Huh. There is a lot of complaining about this archive in the anon threads I have been browsing through, and frankly, if it’s the reason that the style described here is so fucking omnipresent in the fic I’ve been hunting for I can see why. Grump.

Potential prompt mining: favorite tropes as applied to femslash. This pleases me. I love tropey shit.

#femslash #f/f #fandom meta #meta #picking up from the recent discussion

[jade-bellatricus84]

Promptography 101 (part 1)

Wow! Okay so this whole thing was spawned from a conversation with @geekgoddess813. I decided to write a series of fanfiction about the Chocobros as professors...goodness me, what have I gotten myself into? xD lol it’s all good. Now hopefully I can keep up with this one instead of letting it die like I did with my mini Promptio fic. hahaha anywho...

Summary: Prompto Argentum is the professor of an art class (with a strong focus on photography, hence the name Promptography 101). This is a Prompto x Fem!Reader. There is Y/N name insertion. It’s your first day at a new college that you transferred to due to a move.

Word Count: 1305

Note: Prompto - a Latin word from which ‘prompt’ is derived. Prompto may mean ‘for the ready/quick [man]’. Argentum - a Latin word meaning ‘Silver’. Hence the nickname ‘Quick Silver’ that is referenced within the story.

Another note: I hopefully WILL continue this. In fact, I fully intend to continue working on the piece tonight after posting this because if I don’t I may lose my motivation...please treat me kindly.

So! Without further ado...I give you...part one of Promtography 101.

When you first walked into the classroom of you art class you saw a group of students gathered around the professor's desk. They seemed to be talking excitedly about a photograph one of them had taken over summer break. Your eyes scanned the classroom  the others were mostly kept to themselves, save for a handful of students near the center of the room.

You were new to the school, having moved to a different location and could not commute to classes you had to transfer and hope all your credits would transfer over as well. You were a naturally shy person so when you didn't see the professor you hesitantly moved to set your paperwork on the desk, making sure it was flipped upside down so students couldn't see all your personal information as they passed by.

“It really is a great photo, Sarah, keep up the good work and you'll be teaching this class!” The male with golden hair and the prettiest blue eyes spoke. His voice was a smooth tenor that felt like sunshine and acceptance. It had a playful quality to it that suggested that he knew how to have a good time.

The girl, Sarah, smiled brightly and giggled all while denying she could ever be that good. Repressing the urge to roll your eyes at the obvious reach for praise you made sure all your papers for the professor were on the desk and started to turn away when that sweet voice called to you.

“Hello. Haven't seen you in the class before...you must be new.” He gave you a soft, bright smile as he extended his hand to you. “I'm Prompto Argentum, and you are?”

“Y/N.” You blushed a bit as you shook his hand. It was warm, with just the perfect amount of strength and roughness to it.

“Wait...if you're Prompto Argentum...that makes you the-”

“The Professor. Yep. Surprised?” His smile brightened further and her gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah, I get it. I don't really fit the mold when people think of a professor.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend, sir!” You blushed and looked down, biting your lip. To your surprise he just chuckled. You looked up to see a light pink tinge gracing his cheeks. His right hand had moved up to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Nah, don't worry, Y/N, you didn't. Um, so, if you want to take any seat. You'll find we're really laid back in this class. No seating chart so just pick anywhere. Uh, if you want to introduce yourself go ahead...I'm not gonna make you do anything like that. In fact, if you want, I won't even call attention to having a new student in the class.” He shrugged and you felt relief washing over you.

“Uh, yeah, I'd rather just...not...be gawked at any more than necessary, sir. Thank you.” Your voice held a hint of a sardonic tone within it.

“Roger that.” He glanced at the clock moments before the bell rang and he gave you a soft smile as he spoke to the class as a whole now. “Alright, guys, let's take our seats so we can get started.”

The students all began to sit with friends. You chose to sit with three other girls who seemed just as shy and quiet as yourself. You each exchanged soft smiles and tentative 'hellos' as the Professor perched himself on the edge of his desk and started to speak again.

“Welcome everyone. Welcome back to those of you returning to my class. To the handful of you attending for the first time I hope you enjoy the class and find the release for you creative souls and abilities. I would like to start the semester by saying that I strive to make this class, this room, a safe place. My doors are always open and I will always lend an ear if any of you need to talk. I will not tolerate bullying, shaming, or otherwise negative behavior within my class. We encourage and embrace within my class. Anyone unwilling to comply to that will be removed from my class until they decide to change their attitude. I don't mind cellphones in class so long as they don't become a distraction, if there are circumstances where you must be available to contact please speak with me before class. Seriously, I hate being the hard ass who confiscates personal belongings but I will remove distractions from your possession.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in.

“Now, enough of the heavy. I answer to just about anything. 'Prompto', 'Prom', 'Argentum', 'Quick Silver' for those of you that see the irony in that.” He paused with a smile as a male student gave an enthusiastic 'woo hoo'. “If you're uncomfortable being that informal, I understand and in that case 'Professor' is sufficient enough. Basically, whatever makes you most comfortable. Okay?”

He looked around at the faces of his students. You hadn't been able to take your eyes off him. He was so pretty. His perfectly styled golden hair looked so fluffy and soft. His eyes, gods, they were captivating and so, so blue. He had a smattering of light freckles on his face. His smile was sweet and inviting. When his eyes landed on you and held your gaze a moment you felt your cheeks heat up. Satisfied with the way things were going so far he gave a nod and proceeded to start the lesson.

You glanced at the three other girls you were sitting with to see them just as enamored by him as you had been. It wasn't hard to focus on the lesson, he was easy enough to follow. You loved his voice, you could listen to him all day, everyday. The assignment for the day was simple, write a short paper on the meanings of beauty and art, what they mean to you and whether or not that was why you chose the class.

You had finished your paper in the first twenty minutes but not wanting to seem like an overachiever you took out another sheet of paper and began to sketch. There was a beautiful clock tower in the middle of the courtyard and you had a perfect view from where you were sitting. You had become so engrossed in your sketch that you didn't hear or see your professor coming up to check on your progress for the paper.

“This is really good, Y/N.” He was sat on the edge of the table. He reached out towards your sketch. “May I?”

You nodded and he picked it up to properly look at it. You bit your lip nervously as he looked between your sketch and the clock tower outside. He handed the sheet of paper back to you with a smile.

“You've got some raw talent in you, Y/N. Just make sure you hand in your paper before you leave, okay?” He gave a lopsided smile and winked.

“Oh. Yes, actually, I'm done with it.” You flipped through your notebook, through various random drawings, until you found the assignment.

“Really? Well, if your writing is as good as your drawing then you're starting off strong. Just be sure to pace yourself, okay?” He waited as you carefully tore the page from the notebook and handed it to him.

“Yes, Professor.” You blushed softly and watched as he proceeded to make his way around the room, collecting a few papers as he went.

The rest of the class went by super slow. Once all the papers were turned in he allowed the students free time. You indulged in your favorite past time, listening to music and drawing how it made you feel. You were grateful for remembering to bring your headphones when you left your apartment that morning.

#omg #wow #this was fun #prompto #prompto argentum #ffxv #university #university au #please treat me kindly #this is trash #i'm sorry #i'm garbage #please forgive me #the fic that nobody really needed