What do AO3's Archive Warnings mean?
Archive Warnings can be confusing to new users, both readers and writers alike, so let's take a moment and break them down. We'll start at the top of the list - which is ordered alphabetically.
Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings - when AO3 was being designed (by fans, for fans) there was a debate about requiring warnings. At the time, they were not a standard expectation, so some people didn't want warnings to be mandatory on every individual fic on the Archive. Other people did.
This warning - stating that the author was making a choice not to provide a warning - was a compromise. A creator could choose not to apply a warning to their fic and readers would then know to be wary because it would be possible that any of the warnings might be needed, or multiple of them, or none of them.
This warning (which I'll abbreviate to CCNTW from here on out) is also a good catch-all for other things that a creator might want to warn for that don't have a specific Archive Warning. Authors can also provide warnings of different kinds in the Additional Tags on a work, so it's a good idea to read those carefully as well.
You can read up on more of the history of this warning on Fanlore.
Graphic Depictions of Violence - This applies to stories where the descriptions of violence are very detailed and probably gory. The violent scenes will likely be brutal and easily imagined. This warning is generally accompanied by a rating of either M or E - meaning that the content in the work is aimed at adults only.
Some authors find it difficult to decide whether the violence in their fic is graphic enough to warrant using this warning, so they use CCNTW instead. For some fandoms, the source material is already full of graphic violence and so they might also use an Additional Tag to give more information such as, "canon typical violence"
Major Character Death - This can be interpreted in different ways. It might mean:
a character dies, and that character is a major character in canon (even if they might be a minor character in the fic).
a character dies, and that character is a major character in the fic (even if they might be a minor character in canon).
the character death in the story is a major component of the story or a particularly intense part of the story.
It is possible that the character who dies does not stay dead in the fic, in which case the author may decide to use an Additional Tag like "temporary character death" to provide more information.
It is also possible that an author will decide to use CCNTW instead because they want to avoid giving spoilers for the story.
No Archive Warnings Apply - This means that none of the other warnings in this list apply to this fic. The fic may still be given a rating that indicates it is for an adult audience.
Rape / Non-Con - This refers to different scenarios in which a character does not consent to sexual activity.
Non-Con is short for non-consent, which is a term from role-playing communities in which not giving consent is part of the sexual game. Non-con can also refer to the fact that in a fictional story, we might see a character verbally state that they don't want to have sex and then read their inner monologue in which they express that they do.
The various interactions and interpretations involved in consent can get very complex and nuanced, and some creators might use CCNTW because they aren't sure if what they're writing rises to the level of this warning.
Underage - This warning refers to stories that describe sexual activity (more than just kissing) involving characters who are under 18 years old. This one is also up for interpretation when it comes to creatures, monsters, mythological beings, aliens that live for thousands of years, etc.
---
All of the above warnings will be used a little differently by different creators and by different fandoms, and as you read more on the site you will likely notice these differences.
However, if you see a work on the Archive that should have one of these warnings but doesn't, you can report that work to the Policy Questions & Abuse team by scrolling to the bottom of the page and clicking the link to their reporting form.
To help the volunteers who manage these reports, you can give them some additional information. If it's a multi-chaptered work, let them know which chapter to look in or give them a keyword or phrase they can search for to find the relevant scene(s). If the volunteer decides a warning is required, they'll contact the creator and ask them to add it. If they decide that it doesn't, they'll let you know.
If the work has Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings on it, that includes all other warnings and that fic shouldn't be reported for missing one.
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Unwanted: Chapter 20, Uninhibited - Pt. 2
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader
Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.
Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, alcohol consumption, drug use, dirty dancing, questionable choices.
Word Count: 3.1k
Previously On...: You're still throwing up :(
A/N: BRING ON THE BAD DECISIONS!
NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!
Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!
Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!
Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43
Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc
"How do I look?" you asked Wanda and Nat as you came out of your bathroom in your outfit for the party. When Tony had told you your party was going to be 90s themed, you'd been over the moon, since the last time you had a birthday party was probably actually in the 90s. Yes, you'd all gone out for drinks and dancing when you turned 21, and then for a fancy dinner when you turned 30, but it was the first time you'd actually given in to Tony's pleading to let him throw you an actual party, and he was pulling out all the stops, so you wanted to make sure you looked your best. And if looking your best happened to stick it to a certain super soldier, well, that was just a bonus.
"Oh my God," said Nat at the same time Wanda whispered "Holy shit." You were wearing a black leather mini skirt with thigh-high boots and a navy and silver handkerchief top that barely covered your tits. You'd curled your long hair into loose, beachy waves and Nat had done your makeup.
"You look like a fucking seductress," Nat nodded in appreciation.
"Barnes is not going to know what hit him," Wanda concurred.
"If Barnes knows what's good for him," you replied, putting in a pair of large silver hoop earrings and checking out how they looked in the mirror, "he won't even show up tonight. Besides, I only have two goals for the evening: Celebrating my birthday with my best friends and; Getting over one man by getting under another one."
"Amen to that!" Nat cheered, raising a glass of pre-game champagne Tony had delivered to your suite. "Tonight, you flirt with anything that has a penis." Catching Wanda's pointed expression, she added "Anything that has a penis that is not already committed to another vagina." Wanda smiled appreciatively.
"Please, Natty" you said, grabbing your own glass of champagne and toasting with her, "tonight, I'm flirting with anything that has a pulse."
"That's my girl!" Nat wrapped an arm around you and squeezed. You would have fun tonight, Bucky Barnes be damned.
You could hear the thumping of the bass long before you reached the doors of the banquet hall. The party was already in full swing. Before you entered, though, Nat grabbed onto your elbow and palmed something into your hand.
"Happy Birthday, Pocket," she said with a wink, before letting you go and allowing you to open your palm. Nestled inside was a small, white pill.
"Nat!" hissed Wanda as loudly as she could to be heard over the bass, "did you just hand Pocket drugs?!"
"Relax, Wanda," Nat said, rubbing the other girl's arm. Turning to you, she added "It's just some molly. Take it if Barnes shows up and you need to manufacture yourself a bit more fun, that's all." And she threw you a wink. "Just don't tell Mom and Dad."
"Thanks, Natty, but, if anything," you said with a smile, putting the little pill in your pocket in case you needed it later, "Tony'll be pissed you didn't bring enough for the whole class." You hoped you weren't going to need it, but it was rather comforting having it on hand. You hadn't done MDMA in years, and the idea of taking it again was thrilling.
"Fine," said Wanda, and you could both tell she wasn't thrilled with your actions. "Let's just go inside and have a good time, okay?" The three of you linked arms and made your way through the doors to the banquet hall.
It had been positively transformed. Usually, it was the place where Tony held his fancy dinners for visiting heads of state who wanted a look at what the Avengers did all day, tonight it had become a rave out of a fairy tale. There were bubble machines sending cascades of multi-colored bubbles through the air, everyone dancing with glow-sticks, and a DJ booth hung suspended from the ceiling. Tony had brought in what you suspected were real trees and had decked them out with twinkling fairy lights; there was even a fountain in the middle of the dance floor. It was something straight out of your dreams.
The room was crawling with hundreds of people. Most of them you vaguely recognized as people who worked in various positions in the Tower, some old colleagues from Stark Industries, and friends from outside of work, but scattered throughout were the members of your family. You spotted Clint and Laura dancing together in a corner of the dance floor while Nirvana's About a Girl blared, Sam flirting with three different women at the same time, and Thor over by the bar with Steve, a bottle of Asgardian liquor being passed around between them. Maria Hill was sitting in a lounge chair talking with Helen Cho and Vision. You were pleased to see neither Bucky nor Jade in your initial sweep of the room. With any luck, they wouldn’t have the balls to show their faces.
"This is incredible," you murmured, though you were sure neither of your friends heard you over the roar of the music. No one had noticed you'd arrived just yet, so you took the moment of anonymity to just soak it all in. Tony and Pepper had done all of this for you. You couldn't think about it for too long, or you would start to cry right there. They weren't connected to you by blood, but they loved you better than your real family ever had, and you were struck with an overwhelming surge of gratitude and appreciation for them both.
"Oh no!" Nat shouted over to Wanda. "She's getting misty-eyed! We need to get her a drink, STAT!"
You laughed as your two best friends dragged you to the bar. As you entered the throng, people began converging on you, wishing you a Happy Birthday and giving you more hugs than you'd probably ever received in your entire life. It was impossible to not feel the absolute love that came from everyone around you. You nearly toppled over when Wanda pointed out the giant table of presents that sat, waiting for you, in the far corner of the room. Never in your entire life had you felt so appreciated, and coming on the heels of how Bucky had discarded you, you felt your heart soar with love for all of these amazing people.
At the bar, you caught the attention of Thor and Steve, the latter doing a double take at the sight of you. Thor immediately enveloped you in a bear hug, his massive arms dwarfing your body as he picked you up.
"Happy Birthday, my Lady Pocket," he bellowed, planting a loud, sloppy kiss on your cheek. "I would offer you some of my Asgardian mead in celebration, but I fear it would be far too potent for your tiny human body to handle. I would not want to be responsible for your death on this day we celebrate your life."
"Thanks, Thor," you said as he finally put you back down, "I'm fine with good old Earth alcohol tonight."
The bartender handed you a frozen drink without your asking. "It's tonight's signature cocktail," he responded to your confused expression. "The Plum Pocket." Your face soured. The Plum Pocket was a drink you'd invented for Bucky months and months ago. Half of a plum because he loved the taste of them so much, strawberries, (because you loved them), raspberry liquor, lemon syrup, vodka, and a bit of sugar blended with ice into an almost smoothie-like consistency, with some lemon zest for garnish. How would Tony even know about them?
No, you were not going to think about Bucky Barnes tonight. You were going to enjoy your drink, dance, and get your flirt on. In that order. There was no room on tonight's agenda for wallowing in self pity over someone who didn't give a shit about you enough to keep his dick in his pants.
You took a sip. It was damned delicious.
"Hey," a soft voice spoke to you over your shoulder. You turned and looked up into Steve's face. His eyes were slightly glassy.
"Enjoying that Asgardian mead, Cap?" you asked with a teasing grin.
He smiled, a flush creeping up his cheeks at being called out. "Happy Birthday, Pocket. I um... I wanted to tell you, you look really pretty tonight."
The compliment took you aback. You didn't think Steve had ever complimented you on your looks before. He must be far more drunk than you first thought. "Thanks, Steve," you responded with a smile. "I'm glad you're here."
"I'm glad you're here," he murmured.
Before you could say anything else to him, there was a drop in the music, and a spotlight lit up Tony Stark in the DJ booth, dressed in his full Iron Man glory.
"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, and the handful of people who accidentally wandered in from the fury convention," Tony began, his amplified voice carrying over the crowd, "welcome to the party of the century! I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight to celebrate someone very special to me, to all of us. She's like the kid sister I never wanted, in that now that I've got her, I couldn't get rid of her even if I tried." The crowd laughed and you hid your face in your hands. "Fortunately, I like having her around too much. She's got a brilliant mind, she's funny as hell, and she's the beating heart of this team. Without her, the Avengers would just be a group of coworkers, and not a family. And let's be honest, she's one of the few people who's willing to tolerate me on a daily basis." Somehow, his eyes were able to find yours in the crowd and he gave you a classic Tony wink; you blew him a kiss back. "So, everyone, please raise a glass to (Y/N) (Y/L/N), or as we like to call her, our own little Pocket! Pocket, Happy Birthday, kiddo! We love you! So, everyone, grab a drink, don't hold back on the dance floor, because, let's face it, I spent a fortune on hiring the best DJ in New York City, and let's make some bad decisions! Except for you, Parker. Jesus is watching."
Through the crowd you could just make out Peter's soft voice saying "Aw, come on Mr. Stark," and you broke into laughter. God, you loved these people.
"Let's go," said Nat, grabbing you by the arm and hauling you to the middle of the dance floor, "it's time to dance!"
The beats were dirty and your body responded to them like a siren's call, your hips moving subconsciously to the rhythm. Dancing was one of your favorite ways to lose yourself, and so you did, melting into the sound, letting your body take you wherever it needed to go. You felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, and you instinctively knew it was Natasha behind you.
"Bruce not coming out to the floor?" you whisper-shouted into her ear as she moved her body against yours.
"No, he's being a dullard," Nat responded with a sigh.
"Give him time," you told her knowingly. "Once he's been watching you move your ass out here long enough, he'll cave just so he can get his hands on you. He always does."
"I know," she said, grinding her chest against your back, "but I do love giving him a show."
You laughed and continued dancing with your friend. You knew Bruce would come to her eventually. The poor man couldn't stay away, no matter how hard he'd tried in the beginning.
Slowly, the members of your little family found their way to you on the dance floor, and you were all dancing together in a group. Even Bruce had gotten over himself and had finally joined Natasha, who was now running her hands along his chest.
You had to admit, you were having the time of your life.
But then you saw them.
Bucky stood at the bar, Jade not far away. You tried to ignore him, you really did, but his eyes were boring a hole straight through you, and he looked amazing. He was wearing a pair of tight black jeans and the shirt you had gotten him last Christmas, the one that matched the color of his eyes. He'd cut his hair again, just the length you liked it-- the perfect length for pulling while he had his face buried between your-- No. You were NOT going to think about that.
Wanda had moved away from where she'd been dancing with Vision and came over to you, following the line of your eyes. "He has a lot of fucking nerve showing up here with her," she spat. "Do you want me to kick them out of here for you, love?"
You turned and wrapped your arms around her, smiling at her fierce protectiveness of you. "As much as I would love to see it, Wan, it's okay. I think I just want to pretend he doesn't exist and keep dancing. The last thing I need is them ruining my party by bringing more drama into my life."
Wanda put a hand on your elbow and shrugged, then leaned in to whisper "Suit yourself, but my offer still stands if you change your mind," before heading back over to Vision. You sighed, disappointed that the sight of him had dulled your excitement for the evening. But then you remembered Nat's gift.
Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the tiny pill. You considered your options for half a second before tossing it into your mouth and swallowing it. You were not going to let Bucky Fucking Barnes ruin your birthday.
A couple of hours later, after an enormous cake had been brought out, everyone singing to you and you blowing out your candles, you were feeling positively euphoric. Everything felt amazing. You were so in love with every single person in the room, you could cry. Your limbs were buzzing, as if the music was vibrating through them and your entire body was being poured full of liquid joy. You were connected to everyone. They were all a part of you, and you were a part of them.
You moved to the music, your hands caressing up and down your body, the sensation of touch almost overpowering in its intensity. You practically moaned when Natasha leaned over and whispered in your ear:
"Don't look now, but Steve's been staring at you for the last twenty minutes." You glanced over and noticed the super soldier standing at the bar next to Bucky, but in the clarity of the MDMA, Steve was all you could see. He was watching you intently, his eyes locked on the movement of your hips. You watched him lick his lips as your hands brushed across your chest, sending a wave of shivering pleasure through your body.
You didn't know why, but suddenly, it seemed like a really, really good idea to have Steve come dance with you, so you caught his eye and beckoned him over with a curl of your finger.
You laughed when you saw his eyes grow wide with surprise. He pointed at himself, as if he couldn't believe you were beckoning to him. You nodded and, chugging the rest of his drink before leaving the empty glass on the bar, he made his way to you.
"Hi," he said over the sound of the music when he was standing in front of you. God, he was so much taller than you were. Like a giant. Sublime's Badfish began to play.
"Hi," you hummed, the feelings of ecstasy pulsating through you. "Do you want to dance with me?" You watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.
"Very much," he said, so softly that you wouldn't have been able to make it out if you hadn't read his lips. "But I don't really know how to dance to this music."
"I can teach you," you smiled up at him. Turning around, you put your back to his chest. Grabbing his left arm, you wrapped it across your bare stomach, splaying his fingers across your scorching skin. You put his right hand on your hip and let out a soft moan when he squeezed your flesh.
"Just move with me," you whispered, knowing that his enhanced hearing would catch your words through all the extra noise. Your entire body was pressed against his now, and the feeling of his hard muscles against you was sensational. You never wanted him to stop touching you. You slowly started grinding your hips against him, laughing a little when you heard him gasp. He began sliding his hand across your stomach, once or twice brushing the underside of your breasts with his thumb. Each touch was like a wave of light pulsating through you and you craved it. You could feel the length of his semi-hard erection pressing into your back, and somewhere in the far recesses of your mind, the idea of it surprised and concerned you, but in your current state, all you could do was feel. And you felt so. god. damned. good.
You leaned your head back against his chest, reaching back to grab a hold of his bicep and exposing the curve of your neck, and when he reached down and began planting small butterfly kisses where your neck met your shoulder, you thought you were going to come undone right there.
"You're so beautiful, Pocket," he whispered before taking your earlobe between his teeth and nibbling on it. Everything he did, everywhere your bodies connected, felt like pure magic.
You noticed the looks that you were getting from Nat, Wanda, and the others, but you didn't register them. The only thing that mattered right now was how good you felt, how good Steve was making you feel.
You weren't sure how much time went by. The songs changed, your tempo fluctuated, the people around you came and went, but the contact remained the same.
Finally, you turned yourself around in his arms, pressing your chest to his. He looked down at you, the blue of his eyes a mere ring around the black of his pupils.
"Stevie," you whispered, your voice husky, "will you take me back to my room?"
His lips curled up in a wicked grin and for the briefest of moments, you saw Bucky in your mind's eye, but you quickly shook the image away. Steve took you by the hand and, without another word, led you away from the party to the solitude of your bedroom.
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hi, i saw you were taking requests after i read your newest piece [which was phenomenal by the way].
i was wondering if you could write a [predominately] angsty fic where reader tries to patch alastor up after the final battle but since he doesn’t like being vulnerable he snaps at her [they were close and so she didn’t expect it]. ensue her avoiding him after the hotel is rebuilt and angst in general.
i’ll entrust the ending to you [whatever it is].
apologies for the long request, thank you in advance.
- ⚰️ anon.
Ahhh thank you so much <3 and don't apologize for the long ask, I love it when people send me asks so I'm not picky! Sorry if this one's a bit short, I've been dealing with a lot of college stuff, so I haven't had a lot of time 😅
Summary: Alastor was never one to back down from a challenge, even in the face of danger or the possibility of death, so it wasn't much of a surprise when he volunteered to take on Adam by himself---but you knew that, as powerful as he was, he wasn't invincible. So you go looking for him after the battle, and find him injured, and try to help him...only for him to snap at you in a way that he never had before. Afterwards, he tries to make everything go back to normal, but you...you can't pretend.
Tags: Alastor x Fem!Reader, No Use of (Y/N), Angst, (Attempted) Wound Tending, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort, Alastor is an Asshole
TW: None (I think, correct me if I'm wrong)
Word Count: 1.1k
Read it on Ao3 <3
You liked to help.
Ever since you'd first come to the hotel, you always liked to help.
Whether it was cleaning the bar for Husk so he could go to bed early, brainstorming new ideas for the daily activities with Charlie, picking up a shipment of things for the hotel when Vaggie was too busy, or even helping Angel "clean up" after a particularly hard shoot. You were always there whenever someone needed you.
One thing you'd learned very quickly, however, was that Alastor never needed help.
...
Let me rephrase.
Alastor never wanted help.
Every time you tried to assist him---whether it was coming up with new ideas for radio broadcasts, trying to stitch up his coat for him, or offering to pick up his...ingredients from Rosie---he always brushed you off and insisted that he could do whatever it was himself. However, after refusing your help, he would always invite you along to do whatever it was with him.
At first you found it odd and were, understandably, suspicious of his intentions—after all, you’d heard your fair share of warnings from the other hotel employees…but then, over time, he grew on you. His gentlemanly demeanor and old fashioned charm softened you a bit and, although it would’ve been so easy for him to, he never took advantage of that.
After a time it even became obvious that you were his weak point—he would be callous and cruel and hateful to everyone…except you. He never raised a hand to you, never tried to scare you, never even raised his voice. You were precious to him, and he would never do anything to hurt you.
So, when you found out that he’d been injured during the fight with Adam, it was second nature for you to try and help him.
That…would become a decision that you’d regret.
----------
Your heart pounded in time with your footsteps as you rushed to the remains of Alastor’s radio tower, praying that that was where he’d disappeared to as you made your way through rubble and fallen debris. Fuck, you’d never felt more scared in your life than when you heard Adam's words-
"Radio is fucking dead!"
-and then...you'd been unable to find Alastor anywhere. There was so much going on, you were so busy healing others with your magic, you'd barely been able to look before Charlie said that Alastor was dead. But she didn't know for sure, none of you did, and you figured that if Alastor was still alive then he would go somewhere he felt safe, and-
Well.
You decided to look for him.
You had to.
You had to know.
It took you a while, but once you finally made it to the radio tower you were relieved to hear someone else moving around, talking with the familiar overlay of white-noise static. Alastor was alive.
Before you could stop and think about what you were doing, you rushed forward through the only opening big enough for someone to walk through, only to find exactly who you were looking for...only...not quite as you were expecting him.
Alastor was definitely injured, from what you could tell, but he was still on his feet---up and pacing back and forth, rambling to himself about...a deal? Maybe? His mutterings were so nonsensical that you couldn't really tell. What you did know, however, was that---for once---he was going to have to accept your help.
"Alastor?" You asked gently, carefully and slowly making your way towards him. His eyes snapped to you, wild and unfocused in a way that caught you off guard---you'd never seen him like this before.
"What the £̸̙̘̪̙̪̿̈́̈͊͝µ̶̢̯͚̟̹͆̓̈́́͝¢̵̢̯̞͚͎͑̃̌͊͝k̶̠̲̜̪͉͐̊͆̃͝ are you doing here?" He snapped and you had to physically fight back a flinch. Alastor never talked to you that way.
Ignoring his behavior, you continued to make your way forward until you were only about an arm's length away from him, close enough now to clearly see the wound. It was definitely caused by an angelic weapon, the area around it glowing slightly from the residue the weapon behind, and it looked deep---Alastor was definitely going to need stitches. You reached out a hand to gently probe the wound, just to check that there wasn't any stray debris inside, but before you could even brush his skin, he smacked your hand away harshly.
Safe to say, you were shocked, and had a hard time reconciling Alastor---your Alastor---with the man in front of you.
"Don't touch me!"
"Alastor, you're injured...I just want to help you."
His head snapped towards you at that, eyes darkening to radio dials as he snarled at you.
"Help me? You think you can help me?!"
You almost tripped over your feet as you tried to back away, Alastor's form switching erratically from normal to demonic---Alastor towering over you. And, for the first time in your life, you were scared of...
Scared of him.
"Listen here you little W̵̨̧͕͔̹͋͋̈́̆̍R̵̭̟͉̝̣̈́̔̔͌͘È̴̝̞̣̗̹̀́̀̒͒†̸̭͇͎̫̮̈́̄̌̌͝Ç̵̢̺̝̱̭̀͐̈́̓̃H̷̨̛̻̩̘̥̍̿̊͠, you are ñ̷̛̮͈͎͇͋̃͐͜͠Ö̶̢̦͉̭̺͂̋̔̚̚†̸͙̮̣͓̮̑͒̈́̊̇Ḩ̴̫͓̲̟̽͋͂̿͝Ì̴͈̯̮̟̪̈́̃̽̆͐ñ̴͈̲̥̯͙͊̉̑̓̊Ĝ̵̼̹̼͓̬̇͆̀̐, you help ṉ̵̢̞̯̝̃̂̒͗̇͝Ö̶̡̖̼̼̞̒̓͐̏͛ ̷̧̢̦̗̺̐̔̆̚͝Ö̷̧̡̝̣̝̋̈͂͊̌ñ̸̳̫͈̥̠͗̊͌͠͝È̴̠̤̜͓̫͌̑̓̐͂," he yelled at you, radio static screeching loudly in your ears, "THE ONLY REASON ANYONE KEEPS YOU AROUND IS BECAUSE þ̴̖̯̯̘̉͑̉̊͜͝R̷̻̲̹͕̱͊̿̾̔̕Ì̸̠̺̞̪̩̋͛̈́͘͝ñ̷͎͍̘̺̪̓̿̒̓̔Ç̴̣̲͙̲̀͑̊̃̐͜Ȩ̴͍̟͚̯̀̈́́̀͛͒§̷̛̱̳̣̜͐͐͝͝ͅ§̷̨̛͍͚̱̲̇́͆͆ ̴̛̭̹̻̙̝́̏͂́M̴̻͈̞̜̥̉̏̔̒̂Ö̸̡̱̼̬̻̈̾̄̾̕R̵̫͉͚̖̽̈́͌̽̓͜ņ̷̛̝͎̃͛́̓̽͜ͅÌ̵̡̘̼͕̜͋́̌́͠ñ̶̢̞̱̰͓̑̇̇̑͆Ḡ̶͎̼͍̮̤͆̄́͛§̸̛̖̻͎̱̦͑́̇͘†̸̧̡͙̯̖̔̿̀̃͘Ä̴̡̺̲͍͗̓̒̈́͘͜R̷̭̲̠̗̙̀͆͑́̔ THINKS YOU CAN BE REDEEMED, YOU'RE FUCKING W̵̢̢̢̛̛̺̠͖̣͎̯̼̻̱̣̖̬̣̣̞̭̠̪̼̼̗̻͇͎͔̩̬͈̭̟͇̮̹̣͓̙̲̥̫̲͍̠̪̮̳͆̏̌͐͌͛̓̎͒̆͆́̀͑̽́̀̉͌̏͆̉̑̊̈́͒̂̆̂͐̆͂͘̕͘̕͜͝͝ͅǪ̸̡̢̛̛̘̮̟̹̻̳̻̳͓͇̞̜̞̘͍͎̳͍͈͕͔̝̲̈̏̆͗̇̌͛̑͋̓̔̈́͂̀̍͋̈̌̏̒́̋͛͒͛̉́͋͂̍͐̈̏̀͘͘̚̕͝͝͝͝R̶̡̡̞̠͔͖̮̮̰̦̫̮̻͔͍̠̮̹̜͔͚̠͎̥̥͗̉̃̉̄́̃̔͒̆̓̐̆̏͗̎̍̌̿̽̊͗́̕̕͘͜͠͝͝͝ͅͅ†̸̡̧̙̭̠͈̭̻͇̻̺̥̥͎̼͎͕̪̹̖̗̹̺̹̠̭͖͊͒̊̐̾̀̇̑͌̃̽̐͆͑̓̍͂̏̾̓́̾̽̚̕̚̚͜ͅH̶̨̧̛̛̛͚̱̩̫̰̣̣͔͍̳̯̥̭̲̜͕̗̻̺̻̺͈͈͇͚͔̲̼̭̟̳̻̙͛̔̾̉̑́̌̎̑̌̅̐͂́́̀̄̋̎͊̉̎̊́͑̓͂͊͛́̉̃̋͌͂͂͛͒̅̌͒͋̉̈́͘͘̚͜͝͝ͅͅL̸̨̡̢̨̛̯̤̪̮̭̫̺̰̞̬͍̜͎͎̫͔̠͍̺͖̭̭͕͇͊́́̓͛͆̄̑̃͋̓̑̓̌̀͑̓͂̆̓͐̽̓̂̑̽̓̅́̾̕̚͜͝͝͝͝͝Ȩ̴̡̧̛͙͓̻̫͚̜̘͉̼̺̬͍̻̖͎̠̥̻̟̤͍̭͙̦͙̤̟̬͍̤͎̯̙͚͙̜̲͎̲̞̣̣͚̥̯͇̀̂̋̿̑̔͋̅̆͋̊̇̈́̅͌̽͌̉͗̆̾̂̈́͋̾͛̓͒͗̉̈́͊̿́̑̕͜͝͠͝͠͝§̶̢̧̢̢̛̛̛͖̫̠̼͓̠̫̙͎̦̙̙̪̰͕͈͎̰̖̦̱͔̻̪͉̊̍̌̑̑͑̽̃̆͆͂́̇̆̓̊̿̍̂͋͋͑̆̈́́̄̇͗̆͆̋̕͘͝͝ͅ§̷̧̧̧̡̡̡̛̛̛̪͉̺͙̜̜͎̙̭̺͈̪̲̺̹͈̘̰͔̮͇͎̀̈́̍͗͋̏̂̍̅́̔̾̒̂͑͒͑̌͊̊͆̈́̓̉͛̈́̎͊͂͆̅̄̿̇͂̇̄͌̎͐͝͝͠ͅ AND THERE IS NO CHANGING THAT!!!"
He grabbed your arm, leaning so close that you could see small dots of brown in his blood red eyes, "you want to help me, Ð̸̡̨̨̛̛̛̪̜̫̙͙̯͙̹̮̤̗͈̝̞̜̱̥̯̫̝͕̘̯̪̠̱̣͈̣͇͕̮͙̙̺̮̺̩̘̠̫̬̘̱͖̇͗̇̏̔̏̍̃̇͐̈́͌̐͌̋̉̀̔̄͋̀̒̕͘̚͜͜͜ͅå̸̢̧̛̛͈̤̬̪͆́͛̔̅̎̅̍͆́̏̇̇̏͗̌̓̌̏̋̏̈́͑͌͐̈́̈́̊͐͑̀̓́͘͘��̢̢̡̞̦̺̻̝̫̙͈̼͎̙͈͈͎̗̘̞̦̙̠ŗ̷̨̡̧̛͖͖͙̱̳̻͙̠̞͙͉̺̥͍͉̞̺̠̭̯͎̘̰͎̳̻̞̠̪̠̩͍̘̹̯̹͙̱̆́̎̂̄̓̓͂̏͂͊̿̃̊̐̏̎̈́̄͐͊́̿͂̉̌̄̓̉̾̌̋̔́͂̓̈̔̓̐̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͠ͅl̸̡̢̡̧̧̧̢̧̛̹̠̩̣̩̗͈̝̻̻̦̠̗͚̯͚̳̗͎̙̠͎̤̥̫͎̼̘͍̟͍͔̳͚̟̪̹̣̱̏͛͗̓̓͗̽͗̈́͑̎́̓̀̄̓̌͛͆̓̊̅̓̆͂̊̃̾͑̈́͋̇̈́̂̕̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅï̴̧̢̫̖͖̲͈̰͇̞̟̺͚̜̻͙̯͇̪̱͍̘̺̖͈̯͎̬̳̱͈͍͙̱̹̤̭̬̈́͌͛̊͋̏́̀̓͑̏̀͆͗̋̐̂͂̅͒̈̑̔̿̏̓́͛̈͑́̂̾̓̄͑͊̔̚͘͜͠ñ̴̡̢̨̢̨̨̧̛̛̗̖̜̱͈̣̰̰͖̥̝̮͚͍̟̦͉̩̤͕̺̳̹̫̩̖͓͇̻͈͚͉͎͈̪͖̮̞̹͊̊̐̉̇̉̂͋͒̆̍͑͂̽͒̐́̈́̓̓̎̇́͘̚͠͝͝g̷̨̢̛̮̬̙̰͎̼̣̰̭͔̼͈͇̻̠͙͖̗͈̟̹̰̠̜̱̙̩̯̲̦͖̦̫̹͎͉͓͎͔̘̘̓̾͋̅̓͆͆̈́̇̌̆̃̀͆͐̋̾̽̂̄̀̓̀̍͒̈́̀̋̑͛̈͐̈́̓̚͘͜͜͠͝ͅ? GET THE FUCK OUT AND NEVER TRY ANYTHING LIKE THIS AGAIN! Do we understand each other?
You nodded frantically and he let you go---shoving you roughly to the ground. Before you had even come back to your senses, you were on your feet and stumbling out of the wreckage of the radio tower. You ran, too terrified to bother being careful on the uneven ground, scratching yourself on the hard rocks and sharp debris of the hotel---hot tears making your vision blurry.
'Never again.'
'Never again.'
'Never again.'
----------
Afterwards, once the hotel was built, Alastor tried to apologize to you for his behavior.
Buying you gifts.
Making your favorite foods.
Showering you with affection and flowers.
...
You ignored him---shrugging off all of his advances and attempts to apologize. He meant the apologies, he really was sorry---that much you were sure of---but...you couldn't find it within yourself to forgive him. Not for this.
Of all the people you'd thought would hurt you, Alastor never made that list. Now that he'd proven you wrong on that front...you couldn't help but wonder what else you were wrong about as well.
Did he really love you? Was it all just a front? Was he just using you or biding his time until he could make a deal?
You didn't know and, until you did, you couldn't trust him...not enough to let him get close to you again.
Never again...not until you were certain.
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Written for @subeddieweek, day two.
A Firm Touch
Prompt: First Time | Word Count: 1912 | Rating: E | CW: Reference to Past Recreational Drug Use | Tags: First Time, Established Relationship, Being Restrained, Light Praise Kink, A Bit of Subspace, Insecure Eddie, Virgin Eddie, Service Top Steve, Working Out The Kinks (Literally), Boys in Love, Just Trying to Figure Themselves Out
Eddie squirms away from Steve's grasp, again, another night fucking ruined and Steve sighs in frustration. Running his hand through his hair. He's disheveled, and Eddie wants…but he can't. It's not gonna work.
This is never gonna work, and he doesn't know why he thought it might. He just wanted it to, so goddamn bad.
The knot in Eddie's stomach grows, because he knows that Steve is getting frustrated. Not by the lack of sex, Eddie doesn't think, but more by the lack of understanding of why they aren't having sex. Eddie's been trying, then shying away, stalling and Steve's been patient, but Eddie knows he's running out of runway.
He's being a fucking cocktease, he's pretty sure, though that wasn't the intent.
"Eddie…" Steve trails off, "what? What is it this time?" he asks, hands finding his hips. The question comes across harsher than his voice actually sounds, but he's staring at Eddie in a way Eddie hates. He doesn't want to be looked at, stared at, perceived, known.
Eddie shrugs, and Steve lets out a breath that's pure annoyance. Like something he'd aim at the kids when they are fraying his nerves. Eddie doesn't want that sound pointed in his direction, it makes him feel horrible. Worthless.
Finally, Steve speaks again, "I just. I can't read your signals. They're all over the fucking place. Do you not want this? Or not with me? What? Just, what? Tell me," Steve pleads, and it's tinged with self-doubt, and maybe a little anger, and it makes Eddie withdraw further. Steve's got his own baggage, and Eddie knows it. But Eddie can't just say these things, can't ask for them.
So, Eddie clams up.
Because the other option is to jump right in, ready for a full fight. And he doesn't want to do that, so he just stays silent.
"Okay, I'll go," Steve says, and Eddie doesn't want him to go. But he doesn't know how to get him to stay.
"Don't go," Eddie says, barely audible, squeezing his hands into fists so hard that his short nails are digging into his palms.
"Then tell me, and I'll do whatever you want," Steve says, soft, worried. Begging a little. "I can't keep guessing wrong. It's killing me."
"I'm just not built like you, Harrington," Eddie finally says. Hoping that will end the discussion for one more night. Maybe Steve will still stay, and give Eddie a little more time to figure his shit out.
"What do you mean by that?" Steve asks, his brow furrowed, as he's folding his hands in his lap.
"Nothing."
"It's not nothing," Steve answers, "obviously."
Eddie is annoyed, frustrated. But he knows he's not gonna get anywhere with soft, sweet Steve Harrington running his hands all over him, like he's made of glass. Been there, done that. And it never ends in anything other than in frustration. There's something broken in him, and Steve would never understand that.
"Eddie, I-"
"You don't want me. You don't want what I want. What I need."
"What do you need, Eddie?" Steve asks, putting his hands on Eddie's arms, gently.
Eddie's exhausted, and he finally snaps, "I need you to hold me down. I need you to handcuff me and…" he trails off when he sees Steve's face. "I need a firm touch. A firm hand. To get off."
"Oh," Steve says, soft and shocked. Disgusted, probably.
Eddie looks down.
And then Steve's big, warm hand is on his thigh. Pressing down. Firmly.
"I can't, like, hit you," Steve says, face way too earnest.
"I don't need you to hit me," Eddie says with a small smile. He wouldn't be opposed, but if Steve won't get off on it, there's no way.
"But I can be firm. Well, I can try. I want to try."
Of course he does, because Steve Harrington always jumps in with both feet. Eddie's seen it in action. He just never expected to see it here, in the bedroom. He just thought he'd be able to get over it, whatever hang up he has, but it hasn't happened.
"Okay, Steve, you can try. If you don't like it, you say so."
"It's you," Steve says with a grin, "I think I'll like it just fine."
Eddie just smiles at him, embarrassed, but hopeful.
"Tell me what you like, what your previous sexual partners have done for you that worked," Steve says, like he's ready to take mental notes.
Eddie laughs, shaking his head, "No previous sexual partners. But I'm flattered that you think that's a possibility."
"Then how do you know…?" Steve trails off.
"I still know how I feel. I know how I get off, alone," Eddie answers.
And that…how, is not very easy, never has been. At least not alone.
"Of course. Of course you do," Steve says, like he should have known that. Eddie doesn't think that's a thing that most guys ever contemplate. Eddie imagines Steve can get off easily, without even thinking about it.
A few quick tugs, thinking about a pretty girl, or a cute guy, and that's all it takes. Eddie wishes it were that simple. He's trying to not feel embarrassed. It's Steve, and he's gotten used to the fact that he can tell Steve anything.
And if he wants this to work, and he does, then this conversation has to happen.
"Okay, where do we start?" Steve asks, sounding chipper, and ready to go. To act. Now that they've got even a hint of a plan. Eddie cannot believe how brave he is. He's a take-charge kinda guy, maybe this will come naturally to him.
Eddie knows asking Steve to start with handcuffs is crazy, and he's never even been in them before, couldn't do it on his own, and as much as he wants to be, that's for later. Hopefully. Someday, maybe. So, he just lays face down on the bed.
"Can you just…hold me down, maybe? Restrain me? With your hands?" Eddie asks.
"Yes," Steve says, like he's one-hundred percent certain that's something he can do, and then rolls him over, with a confidence that really works on Eddie.
Steve's got big hands, hands Eddie has fantasized about on more than one occasion.
And he grabs both of Eddie's wrists in one of his, and pins them above Eddie's head, pressing them into the pillow.
They aren't even undressed, but Steve crawls on top of him. Sitting on his thighs.
"This good?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods. It's good.
He's clearly having to stretch to hold Eddie like that, so Eddie isn't surprised when Steve scoots up his body, until he's off his thighs, until they are crotch to crotch, and Steve doesn't shy away from that. He just pushes down against him, as he presses on his wrists even harder now that he has a better angle.
Steve's hard, and Eddie still isn't. Maybe this won't work. Maybe he's not meant to have anything as good as Steve.
But Steve keeps grinding down, over and over, as he squeezes Eddie's wrists. Then, Steve scoots up further, his hard cock pressing into Eddie's belly as Steve leans over him, his chest right over Eddie's face, and Eddie feels boxed in, Steve's shirt hanging down, brushing against his nose. The scent of Steve flooding Eddie's nostrils with every movement Steve's body makes. Eddie feels hidden. Secure. Safe. And he closes his eyes and just feels it all, fully.
Enjoys.
When Steve shifts again, Eddie realizes he's hard. He doesn't know when that happened, but it feels so good. Steve is still rutting against him, and the pressure of him holding him to the bed feels like it's dug a hook into Eddie's center, and now there's an anchor pulling him down into the most amazing place he's ever been.
He feels drunk. He feels like he's taken the perfect amount of K, and now he's gently slipping into a hole.
Steve's not really doing much of anything, Eddie knows it's simple, but whatever Steve is doing is perfect. It's working.
Then, Steve leans forward, putting more weight on Eddie's wrists, holding them in place as he nearly lays on top of Eddie fully. Leaning most of his weight into it. Bringing them back together, hard cock pressed to hard cock. Still rolling his hips, grinding against him in slow, deliberate circles.
And even as Steve pushes all the air out of his lungs, Eddie feels like he can breathe, finally.
Steve's heavier than he looks, and Eddie is lost in the security he feels being under Steve.
He never even knew to dream about this, but here it is, his wildest dreams coming true at the hands of Steve Harrington.
"You feel so good under me," Steve says close to Eddie's ear, "you're being so good. Getting hard, just for me."
Eddie moans.
"That's good," Steve says again, "are you ready for me to let you go? Do you want me to touch you?"
Eddie shakes his head no, then makes his request, "Lay on me."
And Steve lowers his whole body to Eddie's, pressing him into the mattress. Chest to chest, crotch to crotch. Eddie can feel every point of contact, every point of pressure, and it's good. So good.
His wrists are still tight in Steve's grasp, but now he feels like his whole body is being held in the same way. Safe. Secure.
Steve rolls his hips, one more time, and Eddie attempts to lift up his hips, tries to get his ass off the bed, but he can't, and he comes in his jeans. Steve following him over the edge.
Tears leak out of Eddie's eyes, and his breathing is shallow with Steve on top of him, but he's happy, and relieved, and kind of boneless. Steve finally shifts so he can hold Eddie's wrists in one hand instead of two, lighter now, and brushes the fingers of his open hand against Eddie's cheek. Face near Eddie's, grounding him.
"Whenever you're ready, tell me what you need. What to do," Steve whispers, and Eddie nods.
Eddie finally felt ready for Steve to let him go, so Steve's shifted so he's laying beside him, not on him, kissing his face, his neck, taking care of him like he always does. Just in a new way now. When Eddie pictured submitting, in the abstract, he was expecting punishment. Pain. To be used, and probably discarded. Thought that's what he wanted. Rough, hard, mean. He thought he needed to be hurt, or tortured, just a little.
And maybe he still does.
But Steve Harrington is none of those things, and his style of taking control isn't either. Steve's a take-charge kind of guy, but there's a softness there that Eddie never wants to see go away, honestly.
"Was that okay?" Steve asks, and he looks so fucking nervous.
"More than," Eddie says, looking right in his eyes, "thank you."
"So, the handcuffs?" Steve asks, hint of a grin pulling at his lip.
"Wishful thinking," Eddie admits. Then raises his eyebrows, "Why? You interested?"
"For sure. Can we ease into it?" Steve asks, wrapping his arm around Eddie's waist, holding him tight, still so tight, and Eddie's sure he'll be asleep in minutes, feeling this comfortable.
This secure.
This safe.
This loved.
"Definitely," Eddie says, and closes his eyes, turning his face towards Steve's, nuzzling into him. Letting himself be held, not only down, but close.
If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @subeddieweek and follow along with the fun! 🖤
Notes: It was harder to write a first time (for both!) and have them have super defined roles. They're figuring their shit out. Together. And I like think Service Top Steve can grow into Pleasure Dom Steve, but not right out of the gate.
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Can we see a chubby!reader who maybe doesn't know that Feitan is part of the phantom troupe, so she doesn't think Feitan can carry her but then he proves her wrong (maybe with a little bit of angst because she's self conscious, and then comfort because Feitan loves that there's more of her)
Idk if that made sense
Perfect
Feitan x Chubby!Fem!Reader
!!REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!
A/N: another short one… but I like it!! Join my server !!
warnings: insecure reader, a bit of internalized misogyny
SFW: @lightshowerrr @jungtoast @nenggie @aliceattheart @atransmuter
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You had been dating Feitan for nearly a year now, and you still knew so little about him. His whereabouts while he was out of town were a mystery to you, and you had no idea what he did for work. All you did know was that he didn’t have a normal job.
When you jokingly asked him if he was in the mafia, he scoffed. “Mafia bunch of puss- wimps. Not part of it, not by long shot.”
You were a little perturbed by his answer, but couldn’t help laughing at the way he censored himself for your sake. He seemed to see you as some kind of delicate princess, closer to a porcelain doll than human. Feitan was always extremely gentle when touching you, his hands almost hesitant when making contact with your skin.
This was something you didn’t understand. Throughout your life, people viewed you as bigger, tougher, when in reality you were quite easily hurt, both physically and mentally. The topic of your weight had been a sore subject…
But your Fei wasn’t really good with reading social cues.
“Eat good. Here, for big girl.”
You stared at your boyfriend as he used his chopsticks to drop an extra egg roll on your plate. In your mind, you know he meant nothing by it. He was friends with larger people like Uvogin who ate tons to keep up his strength and figure.
But your heart felt hurt. You pushed your plate away and huffed. “Hmph.”
He was bad about assuming things, even if you knew it Feitan wasn’t being malicious, it still hurt your feelings when he assumed random things because of your body type.
But what you didn’t know, was that Feitan wasn’t assuming anything. You were his girlfriend, he had to provide for you and make sure you ate well. In meteor city, having meat on your bones usually meant you were well taken care of, and all he wanted to do was make sure you ate.
Feitan, though… he wasn’t good at communicating that. Or communicating at all, really, so he just stared as you pushed away the food. He scoffed, slightly offended that you turned down his offer.
“Why huff? Being brat.”
You sniffled, standing up and storming off. Feitan wouldn’t let this slide, he hated seeing you upset.
The dark haired man caught your wrist, squeezing with just enough force to catch your attention. “Why act like this? Made you mad?”
You pouted, puffing out your chubby cheeks. “Mmph… it’s embarrassing. You’re thin and I’m not… aren’t girls supposed to be dainty and small? Isn’t that what you would prefer, someone you could easily pick up?”
You wiped the tears from your eyes, not daring to look back at your lover.
But you didn’t have to look, because he turned you around and began lifting you with ease. Once you were in the air, he held onto your ass, squeezing softly. You squeaked and immediately wrapped your plump thighs around his waist for support, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“See? Easy. My little bunny.”
He held you in his arms, not straining or struggling in the slightest. It was like you weighed nothing at all to him and it was… relieving.
“Can’t understand? You… are mine.”
He huffed, sitting down with you in his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist. “We clear?”
You snuggled him, burying your teary face into his neck. “Yeah…”
Feitan tried to be a bit more sensitive with you after that, and made it a point to carry you around and show you off to his friends. It was a little embarrassing… but you felt loved and beautiful.
And that was all you needed.
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Hi!
Could I request the brothers + side characters reaction when mc turns into a goose? I was thinking something like mc turned into a goose due to Solomon messing up again, and they act like the goose from Untitled Goose Game, but cuddlier. Like they are still a little menace, but also want to be pet and cuddled.
If you don’t want to do this request I completely understand as it is a bit odd. I hope you have a great day/night!
A/N: Sorry that I’m so late!! I was just caught up in a lot of things and forgot this was in my drafts oof. I also changed a few things up just to be a little silly (and also bc I didn’t want to write the personality of duck MC here). Anyway, I decided to divide this into two parts; one for the brothers and the other for the side characters. Enjoy!
The Brother’s Reactions to Duck!MC
Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor
Rating: SFW, fluff
Warnings: GN!MC, no pronouns used for MC, no gender specified for MC, interactions based on the brothers (not MC), personality not specified for MC
Tags: Fluff, the brothers love duck!MC, cuddling, preening, etc.
Part I (This Is Where You Currently Are), Part II (Coming Soon!)
Lucifer
How the hell did this happen?
“Will you stop taking my things, please? You’re making my life even more difficult than it is already.”
At first, he’d have fun with it, teasing you by picking you up randomly when in private
Even going so far as to sit in his lap while he pets you
But then he’d look for a way to fix it
And eventually he does, much to everyone’s protests
He’ll miss the times when he sets you in his lap and feeds you your favourites, but if you can be more helpful to him in your human form, he’d prefer that
Besides
He’d like to see your face instead of that of a duck
Mammon
Oh lord
Is he ever about to get in trouble
He’s no doubt teaming up with you to steal money
I mean
A duck?
In the Devildom?
Now THAT is about to attract a lot of money
He’d probably set up an attraction where lots of demons and demon-kin alike get to meet and pet a real goose
I feel like at the end of it all, even if Mammon did get a lot of money, you’d be exhausted
Because you already know you were out there for hours getting pet by so many
You need to recharge a bit
And that includes a lot of pets from Mammon
And a lot of cuddles
You know he’s going to be so happy to oblige
Levi
Unlike Mammon, he’s not going outside of the house
So you don’t have to worry about that
He’ll set you in his lap while he’s playing video games and he’ll let you time to time between bosses
Hell, he’ll even give you a controller to play with him if he’s feeling extra bored
And it baffles him how you win every time
Because a duck? Beating him? That’s impossible!
But he loves it
He’d lose to you again and again if it meant holding you in his lap like this
Satan
Team Prank Lucifer: Duck Addition
No but seriously, he’s getting into mischievous trouble with you in tow
He’d probably start by making cursed illusions of you but they all have different personalities
For instance, one could be kind and gentle while another could blow up the house
But while your illusions are causing havoc, the real you is resting in his lap as he reads a good book
He’s running his fingers through your goose feathers, practically preening you
He finds it relaxing how he can just pet you and sit back
If he’s honest, he hasn’t been reading his book for the past half an hour
He’s too busy adoring the way you shake your feathers in response to his pets
He finds you irresistibly adorable
Asmodeus
You already know he’s going to put you in cute little outfits
Doesn’t matter how much you hiss at him, he’ll find a way to put some sort of sweater on you
Once he does, he squeals and gets out his phone, taking a selfie with your very-not-amused-goose-face
This is not the first outfit he’s putting you in though, he’s putting you in sparkling pink and blue dresses and cute little tuxedos
He’s also putting some big, fluff coats on you
You’re not getting out of his sight no matter how hard you try
You just have to hope he gets bored
But let’s be honest here
That’s not happening
Beelzebub
Beel is pretty chill when he sees you all snuggled up beside his pillow, minding your own business
At first, he didn’t know it was you so he just kinda left you alone, thinking that you were another one of his brother’s crazy pets
Only when you had followed him out to the kitchen did he start to catch on
And once he does know it’s you, he’s carrying you everywhere with him
To the kitchen, the common room, the gym, RAD, or even the Demon Lord’s Castle
It doesn’t matter
As long as you’re in his arms, he’s happy
And if you want, he’d give you a few snacks as well
He doesn’t mind
And honestly? He’d get a bit sad when you return to normal
He got used to carrying you around :(
Belphegor
You can get he’s not moving unless he has to
So you’re his napping buddy until he’s forced to get up
He’d hold you in his arms and cuddling you as he sleep talks
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can escape his grasp and sit on either his back or his stomach
When he wakes up, he’s so confused bc his sleepy brain is thinking-
“Why is there a duck on me?”
And then he remembers that it’s you and he bundles you up in his arms again
He looks away when your duck wings flap in his face but he starts petting you when you settle
He’ll stay awake to pet you despite the pull of his sin that makes his eyes flutter closed every now and then
But he enjoys it
And when you return to normal, he’s in your arms fast asleep
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i hate accidents: the between
femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington
summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son
sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball
y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents
content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, intersectional low self-image of y/n, positive/supportive families, retelling of recurrent microaggressive homophobic experience with y/n’s family member in [II.vi], short description of almost throwing up (not related to low self-image) in [II.vii]
word count: 9.1k (of 38.8k)
story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.
additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).
author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.
tagged: @omgsuperstarg @bedobeeeee @stvrdustalexx @anisas-nonsense @crazymar15 and all who have liked the story so far: the author extends her gratitude for your engagement with the first section. <3
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“have i told you that you are the best model who has ever sat for me?”
it has become a common occurrence. whenever you read while in the drawing room, benedict asks if you can be his model for his hand studies. you oblige, seeing how you are already so still while reading aside from the occasional page turn, and—more so—you want to support how benedict progresses in his craft. today, you and benedict are sat at a table as hyacinth plays a solitary game of cards on the floor and kathani and anthony sit at a couch with some delicious smelling tea. you had come over to meet eloise and penelope first thing but were soon informed that the two young ladies were still at the markets with colin. that made you smile; your loud friend is, no doubt, inserting herself emotionally and physically in between your two friends in love.
you feel yourself scrunch your eyebrows at benedict’s comment.
“surely you are exaggerating.”
“hyacinth was my last model; she was horrific.”
you hear an aghast gasp and do nothing to hide the amusement in your smile.
“it is difficult to sit still!” the youngest bridgerton yells.
“hyacinth, it is not becoming of a young lady to ye— ow!”
you see somewhat in your periphery how kathani puts the hand she used to thwack her husband’s arm back on her teacup handle, smiling. benedict, in the meantime, groans and seems to be focusing even more intently on his sketch as not to make eye contact with his youngest sister.
“yes, i understand it is difficult, but you did not sit still for even eight seconds.”
you have not shifted your position in the past half hour or so as not to ruin the angle of your hand for benedict; but you need not visual confirmation to already know that hyacinth has rolled her eyes in response to her brother and returned to her game.
“well, what about the art academy?” you continue. “there must have been very good models there for you to draw.”
and very beautiful ones, at that.
“it is true, there were; but,” you see him smile as he smudges his paper, “none are comparable to you.”
you feel your cheeks light aflame and, with a cough, focus even more intently on your passage.
“then i ought to give up on my profession as a basket weaver and put in my request as a model at the art academy.”
“you do realize that you would have to pose—” you see how he pauses his drawing, looking to see where the youngest is in the room, and lowers his voice as he leans forward towards you; (you attempt not to roll your eyes), ”—nude, in order to be a model there, y/n.”
“yes, and what issue is there with that?”
you look away from your passage to benedict to make a point with your stare and are startled to see how startled benedict looks, the familiar ocean of his eyes almost entirely gone and replaced by the black of his pupils.
“nothing. there is no issue. no issue at——” he coughs, scratching the back of his ear, no doubt smudging it with charcoal, “would you like to see my progress so far?”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< in the gardens of number five. penelope, eloise, hyacinth, and gregory are adventurers looking to save the princess benedict from the banshee y/n.
< hidden behind a hedge, y/n and benedict bicker. >
“you are a middle child on a technicality, benedict.”
“what is that supposed to mean?”
“you have seven siblings. anthony the eldest, hyacinth the youngest—and everyone in between simply a middle child? you all could not be more different from one another, and you are at the very top; you are practically an eldest child.”
“i’ll have you know that no one, myself included, sees me as such.”
“i’m familiar. an eldest sibling with a penchant for peculiar tea is not one i would describe with an overwhelming sense of duty.”
“how do you know of that?”
“kathani told me. she recounted to me her first dinner with the family and how transcendently in the most literal sense you had behaved.”
“so you two talk of me?”
you feel the tips of your ears heat, but fortunately your hair hides your embarrassment sufficiently. you roll your eyes.
“is that what you gleaned? do not think too deeply about it.”
“i shall think about it deeply and often,” he states with a twinkle in his eyes. in an attempt to ignore your fluster and flutterings, you roll your eyes again and shove him. he laughs, his nose scrunching and eyes crinkling adorably whenever he is truly delighted. despite your best efforts (you put in no effort), you smile at him. it cannot be helped when you are around benedict.
“now, make haste; hyacinth is about to cast a spell, and she needs a princess to save. may i grasp your arm?”
“grasp my what?”
“your arm! i need to pretend as if i am holding you captive, but i am not simply going to take hold of it without permission.”
“how chivalrous of you.”
“i suppose i’ve learned from a sufficient enough gentleman.”
benedict grins and offers his arm.
“i am yours for the taking.”
it is preposterous how much this man makes you want to roll your eyes. and how much you welcome it. in the moment, however, you refrain yourself and, instead, smile at him in return as you yank yourselves both out of the hedge to be seen by the others.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< on a morning before she is off to number five, y/n realizes that her last remaining skirt still needs to be cleaned after she had spilt a bottle of ink on it. (she was devastated by losing so much writing material and money in one fell swoop.) she had been so preoccupied with work that she had forgotten to clean it.
< in a rush, she looks throughout her house for extra skirts but to no avail; the only thing she finds that she can wear is a pair of trousers from when her father was younger. she finds this suitable enough, puts them on, and runs off to bridgerton house.
< upon arriving at the drawing room wearing trousers, y/n hears a choking sound. she looks over and sees that benedict has somehow spilt tea all over himself. as the bridgerton family makes comments of curiosity and support of y/n’s current attire, benedict excuses himself, y/n hearing how he mumbles that he needs to change his clothes.
< after some time, benedict returns, but y/n notices that, aside from removing his coat, he still wears the clothes he was in. she remarks to herself: how can he have been gone for long enough but still be in the same clothes? >
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
you gasp.
“wait!”
you do not wait to hear a response from your companions; you right about turn, swing open the door to number five, and run into the house, straight towards the drawing room.
“benedict!” you shout, “you must come see!”
“wha—“
you grab his hand, pulling him up from his slouched lounge.
“quickly! you must make haste!”
adrenaline and joy rushing in your veins, you lead benedict out of the drawing room and towards the entrance where, upon returning, you see giles, with a large beam on his face, holding open the door. you laugh, shooting him a quick nod and grin of your gratitude, and bring benedict outside, pass penelope and colin, pass the gates of bridgerton house, towards the road, and halt yourself and benedict in place.
you shoot your forefinger outward, pointing towards the sky, your grin ever growing.
“look!”
benedict has been looking at you incredulously, as if you’ve completely lost your mind, and perhaps you have, but you’d be damned if you got to see this and benedict hadn’t. he shifts his gaze and grin from you towards the sky, and as you had expected, as you had hoped, his expression transforms from gleeful confusion into complete awe.
“see? it is just like your palette of ideas! the oranges, the reds, the yellows, the purples, the pinks. here it all is, made by mother nature herself, and you have already managed to capture the hues in the pigments of your paints!” laughter bubbles out of you. “it is amazing! you are amazing!”
you hear a soft buzz in your ear, causing you to turn towards the familiar sound. a bumblebee swirls about your head, and it makes you giggle. you always had a fondness for the sweet creatures; how wonderous one has come to greet you at such a moment! the bee lands on your nose, as if to give you a kiss, causing you to giggle even more, before it departs and flies off into the sky.
as you stare at your departing friend, as you stare into the sorcerous colors of the sunset, as your smile feels permanent in this moment, you ask benedict,
“isn’t it beautiful?”
“yes.”
you turn to benedict, expecting to see his side profile tilted towards the sky when, instead, you connect with his ocean eyes. gazing at you.
your smile fades away as you quietly suck in air through your nose. you feel a soft caress at your hand, and looking down, you see that you are still holding hands with benedict, him gently rubbing the side of your hand with his thumb. you look back up, and with indecipherable ocean eyes and a soft smile on his lips, he still gazes at you. butterflies flutter maddeningly within you. the way he looks at you, it makes you feel scared. but you’d be damned if you allowed your fear to tear yourself away from benedict. so, instead, you smile back and gently rub the side of his hand with your thumb too.
“well!”
you and benedict reel back from one another, letting go of one another’s hands. as you feel the loss of his touch, you whip your head towards the voice and see a smirking colin, by the side of a smiling penelope, both approaching the two of you.
“while i hate to get in the way of two— friends in the midst of a conversation, i must fulfill my duties and escort miss featherington to her home.”
you roll your eyes as you promptly ignore the fire that burns on your cheeks.
“you rich people and your escortings. penelope lives across the way! she would have already been home if you would have let her, colin.”
“yes, that is true,” pipes up penelope, “but then i would have missed out on such a beautiful sight,” and instead of gesturing at the sunset as her words imply, she keeps her eyes locked on you and benedict.
menaces. i am friends with menaces.
with smugness in their smiles and delight in their eyes, penelope and colin nod their heads in farewell. as they move past, you feel a soft squeeze on the side of your arm and see penelope giving you a wink. you stare off at the couple, penelope featherington and colin bridgerton, your absolute menaces of friends who have left you and benedict stunned in spot.
benedict.
benedict!
you turn your head to face him. he must have realized at the same moment as you, for you are greeted by an equally speechless expression. feeling yourself staring into his ocean eyes a moment too long, you cough and look away.
“right, i suppose— i, going— i should be going.”
“of course— yes, that is— right, yes, very good—— not! you going! you going is not— not good! i— we— are more than glad to let you stay!— not let you, but! but have you stay with—— us! stay with us!—”
“benedict,” feeling the instinct to touch his hand again, you hesitate and, instead, touch the side of his arm. you offer him a smile to his (adorably) flustered state. “i understand what you are trying to convey.”
he huffs out a breath and smiles warily in return, and it is truly absurd how beautiful he is when his suave falls away. when he takes off the façade he performs to the world and is just himself. not a bridgerton, not a second eldest son, not a gentleman. just—
benedict.
the one you—— care for.
the one you care for.
the one i care for.
“thank you, y/n,” you hear him say, “for sharing this with me.”
“of course. you were first to come to mind when i saw it.”
“shall i— shall i escort you home?”
you snort, inadvertently breaking whatever odd energy has grown between the two of you, and he grins in response.
“goodness, no. i am fully capable of walking there myself. besides, it is too far from here, unlike miss featherington,” you intonate the last of your words with mockery. you will battle colin bridgerton one day.
“i enjoy a long walk. and with such a beautiful sight, it would be much more a blessing than a burden.”
“daylight is fastly fading; the sunset will not last another eight minutes.”
“yes, the sunset. because that is what i was referring to,” he says as he stares at you with a lopsided grin.
rolling your eyes, and feeling the violent flutterings in your stomach, you shove benedict by his shoulder, which causes him to laugh and throw his hand up in mock surrender.
“good evening, benedict,” you finalize as you walk away, a smile quickly forming on your lips once out of his sight.
“good evening, y/n,” and you hear the smile in his voice.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“it is here!”
you had just begun to cross your writing when you look up and see kathani enter the drawing room, paper in hand.
“what’s here?” you inquire. the viscountess smiles.
“perhaps you should be the first to see,” and she hands you the sheet.
taking it into your hands, you are immediately struck by the ornate illustrations of flowers and foliage ornamenting the borders—they are printed on! rather than hand drawn. you run your fingers against the paper to test your observation. you’ve only seen such a feat in the books you’ve borrowed from the bridgertons, so it impresses you (though perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me, you remark to yourself) that kathani has found a press to accomplish this feat for her printing.
you then take in the lettering and read,
a ball in titania’s garden court
“come, now a roundel and a fairy song.”
the company of
is requested at bridgerton house, number 5 in grosvenor square, on thursday evening, jul. 6, 1815 at 9 o’clock p. m.
“you helped inspire the theme,” kathani remarks. you look up from the paper to her; her eyes are intently on you.
“me? how so?”
“with our reading of his work, and our conversations with eloise and penelope, he was naturally on my mind when planning for the ball.”
you beam.
“how wondrous! your first ball in the city, and you are bringing the fairies to it,” you turn to the others. “you must tell me how it goes! i’d be delighted to hear what the dresses were like, with the theme and all, and if any larks ensued.”
you note to yourself how penelope will likely know of all of the latter far better than any of the bridgertons, but it would be intriguing, nevertheless, to hear their perspectives. you turn to the viscountess once more, “it is a brilliant idea, kathani. i’m honored to have had some part in it.”
you see her open her mouth in response—
“oh good!”
—when you hear anthony’s voice at the entrance of the drawing room.
“you’ve accepted! that is wonderful news.”
you furrow your eyebrows as he approaches.
“accepted?”
“the invitation. to the ball.”
“what?”
anthony looks around the room to his family and then back to you.
“i— am beginning to think that is not what you were responding to.”
“how quick of you, brother,” deadpans colin.
“i have just entered!”
“and have proceeded to make a fool of yourself,” eloise counters.
“it’s appropriate for the theme, really,” colin turns to kathani. “sister, perhaps you might change the dress to costumes? anthony would make an excellent bottom to your titania.”
“i am—” you start, “still lost.”
kathani gently nods her head to the paper in your hand. you look down again. previously neglecting it for the printed words and illustrations, you now read what is clearly in the viscountess’s handwriting between ‘the company of’ and ‘is requested’:
miss y/n y/l/n.
“this is an invitation. for me.”
you look up from the invitation and are greeted by kathani, and the rest of the bridgerton family at number five, expectantly staring at you.
“but—— but—”
“now, i understand that this might be quite overwhelming,” begins kathani, “but after speaking with the family, we all agreed that it would be most wondrous if you were to attend the ball. we would make certain that you felt prepared, beforehand, with lessons in dance and etiquette, hence why i’ve prepared the invitations earlier than customary.”
“not! to assume that you are not already competent in these,” adds colin. “you certainly have more grace than eloise— ow!” and he rubs the part of his arm eloise just smacked.
“but if it would appease your mind,” violet interjects, “and help with your concurrence, then we would be more than elated to offer them, and to do them with you.”
“your attire would be paid for,” anthony states simply, “and we would pay the business of your employment their missed earnings for the days in which you will be preparing for the ball and resting from the event’s happenings. and, if you shall allow it, we would support you and your family from your abstained days of wages.”
“balls are dreadful,” asserts eloise, “but!” she continues swiftly, and exasperatedly, upon seeing her family’s reaction, “with your presence, this one would certainly be more bearable. pleasant!, even.”
“we,” hyacinth gestures to herself and gregory, “cannot attend the ball, but we will help you in any way we can before then!”
“and we will be there on the morning and afternoon of, if you would like!” gregory exclaims.
kathani was wrong.
this is not quite overwhelming. this is overwhelmingly overwhelming.
you do not even know where to begin in processing all of the information with which you have just been bombarded. the wages, the etiquette, the paying, the attire, the dancing, the days off, the ball itself.
but what strikes you most of all—
“you all… agreed? of wanting me at the ball?”
you look around the drawing room. your friends’ countenances are illuminated with beams. all, but one. you turn to him. he was the only one not to have stated his case in the family’s proposal.
before you can start to ruminate on the implications of such, he offers you a smile. small, but enough for those stupid, stupefying butterflies to flutter within.
“we did,” benedict says. “we do.”
you exhale.
“then,” though weary from the turn of this day, you offer a small smile in return, to benedict, to the family, “then yes. i shall go to the ball.”
hyacinth and gregory nearly knock you over in the chair you’re sat in by the sheer power of their hugs. violet, clapping her hands, laughs with delight at the sight. eloise exclaims something about penelope finding out. anthony states he shall begin the ledger. colin, for whatever reason, starts talking about the cakes that will be there. kathani remarks that there is much to do and that she, and all of the family, will be there every step of the way.
and benedict smiles. still small. still enough. with those damned ocean eyes.
i shall never understand the absurdity that is this family.
and how delighted you are by that. how grateful you are for them.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“your rehearsal partners will be myself and gregory,” states the viscount.
you try to withhold your sigh. you have been dreading this day since kathani first told you of it. you are utterly delighted to be a student under the tutelage of the viscountess; you are utterly petrified of being a dance student.
“and why do benedict and i not have the privilege to dance with y/n?”
it also does not quell your petrification that the entirety of number five has decided to be present for your lessons.
“because, colin, you two are unmarried men; i am a married one; and gregory is a child.”
“i have just entered my adolescent years!”
“precisely,” anthony grins, “a child.”
“kathani and hyacinth can be potential partners,” you suggest, diverging as not to join hyacinth in her laughter at gregory’s disgruntlement. despite the anxiety that somehow both swells and knots within you, you are resolute on being intentional and present during your lessons. “the former is married, and the latter is a child.”
anthony opens his mouth to respond but suddenly closes it shut. he blinks.
“why have you not considered eloise?”
“because she is unmarried. i am assuming that you do not want me to partner with colin or benedict, for fear of some sort of— romantic attraction forming. so i’ve applied the same logic to eloise.”
there is a small silence. you can see how anthony (and perhaps the rest of the room, you sense) is busily processing within his mind (and theirs) what you have said to him.
kathani pats her husband twice on his back and smiles at you.
“that is an excellent idea, y/n. we will rotate your partners amongst myself, anthony, gregory, and hyacinth. let us begin.”
and so you do, and it is quite horrendous. or rather, you are quite horrendous.
kathani is, unsurprisingly, a marvelous teacher, but not even she as a guide can prevent you from stepping on her, anthony’s, hyacinth’s, and gregory’s feet. you apologize profusely each time you do so, and so you apologize frequently and often, but each of your partners still smile at you without a drop of deceit or regret in their expressions despite their winces. they encourage you in all their particular ways. kathani gently knocks the foot you stepped on her to where it ought to be placed. anthony pacifies that you are doing well. hyacinth recounts how she had struggled as you when she first began her lessons. gregory assures that you are not nearly as heavy-footed as eloise.
even those who aren’t your partners encourage you. eloise confirms gregory’s statement, not once peeking into the book she holds in her hands. colin claps his hands to help you keep the tempo of the steps. violet, at the pianoforte, enthuses how much progress you are making with each passing dance. penelope, who joined the drawing room part way through a rather disastrous cotillion with anthony, begins to clap her hands excitedly upon seeing you.
the only bridgeton you haven’t heard from the entirety of your lessons is benedict. while rehearsing a sequence in a quadrille with hyacinth, you notice the vacant spot next to eloise where he once sat. you try to feign to yourself that your following misstep is due to your ineptitude in rhythm and nothing else. certainly not the lack of presence of a particular someone.
after you curtsy and kathani bows upon finishing a scotch reel, she beams at you.
“i believe that is enough lessons for today.”
you sigh with every bit of your lungs, your attempt at perfectly squared shoulders immediately slumping in relief. the family chortles in response and gives you a pleasant round of applause. you feel your cheeks go flush with embarrassment, completely unbelieving that your horrific display of dancing deserves any sort of praise, but the sentiment warms your heart.
“i would like to pardon myself, if that is all right,” you request towards kathani, “for a moment, is all.”
“yes, of course,” and she takes your hand. “and we do mean it, y/n. you have done well today. you should be proud.”
before you can respond to her, she gives a gentle squeeze of your hand and turns to walk towards anthony. blinking, you shake your head out of your thoughts. the bridgertons and penelope seem to respect your want of excusing yourself as they grin or nod their heads in your direction but make no move towards you. you take a moment more to look at the family and then turn to leave the drawing room. you cannot help the smile that blooms on your face as you cross the entrance—
when a hand catches your wrist and pulls you further away from the drawing room. you are about to scream when you see benedict, with furrowed eyebrows and pleading ocean eyes, swiftly put his forefinger to his pursed lips.
“fuckin’— benedict!” you whisper-yell, attempting to honor benedict’s unspoken request for your silence. “are you mad? and why are you out here? have you been here this entire time?”
“may i speak with you? in private?”
the urgency in his whisper stupefies you, any frustration felt within fading away.
“of course you may.”
he slides his hand down from your wrist to take your hand—
“follow me.”
—and, with haste, leads you down the corridor and up a set of stairs.
“are you certain this is all right? the last time we had spoken alone together, you were scolded by your brother.”
“i am more than willing to take that risk with you,” benedict says sincerely, with a smile, but it is strained. it is a subtlety, but with knowing him for as long as you have now, it is something you have noticed in his expressions.
“are you all right, benedict?”
he promptly ignores your question. it is unlike benedict, to ignore one of your inquiries. to retort with a snarky quip, yes; to make a particularly theatrical countenance, yes; to respond with uncertainty, yes. but never outright, deliberate evasion. it makes your heart swell even more with worry.
you and benedict arrive at a set of grand doors. turning the gilded knob, he opens the door and, in true gentlemanly fashion, holds it for you to pass. such etiquette would have caused you to roll your eyes, but with benedict’s current distress, you will yourself to refrain.
just as you enter the room, benedict enters too, turns around, and carefully closes the door shut. he reaches into his pocket and, after some shuffling about, retrieves a key. you hear a click of the door, and before you can comment on the absolute peculiarity of this situation thus far, benedict whips himself around and faces you.
“do you have attraction to both sexes?”
“i— what?”
“do you have attraction to both sexes?” he repeats with impatience.
“to all persons,” you correct with equal impatience. “and yes, i do.”
benedict blinks at your response but shakes his head out of his thoughts.
“and how long, how long have you known? of your attractions?”
“‘of my attractions’?”
“i am asking a question, y/n!”
“you are being strange, benedict!”
“i am!—” and he turns away from you, running his hands through his hair, sucking in air through his nostrils. he turns back to you and it startles you—how frustrated his countenance is, and how vulnerable his ocean eyes are.
“i am merely trying to ask a question. i am trying to understand. please, y/n,” benedict begs. “please.”
“i— all right,” you try to soothe. “i, i don’t know how long i have known. i suppose, since i was a child? or, perhaps, truly in my adolescent years, when i found myself gazing at those with names like emily and andrew and how i—” you swallow, suddenly feeling exposed, “how i held my breath around them, whenever they were close, when— whenever they were near.”
“and do you still feel that way?”
“pardon?”
“do you still feel that way? around people? for people?”
just for the one.
“i, i do.”
after staring at you a moment more, benedict turns away again, and you quickly exhale a breath—when you’re stricken with a sudden fear.
“does this change your opinion of me?”
benedict turns back to you, frustration still in his features but confusion slowly seeping into them.
“when i—” am i crying? “when i told my sister how i felt for a girl in our neighborhood, she did not—” you try to shake your head of the fog that starts to fill your mind at remembering, “did not look at me for weeks, and when she did, i felt like, like—— like a monster.”
his face falls.
“no,” benedict states, fastly approaching you, “no, no, no, y/n.”
“i am sorry,” you choke out as he places his hands on the sides of your arms.
“why are you apologizing?” benedict whispers, applying pressure to where he holds you steady. you had not realized you’ve been shaking.
“you had asked me questions, these questions of importance to you, and i— i have made it about myself— i am so sorry, benedict.”
“you have nothing to apologize for.”
you shut your eyes close, feeling your face contort in the way it does when everything simply becomes too much for you to bear.
“you were, and are, so much more courageous than me.”
benedict’s gentle voice and strange statement rouse you to open your eyes.
“i do not understand?”
“you have told another person about your attractions to both— to all persons. i…”
he goes quiet, unable to finish his thought aloud. you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion, but staring into his ocean eyes a moment more—vulnerable, scared, hurting—it dawns on you.
oh.
benedict.
your heart blooms as you shake your head.
“it is not about courage, benedict, i do not think. with my sister, it was about trust. i thought i could trust her with my feelings, with— well, with me. and she had proved me wrong.”
“and you have proved me right.”
“why are you speaking so vaguely today?” you manage to jest.
benedict rolls his eyes, a small smile resting on his lips.
“and you have proved me right in that i could trust you. and i do, y/n. i trust you with— with me.”
perhaps you should have thought better of it, but your emotions move faster than your logic, and your emotions call you to reach out your hand and cup benedict’s cheek as you see tears line his ocean eyes.
“as i trust you with me.”
you do not mean to do it; perhaps it’s the intimacy of your conversation, perhaps it’s the proximity of standing so close, perhaps it’s the way you can feel his bated breath mix with yours, but your eyes flicker down at benedict’s parted lips and, swallowing, you look back into his piercing, indecipherable ocean eyes and breathe,
“benedict—”
when a loud sequence of knocks thud at the locked door.
“oh god!” and you take off, running away from benedict and looking about the room when your eyes fall upon a wardrobe.
“what are you doing!” benedict whisper-shouts at you as you hasten towards your destination.
“i am trying to prevent you from being in trouble again with a certain eldest brother, and you ought to be doing the same!”
you open the door to the wardrobe, hop into it, and, grabbing the door’s edge, look at benedict and the adorable shock on his face.
“answer the door as i hide in here!” before he can babble out a response, you whisper-yell, “go!” and promptly, quietly, shut the wardrobe.
before long, you muffedly hear the clicking of the door and it being opened. there is a bit of quiet until gregory’s voice asks—
“what happened to your hair?”
“what of it?”
“it is a mess. it has not been that messy since—”
“nevermind my hair! what is it that you need?”
“have you seen y/n?”
“what? why would i know of y/n’s whereabouts?”
“do not play foolish, brother.”
“i am not playing foolish!”
“you two are always together! you and y/n are like eloise and penelope, anthony and kate, colin and food— you never see one without the other, and she hasn’t been seen since her lessons.”
“i have not seen her; does that answer your inquiry?”
“why are you so on guard! ugh, never you mind. hyacinth and i will look for her on our own, with no thanks to you.”
before benedict can retort, you hear footsteps walking away from him and down the corridor. there is another moment of quiet before you hear the shutting of the door and the turning of the key. you slowly open the wardrobe, and when you see a disgruntled benedict and benedict only, you hop out and walk towards him, unable to contain the growing smile on your face.
“you shouldn’t be so harsh on gregory. he was, after all, merely asking a question.”
“you’re taking his side?”
“of course i am. he, along with hyacinth, are my favorite bridgertons.”
“and where do i fall on this list of yours?”
“eighth,” you reply easily, and benedict’s jaw drops, “but that’s merely on a technicality— i have yet to met daphne and francesca.”
“what have i done to be thought of so little in your regard!” benedict’s expression is aghast, but you see the ghost of a smile on his lips (that you certainly do not stare at for another moment too long).
“do not mistake your low ranking in how i care for you,” you tease but then soften, unable to keep up the lark over your truth. “i care for you, benedict. for all of you. precisely as you are and what you feel and who you—” you swallow, “whoever you love.”
the jest and play fade away from his expression. benedict simply stares at you, ocean eyes once again indecipherable. before he can say anything, you step into his space and tidy his hair.
“you ruined your coif earlier,” you whisper.
“what fortune i have for someone to care for me so.”
his smile is so sweet, his voice so sincere, his ocean eyes so gentle. it is too much, it is so much.
“if you weren’t such a mischief maker,” you diverge, “you wouldn’t need such fortune.”
that makes him scoff, and you grin, quietly glad a new emotion begins to overtake your overwhelming one.
“wise words coming from a mischief maker herself.”
“a mischief maker who knows how to handle her trouble,” you respond pointedly. “speaking of which, i must be going,” and you turn from benedict and head towards the windows.
“and where are you going?” you hear the befuddled amusement in his inquiry as he follows you. you unlatch a window.
“i must leave by way of window and make it appear as if i have been out in the gardens this entire time,” you carefully open the window and peer outside. no one in sight. pleased, you turn around and are greeted by an adorably perplexed benedict. “how else will we deceive the family into believing that we were not alone together? particularly after gregory inquired after me and found you here. it would not help our situation if we left the same room, even if at staggered times.”
“this is not the first time you have escaped home,” he declares matter-of-factly.
“of course it’s not.”
“yet another thing we have in common.”
you snort but then cover your mouth. you turn around and peer out the window, hoping, willing that no one has heard you. no one in sight still. you sigh in relief and turn back to a grinning benedict.
“you are compromising my meticulous plans.”
“then you ought to be going. i shan’t compromise you any further.”
you roll your eyes deeply, ignoring the double entendre (and the flush you feel creeping across your face), but soften.
“will you be all right? are you all right?”
benedict inhales deeply and exhales equally so.
“i—— have much to think over. of myself. to myself. but, it is a comfort to know that i am not alone in this. in this experience, the feelings themselves, as well as in the navigation of them,” the corners of benedict’s mouth tug into a gentle but most radiant smile, his ocean eyes incandescent with joy. “thank you, y/n.”
the butterflies flutter violently within.
“i, i have done nothing.”
“you have done more than you know.”
unable to withstand the intensity of his gaze, you turn back to the open window and steady your hands onto the sides of the frame, leveraging your weight against the ledge to lift yourself up.
“be that as it may,” you assert perhaps too forcefully, “i truly must be going now.”
you carefully but easily shift your body over the ledge and place your boot against the exterior side of bridgerton house to start your descent. you should just go—leave and neglect the violence of feelings within you. but you do not. instead, you look up and are greeted by the sight of benedict at the window, hands also steadied on the ledge, body leaning towards the outside and downwards, beaming at you, the afternoon sun casting light upon his now even more beautiful countenance.
shit.
you will yourself to focus.
“if you need or wish to speak again on this, you will let me know, yes?”
he still smiles but you see the subtlety of his ocean eyes transforming, from delight to… something else. you don’t know what, benedict’s ocean eyes ever indecipherable in moments such as this, and it does nothing to quiet the flutterings within.
“i shall. and hopefully in a manner that does not require your escape.”
“oh, this is nothing.”
“of course it’s not.”
you smile broadly, a particular burst of fondness and play and courage overcoming you—
“farewell, princess.”
and you begin your descent down bridgerton house.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< kathani and y/n make a day of getting y/n a dress for the bridgerton ball. they meet first at bridgerton house early in the morning, before the rest of the family is awake. they break fast together, and kathani teaches y/n how to make masala chai. y/n remarks that how kathani speaks of indian drink and food reminds y/n of how her parents talk about their drink and food from their home country.
< the conversation then grows into talking about how much the ocean intrigues y/n because of how her parents have talked about it, especially in their stories of emigrating to england by ship. the mystery, beauty, comfort, fear, and joy of the ocean all in one entity.
< the conversation then shifts to kathani and y/n talking about the scrappiness of making do with what resources you have access to. it makes y/n recount a memory with her mama when she had offered to give up buying ink, quills, and paper to support the family once her elder sister had married and left their family home. >
“it is a hobby, mama, it—”
“it is important, she says pointedly. “it is your passion.” and she smiles. “we have managed once with just my and papa’s wages, we shall manage now. you need not worry, my child.”
< eventually, kathani and y/n finish their breakfast. they leave bridgerton house and hop into a bridgerton carriage to go to the modiste. it is the first time y/n is in a carriage and it is a surreal, lovely experience. it feels like a fairytale. >
–
< after arrival at the modiste and introductions, kathani decides to roam the markets of the neighborhood as madame delacroix tends to y/n in the back of the shop. >
“madame delacroix—”
“clients call me madame delacroix,” she interrupts. you feel shame flood your body. of course. you are not a client. you are a charity case. at the whims of this wealthy family that has bestowed their pity on you. how else would you be in such a position, in such a shop, before such a talented artist revered by the upper echelons of london. you’re a fool, you wish to run away, you must go when you hear what madame delacroix says next—and she’s smiling.
“friends, however, call me genevieve,” she remarks with a wink.
…
“now, y/n, how would you feel about me being,” genevieve flourishes her hand in the air, “experimental with your dress?”
a combination of fear and excitement perk up within you.
“how do you mean?”
“the ton are quite—” she seems to fight hard not to roll her eyes but admits defeat to a sigh, “—conservative in their fashion—”
“you mean dreadfully dull?” you chime in. genevieve laughs warmly.
“exactly, my dear,” she grins. “you, however, are anything but. i see the french silhouettes more fitting to your character, to your personality, to your spark.”
you feel overwhelmed by the kindness of words that flow easily from the mouth of your new friend. you have not known each other for more than ten minutes, and she seems to see something within you. it makes you feel self-conscious, undeserving, and incredibly proud.
“i would be honored to be graced with the true magnificence of your artistry, genevieve.”
your friend’s eyes shine with joy, and you cannot help but feel utterly delighted that you were the one to ignite such happiness within her.
“my dear, the ton will be green with envy at the sight of you. with your natural beauty and with my vision, you shall be an unstoppable force.”
you furrow your eyebrows at “natural beauty.” you open your mouth to comment—
“is there any person you are looking to,” she hums, looking for the right word while looking for her measuring tape, “impress?”
“no,” you lie. “i would not know anyone aside from the bridgertons and penelope.”
“ah, yes. miss penelope,” the modiste says with much fondness in her heart. “she is quite brilliant, is she not?”
you beam. “she truly is.”
“though,” genevieve ponders, wrapping the tape around your waist, “she is rather besotted with the third eldest bridgerton.”
“oh, yes, it is very appar— wait. why do you say that?”
genevieve shrugs, but you give it more thought.
“are you implying that i have affections for penelope?”
you love penelope. she has come to be one of your closest friends, and my god she is beautiful inside and out—but you have never felt an inkling for her beyond platonic love.
“i imply nothing—i’ve just said she’s besotted with the third eldest, did i not?” genevieve plays coy with a smile. “and the viscount, he is very in love with the viscountess.”
“are you now implying that i have affections for anthony?”
you feel your entire body shudder. the idea of having any sort of love for the eldest bridgerton beyond one that is platonic makes you want to— the very thought—
you put one hand to your mouth and the other to your stomach. genevieve laughs, delighted by this game she’s inflicting upon you and entirely unperturbed by your potential sick in her shop.
“so,” she continues on, “with mister colin and lady kate and their beaus eliminated, unless you are of the temptress kind—”
“no!”
“then,” laughs genevieve, “that leaves three—”
“what do you mean ‘three’!”
“y/n, please, you are a terrible liar. you have affections for one of your friends, that is clear.”
“i do not!” you lie again. she tilts her chin down, looking at you pointedly.
“as i was saying, that leaves three. there is miss francesca, miss eloise, and mister benedict.”
you feel yourself take in a small breath through your nostrils as you hear his name, and you pray that genevieve does not notice.
“aha!” she declares. your prayer has failed. there is no god. “ah, yes, mister benedict bridgerton. the second eldest.”
you hold back a groan, not wanting to give your friend evidence to her (very much correct) claim, so instead you lift your head towards the ceiling. when you snap it back down to look at her, you are startled by how her delighted expression from a mere moment ago has molded into an expression you cannot figure out.
“y/n, you must know,” she states, with so much sincerity in her tone. you are entirely confused by this shift in genevieve, and your confusion only intensifies when she gently takes your hand into both of hers.
“benedict and i... we had been acquainted— intimately, at one point.”
oh.
“oh,” you respond pathetically.
the words should not affect you. they should not affect you. they should— not— affect you.
but—
you huff out a laugh.
“genevieve, why are you sharing this? it’s all ri—”
“i share this with you,” she replies in earnest, “because while intimate, and yes, even passionate—” you try not to wince, “—it was brief and, most of all, not of depth,” she sighs. “but i can only speak for myself, can i?”
you swallow, hoping it will cure your dry throat, and with a smile say, “he is very lucky to have won your affections.”
“my dear.”
genevieve removes one of her hands from yours and brings it to the side of your face, softly wiping away a tear on your cheek. you hadn’t noticed you had started crying. you close your eyes, weak by and ashamed at the frailty of your heart, as you lean into the comfort of your friend’s hand.
after a few moments, you feel her hand leave your cheek and feel your chin held between her thumb and forefinger, lifting up your head. you open your eyes.
“anything i felt for him, i feel for him no more, y/n. he is lucky to have your affections,” genevieve declares. “and if benedict is an intelligent man, he must feel the same for you.”
you laugh.
“benedict is a beautiful person who attracts beautiful people. i am not a beautiful person.”
it is peculiar, how genevieve’s eyes flood with hurt as if you have offended her. what did you say that has hurt her so? you were only speaking of yourself. before you can think further on it, the modiste steels her expression, fire suddenly blazing her eyes.
“well! then i must prove to you what you fail to see, my dear! i dare you not to feel beautiful in the dress i make for you. and if you doubt your beauty,” she peers at you, “will you doubt my artistry?”
you laugh, this time sincerely, radiating gratitude for your new friend.
“it would be foolish to doubt your artistry.”
genevieve beams.
“exactly.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ II.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
you kick your feet off again, swinging yourself back and surging forward as you look up at the stars. you try not to make too much noise. you know it’s not proper to ambledly hang about your host’s back garden at night as they all slumber. you feel as though you are taking advantage of the bridgertons’ kindness in allowing a pauper like you to stay the night at their home, in allowing you any time to stay at their home since making their acquaintance, in allowing—— you sigh again. you could not sleep. restlessness has entirely consumed you, and you had decided that some fresh air and some childlike fun would be exactly what you needed to calm your nerves. while the cool air and the beauty of the night have been a welcomed reprieve, your heart still pounds and your mind still races with anxiety over the ball tomorrow night.
“couldn’t sleep?”
you slam the heels of your boots into the ground as you hear the familiar voice, doing everything in your power to ignore the flutters of butterflies in your stomach upon hearing it, and fall over onto your knees, planting your hands into the dirt so as not to completely and embarrassingly plant your face there instead. you hear the body of the voice rushing towards you, offering his hand in your periphery. you look up as benedict’s soft ocean eyes stare into you. feeling your cheeks flood with warmth, you take your dirtied palm into his, promptly ignore the lightning that shoots out from the touch to the rest of your body, and lift yourself up with benedict’s gentlemanly assistance. you murmur your thanks as you dust off, in vain, the dirt on your nightdress.
“i did not mean to startle you.”
“well, you have very clearly failed at that,” you remark.
after one last whoosh about your knees to clear off the excess dirt, you look up at benedict and are startled by the utter sincerity of his concerned look. he looks as if he is about to say something, as if he is about to apologize, when you offer him a smile.
“i’m teasing you, benedict.”
he blinks once before breaking out into a smile, a smile that forcefully summons the butterflies within you to flutter about once again, and laughs. you cannot help but smile and laugh with him.
“may i have the honor of sitting with you, miss y/l/n?”
you roll your eyes.
“it is your home after all, you need not my permission.”
“am i to ignore the privacy a lady wishes to have?”
“a lady’s privacy, i am sure, is something you wish to have for yourself,” you retort, alluding to your lack of such a title.
he swallows.
“that is something i cannot deny.”
something shifts in the air as benedict stares at you. you feel yourself holding your breath and, in an attempt to shift away the energy from whatever this— this is (and how much it thrills and terrifies you), you playfully curtsy as you gesture to the swing next to the one that you had occupied.
“i would be delighted by your company, mr. bridgerton.”
the overwhelming gentleness of benedict’s expression transforms into an amused smile, and he follows along with an exaggerated bow of his head. you take a seat at your swing as he takes his seat at the other on your left.
“i couldn’t,” you say in reply to his first question. before he can ask why, you hastily jump into your inquiry. “and why are you up?”
“i was sketching. i had an idea for a painting and wished to lay out the preliminary work before it escaped me,” he sighs heavily, turning to look out to the rest of the garden. you feel the loss of his gaze. “i was frustrated with the results and thought some fresh air would do me some good.”
“what is the idea for your painting?”
he hesitates.
“a portrait,” he seems to admit carefully. feeling how benedict wishes not to be pressed further, you simply hum an affirmation in response.
“i am certain that your sketch is not nearly as horrendous as you think it is.”
“i appreciate your kindness, but it entirely lacked their spark.”
“you seem quite fond of this person,” you huff with a bit of a laugh, jealousy starting to pool in the pit of your stomach.
benedict smiles.
“i am.”
and he turns to look at you.
you swallow, averting your gaze from soft intense ocean eyes, and kick your feet off the ground to begin a gentle swing.
“you should continue with the portrait,” you rattle on in a hasty attempt at diversion. “not only are you blessed with natural talent but you are also fueled with such a passionate determination to ever improve your skill because that is how much you love your craft. an undying devotion to something for which you so deeply care. it is admirable and extremely apparent in all that you do.”
“and what of you?”
“and what of me?”
“of your passions?”
you scoff.
“my passions?”
“your writing.”
you halt your swing and whip your head to benedict. he is grinning with stupid satisfaction, and you would find a way to wipe it off his stupid (beautiful) face if you were not so aghast by the situation.
“how do you know of that?”
“well, whenever you are not reading or conversing with eloise, penelope, and kate; or playing make-believe with my youngest siblings; or squabbling with colin and anthony, you are busily writing in a folded quarto. or, rather, crossing in a folded quarto. crossing twice, if you can manage. you are quite the prolific writer.”
you gape at him, and he continues to grin.
“eloise also told me.”
“she told you!” you shriek.
“indeed. it is, after all, how you met penelope, apparently. and penelope is how you met eloise. and eloise is how we— how you met the rest of us.”
you slump in your swing.
“i feel betrayed.”
benedict laughs heartily, and you shoot him a glare. he holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“she was merely sharing a fact.”
“she is merely a traitor.”
benedict laughs once again, and you summon all the strength within you not to choke it out from his lungs.
“you seem not to handle perception of yourself very well, y/n.”
“when you are me, it is easy not to be perceived,” you mumble, still reeling from the traitorous nature of your loudmouthed friend.
there is a small silence.
“i do not think that is true.”
you turn to him, once again surprised by the gentleness of his sincerity.
“i see you,” benedict declares in a quiet but steadfast voice. his ocean eyes, indecipherable once more, gaze into you.
you feel yourself hold your breath, unable to stop the truth from ringing out in your heart, mind, body, and soul.
i love you.
you shoot up from your swing.
“i must be going, it is quite late—”
“y/n, wait—”
“thank you, benedict,” you say sincerely, turning to him. “i— i really enjoyed our conversation, as brief as it was.”
he blinks and offers you a small smile. i must control myself, you reprimand as you feel the butterflies viciously flutter within.
“as did i.”
“good night,” you whisper. with all the self-control you can muster, you turn away from benedict and hasten towards bridgerton house.
“good night, y/n,” you vaguely hear him say from the swings that brought you together. you attempt to tune out the wistfulness that you hear, that you imagine you hear in his voice.
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Hey! It's my birthday today and it's been really good but it's been kind of the first birthday I've ever properly celebrated with my chosen family and friends in a long time since a lot of trauma/ab*se, and I really hope it wouldn't be too much to ask (take as long as you need obvs) for some headcanons with a Tav that isn't going to celebrate on their birthday, but Astarion makes it special for them somehow and maybe they agree it's Tav's 'first' birthday 🥹🥹🥹👉👈
I love all your work and eagerly await your posts, they make my day 🥰🥰🥰
Hi! Hope you will like it! Now, Tiriel's birthday is also in autumn!
Birthday Gift
Summary: Tiriel has no idea when her real birthday is and she's never receieved birthday gifts. Astarion finds it outrageous.
Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)
Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-game, named Tav, established relationship.
Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!
Read on AO3
Masterlist
Headcanons
TW: a mention of abuse
Tiriel looks around.
Autumn.
Leaves are turning red and yellow, the winds are cold and promise winter.
It’s beautiful, though the barbarian feels uneasy – the childhood memories. Winters are merciless in such wild places as the Sunset Mountains. Hunger, sickness, death… Sometimes her stepfather, a cruel chieftain, would order to leave certain people outside (too old, too weak) – to let them die and not waste scarce food.
He would often pull Tiriel outside when the autumn winds were particularly harsh and say: “Look at this, pixie girl, I can just order not to give you any food and you will die like a stray cat. But I am merciful – I told your mother I’d save your pathetic half-blood life!” With these words, he would let her go and Tiriel would run to hide somewhere dark and safe.
She was lucky there were no harsh winters during her childhood. She would be the first to be deprived of food and warmth.
Only half a human. The result of an affair between her mother and an unknown elf. She still wonders why she was spared in the first place. It would have been so easy to murder a newborn girl.
They didn’t.
They kept her.
Maybe it was a superstition that elven children would become evil spirits once they died, or fear that Tiriel’s elven relatives would return.
Those are questions without answers, Tiriel knows that.
Maybe there was a moment when her mother loved her. Maybe there was a moment when Tiriel’s stepfather really did forgive his wife.
Tiriel doesn’t have happy memories from her childhood. It’s all too dark and miserable.
And autumns like this remind her of it.
“Hello, darling,” Astarion grins, returning to the road from the woods. His shirt is stained and he licks his lips.
“What was it?” she asks.
“A boar. Didn’t expect I’d jump on it from the tree.”
Tiriel smiles as she wipes his face from blood and brushes his messy curls. Astarion doesn’t see himself in a mirror and, of all forms of intimacy, he especially cherishes being taken care of. Brushing his hair, cleaning his face, making sure he looks beautiful.
Two years. Two years of her own happy memories. Where she has a person to talk to, to hold, to love. Astarion is a troubled person, but Tiriel loves him at his worst and at his best.
Astarion rubs her ear, forcing her to giggle.
“Let’s go?” he suggests. “The weather is getting worse, I want to spend the next few days somewhere warm!”
“It’s five miles to Longsaddle if I’ve read the map properly.”
Astarion takes her hand, and Tiriel feels how warm it is thanks to the boar blood.
“Then we will meet the sunrise in a comfortable bed!” Astarion chuckles. “And in each other’s arms.”
“I doubt they have good beds there, so far from Luskan and other big cities.”
“We have low standards, you and I. As long as there is a blanket and a bed, we are fine, Besides I love using your breasts as my pillow.”
Tiriel bursts into laughter and receives a peck on the cheek.
Unfortunately, it can’t stop bad memories.
… Her siblings asked her to help them with something on a cliff. She followed them, only to be violently beaten by her older brothers. Tiriel even thought for a moment they were going to rape her, but, instead, they pushed her down to certain death.
Tiriel woke up in dirt and blood, with her arm broken in half, shivering and coughing.
And with a cave bear ready to murder her.
That’s when Tiriel felt rage for the first time.
It filled her veins with fire. Tiriel barely remembers what happened that night but she knows she killed that bear– and was left with facial scars. Then she came back, limping and bleeding. She thinks she fought someone, maybe one of her brothers or the chieftain and then she ran.
She ran into the mountains woods – no armor, no weapon, only rags and bare feet.
Then she collapsed on the ground, hurt and scared in the middle of the woods, forever lost.
Tiriel remembers that moment vividly.
A young girl who had barely hit puberty (because half-elves grow slower) woke up all alone and cried like a child. Then she got up and walked, dying of cold and hunger.
Two days later she was found by a group of adventurers who sort of adopted her as their party child. An old halfling washed Tiriel’s hair and healed her wounds. A water genasi cooked the girl food and offered the warmest blankets.
And the tiefling paladin asked Tiriel what her name was.
“My sweet, I thought it was me who tends to wander into dark thoughts,” Astarion squeezes. “Remembering your misfortunate youth again?”
“Yes. Just – similar. To what it was back then. The same autumn when I ran from home. The same autumn when I got my name.”
Tiriel, the little girl told the party. My name is Tiriel.
Astarion does the same thing he always does when he wants to support Tiriel.
He gives her a hug.
“Hush, Tiriel,” he murmurs. “You will never be alone again.”
Triel relaxes. That is her Astarion – a simple hug, a kiss, an embrace, and her nightmares perish.
He pulls away and Tiriel catches his most adorable smile – he doesn’t pretend, doesn’t show off, doesn’t perform. That’s real him.
“I want to kiss you,” he says.
She nods. They don’t have to ask permission to do things with each other. Kisses, hugs, grabbing hands, touching intimate parts – but they still do.
Tiriel asks if she can kiss Astarion.
Astarion states he wants to kiss her.
Simple as that.
Permission and declaration.
Astarion grazes her lips. He is in his predatory mood, when Tiriel just needs to accept whatever is going to be done to her. His strong hands grab her shoulders and tug at her.
Astarion finally breaks the kiss and stares at Tiriel for a few moments.
“I am not going anywhere,” Tiriel murmurs.
“I know, Tiriel. You are mine and I am yours,” Astarion presses his forehead to hers.
They go down the hill and find themselves on a road that connects scarce towns and settlements far from the Swords Coast. The road is more or less walkable but it soon will be washed out due to rains. Tiriel notices Astarion’s visible disgust.
“Honestly darling, we should have stayed in Baldur’s Gate and lived a life of comfort!” he chuckles.
“You would die of boredom – besides I thought you’d had enough of that place.”
“True, but there are many other comfortable places! Tiriel, you deserve to wear a nice gown made of the best fabrics and sleep in a huge master’s bed where I will ravish you till you beg me to stop.”
Tiriel turns around to see her partner better. “And then I would die of boredom. Astarion look at us – I am a nomad and you were enslaved for so long you deserve to see the world.”
“It doesn’t mean I can’t whine and complain!”
“You can whine and complain all day long, Astarion. Why even bother to be in a relationship, if you can’t do this?”
They bicker and laugh for the next hour until they see a town ahead. Despite it being close to midnight, the town doesn’t sleep and is rather festive.
“What is going on here?” Tiriel asks a passerby as they enter the town. “Some local celebration?”
“It’s our duke’s first son’s birthday,” the woman shrugs. “Not like we care about the spoilt brat but you can’t say ‘no’ to a celebration right?”
The woman disappears in the crowd and Tiriel points at the stalls.
“Astarion, look! So many sweets! Oh, and there are fireworks!”
Astarion looks distant, as if something plagued his mind.
“Love, what is it?” She asks and feels a wave of anxiety. What if it’s too much? Feasts like this used to be his hunting grounds, what if he has a painful flashback?
Two years against two centuries is almost nothing.
“Tirie,l” he finally asks. “When is yours?”
“What?”
“Birthday. I know this is a huge deal for humans and the ones who grew up with them.”
“I don’t know.”
Astarion looks at her with shock.
“You… what?”
“I don’t know when mine is, I was never told. Neither a date nor a month.”
“Oh,” Astarion didn’t expect this answer. “Well, at least you know the year, right?”
“I don’t.”
Astarion raises his index finger as if wanting to point at something, but then he shakes his head in disbelief.
“We have been together for two years and you are telling me now that you don’t… how old you are?!”
Tiriel ponders a bit.
“Well, I know it was 1472 DR when I ran away, I was told by the party who adopted me… and I had had my first blood only two months before that. But I am a half-elf and it took me longer to grow up… So I think I was… fifteen? Maybe, sixteen… Or fourteen? Definitely not sixteen… Because my older brother was sixteen… Damn, I don't really know. Don’t bother.”
“Darling, I can’t not bother with the fact that I don’t know how old you are!”
“You say it as if I was one of those little girls who look older than they are and get their one-night stands in trouble!”
“It’s not that, Tiriel! It’s just… I don’t know… wrong!”
“It probably is.”
“It is wrong.”
“I cannot do anything about that.”
The wave of sadness drags her to the bottom of her dark thoughts.
Beatings.
Insults.
Hatred.
Pain.
All at once, since she was born.
Suddenly, she is a little girl again – a little girl thrown outside in the autumn rain, in the wind, wearing only a nightshirt. Tiriel thinks she hears her stepfather's laughter from behind a thick wooden door as a seven-year-old half-elf who cries and begs him to let her in.
Tiriel stops. Tears prickle her eyes. Her face burns, and an adult half-elven woman who fought gods and demons starts ugly crying like a child.
She collapses on her knees not caring about the dirt, wailing and sniffing.
“Tiriel!” Astarion drops his sack and kneels beside her. “Did I do… Did I ask… Oh, hells.”
He puts his arms under her shoulders and presses her to himself, lulling and swaying side to side. He murmurs all the words of love and care he is capable of.
“Let’s take you somewhere warm,” he finally says, helping her to get up.
Despite the fest, they manage to find an inn with a free room, a cheap and simple one. Tiriel has to go inside first to invite Astarion, and then he takes everything in his hands again making sure the innkeeper brings warm blankets and prepares a bath.
“Love,” he says. “Look at me.”
Tiriel tries not to think about how bad she looks right now with her puffy face and snot but obliges.
“That's much better, now let’s take you to the bath”
An hour later, Tiriel submerges herself into the hot water and expects Astarion to join her, but instead he goes straight to the exit.
“Astarion!” she calls him out.
“I will be back soon, just relax while I am away, all right?”
Tiriel hates being alone. Too many dark thoughts, besides, now she feels guilty. Astarion went through hell and she dares to complain?!
Her past isn’t that bad in comparison with his. She has no right to pity herself.
Time passes slowly, and Tiriel feels restless. What if something happened? What if there was a vampire hunter? Or something else…
When she finally decides to get out of the bath, Tiriel hears familiar footsteps.
“Close your eyes, little love.”
Tiriel obeys and then feels something soft and plush in her arms.
“Open” Astarion places his chin on her shoulder.
A plushie-owlbear.
Soft and cute, it’s a toy appropriate for a little girl to cuddle with.
A toy she never had.
“Well,” Astarion explains. “Since you don’t know when your birthday is, it can be… today. 17 of Uktar. Happy birthday, love,” he kisses her cheek. “And I suppose we should decide how old you are.”
“Thirty-eight,” Tiriel says, doing mental math. “Let it be thirty-eight”
“Happy thirty-eight birthday, my lovely, darling girl.”
Tiriel feels like crying again. It’s just a toy, a plushie, a thing for a baby. But she was never treated as a child, she was never given toys or dolls. And this gift… is the best she could have received.
“Do you like it?” he asks carefully.
“Yes… I do love it! Thank you! Did you steal it?”
“I won it from the toymaker. Played cards with her.”
Astarion sits on the edge of the bathtub and Tiriel wraps her hands around his waist tugging him into water. He lets out a laugh.
“Darling, you know how long it will take to fully dry?”
“Eternity! And we will spend this eternity in the inn warm and safe,” Tiriel says. “Astarion, please! I don’t want to go back on the road now, so many bad memories!”
He sits in front of her fully in the water. “Ok my sweet, what else do you want for your birthday? Maybe I could return the favor and let you ride me in some place from your traumatic memories? I’ve seen a rather terrible-looking dirt of mud.”
Tiriel thinks for a while and then says. “I don't mind riding you, but maybe in the bedroom?”
“Whatever you say, darling!”
**
It’s sunlight outside, and Astarion feels the tugging feeling in his undead chest. He misses sunlight, that's true.
Tiriel is asleep in his arms. They actually didn’t make it to the bedroom and had the first round in the bathtub, and now Astarion needs to repair his shirt and find missing buttons from a doublet.
It causes him anxiety, but he shrugs it away.
He can lose all the buttons and rip all his clothes, and the only reaction he will receive will be Tiriel’s jokes.
Tiriel hugs him from behind, placing her cheek on his mutilated back. The plushie is pressed between their bodies as his warrior-love has decided to sleep with it.
He actually didn’t expect her to like the toy. Initially, he was panicking and looking for something appropriate for Tiriel. A ring? A bracelet? Maybe a weapon? Maybe just something sweet?
Everything he was putting his eyes on was off. Jewelry Tiriel would never wear, a weapon she wouldn’t fight with.
And then he saw the toys. An owlbear plushie for a woman who is always treated like a brave hero. Who didn’t have a proper childhood?
The first birthday gift for someone who has never had a birthday.
And Tiriel loved it so much she pressed it to her chest the moment they stopped ‘celebrating’. She wanted to give it a proper name, and they spent at least a few minutes discussing their ideas before they settled on Big Eye.
“Tiriel,” Astarion mutters knowing she is asleep and won’t wake up. “I love you. You will never be alone, I promise. I will be with you unless you grow tired of me, and I am sure you won’t. Thank you for … finding me. Saving. Helping.”
Suddenly he feels her wet lips on his scars.
“I will never grow tired of you,” Tiriel promises.
--
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Stucked - Part 6
You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.
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Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, König x reader
Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader
Trigger Warning: Contains blood and gore, violence, injury, some body horror, description of grotesque creatures, some monster smut (light), and some dubcon (lightly). Please, keep that in mind!
⚠️MDNI⚠️
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Author's Note
This part unveils a new evil!
There's a new threat, but your old friends are close by. Who knows what happens after...
Have fun! :D
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
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Like a faded picture that has been imprisoned in the depths of a drawer for decades, the vision is projected as faintly on the canvases of your eyelids. As if it were just a vision born on the plastic soil of a dream, nothing else, the memory that takes shape in your head seems so unbelievable. This horrible place has been holding you in its embrace hot with the stench of death for so long, that the images left from the real world seem to your brain like the remnants of a life that never existed. However, you're sure that the melodious children's laughter ringing in your ears is real, and you know that it belongs to someone who was once important to you. In this friendly fantasy world, there is no decay and no blood, only the inviting rays of the sun, which guide you to the surface with warm fingers, as you frolic under the cool foams, mimicking a mermaid. You paddle nimbly with your little hands as the princess of the secret underwater realm, and each tiny shell and grain of sand greets you as a subject of your kingdom as you swim above them. And when someone pulls you out of your adventure and lifts you back into the air, warm from the summer heat, you sulk and argue, trying to get free, but whoever the stranger is, they only respond with amused laughter. And your heart almost sinks at the fact that only blurred spots dance in front of your eyes when you look up at the figure who kisses the top of your little head and hugs you so tenderly. Because you know you should know her, but nothing breaks through the darkness in your skull apart from the feeling of loss that gnaws at your insides.
Although for a moment you don't understand why your own mind is turning against you, but even your frozen shock is penetrated by a faint recognition, that there is a reason why this is exactly the memory that arose in you after the many horrors you experienced. And it seems a very cruel trick from your subconscious that now, when an unknown force drags you deeper and deeper toward the bottomless pits of the icy water, it calls up this exact one out of the many mementos slowly fading to nothingness. Because you know that now the sun-tanned hand won't rush to your aid to save you from the frosty, otherworldly empire that is drawing you closer and closer to its gate made of torn bodies with each passing second.
And as if you just woke up from an unwanted slumber, you realize that no matter how much you want to linger on the soft lap of soothing reminders of the past, and no matter how much all your instincts protest against letting the false security of the images dancing on your eyelids slip away, you have other things to do. Oh, how easy it would be to let it end like this, rocking in the heavy arms of the cool water, finally die without rough hands trying to bask in the warmth of your still living organs. But you have work to do. And this ultimately breaks your body out of the shock injected into you by the unknown attacker, which pulled you under the surface, heavy with rot and death.
As soon as your resolve finally pushes you back from the temptation of the soft, shapeless drifting of unconsciousness, the shortness of breath tightening your chest reaches your senses, and your mouth opens in a desperate gasp before you can stop the reflexive movement. And as the cold water breaks through your lips and you feel the musty taste of mud on your tongue, your jaw snaps shut with such alarmed speed that you swear that you feel your teeth cracking. However, a stray sip of water that has gone astray still finds its way into your trachea, and as it pushes along the soft tissues like a thousand tiny blades, you would instinctively start to cough, but you're only able to ease the pressure of a force squeezing your ribs for a few pathetic seconds.
Your eyes open in fear, and you can see the taunting invitation of the moon's pale light even through the sting of the water blurring your vision, and you can almost feel how mockingly the silvery beams laugh at your torment. And as you become aware of with what frightening certainty the last faintly twinkling trace of the starry sky starts to disappear, your brain catches up with the facts, and even through the lack of oxygen, you understand painfully fast that the fragile thread of your life will soon come to a pitiful end and break under the cruel weight of the waves gathering above you. And because of this, your body, for the umpteenth time during the night, surges you towards action, and as the cocktail of stress hormones in your veins revives, you try to propel yourself upwards with almost instinctive movements. But no matter how you paddle with your hands, just as your legs would also join in the frantic work, the alien creature wrapped around your ankle tightens its grip even more, and the suppressed scream that is born in your lungs only echoes in your skull, when you feel how cruelly its spikes drill into your bruised flesh. You can sense, quite horrified, how the poison, similar to liquid fire, creeps through the boundary of the skin and muscles pulsing with agony. And you know that whatever this formless beast tries to inject into your body, soon it will help tip you back into oblivion so that you allow yourself to be driven into the predator's waiting claws with a willing daze.
Your hands rush towards the wretched monster holding your feet captive, and even you're surprised when you grab hold of the sleek extensions of a seaweed-like plant. And even though the army of thorns rising from the slippery tissue cut into your palm, you don't care about how the suffering radiates through your arm like a lightning strike, instead, gritting your teeth, you try to loosen your shackles, because it's only a matter of time before your luck runs out and you're back in that goddamn car again. Crimson drops of blood emerge like snakes from under the wounded skin, and the more fiercely you fight with the cursed seaweed, the cerise fluid surrounds you like a vague mist, casting your figure, wild from the fury of the struggle, into the midst of blood-red clouds.
All your nerves are occupied by the heat of your battle, because you feel it all too well how the merciless iron fist around your chest is closing, as if someone had thrown you into a press, and the metal plates weighing on you were trying to slowly drive your ribs into the living flesh. And you would swear that even through the gurgle of liquid against your eardrums, you can hear the horrible, almost insidious snapping of the hair-thin cracks running down your bones, as if a heavy boot were treading on freshly fallen branches.
But even through your despair, it occurs to you how strange it is that the crackles travel into your ears through the roar of the water so clearly, even though you know that nothing but the sound of bubbles could penetrate the chaos created by your panic. And when you catch a pale spot moving from the corner of your eye, like an uncertain vision dancing on the edge of your consciousness, you stop chasing your release for a minute. First, through the hazy clouds cast by your blood, you see a broken form unfolding, looking more like the dried remains of a wind-twisted and battered tree than anything else. However, when the tormented figure seems to be approaching, and the scarlet veil finally fades due to your immobility, then the shock cuts through even the tension of air that is stuck in your throat. Because your brain, fighting with hypoxia, understands that the creature is swimming closer to you with measured laziness, which may have previously feasted on the disintegrating corpses washed to the surface.
A pair of milky white eyes take shape from the dark, endless void with an almost otherworldly light, and the hunger looming in them paints the mouth so dreadful, which stretches into an impossibly wide snarl with cruel joy when it discovers in you its prey frozen in fear. As if the corners of its mouth were trying to get around the elongated head, splitting the dry, ashy skin on its skull like grotesque cuts. Yet, your eyes are immediately drawn to the pale gums and the sharp teeth protruding from them, stained a dirty brown by the rotting pieces of meat sitting on them. And as the twisted, thin body floats closer, a series of dim, tormented blots appear behind it, like an army of faithful shadows, which absorb the rays of moonlight piercing the water, bringing an ominous night to the desolate realm of the lake.
And it doesn't take much time, just a mere fleeting second, and you become sure that you have to flee, because these horrible devilish beings will clean the pliant network of muscles and tendons from your bones before suffocation has a chance to push you into the saving ignorance of unconsciousness. That's why the fierceness of survival awakens in you anew, and even you yourself can't believe the power that terror stirs in you, when you almost tear the tentacles of the stubborn seaweed from you, and the adrenaline that settles on your nerves doesn't allow the pain caused by the attack of the thorns stabbing into your palm to reach you. And if you'd have time, you would burst into tears of joy when the damned plant finally releases your ankle, but you have no time to be relieved, because you see the cautious advance of the distorted beasts squirming in the corner of your eyes, and you can feel the small waves on your skin that their excitedly grinding teeth create.
You're almost desperately try to swim towards the surface, and although the force of the pressure gnawing at your insides increases with each hasty movement, and small black spots slowly crawl into your field of vision, you don't care about the agony that crushes the soft tissues of your internal organs. When your hand finally breaks through the mirror-smooth border of the lake's surface for the first time, and your fingers are caressed by the prickle of the cold night air, then all the suffering that has tried to push you into the silky lap of another death disappears. And perhaps you've never been so happy to see the moon sprawled out like a divine being in the middle of this imaginary world, and you're not at all bothered by the sardonic glee with which its sparkling, silvery gaze follows how you begin to swallow the life-giving oxygen like a pitiful fish on dry land. Although you forcefully cough out the remnants of the water that have strayed into your airways, as soon as the first sip of air fills your chest aching with burning stinging, and the specks squirming in front of your eyes vanish, you have the strength to focus on the way out. And you know that you don't have time to hesitate any longer, because you can see the moving outline of the unknown monsters gathering below you.
You run your gaze along the landscape shrouded in dreadful stillness, and you feel your stomach flutter with gratitude when you discover how seductively close the line of the shallow shore stretches behind you. You only wildly hope that you're able to outrun these horrible creatures, as you put each of your tired limbs to work and start swimming without any delay, because it only takes one of these awful beings to catch you, and your remains will be reduced to tiny crumbs of bones and viscera. And despite the fact that you've met your end countless times, you know that each of your deaths would pale in comparison to being torn to pieces alive by these infernal abominations. Perhaps this is the motivation that breaks through the last barrier in your consciousness and helps to get your body to move with an unprecedented urgency, and this is what dulls the ear-splitting scream-like noise of the frenzy unfolding behind you.
The few minutes seem like millennia until you finally reach the swampy ground, and you stumble to your feet, yanking your shoes from the mud's stubborn grip with an angry cry as you clumsily drag yourself ashore. And as you finally make it to the edge of the wet sand, you drop to your knees, panting, allowing yourself a few meager seconds to rest before you're forced to run again from the evils that stalk you. Because you’re sure that whatever the tentacled creature was, it's still lurking in the depths of the abyss, and the two murderers can also be breathing down your neck thanks to the terrible sidequest you've fallen into. Almost instinctively, your hand sinks into the pocket of the soaked pants, and when you find the disconcertingly untouched map, you feel a heavy weight lift off your heart. All you have to do is to lie low a bit, and then calmly set off to look for the next clue, which can finally get you out of this ever-deepening madness.
But when that bone-shaking scream blasts into the silence of the night once again, you wince reflexively, like a startled animal that has finally realized that the predator will soon wrap its foul-smelling jaws around its neck. And although by now you should have gotten used to the fact that this goddamn place always lulls you into a mirage-like illusion of tranquility with the promise of a moment of ease, only to avenge its mercy all the more cruelly, yet now fear claws into your insides with the same force as if you were experiencing the terrors of this nightmare for the first time. Because when you glance back, you see the cloudy eyes break through from under the velvety, rippling veil of the water, like faintly looming ghosts that were vomited out by the mouth of the lake opening to the other world, to drag you with them into the pits of insatiable hell. One of the gruesome figures emerges from the waves rocking like liquid obsidian, and its sickly thin body straightens amid gut-wrenching crackles, as if every single bone would slide into place on top of another, crumbling under the withered tissue. But even though the beast looks ungainly, when its mouth full of sharp teeth opens and that high-pitched, whistle-like screech rushes out of it, you clamp your hands to your ears to try to dull the pain of the head-splitting sound, and with the pain piercing your eardrums, you realize that if you don't get away now, then those teeth will be painted ruby by your intestines next time.
However, before you can even move, the howling stops, and it takes a few moments for your mind to register what is happening. And when you discover that pair of glowing red eyes appear behind the enraged army of monsters, you wish these bastards would rip you apart alive, because maybe that would be a more pleasant death than what those smoldering irises have in store for you. Because there is such a hungry temper dancing in them that settles into the aggressive movement with which the stranger takes hold of the head of the menacing water creature about to attack, lifting it up into the air. His huge palm swallows its face green from algae, and the way his strong hand clenches around the abomination's skull seems almost pitifully simple, as if the wretch would be nothing more than a worm to be trampled upon. And you feel how your insides convulse with nausea when the stomach-turning crunch, with which the bones shatter into pieces, reaches your ear canals, and you desperately try to swallow back the bitter bile pooling in your mouth, as, after a wet splash, you see the soft, pink flesh spilling out between the hooded monster's long fingers.
It seems that this makes the other grotesque entities understand that something more terrifying than them has arrived, and they swim back to the protective shelter of the lake with such ready submission, as if they were trying to hide from the sight of their angry king, before he would erupt into a frightening rage. Through the dread slowly bubbling under your skin, you realize that maybe this man really is their ruler, since the horde of malformed forces living in the water turned against you after he first surfaced behind the sea of mutilated bodies. And perhaps there is some woefully obvious logic in this, since the game wouldn't have allowed this new location to appear if there hadn't been an even more horrible surprise waiting for you in it. When the last of his terrified subjects finally disappears, the giant starts towards you with lazy steps, and with each passing meter it becomes more and more noticeable, how the hard muscles weave through every terrible corner of his tall figure, and suddenly it becomes painfully clear to you that even the bloodthirsty shadows skulking in the forest would offer greater safety if you threw yourself into the arms of formless darkness now.
You try to get up shaking, because you understand that you're just hanging another death flag on your forehead with your hesitation, but as soon as you put weight on your wounded leg, a bitter pain shoots into your ankle, as if someone were trying to twist your foot around its axis with their bare hands, and from the stars dancing before your eyes, you helplessly let your knees buckle and help you fall back into the mud with a dull thud. And even though you try to relieve the persistent throbbing of the white-hot pain with the air inhaled through your nose, by the time your head clears enough to be able to get yourself to move, your body, trembling with agony, is already swallowed up by the all-consuming shadow of the man towering over you, and you know that you’re done for. You don't have to turn around to know that the hooded monster has finally stalked you down, because you can see the black blanket with which his large figure covers the ground decorated with small stones and plants washed up on the shore.
You don't even dare to move for a little bit, and you feel ridiculously stupid for offering yourself on a silver platter with your person immobilized by terror. As if you were willingly present your chest to him so that he can tear out your scared, beating heart, but you can't even twitch, because, with the pounding of your pulse in your ears, the fear spreads through every inch of your body, pushing every muscle fiber into paralyzed helplessness. And you feel how the blood freezes in your veins, when a terribly sweet scent snakes its way into your nose, like the smell of the juices of rotten fruit left under the rays of the summer sun, which at the same time enters your head and covers the frightened upheaval in your skull under some inexplicable hazy fog, and tightens your stomach in a death-tight grip. Although this strange smell brings you closer to dizziness, even in the confused daze that descends upon you, you can perfectly detect when an unknown creature glides onto your shoulder with a damp springiness, then slowly slithers its way up the graceful line of your neck like a curious leech. You're unable to restrain the reflexive movement that makes you cringe in alarm under the curious touch of the uninvited guest, and even though every fiber of your body turns to stone, you raise your eyes to the intruder despite the anxiety gathering in the pit of your stomach. And when you discover the pitch-black tentacle shining with a velvety light, and the purple suckers lined up on them, which breathe unsolicited kisses to the valley of your cleavage, you yelp and charge forward to try to crawl away from the monster with such panicked clumsiness, like a wounded wild animal trying to escape from the wolf with its last breath.
However, no matter how hard you try to break free, the fear raging in your body only leads to an uncoordinated shuffling, and you fall to your stomach on the fish-smelling ground, hissing from the ache that rips through your ankle. Your mouth fills with tiny grains of wet sand, but you don't mind the sour taste on your tongue, because it penetrates your terror much more clearly when you feel the searing heat of another body behind you, seeping through the thin material of your soaked t-shirt like a contagious disease. And you know that the end of the night has arrived, because when you see a giant hand sinking into the mud next to your head, you recognize, along with the horrible delusions flooding into your mind, that you already lost your chance of survival when you waded into that damn lake.
And the newcomer doesn't leave you a moment to recover from your shock, because you just got rid of the intrusion of the sticky organ, you feel the tentacle breaking under the battered fabric of your top, and you can't stop the terrified tremor that moves into your limbs in time, when the probing caress of the feelers passes through the tense arch of your spine. The tenderness with which he traces the small valley between your shoulder blades is almost stomach-churning, because you're aware that with one careless movement, he could unfurl the row of vertebrae from under your skin like fresh peas from their shell. And you know that he only wants to lull your vigilance with the fleeting gentleness with which the appendage moves towards the line of your ribs to try to migrate to your chest, like a lover who wants to explore the lush curves of his beloved's body. And your brain, stuck in the fear of death, is relieved a little when the sleek arm finds an obstacle in the moldy ground, but the small joy that takes hold in you is pitifully short-lived, because your attacker only grabs your hips with a frustrated grunt and pulls you up with such light carelessness, which you wouldn't be able to fight even if the horrors of the night didn't weigh on your every cell like a leaden blanket. And as his fingers sink into the soft flesh, you feel that following the touch of restrained power, the mark of his hand will soon be ingrained into you with a purple color.
Still, you’re much more horrified, and goosebumps run over every defenseless inch of your body, as the clammy limb reaches your bra on its path, and a startled squeak gets stuck behind your quivering lips that is elicited from you by the attack of the slimy organ burrowing under the soft material. You don't dare tear your eyes away from the pebble shining with a dull light, which rises orphaned from a small sand dune in front of you, because you're terrified that if you follow how the monster takes what your vulnerable body offers to him unwillingly, you will sink even deeper in the muddy swamp of terror. Yet every nerve ending in you is sharpened when you feel the cold, slick flesh sliding against the soft mound of your breast. And there is something repulsively intimate about how one of the suckers latches onto your nipple with an almost insatiable hunger, as if this monster wasn't holding you in the trap of his strong body for the first time. As if he's got his hand on a delicacy, the nectar of which he has tasted at some point, and now the longing for the tantalizing aroma on his tongue would drive him forward. But your brain cannot understand why this absurd thought awakens in you, because it's unable to focus on anything other than the involuntary shiver that runs along your spine when it sucks the sensitive skin that has become its prey with an almost playful lewdness. And this small act is enough for the miserable moan, that has been crawling up your throat on foul feet until now, to finally break through your mouth.
And as if this one sound would feed the horrible man's unquenchable greed, for you shudder in horror, as another tentacle wanders over the nervously heaving line of your belly with slow laziness, and for a terrible moment it just flirtatiously skims along the waistline of your pants. But his patience doesn't last long, because he pushes under your jeans with an almost violent want, and you don't even have time to react, the limb sinks under the damp material of your panties with such insidious speed. Your consciousness can't keep up with the siege on your body, but it still fills you with agony as the lush flame of desire flares up in your stomach, as one of the suckers closes around your clit. And the muddled whine that creeps up your trachea is unfamiliar even to your own ears, when the wet pressure increases around the sensitive bundle of nerves, because you would rather bite your own tongue in shame, but the shock that rolls over you is too strong to resist the pull of the sensation.
But when you feel the feeler gliding between the silky petals and almost curiously circling the entrance of your pussy throbbing with scorching heat, then the fire of protest rekindles in you, and you set your hands on the damp ground to brace yourself against the beast. But even though your unexpected opposition gives you momentum, it feels like you hit a concrete wall, the man's chest swelling with hard muscles press against your back with such unshakable confidence, and you become aware painfully soon what kind of fun you've made him have, when the hardness that bulges in his crotch pushes against your bottom. And he, perhaps mistakenly, perhaps on purpose, sees your pathetic attempt as an invitation, and the deep, throaty groan rings in your ears, with which he thrusts his cock against you with impatient fervor, like a damned animal ready to mate. And as his huge hand clamp down on your hips with an almost vise-like force, even the stray idea of escape suddenly seems like a ridiculously far-fetched dream, because his fingers will crush all your fragile bones to dust before letting you get lost into the night. But even though the icy poison of dread sneaks into your every brain cell, you know you have to take flight, since the goal hasn't changed. You have to survive. And if you stay here, you voluntarily count down the minutes until the moment of your death, which, no matter what sweet torment the game promises, you know it's coming.
And as if he would sense that he cannot drive away the stillborn idea of resistance from you with his insidious tactics, that hurtful, syrupy smell appears again, which fills your nose with such a vicious intrusion that you have no chance to understand what is happening, because as soon as the dark fog spreads over your brain, the burning tingle that sends liquid flames into your core saturates every inch of you. An almost drunken intoxication settles on you, and it's only a dull fear in the back of your mind that he might be using some kind of pheromones to deter you from running away, but even though you recognize the diabolical method with which he traps you, you're no longer able to pull yourself together. The desperate demand of lust stirs up in you too strongly, and suddenly it doesn't seem alarming at all, as the tip of the tentacle that ventured into your underwear teasingly slips into your wet heat just for a moment. And you don't even have enough common sense to understand how terribly pitiful it is that you willingly squeeze your trembling body against the stranger like a bitch in heat.
And if the hooded man didn't suddenly freeze over you, you wouldn't even notice what was happening around you, because his presence settles on every single one of your senses, as if someone would drip hot wax on you, slowly closing you in an impenetrable shell, condemning you to eternal lustful suffering. But as vehemently as he started, your attacker ends his torturous game as abruptly, and as the impenetrable veil of the treacly essence in your head is inexplicably replaced by the metallic smell of blood, then your consciousness is able to clear. And although it takes a few excruciating moments before your brain is finally capable of receiving the stimuli from the outside world, then you can hear quite well the pain-filled, enraged groan that breaks out of the monster's mouth, as a large knife lands in the sand with a dull thud a few short seconds later.
And there is nothing tender about the way the long appendages terrorizing you disappear and one hand smoothes on your back to pin you down to the ground, almost ramming you into the cold embrace of the wet soil, and for a moment the air is forced from your lungs, as his huge palm spreads between your shoulder blades with warning roughness. And you understand the silent instruction even without words, and the revived stabbing of fear escaping into your limbs helps to force you into corpse-like immobility. And that's when you hear the soft crunch of the autumn leaves, as something treads through them to sneak cautiously closer to you in the distance. Your frightened gaze is immediately fixed on the trees rising beyond the shore, but for a tense second, you see nothing but darkness shrouded in eerie silence. However, the man notices what you don't, and his robust figure towers over you so possessively, like a rabid animal protecting its prey, and you don't even feel like more than a piece of meat, which the cruel world of the game has turned into such an irresistible reward.
"Get the fuck back into the lake, König!" A deep voice breaks through the heavy quietness of the forest, and you would recognize Johnny's hoarse baritone out of a thousand, because you have been lucky enough to taste the danger of its deceptive bloodlust too many times. But now, as the outline of his body unfolds from under the black veil of shadows among the vegetation, you recognize the murderous anger, the icy tension of which sits in the line of his broad shoulders. And although you only see a distant figure moving out of the corner of your eye, the anxiety in the pit of your stomach immediately tells you that Simon is the one who stalks through the tangle of wild bushes like a big cat about to pounce. "She's ours."
And you can feel on your back how that angry voice resonates through the chest of the beast holding you down, with which he finally responds to the appearance of the uninvited visitors. And for a minute that seems like an eternity, nothing happens, and being stuck in this horrible anticipation, the panic awakens in you, which makes your brain finally able to form meaningful thoughts, and you can spot that tiny little detail that has been resting in front of your nose until now so happily. Because the man's hand is still resting in front of you, digging into the mud, and when you see the row of red beads adorning the thick wrist, the spark of recognition lights up in your head. After all, this terrible place doesn't place anything unnecessarily, and the crimson glimmer that brings the bracelet to life under the silvery rays of the moonlight cannot be a mere coincidence. This is a clue, and perhaps this whole horrible torture has prepared this moment. And you feel in your gut that you have to get it.
Therefore, taking advantage of the fact that the hooded creature is centering all its attention on the enemy hiding in the thick of the trees, one of your hands moves with cautious slowness to crawl toward the jewel, and every single one of your senses is keenly focusing to see when will the creature above you, who is becoming more and more furious, notice what you’re preparing in such great secrecy. And as your fingers get caught in the thin cord of the precious object, you look up in terror at the behemoth above you, and the pounding of your heart in your ears quiets down slightly when you see how unceasingly it scans the emptiness behind the thick trunks. And you only see it in your periphery, as something with a metallic glint shoots out from the infinity of the forest, and that's enough for the tentacles lurking above you to act on their own, wild with rage, certainly working to save their owner from an attack intended to be fatal. However, this one act unleashes all hell, because the monster suddenly loses its patience and launches forward with an aggressive roar like a demonic beast thirsty for blood, and he doesn't even notice how the bracelet is torn off him as he pushes forward toward his opponents who are hiding behind the vegetation.
And you know that you have no time to waste, because it's only a matter of time before the bloodshed unfolds and you become an unwilling participant, from which there will be no way out, only certain death and another miserable awakening in the back seat of the car. So, forcing the will into your limbs, you push yourself up onto your knees, and a series of dark spots swim into your vision, as a knife-like pain shoots into your ankle even from this harmless movement. But you swallow the scream that is about to escape your lips, because if you draw the attention of these scumbags to you now, all your chances of escape will be gone. That's why, overcoming the throbbing ache, you reach towards the pearls scattered in the sand, and as you collect the ruby spheres in your palm, they glow up in red, leaving behind a cool tingling sensation. The smoldering light travels along your arm, and as if guided by an invisible force, reaches your tortured leg, and you watch in amazement as the bruises drawn by the violence disappear from the skin in the wake of the faint glow. It takes a second for you to realize what has happened, and when you notice the sounds of the fight unfolding in the forest, you hastily put your treasure in the safety of your pocket. You'll have time to wonder what the hell is going on when you finally manage to disappear from your pursuers again.
That's why you just spring up nimbly and head towards the multitude of trees, hoping that the battle, drowned in increasingly violent shouts, will drag on long enough for them to lose track of you. Because the night is still long, and you're quite sure that no matter where your path leads, more horrors will be waiting for you, because this damned place will do everything to lock you in the glass cage of its fictional world. But with the map and the pearls in your pocket, the hope, that you might live to see the dawn and you get out of here, finally rekindles in you.
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Sprout [Pero Tovar x f!reader]
Read on AO3
Sequel to Seed.
Fandom: The Great Wall
Ships: Pero Tovar x f!reader
Tags/warnings: Pregnancy, pregnancy kink, pregnant sex, dirty talk, some angst and fighting but also making up with more sex, labor, you get it. Soft Pero!
Words: 5,999
Summary: After trying long and hard, you are finally pregnant. Pero is delighted, but now begins a time of waiting and fussing and, well, lots of sex. That's the plot.
When you finally become pregnant, you know it immediately.
It is eerie, almost magical, the way you just feel something take root in your womb. Not the presence of a person, but just something new, something growing. It is early morning, you awake before Pero, last night’s coupling still a warm, sticky memory on your skin along with his breath, his limbs so tightly wound around yours. You mean to rouse him with kisses and caresses, but then you feel it, and you just know. A blissful smile spreading on your face, you decide to relish this feeling for as long as you can, and so you just stay still and quiet, one hand on your lower abdomen. When Pero eventually stirs, hands and lips starting to claim you, you gently peel them off of you.
“I’m sore,” you whisper to him, accepting a chaste kiss on your lips.
“I’m sorry, my love.”
“Don’t be. I just need a rest.”
He pecks your lips again before releasing you to start the day. You hear him use the chamber pot, and when he comes back into the bedroom, he stops and looks at you, brows drawn together.
"What?" you ask.
"You look different."
"Do I?" You can feel heat rise to your cheeks, but in the same moment you decide not to tell him, not just yet. You want to be sure, live with this new presence by yourself for a couple of days.
"Yes."
He grabs his shirt and trousers, pulling them on while regarding you. You shrug innocently.
"Don't know what it would be."
That was all for that morning.
You tell him about a week later. The feeling of attachment deep within you had not diminished, and you have become more confident that it is real. During the entire week, you have gently turned down Pero's advances, citing tiredness and aches. Pero may be a loving husband, but he does not keep track of your monthly bleeding, and so he seems to have accepted that it's your time of the month, and been content with sweet caresses and kisses.
It's evening when you tell him. You're sitting together outside the house, facing the back garden. Surrounded by fragrance in the dying light, listening the first cicadas of the night starting the concertos, you feel that it is the right time to tell him.
"Husband," you start, lifting your head from his shoulder and facing him. "There is something I need to tell you."
His features are immediately painted with a wariness, like he is expecting bad news. Your sweet warrior husband, always ready for life to be full of hardships. You give him a reassuring smile.
"It's nothing bad, I promise."
"Then what is it?" he barks, hand squeezing yours like he's afraid you are going to get up and leave.
"I'm with child."
His eyebrows shoot up, leaving his eyes round and wide open, just like his mouth.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes," you giggle now, his reaction too amusing not to cause you mirth. "I am certain, Pero, that you are going to be a father."
His face is as raw as it was on your wedding day, the joy shaving years off his scarred features. He raises your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles before pressing your hand to his heart, and then his lips are on yours. You feel him tremble a little, from nerves, happiness, or excitement you don't know, but you pull him in for the kiss, and he relaxes in your arms.
He carries you inside and lays you on the bed, never stopping to kiss you until he has to, in order to pose a question.
"Can we...?"
"I think we can," you answer breathlessly before pulling him in for more kisses. Pero needs no further permission: he lays down over you, stealing your breath away with him kisses before sitting up to get you undressed. When you're naked before him, he leans down to trail soft kisses over your belly.
"My child," he murmurs, looking up at you, eyes shining. "You will take care of my child, won't you?"
"You know I will," you promise, shivering from the goosebumps of pleasure induced by Pero's bristly skin.
"And I will take care of you, wife," he vows, trailing light kisses down between your legs, which fall open to accommodate him.
He’s more gentle than usual, more perceptive of your mewls, the way your legs twitch, your grip on the sheets. It may not be his intention, but he ends up tormenting you even more with his slowness. It is a stark contrast to the frantic fucking of the past few weeks. His seed, shot inside you on a daily basis, has finally taken root, and he seems determined to nourish that little sapling as best he can. Even if that means teasing you at the brink of release until you’re sobbing.
“Pero…!” You’re writhing, trying to push yourself against his mouth for the relief you need, but his arms tighten around your thighs, rendering your lower body immovable.
“Hush,” he admonishes you in a thick whisper. “You have to relax, my darling, you can’t get overexcited.”
You press the back of your head into the pillow and run your fingers through your hair.
“Please,” you whisper desperately, “please, Pero, I can’t bear it any longer.”
You know he’s smiling from the curve of his lips against your sensitive inner thighs, and then he finally takes mercy on you. The orgasm feels stronger than usual, maybe due to the prolonged, sweet torture, or because of your condition. When Pero presses a kiss to your inner thigh, you almost kick him, your legs coming together to seal in the pulses in your pussy, and you turn over onto your side to get away. He lets you be for a moment, hearing from your breathy moans that you are unharmed, but he soon takes a gentle grip of your arm, and makes you roll onto your back again.
“My love,” he hums, dipping down to brush his lips over yours. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” you manage, and that works as enough of a reassurance for him to press his lips to yours. The kiss is sweet enough, but you sense the urgency in him, and his cock is hard and leaking against your thigh.
“Come to me, husband,” you mumble, opening your legs anew. Pero is instantly between them, guiding his cock into you. He slides in easily enough as he lays down over you, and you brace yourself for his usual brand of frenzy. He does, however, stay still, sheathed deeply inside you, as he cradles your face and kisses you. You are full of him, so full, and yet you want more, so you raise your hips to urge him to move.
“Patience, my love,” he reprimands you gently, kissing your forehead before moving his hips only enough to be able to push them into your again. “We have time.”
“I need you,” you pout, happy with how it makes him swallow hard.
“I know, wife, and you shall have me every single day, but we need to be careful. “ Another thrust, slow but so deep, makes you whimper. “We will make sure that the baby grows big and strong.” He thrusts again and your nails press into his back. “I will make sure that you are satisfied, my love, and that our baby is happy as it grows inside you.” One more thrust has you running your nails down his back. Hissing, he punishes you with a stab of his cock right up against your womb, and when you bare your throat to him, he dives down to suck his love marks into your skin. His hips move with more insistence now as he fucks you bruising deep, and when he releases his seed into you, he whimpers in a way you have never heard before. Your arms wrapped around him, you pull him down over you, forcing him to stay inside of you for as long as he’s hard. When he finally rolls off of you, he whispers his I love you first into your ear, then to your belly.
A couple of weeks later, you have your first morning of being sick. Pero had taken to a morning routine of greeting both you and your belly with kisses and caresses, but he barely touched you before you fly out of bed, barely making it to the slop bucket in the kitchen before your stomach turns inside out.
Pero hovers behind you, unsure how to help you as you retch into the bucket, but when you rise and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s there to embrace you, combing your hair away from your face.
“Are you done?”
“I think so,” you tell him weakly, and he carries you back to bed and tucks you in before bringing you water. He then proceeds to building a fire, and making breakfast that he brings in to you.
“You don’t have to fuss,” you tell him, a little embarrassed at his extreme measures. “I’m perfectly capable of making us breakfast.”
“You need rest,” he tells you with a finality that you have never heard from him before. “Take it easy. You work so hard already.”
“No harder than you.”
“When I’m not escorting caravans, I don’t do much. Now eat, if you can stomach it.”
You can, and you’re suddenly ravenous.
After breakfast, you take your basket and go down to the marketplace to do your daily shopping, and when you return to find Pero outside the house, brushing down the horse, you sigh deeply as you put down the basket.
“Well, everybody knows now.”
“Knows what?” Pero asks, resting one hand on the horse’s strong neck. The warm sun has already turned his hairline damp, and he’s squinting against the light. You give him a what do you think? look, and he nods.
“I threw up the second I smelled fish,” you tell him, the sour taste still fresh in your mouth. “We’re having meat for the time being, husband.”
He shrugs, not having a preference one way or the other.
“Suits me fine. Are you well?”
“I’m fine.” You pick up the basket again and kiss his cheek, careful not to exhale what with your breath being so foul. “I’ll go in, put all this away.
“Leave the basket, I’ll carry it inside when I’m done with the horse.”
“I can do it, it’s not heavy.”
He glares at you then, clearly unhappy, but you kiss his cheek again.
“Don’t worry, Pero.”
But he does worry. And his worry grows with each day that starts with you throwing up. You are not showing, and the only sign of your condition, to him, is you being sick. He can’t feel what you feel, the presence inside you, although he tries every night, digging deep and slow into you until you’re begging him to cum because you can’t take it anymore.
That worry culminates one afternoon when he catches you carrying water from the well in your garden.
“Just what the hell do you think you are doing?” he glowers at you as you step in, burdened with one bucket in each hand. You stare at him, not even understanding what he’s talking about.
“What do you mean?”
“You shouldn’t be carrying something so heavy!”
“Pero – “
“You need to be more careful.” He makes it sound like you have been living irresponsibly, and it makes you furious because he has never spoken to you like this before. That scowl of his would scare anyone else in the village, but not you. You simply put down the buckets, your hands coming to your hips as you scowl right back.
“Now you listen to me, Pero Tovar! I am not frail, I am not ill, I am able to perform my chores! I may be pregnant, I may not be able to keep my breakfast, but there is nothing about my state that is abnormal!”
He seems a little taken back with your response but collects himself quickly.
“You should be resting more,” he insists, “and you getting this upset isn’t good for you, either.”
“I am not getting upset, you are making me upset!” you snap, heat rising to your cheeks. “I am doing fine and I would be doing even better if you weren’t so hell-bent on making me feel like I was dying!”
“It is precisely to stop you from dying that I am being so protective!” he bites back. You clearly hit a nerve there, and you’re angry enough to keep pinching it.
“So I cannot carry water during the day, but you can nail me to our bed every night?” you spit. “That’s a very strange way of protecting me, is it not?”
His jaws move, like he’s screaming something new at you, but then he casts down his eyes, his frown still prominent and neck muscles bulging. You cross your arms in front of your chest, waiting for his next move, but he just mutters something before storming out. You stare at the closed door, not expecting his departure. Pero has not survived by backing away from a fight.
You go on doing your chores, your blood coming down from its boil, and by the time supper is on the table, Pero returns. He stands by the door, leaning against it like he’s unsure that he’s welcome, but you gesture silently at his customary seat at the table, so he comes and sits down. You serve the food, you both eat it, and not until your plates are empty does Pero clear his throat.
“I’m sorry for earlier.”
You meet his soft gaze, seeing the regret – but also fear.
“Husband,” you whisper, but he shakes his head.
“I’m so afraid of losing you, my love.”
“I know.”
“I have never had anything as… good, and beautiful, as you, and the thought of losing you…”
“I know, my love,” you nod. You know this fear, but you have not known the same hard life as Pero has, and that helps you in not being ruled by that fear.
“Losing both you and our baby…”
“But you won’t,” you cut him off, softly but with conviction.
“You don’t know that. There is so much that can go wrong.”
“I don’t know that, no. I just believe it. I believe we will be okay in the end.” You reach your hand across the table, and Pero takes it. “Can’t you believe with me?”
A small, hopeful smile lights up his face. “I’ll try.”
Leaving everything on the table, you take him to bed. As you undo his belt, the belt pouch falls to the floor, and you hear the clinking of glass.
“Fuck,” Pero grunts. “I forgot.”
He bends down to pick up the pouch, pulling two bottles from it. He exhales in relief when discovering that they’re not broken.
“What are those?” you want to know, eyeing the two bottles, one larger, the other no bigger than Pero’s thumb.
“I went to the midwife,” he tells you, rolling the small bottle between his fingers. “She says that a couple of drops of this on your tongue every morning will help with your vomiting.”
You pick up the bottle and pull out the cork. The sunny, sweet smell of oranges wafts out. You quirk a brow and look at Pero, who shrugs.
“It’s worth trying, don’t you think?”
“It is.” You put the cork back and close your fingers over the bottle. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“It’s been hard for me to see you be so sick,” he confesses, hand coming to a soft rest on your waist. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not so bad, husband,” you assure him. “It’s just in the mornings, and it’s not going to last.”
“I hope the tincture will help.”
“If not, you have another bottle?”
“Oh.” Pero holds up the bigger bottle, as if he had forgotten about it. “This is not medicine.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s oil for your belly,” he explains, and now his gaze turns soft. “The midwife said that as your belly begins to grow, the skin often turns dry. This is to help with that.”
You smile, your hand coming up to his bristly cheek.
“That’s so sweet of you, Pero.”
“I promise I’ll rub it onto you every night, starting now,” he vows with a mischievous little smile, and you giggle.
“I’m not showing yet!”
“The midwife said it’s important to start before the skin begins to stretch, so would you please take your clothes off, wife, and lie down on the bed.”
You laugh, but it’s not you who ends up lying on the bed, it’s Pero.
“You’ve been so good to me,” you purr, sitting astride him and teasing his cock hard by rubbing your cunt against it. “Let me take care of you now, husband.”
“Yes,” he swallows hard, “my love, please.”
You kiss the wet tip of his cock, nip at the head, trail the veins down his length with your tongue, make him whine and writhe and come apart for you. You give him only a moment to catch his breath before you take his cock in your hand and stroke it to keep it hard. Pero inhales with a hiss.
“Oh, fuck, careful…!”
“I am being careful,” you promise as you keep your touch light. “I just need to make sure that you are able to service me, husband.”
“Always,” he chokes as you sit astride him.
“My cunt is hungry for your big cock, my love.”
“Oh, please… please… ahhh!” You sink down on him, your wet cunt splitting open but taking all of him, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you exhale in a loud moan. Your eyes have closed involuntarily, and when you open them, you see Pero looking up at you with awe in his eyes.
“I love you,” he whispers, and you bend down to kiss him.
“I love you, too.”
His hands splay over your lower abdomen. “And I love you.”
You kiss him again and start to move your hips. Your love life has been less frantic since you became pregnant, but it is not lacking in passion. Your slow, meticulous grind reflects that, and when Pero reaches for the oil bottle next to him on the bed, you sit up straight and let him rub the oil onto your skin.
“You are so beautiful,” he sighs as he circles his rough hand over your soft stomach. “And you will be even more beautiful when you start to show.”
“Will I”? you coax him, and he nods.
“I want you to ride me like this when you’re big and round, wife.” His voice drops, and the way it drips hot honey down your spine makes you clench. “I want you to take your pleasure from me likes this when you’re so big that you can hardly move, and your tits are leaking milk.”
“And if I can’t?” you breathe. His eyes are molten coal when he stares at you.
“Then I will help you.”
With that, he slides hand to where your bodies come together. His oiled fingers dance easily on your nub, and with his help, you ride him home, taking his load deep into your slick, warm cunt.
Your nausea does not bother you as much the following morning. Pero credits it to the tincture but you know that something has shifted in your relationship, become easier and more earnest.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go.”
You squeeze Pero’s arm against your side. “It’s a little too late for that now.”
“I can still tell them – “
“They need you,” you remind him. “So many people depend on you.”
“You are the most important one of all of them,” he points out, stopping in the middle of the street and turning to you. His free hand, the one that’s not holding the reigns of the horse, comes to rest on your slightly rounded belly. “You, and the little one.”
“It’s only a week.” You cup his cheek, stroke your thumb over his lips. “It’s not a long time. You’ll make good money, and I promise that I’ll rest.”
He raises his brows, and you laugh at his skepticism.
“I promise!” you hold up your hand to your chest. “I promise, Pero, you know you can trust my word, right?”
“I know,” he nods, now smiling, before dipping down to kiss you softly. The horse snorts, and Pero ends the kiss with a quick peck on your lips, before you once again take his arm, and walk to the town square where the caravan is getting ready to leave. Pero was early on asked to provide security for it, and even though he was loathe to leave you for an entire week, both of you knew he would. Winter is on its way, trading will come to a stop, and he will be free to spend the rest of your time at home.
You nod at familiar faces when you reach the square, but soon have only eyes for Pero as he takes you in his arms. You expect admonition and reprobation, but only receive whispered assurances of his love for you.
“You will take care of yourself, won’t you?” he finally asks, when the caravan leader is announcing departure. You give him a naughty smile.
“Take care of myself how…?”
He grins back. “You know how. I left you the oil, and the memory of me.”
“My own fingers are nothing compared to you, my love.”
“As my hand is a meagre substitute for your warm, wet cunt,” he breathes against your ear. There is time for a hot yet subdued kiss, and a quick caress of your belly, before Pero has to mount his horse. He blows you a kiss and is off.
The week passes slowly and uneventfully. It rains a lot, which means you keep mostly indoors, and it makes you a little restless. The baby is restless as well; you feel it twitching and floundering almost every hour that you are awake. It is a comfort, knowing that you are not alone, but you still miss Pero.
It is late night when he returns. You are already in bed but the sounds of the wagons returning to the village draws you out of bed. You pull a shawl around your shoulders, but don’t get dressed, loath to leave the warmth of the house to go out into the late autumn chill. It does not take long before Pero rides into the yard, dismounting midstride when you come out onto the doorstep. He rushes to you, lips on yours before he’s even wrapped his arms around you. His lips are cold but his breath is warm, and his body fits to yours perfectly, shielding you from the cold.
“Are you well?” are his first words to you.
“We are both well, husband. How about you? How was the journey?”
“Uneventful. I am unharmed.”
He falls to his knees, hands tracing the roundness of your stomach through the nightgown before pressing a kiss to it.
“Hello, little one.”
You feel the baby move, and then a powerful jerk. Pero flinches, then looks up at you, mouth open.
“Was that…?”
“Yes,” you smile, hand coming to cup the top of his head. “That was our baby, my love, saying welcome home.”
“Was it really?”
You nod, your smile growing wider as you watch Pero stare at your clothed belly, hand circling it in search of another kick. A light breeze sweeps across the yard, and you shudder.
“Let’s go inside, husband.”
He has to put away the horse first, so you prepare a small supper while you wait for him to come in. When he finally does, he forgoes any food, instead taking you to bed. Balls deep in you and kissing your breath away, he tells you over and over again how much he loves you.
Winter slows down the entire village, although you feel slower than ever before with each passing week. Your belly grows, and with it your tiredness. Your feet hurt, your hips hurt, you back hurts, you feel clumsy, and you're hungry all the time. Pero takes all your griping in stride, helping you with your heavier chores that you finally relinquish to him. He rubs your belly and breasts with oil every night, and pleasures you with his mouth, fingers, and cock every time you ask for it – which varies from day to day. Some days you cannot have enough of him, others you can barely stand the thought of sleeping with him. Your patient husband takes no offense at your ever-changing mood.
You realize very soon that you have been incredibly lucky in your choice of husband – not that you didn’t know that before, of course. When going to the marketplace and meeting the village women, your growing belly gives you a new role in the group. The younger women titter, the older give advice or tell crude jokes that make you blush.
“Glowing skin, hazy eyes,” one comments one morning by the vegetable stand, “and him looking like the king of the world. Neither one of you goes wanting, that’s for sure.”
Your cheeks heat up. The comment is spoken without malice, and in a pleased tone, but it feels like the speaker had direct access to your bedroom that morning, seen you come apart on Pero’s cock, witnessed him fuck his cum deep inside you.
You mumble something, and the older woman chuckles.
“I’ve had five, and my husband serviced me with all five of them. A father’s seed will make the baby grow strong. Your child will be born big and healthy, I can see that.”
The baby moves in your belly, bringing a smile to your face. You look up at the woman, see her friendly face, and thank her, before slinking away and finding Pero at another stand. He takes the basket from you, offers you his arm, and you walk home together. As you put away your purchases in the kitchen, Pero breathes life back into the fire, and you sink down onto a chair with a sigh. He runs his gaze over you, a frown on his face.
“Are you okay, my love?”
“Just a little tired,” you promise as you rub your belly. The baby kicks against your hand before settling down, maybe to sleep. You look at your husband, crouching by he fire, and clear your throat.
“Pero?”
“Yes?”
“Do the men in the village talk about… pregnancy?”
He looks up at you again. “What do you mean?”
“The women – “
“Women talk a lot of rubbish,” he scoffs, and you grimace at his dismissal of your sex.
“Sorry,” he immediately apologizes, and you glare at him to let him know that he is only barely being let off the hook. “Tell me, my love, what do they say?”
“They talk about pregnancy, how the baby is carried, what sex it probably is, cravings, pains, aches… and intimacy. And I was wondering if men do the same.”
Pero directs his attention to the fire for a moment.
“They do speak of the pregnancy, but more of the children once they are born,” he tells you softly. “They speak of what it is to watch a child grow, how to provide for it, the way you worry about it all the time.”
“But nothing of the pregnancy?” you press, and he shoots you a teasing smile.
“A little, but only things I will not repeat to you.”
“Pero, I am no dainty little thing that you have to protect!” you roll your eyes, and Pero laughs before putting another log on the growing fire, then closing the hatch.
“I do know that, wife,” he acknowledges. Coming to his feet, he walks over to you, and sinks to his knees before you.
“I will tell you what they say,” he rumbles, his deep voice making your heart skip a beat. “Many of them speak of wives who become voracious when heavy with child.”
His hands, warm and large, rest softly on your knees, and start to carefully separate your thighs. You lick your lips quickly, leaving your mouth open as your breath turns heavier.
“They speak of wives who crave cock every single day.” Pero lifts your skirt up, leaning in to kiss the inside of your thigh. “They say that fucking a pregnant wife is the best feeling in the world.” He presses another bristly kiss to your sensitive skin. “To fill her already full womb even more…” Another kiss. “To have her sensitive cunt wrapped around your cock… how she mewls underneath you as you fuck your seed into her… it is heaven.”
He looks up at you, eyes dark, a smug smirk on his lips. “And they are right.”
“Pero,” you beg breathlessly, your cunt dripping from his words, your body ablaze for his touch.
“Come here, my love.”
He pulls you down on the floor, and you help him undo his trousers to get his cock out. Crouching astride him, feet firmly planted on the floor, you sink down his length, Pero supporting you with strong arms, even he can no longer reach around you. You ride him with impatience, one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping his leg behind you, your lips on his lips, his neck, his shoulder.
“My love,” he gasps, “take what you need from me, use me, just like that, use my cock…”
You whine before baring your throat and hanging your head back, chest out, Pero dipping down to suck a leaking nipple into his mouth. You moan as your body is in spasms from the sweet release, and Pero plants a hand on the floor behind him, and thrusts up into you, grunting with effort as he seeks his own climax. You encourage him with moaned filthy words of your own, choked out as he slams into you, again and again, until he grips your buttock hard to keep you still on his cock, and you feel him fill up your core.
He lays down on the floor after, pulling you down next to him to give you a sweet kiss.
“My darling wife,” he sighs before kissing you again.
“My darling husband,” you smile, a satisfied shudder running through you as his seed oozes out between your swollen lips. “I am utterly disheveled. I won’t be able to show myself at the sewing circle later today.”
“Good,” he yawns, pulling you closer. “It is a husband’s duty to keep his wife disheveled with his love.”
“I cannot argue with that,” you giggle, and he kisses you yet again.
It starts in the early hours of the darkest winter morning. You wake up from a sharp pain, and before you’re properly awake, you realize that your nightgown is soaking wet. As you sit up to light a candle, another stab of pain makes you whimper, and you drop the fire striker. Pero stirs and reaches for you, only to be awake and sitting straight almost immediately.
“It has started,” you whisper. “I’m all wet. Pero, light a candle.”
He does as he’s told, and you throw the covers to the side, finding that your water has broken. No blood, as you secretly feared, but only water.
“I’ll get the midwife,” Pero tells you resolutely, but you can hear the worry in his voice. “My love, are you in very much pain?”
“Not too much,” you reassure him, getting out of the bed as he springs up to get dressed. You pull your shawl over your shoulders and start walking around, as the women of the village have told you to do. The pains come in sharp stabs, but they’re manageable.
Pero looks desolate to leave you, but you wave him off with a smile and a kiss.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, just go get her.”
When the midwife arrives, she gives you a quick examination before shaking her head.
“Go back to bed,” she tells both of you. “It’s going to be another day or even two before it starts, so get all the rest you can.”
“Are you sure?” Pero demands in his most imposing voice. The midwife does not even blink as she collects her things.
“Make her as comfortable as you can.” She turns to you. “Rest but walk around every chance you get. And if something seems amiss, come get me again.”
She takes her leave, and Pero grumbles about the lack of sympathy. You, however, have heard a lot more about labor, so you just shake your head at him.
“Help me change the sheets, husband, and come to bed. You heard what she said.”
“You are in pain!”
“It’s not so bad anymore,” you tell him truthfully, and start to strip the wet sheets from the bed. Loath to have you do it by yourself, Pero comes to help you, giving him something else to think about. When you’re back in bed, embraced and sleepy yet too nervous to rest, he caresses the roundness of your belly.
“I can’t wait to meet our baby,” he whispers to you.
“I feel the same.”
“What are you hoping for? A boy or a girl?”
“I don’t care,” you yawn, “as long as it’s healthy. Any child that is half you is going to be perfect.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Late in the following night, the contractions change, become more intense and frequent. You send Pero to the midwife again, and this time she stays. You have prepared during the day so there are linens and boiled water to be had. Pero is dismissed from the bedchamber, and you see that he wants to fight the midwife on that decision, but you just shake your head at him, and he heeds your wish. But when the midwife tells you that you are crowning, that the baby is coming, and the contractions are sucking all the strength from your muscles, you scream for your husband. He nearly takes the door off its hinges as he barges in, all but brandishing the sword he has not touched since his last caravan. He takes your hand between his and kisses it.
“My love,” he breathes, “my strong, beautiful wife. You can do it, I know you can.”
Your baby is born with a few pushes, and the first scream that cuts through the night makes your tears fall.
“You have a son,” the midwife announces as she wraps up the baby and puts it on your chest.
“A son,” you repeat, not really understanding the words.
“I have a son,” Pero mumbles, his voice thick. You glance up at him, but he is only looking at the baby.
“Pero…”
“I have a son.”
Suddenly, he spurts out of the room, leaving you to stare after him, mouth agape. You hear the front door slam open, and then Pero bellowing into the night:
“I have a son!”
You chuckle, tears streaming down your cheeks, and when Pero returns, his eyes are shining as well.
“My love,” he whispers. “My love. My life. I love you so much.”
You can’t speak, this is all too much, you are exhausted and hurting and happy and sweaty and bursting with joy. As the midwife retires to the kitchen, Pero lays down next to you, cradling the baby in your arms.
“My son,” he whispers, his voice thick. “We have a son, my love.”
“We do.”
“I will always take care of him, and of you, this I promise you.”
“You already do, my love,” you smile, and Pero kisses first your forehead, then the baby’s.
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Unwanted: Chapter 22, Untold - Pt. 1
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader
Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.
Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, alcohol consumption, strippers,
Word Count: 1.5k
Previously On...: Tony expressed his concerns about you going on this mission.
A/N: When Tony Met Pocket!
NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates
Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!
Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!
Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43
Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc
Boston, 2002
The bass inside the club was pounding, reverberating through the air and your skull as you made your way onto the floor. The day had already been unbearably long, and after your shift tonight, you still had a mountain of reading to do for your Introduction to Data Structures and Algorithms class. But, MIT courses didn’t come cheap, even at two classes a semester, and you needed every penny you could make from your shifts at Beantown Burlesque. It would make more sense, financially, to work a club closer to the college, but the idea of running into any of your classmates or, god forbid, your professors, made the extra time and money you spent commuting from Cambridge to inner Boston completely worth it.
Not that you expected a lot of tips tonight. It would have been better if you’d been scheduled to work the stage before they sent you to the floor; you were always requested for more lap dances after the patrons had seen you work the pole. You’d just have to work your ass off to entice a couple of lonely men into the VIP booth. But that always came with the additional task of fighting off requests for additional “services.” You may have been desperate for cash, but you were quite done with having your body sold for money, thank you.
You made your way over to the bar, hoping to get some intel on tonight’s patrons so you could shoot your best shot.
“How’s it goin’ tonight, Cherry Pie?” the bartender, Mac, asked, using the pseudonym you’d chosen for your stage name when you started at the club a year ago.
“No complaints yet, Mac,” you said, gratefully accepting the glass of water he offered you– it was important to stay hydrated, after all, “but then again, the night is very young.”
Mac let out a gruff laugh as he wiped down a glass. “You’re too young to be so cynical, Cherr,” he said.
You shrugged. That was an understatement. “Any good prospects tonight?” you asked, leaning your elbows on the bartop.
Mac nodded his chin toward a group of young men sitting close to the stage. “That group over there’s racked up a pretty big tab so far. Think they’re from the MIT alumni conference.” That piqued your interest. Beantown Burlesque might not be the ideal place to network, but you’d honestly take whatever you could get.
“They seem decent enough?” you asked Mac.
“About as decent as any group of blokes that come here,” he offered. “But they’ve been pretty respectful so far; no one’s tried to put hands anywhere they shouldn’t.”
“Good enough for me,” you told him. With a parting wave, you sauntered over to the group, making sure to put some extra sway in your hips. As you approached, you surveyed the collection of men. They all seemed to be centering their focus on one man in particular– he was dark haired with a goatee and wearing a pair of tinted glasses and looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place where you might have seen him before. You clocked his expensive loafers and custom Armani suit, and the way the others around him laughed a little too loudly at what he was saying.
That’s the one, you thought to yourself. He had the money. If you were going to make your rent on time this month, he was the one you’d need to impress.
“You boys fancy some company tonight?” you asked once you approached the group. The man with the goatee leaned forward, a sure sign of interest, and looked at you over the lens of his glasses.
“Well, gorgeous,” he said with a smirk, “we're not ones to turn down an offer for good companionship, especially from someone as captivating as you. But let's be real, the question is whether you can keep up with us. Think you're ready for the challenge?”
Oh, this one was cocky. You could work with that. You trailed your fingertips along the tops of his shoulders as you made your way around to the table in front of him. Without breaking eye contact, you picked up the double shot of whiskey sitting there and downed the entire thing in one swig without flinching.
The other men in the group whooped and hollered at your display, but the man with the goatee just studied you with a peculiar look on his face. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.
“You can call me Cherry Pie,” you said as you began swaying your hips to the rhythm of the music coming through the speakers.
“I didn’t ask what they call you here,” he said, leaning back as you put your hands on his shoulder and began swaying in between his legs. “I asked for your name.”
“You haven’t spent nearly enough to earn that, honey,” you said as you gyrated.
The man laughed at that, then, reaching for his wallet, pulled out a handful of crisp, one hundred dollar bills. He gently tucked them into the waistband of your bottoms. “How’s that?”
You looked at the bills tucked into your underwear. By your guess, there was about eight hundred dollars there. You just might make rent, after all. “It’s a start,” you shrugged, beginning your tried and true lap dance routine.
One of the other men in the group let out a loud laugh. “She’s sure got your number, Stark!”
At the name, your eyes shot to the man with the goatee’s face, and it suddenly clicked for you. “Holy shit,” you breathed. “You’re Tony Stark.”
Stark smiled. “Guilty as charged, sweetheart.”
“Your company’s network security sucks ass,” you told him, the words coming out of your mouth before you could stop them.
He quirked an eyebrow at that. “Excuse me?”
Fuck. “Uh, nothing, sorry. Forget I said anything.” You put a renewed vigor back into your dance.
“Um, no.” Stark said, grasping your wrist firmly enough to encourage you to stop dancing, but gently enough to let you know he posed you no threat. “I want to hear how a stripper knows the faults of my network security.”
You blushed at that. “I, uh, may have broken in the back door and temporarily held your system hostage for ten minutes last May,” you confessed.
“That was you?” Stark exclaimed. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he sounded… impressed. “You paralyzed our entire operation!”
“Yeah… sorry about that.” Well, you could kiss any further tips goodbye, that was for sure.
“Why’d you relinquish control back to us?” he asked. “You could have held it for ransom; we would have paid whatever you asked for.”
Huh. You had never even considered doing that. “Well, um, actually, I did it as part of a final project? For my Engineering Ethics and Professionalism course at MIT?”
Stark cocked his head at you. “With Erickson?” You nodded, and Stark actually laughed. “He still a narcissistic son of a bitch?”
You chuckled and nodded. “Sexist, too. He nearly shat a brick when he had to watch a mere girl bring a Fortune 500 company to its knees.”
Stark laughed, heartily. “I’ll bet he did! What I wouldn’t have given to see his face!”
“I set up a camera to record it,” you told him. “I can make you a copy of the VHS, if you want. I needed to capture the moment for posterity.”
From there, the atmosphere and your position in the group shifted. You were no longer the entertainment. Tony (he insisted you call him that) invited you to join him as his equal, and for the next several hours, he picked your brain, testing your knowledge and asking you questions about yourself, much to the displeasure of the rest of his group. One by one, they departed, until it was just the two of you. You were having the time of your life. You figured you’d never again have the opportunity to sit back and just hang out with such an icon of the tech community, and you were going to make the most of it. Now, here you were playing a game of Never Have I Ever.
“Never have I ever sheared a sheep,” Tony said with a grin.
“Why, Mr. Stark,” you said, bringing your glass to your lips (you failed to mention that, technically, you weren’t legally old enough to drink), “you haven’t truly lived until you’ve shorn the raw wool from an unwilling ewe.”
“You’re shitting me,” Tony said, laughing.
You took the glass from your lips without drinking. “You got me,” you told him. I grew up in Dayton. Not a whole lotta opportunities for sheep shearing there.”
A mischievous glint came into Tony’s eyes. “Your shift’s got to be almost over,” he said. “What do you say, Cherry Pie? Wanna go shear a sheep?”
“(Y/N),” you told him. “My name’s (Y/N), and I would fucking love to.”
<- Previous Part / Next Part ->
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Saw some people trying to explain this in the replies of another post and other people were coming in with well meaning misinformation, so I’m gonna make my own, hopefully clear, post on it:
If you are uploading a work on ao3, you use:
Character/Character for romantic and/or sexual relationships between the characters
And
Character&Character for relationships outside of romance and sex, so like friends, families, coworkers, etc
If two characters are in a sexual and/or romantic relationship of some kind, but you want to show that it’s not a main part of the fic, you still tag it with the “/“ and then under “categories” you click “gen”, that means a fic is more “general” and isn’t about a relationship
Or you can avoid tagging a couple and just add in the tags “fic includes [pairing] but just in the background” or something else along those lines
If you put “&” and then it turns out the characters are together, even if it’s just mentioned, it’s gonna frustrate people who have that as a notp, and for people who maybe like that pairing, they’re gonna avoid it because they think it’s just a platonic relationship
If you put “/“ and the characters aren’t together, people who clicked on your fic for that pairing are gonna click right out, and people who have that as their notp aren’t gonna click it at all
You could technically tag a fic both ways, but honestly you shouldn’t, because many people will filter out one kind (if they only want platonic fics, they’ll filter out “/“ and vice versa) and many times readers will just get confused about what you’re trying to convey the story’s about and may avoid your work
If your work is more ambiguous on the type of relationship they’re in, then you put that in the tags, I know one common tag for m/m pairings is “pre-slash or gen” because you can read it either as this is before they get into a sexual and/or romantic relationship or they just have a platonic relationship
Hopefully this was helpful!
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23 asks! Thank you!! :}} 🎀
what
Originally I added the bandages to mirror my real hands being covered in Band-Aids when I made my sona. :0 (It was due to cat scratches and dry skin don't worry-)
Now they represent my "artist hands".... and my still really dry skin XDD
Oh yeah absolutely. His crab arm is so heavy that if he falls into the water he'll sink 😬 he cant move it fast enough to help him swim to the surface.. good thing Blue Beauty is always nearby! <XD
It also takes a lot of energy to move and he deals with sore back/shoulder muscles a lot. The way the crab arm formed, its like all the muscles in his back are used to lift and operate it. When he walks around he kind'a uses it as a crutch or a third leg. His legs each take a step and then his crab arm lifts forward and clunks on the ground.
"tap tap.. CLUNK. tap tap.. CLUNK."
Despite all this though, Louis still really likes his new arm and isn't bothered much by all the hardships it brings :)
@neo-metalscottic
Thank you so much!!! :DD I'm hoping I get over this soon 🥺
As for Grim's eyes, I mention that coloring mistake in the tags of this post. It was simply a matter of me misremembering what Gengar looks like :// But I'm thinking I'll keep his white eyes anyways. He looks a lot more friendly that way :}}
THEY HAVE SPARKS?? THEY'RE INDIVIDUALS?? I thought they were just mindless clones! Man.. That makes things in the show even darker-- <XDD
And ohhh, yeah I can see it. I wonder why they decided to add him of all characters? He does have cool shades tho XDD
@holly-opal
Yeah, that's the idea. <:/ I have yet to plan out how she died tho-
@glitchhayden418
There she is!! :DD She looks great!! :}}
And thank you, I'm hoping I get well soon too 🙂💔
She never has to stop! I've decided that my characters can eat as much as they want, whenever they want, however they want, and suffer absolutely no consequences what so ever.
Cici just seems to be taking advantage of this ability more than the others <XDD
@artblock200322022
:DD Thank you!! I'm so glad you like my interpretation of the Octonauts! :}}
@possibly-astraeus
Oof. Always disappointing to hear people finding me through stolen artwork..
But yeah, you're at the source now! :} Just remember, if you find my artwork anywhere else other than here? Its stolen ://
@shallow-isles
I simply misremembered what Gengar looks like and colored his eyes wrong :/// (I talk about it in the tags of this post) But I think I'll keep them white. He just looks so friendly and soft with white eyes.. 🥺
As for Sylveon, I like to think that tying his ribbons around others like that is his way of giving them a hug :}} Since Grim is so r o u n d, there's not many places the ribbons can comfortably tie and not be in Grim's way. His ears are the perfect spot! :}
@tallchest13-blog
THANK YOU! :D WOULD YOU BE UPSET IF I GAVE THIS TEA TO CICI THO? SHE REALLY WANTS TO TRY IT :((
@aishutoon
Ohh! They look so round and cozy!! :333
@yourstrulylightstar283 (Referencing this post)
Thank you! :}}}
@circadiananomaly (24k post in question)
Thank you! I'm hoping this is all over soon as well. :'(((
@candyglumboy
Like, my Pokémon Violet team? :0 There will not be any new members no.. you can only have 6 Pokémon in your party at a time!
...Then again there's Patty.. the Hoppip that Anastasia replaced.. I miss her.. 🥺💔💔💔
I hope I feel good too.. 😔😔😔
@graminos
:DD Thank you! I'm glad you like them!! :}}}}
(Post in question)
Me reading this ask ksjnakjn 🥺🥺💞💞💞 that was all basically on point!! :DDD
@youlikwjazz004
I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea how to explain that :'(( 💔💔
The very best I can explain my art process is; "I just.. draw it. And if it doesn't feel right, I just draw it differently until it does feel right." Its all down to muscle memory and drawing what "feels" right. I don't think I'm able to explain that-- 😭😭😭 I'm very sorry! <:'(((
@askladyinwhiteandfam
Woah! What a critter! :00 ✨✨It looks great! :DD
@square-the-cyan-idiot542
WAAAHGG THANK YIU!!!- Oh crap you ok tho--
@littlelightfish (Post in question)
:DD Thank you! I'm so glad you like him!! :}}}
@beryl-shade
He'd be amazed! :00
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Chapter 5: Your Opal Eyes Are All I Wish To See
Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader
Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy?
Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, First Kiss, Tags Updated Per Chapter
Author's Note: this is a short chapter sorry!
Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay
Chapter List
It was comical, the way the cricket chirping filled in the silence as you stared at the older man. Your mouth formed the words but nothing came out, leaving you looking like a fool. You glanced between the two men, Hosea having a sympathetic look on his face. You couldn’t see Arthur, as he was behind you, but you quite honestly didn’t want to see his reaction. A sinking feeling formed in your gut. Did he know the entire time?
“I… what?” You finally found your voice, barely. You had to admit, it did make sense. You knew so little about his work, only knowing that he did distillery work, but made a surprising amount of money from it. It wouldn’t be surprising if he was actually invested in more… illegal means of work.
“If there’s a moonshine shack in the western states, then Mr. Kerrigan is tied to it. Either he owns it, supplies it, or gets a cut from it. No matter where you look, his fingers are all over it.” Hosea spoke, he and Dutch had moved closer to you now, now that they realized you wouldn’t lash out angrily at the information.
“Alright…” you took a breath. “So how does this include me?”
The two gentlemen looked surprised at your willingness, and that predatory smile returned to Dutch’s face. “You see, Arthur told us you might be willin’ to help us… deter your husband from further illegal endeavors… while we get our own cut, of course.”
At the mention of Arthur, you turned to look at him, finding him glaring at Dutch. “I thought I told you I don’t want her involved in this.”
“I know. But we couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”
Another sinking feeling formed, this one stronger than he last, and the thought was dizzying. Did he only get close to you to secure a job?
You had to turn away from Arthur, no longer able to look at him. You didn’t think he’d be that cruel, right? Still, you couldn’t help the hurt and anger swirling in your mind.
Silence hung in the air now, and even the crickets seemed to realize the gravity of the situation, halting their songs. “Let’s continue this conversation inside,” you said through the lump in your throat. Climbing up the stairs of the porch, you held the door open, gesturing for the men to come inside. “Go ahead and take a seat in the living room. Just take your shoes off,” you added as they entered.
Arthur stayed put, looking at you with an indistinguishable expression. He murmured your name gently, but you just shook your head. Sighing, Arthur slowly climbed the stairs, halting in front of you in the doorway. When you still didn’t look at him, he continued on inside, glancing back at you with guilt in his eyes.
Dutch and Hosea sat on one of the couches, chatting between each other, and Arthur sat on the one beside them. They stopped their conversation when you walked in, and you shook your head, signaling for them to continue. “I’ll go get some tea,” you murmured, heading to the kitchen, and you heard them resume talking, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying.
You took a shaky breath once you were alone in the kitchen, bracing yourself against the countertop. You felt like you should’ve been more surprised about your husband's true business, but that wasn’t what was causing the negative emotion you weren’t feeling. Those two questions were playing on repeat in your head, and left you analyzing every moment you’d had with Arthur, questioning the authenticity of them.
The clinking of his gun belt moving as we walked brought you back to the present. Straightening up, you grabbed the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove, and began the process of boiling it. You didn’t even look at Arthur, not even when he said your name again.
“I’ll be out in a moment,” you responded, grabbing teacups and saucers. You hated the way your hands were shaking slightly.
Arthur didn’t respond, and you thought he left, until you felt him beside you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the proximity of his body. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and that all but confirmed your thoughts.
“So you knew?” You stepped away from him, grabbing the tea leaves, strainer, and a few sugar cubes in a small bowl. Tears welled in your eyes, his silence speaking for him. You laughed bitterly. “You didn’t think that was important to tell me?”
“I didn’t know it was moonshine.”
“But you knew he was doin’ somethin’ illegal.”
Again, his silence spoke volumes. “I could care less if he was breakin’ the law. I don’t care that he’s sellin’ moonshine, or whatnot. But imagine if someone found out. I mean, y’all were able to. That would wreck my family. Any credibility gone, like that. And then what? I’m married to some old sack of shit with no income who can’t help my family and who doesn’t give a damn about me!” You really tried to keep your voice down, but you still found it rose in volume as the words spewed from you. “Those two years I sacrificed, worth nothing. So I apologize for my anger, but I don’t think any of you realize how ugly this could get.”
You barely felt the tears streaming down your face, panting as you caught your breath. There was still one question that burned in the back of your mind. Finally turning to face him, he stared at you wide eyes. “You know, you’re a damn good actor, Arthur Morgan. I guess I should’ve expected that from an outlaw. For a moment, I really thought you actually cared about me.”
That seemed to get him out of whatever shocked trance he was in. “Whaddya mean?” He asked, genuinely confused. Or at least you thought it was genuine. You couldn't trust your judgment anymore.
“Don’t lie. All this, gettin’ close to me, little touches, nearly kissin’ me. It was all a ruse, wasn’t it? Just to get the money, and once you get it, you’re gonna vanish, leaving me heartbroken and alone and stuck.”
“Darlin’,” he muttered, and you scoffed.
“Don’t. You don’t get to call me that like you… like you mean it.”
“But I do mean it. I know what this looks like, but please… please don’t think that the past weeks have been fake.” Arthur slowly moved toward you, and when you didn’t back up, he continued until he was right in front of you, just like he had been a bit ago.
“Then what should I think, Arthur?” You whispered.
“I can’t tell you that,” Arthur admitted. “But I can tell ya what you should know. You should know that I fought ‘em both on this job. You should know that I’ll make sure that nothin’ happens to you and your family. And you should know that I truly do care ‘bout you, darlin’. More than I can put into words.”
The kettle whistled, but it was all background noise to you. You also noticed the way Dutch and Hosea had ceased their conversation, blatantly eavesdropping on the two of you. You didn’t care. All that mattered was the man in front of you. It was hard to stay upset at him though, when he was looking at you so fondly, so softly.
“You mean it?”
Arthur smiled a bit, relieved. “I do.” You felt him bring his hands up to your face, gently brushing away the tears. “I hate seein’ you cry. And I hate that I was the reason why.” He held you for a few moments, and you felt the tears subside, your cheek only slightly damp.
The kettle’s noise finally registered in your brain, and you gestured to it with your head. “Mind takin’ that off for me?” You croaked out, voice still recovering.
Without another word, Arthur did as you asked, the annoying noise disappearing. You grabbed the teacups with their saucers and set them on a tray, along with the other components needed. You walked past him with the tray in your hands, heading to the living room. You walked with the confidence of someone that wasn’t just crying, and you prayed that your eyes weren’t puffy.
“Go ahead and bring that kettle with you,” you called over your shoulder.
Setting the tray on the coffee table, you took the kettle from Arthur. Pouring out cups for each of the men, you sat once you’d finished, leaving the kettle in reach of the men. Sitting across from them, you observed them preparing their drinks, and Arthur stood around, not quite sure where to sit. Moving over, you patted the cushion next to you with a soft smile.
With an equally soft expression, he sat next to you, and you resisted the urge to burrow yourself in his side. “Mrs. Kerrigan, thank you for inviting us into your home-”
You cut Dutch off with a light laugh. “No need to be so formal. We’re alone, ain’t we?”
“That we are,” Dutch agreed. “Should we get straight to the point, then?” You nodded. “As we said, Mr. Kerrigan runs the moonshine business in this part of the States. As you were made aware, we ain’t exactly upholders of the law, so we ain’t exactly looking to stop him. We only wish to sabotage him a bit. Attack his supplies on the road, destroy a few of his distilleries. That way, he starts looking for guns to hire. And that’s where Arthur and the rest come in. We’ll offer our services, protect his goods, and we’ll get paid.”
“Alright, that sounds like a decent enough plan, but how does this involve me?” You watched Dutch set the drink down on the tray, halfway drunk.
Hosea spoke now. “We have no idea where anything is at. We have no idea where the caravans are, where the shacks are, who he gets his supplies from. Nothing. We need you to get information for us.”
“You’ll probably have better luck doin’ it yourself, to be honest. He tells me nothin’.”
“We know that. We’re talking about physical evidence. Letters, logbooks, stuff like that.”
“That’ll probably be in his office, but I ain’t got access to that. Again, why don’t you go ahead and just break in yourself and I’ll just, I dunno, not pay attention.”
Hosea sighed. “Because the man sitting beside you would kill us if we broke into your house.”
So that’s what he meant when he said that you weren’t to be messed with.
You still didn’t think that they needed your help, but a new thought had you grinning. “Are… are y’all askin’ for my permission to rob my house and husband by havin’ me do it myself?”
“In a backwards way, yes,” Hosea conceded, and you snorted. “Arthur did also say you might be interested in… getting back at Mr. Kerrigan, in some way.” It was Hosea’s turn to set the cup down, this one completely empty. You noticed that Arthur hadn't made a move for his own cup, which sat steaming where you’d set it.
You had to admit, the thought was appealing, and you told them that. “It’s just, I’m afraid how this might end up affecting my family. What if he stops sendin’ my them money ‘cause he doesn’t want to lose more?”
Dutch and Hosea looked at you, confused. That’s when you realize you said too much; the only person beside you to know what was actually going on with your family was Arthur. It did mean that he had upheld his promise that he wouldn’t tell anyone else, though, and you were grateful for that. Still, you explained to the two men your situation, withholding details you deemed they didn’t need to know.
“I see,” Hosea shifted in his seat, giving you a sympathetic look. “We can’t promise that he won’t stop sending money, but we don’t plan on asking for a significant sum. Just enough to… help us.”
“And I want to help you, too. But you have to understand where my priorities lie. The minute he even debates ceasing his help to my family, then this is done. You stop attackin’ his supplies, his shacks, everything. If I find out you’re continuing afterwards, then I will be involvin’ the law.”
Hosea nodded, content with your response. “So you’re willing to help us?”
I want to help Arthur. You nodded, and Dutch extended out a hand. “It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Mrs. Kerrigan.”
You took his hand, shaking it. “You too, Mr. Van Der Linde.”
You could feel Arthur’s eyes on you, unknowing that you knew what his last name was. You weren’t stupid. As soon as Arthur began to talk about the group that he associated with, it was pretty easy to link them to the Van Der Linde gang that's been headlining the newspapers Hans read. You didn’t mind the headlines; you knew this world was vicious, you had to do what you had to do to survive and protect your way of life. Maybe in another life, you’d be with them, escaping the confines of “civilized” life.
Dutch raised a brow. “Are there gonna be issues in the future, Mrs. Kerrigan?” You knew there was a threat under the disguise of a question, and you smiled sweetly.
“As long as you keep your end of the deal, then we won’t have an issue. I promise.”
The tension dissipated from the room instantly, and Arthur visibly relaxed in your peripherals. Hosea leaned into Dutch’s ear, speaking too quietly for you to make out, and you felt him drop your hand. “Now, I believe that it’s a good time to mention that Hans will be arriving back any day now. He had eyes on him during his travels, and last we saw he was in Valentine, heading back to Rhodes.”
You expected his trip to Tumbleweed to have taken significantly longer than that, but you realized that he was most definitely not there, probably somewhere in New Hanover instead. “I appreciate that. I’ll… I’ll try to get the information to you as soon as I can, but don’t expect it when he’s home. I can’t tell you how long that’s gonna take, so be patient.”
“We have all the time in the world,” Dutch reassured, but even you could tell that he was lying through his teeth.
“Good. Now, was there any other business we wished to discuss?”
“Not today. Thank you for the tea, ma’am.” Hosea smiled at you, and you were surprised to find how genuine it seemed. Out of Dutch and Hosea, you liked the gray haired man more. But maybe that was all a trick, you were talking to the leaders of the most silver-tongued gang in the States.
“It was my pleasure. Arthur, go ahead and wait down here. I’ll get that payment for you.” Without another word, you stood, collecting the tray and the different components. First dropping those off in the kitchen, you then made your way upstairs. You saw the three of them still in the living room, chatting amongst themselves as they got ready to leave. You failed to notice the way Arthur’s eyes trailed after you, Hosea and Dutch exchanging a look between each other.
Entering your room, your hands shook as you grabbed the money. It was ten dollars this time, payment for last time and today. You would be a liar if you said you weren’t scared to do what you were about to do. You’d never done anything that even hinted on being against the law, at least now knowingly. But you’d also be lying if the thought of it didn’t excite you, doing something to get back at Hans for the two years of hell.
The other reason your hands shook made his presence known with a light knock on your open bedroom door. Snapping your head over at him, startled, he stood in the doorway, leaning with his arms crossed. In the dim light, you could only see his silhouette, unable to make out any expression on his face. It had your heart beating, even more so when he slowly made his way into the room.
“How long have you known?”
“That you run with the Van Der Linde gang?” You shrugged. “Since you showed me the drawings.”
Arthur just hummed. “I don’t mind, you know,” you continued.
“You should,” Arthur countered.
“Why?”
“Because we ain’t good men, darlin’.”
“I dunno. From what I’ve seen, y’all are better than most.”
Arthur didn’t respond, unable to disagree with your statement. Tucking the lockbox back into its hiding spot, you met him halfway, holding out the bills for him to grab. He looked down at them, then back up at you. “You don’t gotta pay me anymore.”
Was… was he stopping his visits? Did he lie to you earlier? Dejected, you tossed the money on the bed, taking a step away from him. “So you’re not comin’ back, then?”
“I never said that. I only said you don’t gotta pay me.”
“Why?”
“You sure are askin’ that a lot tonight,” Arthur teased. “Would you believe me if I said your company is payment enough?”
“I’m sure my company is incredible,” you scoffed. “Sad married woman in the woods, nothin’ interesting’ ‘bout her besides being rich.”
“Are you callin’ me a liar, then?” Arthur challenged.
You almost wish you could. It would make things so much simpler. Instead, you found yourself shaking your head. “Why do you keep comin’ back?”
The atmosphere of the conversation shifted when you asked that question. The conversation had started out almost confrontational, but now it was shifting to something more… tender.
“I can’t get you outta my head, darlin’. Every single thought I have is of you. Even in my dreams, you’re in them. I can’t stop comin’ back to you, it’s like I’m fuckin’ addicted to you. And just when I think I’ve got it under control, you take my breath away with one of ‘em gorgeous smiles, those soft touches, those shy glances, and I’m hooked again.”
Arthur had closed the distance between your bodies sometime during his little speech, large hands grasping your hips with surprising gentleness. One of them danced up your body, caressing your side, then over your arm, causing you to shiver. You could see him smirk, loving the way you responded.
He eventually settled on your jaw, tilting your head back lightly. His eyes were dark, but you felt warm under his attentive gaze. Your lips parted, a small gasp leaving them. “Beautiful,” he murmured, almost awestruck, before his mouth was finally on yours. They were soft and overwhelming and they felt like home, and you felt yourself immediately melting against him. It was almost hard to believe that he was an outlaw with how gentle he was being.
He pulled you in closer, and you wrapped one of your arms around his shoulders, your other hand cradling his cheek. His beard prickled the delicate skin, but it just led you to think about what that would feel like elsewhere.
The way he kissed you was gentle, but the tightening grip on your hip and jaw was telling you he was quickly losing the battle with his restraint. Before you could push him further and lead to something more, he broke away, resting his head against yours. At least, as well as he could, his hat mostly got in the way.
Joy unlike anything you’d ever felt bubbled inside of you, escaping you in a small laugh. You’d just kissed Arthur Morgan, the man you thought was unobtainable. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you confessed, breathless.
“Me too, darlin’.”
He moved a bit, kissing your forehead, before resting his chin atop your head. One of his hands cradles your head to his chest, the other wrapping around your waist. Neither of you said anything, simply savoring the moment, and Arthur rocked you slowly. Taking a deep breath, it was mostly the scent of him that filled your senses, making your head spin even more.
He held you like that for a few moments, until you heard the voice of Dutch break the bubble the two of you had created. “Arthur! We’re leaving!”
You felt him sigh, leaning his head back to look at you again. “I’m sorry, I-”
“It’s alright, Arthur.” You wanted nothing more than to have him stay with you, but he had responsibilities. You couldn’t fault him for that. “Just… kiss me again?”
He chuckled, holding both sides of your face now. “Don’t gotta ask me twice,” he whispered before reconnecting your lips, a pleased sigh leaving you. Fingers curled against your head as he deepened the kiss, pulling away when he heard his name getting yelled again.
You chuckled “Go. Before they come up here.”
With one final short kiss, Arthur pulled away, walking backwards to the doorway, eyes not leaving you for a second. “Have a good night, darlin’,” you heard him say before he went to turn, about to head downstairs.
“Wait.”
He did, almost immediately, turning his head to look at you with confusion on his face. You really weren’t quite sure what you were about to say, but you needed to say something to him. “Come back to me, alright?” It wasn’t what you really meant to say, but it would have to do for now.
“Always,” he responded with a smile, before vanishing from the doorway. You heard the sound of the stairs creaking as he headed downstairs, the voices of Hosea and Dutch audible soon after. Eventually, you heard them leave, leaving you in stunned silence.
Another light laugh of disbelief left you, holding your fingers to where Arthur’s lips had been. Everywhere burned where he’d touched you, and your whole body felt like it was on fire. The whole meeting with Dutch and Hosea had practically vanished from your mind, the only thing playing on repeat was the way his lips felt, the way he held you, the words he uttered.
Those memories continued to repeat themselves as you got ready for bed, your thin nightgown doing little to cool you off. They caused you to lay awake in your bed, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. The heat hadn’t subsided one bit, and you groaned frustratedly, sleep coming nowhere near you.
Getting out of bed, the cold floor felt nice against your bare feet, but it wasn’t enough. You debated grabbing a cigarette, the lighter Arthur had given you in your hands but you decided against it. For once, you didn’t want to forget the way someone’s hands were on you, and so you placed the lighter back into your nightstand.
Still, you stepped outside, the air of the night cooling your skin. Your mind still raced with thoughts of Arthur, but you were cooling down. Eventually, the air caused goosebumps to appear on your skin, and you took that as your sign to try and go back to bed.
Like you always had to, you had to pass the locked door of Hans’ office, and you finally remembered the meeting you had that night. Setting your hand on the doorknob, you debated trying to get in right then, but you realized you had no idea how. You didn’t know how to pick a lock, and breaking it down would be difficult and obvious. A problem for later, then.
Getting back under the covers, you felt better than you had the first time you went to bed. Sleep was closer now, and as you turned on your side, about to succumb to unconsciousness, you saw the empty side of the bed.
How you longed for Arthur to be there instead.
─•~❉᯽❉~•─
You didn’t wake up alone.
It took a moment for your sleep-addled mind to realize that, nearly turning over and going right back to bed. But when it clicked, you nearly bolted out of bed, dread and sadness chasing away the happiness that came from your dreams of Arthur.
Hans was asleep next to you, his suitcases stacked in the corner of the room, snoring lightly as he slept. You knew he had to come back eventually, but it still wrecked you. Getting out of the bed as quietly as you could, you snuck downstairs, not ready to face reality yet.
You paced around your kitchen, running your hands through your hair. You weren’t ready to put on the act again. You weren’t ready to pretend like you were content being Mrs. Kerrigan. You weren’t ready to pretend like Arthur hadn’t just kissed you last night.
Groaning, you slumped against one of the counters, burrowing your head in your arms. That familiar feeling of guilt returned, but you fought it. You weren’t hurting anyone, being sweet on Arthur like you were. It’s not like your husband actually loved you, so you doubt he’d be too upset. He’d be more upset that something that was ‘his’ was ‘being used’ by someone else. Besides, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
And if you were happy, who was to tell you that that was bad?
Standing up, you rolled your shoulders, forcing a smile on your face. You could do this, you told yourself. This wasn’t any different than the last two years. Just suck it up and pretend. And then before you’d know it, Hans would be gone again.
You got to work cleaning up the kitchen from last night, washing the dishes used by the guests last night. Next, you started making breakfast, the smell of it probably being the reason Hans woke, walking downstairs blearily.
He sat in his chair at the dining table, and you served him a glass of coffee with a soft ‘good morning’. He didn’t respond, just sipping on the steaming beverage. It was hard to not look at him in a different light, now that you knew what he was really getting up to behind closed doors. But you kept your face impassive, heading back into the kitchen before the food burned.
Eventually, you served him his food, and you sat in your respective seat, much farther than you had with Arthur. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence, assumedly too tired to do so. “Sorry for wakin’ you,” you apologized, and he grunted.
“How was your trip?” You tried to engage him in a conversation, but were immediately shut down with a glare. All right, then. It took everything in you not to laugh at him. I mean you weren’t a morning person either, but at least you didn’t treat others like this. What an ass.
You turned your attention back to your plate, poking at it with your fork, appetite now gone. The two of you ate in complete silence, the only sounds being your silverware against the china and the scratch of your chair against the floor as you stood to refill his cup.
About fifteen minutes passed before Hans left the table, leaving his dishes for you to take care of. You didn’t have to look up to know where he was going, and you heard the sound of his office door shut moments later. When you confirmed that you were alone, you sighed, tired of just pushing the food around your plate.
You found that you desperately missed Arthur’s warmth, both physically and emotionally. The house seemed to agree with you; it had never felt so comforting, him being there making it so. Now it felt like a prison, your only company the memories of the last weeks.
You stared at the now empty seat across from you, forcing yourself to eat a few bites of breakfast, hating when you wasted food. You found that you were glad you agreed to Dutch and Hosea’s scheme; you were excited to make Hans hurt.
But for now, you had to push those plans out the window. You couldn’t do anything right now, at the risk of you getting caught. All you could do now was play his little housewife and wait for the moment that Arthur’s lips were back on yours.
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Do You Have The Time?
A Thorough Dissection of What Past Aevium Means For You
So I've been reading through @/jazz-kitty's rejuv playthrough (not actually tagging them bc this will contain spoilers for shit they've not gotten to but if you're reading this Jazz, keep up the good work! It's super fun to read through your playthrough :>), and I've realized we got some concrete dates (in a fashion), meaning that, we might be able to figure out when Storm 9 happens, within a couple months! As well as some other details.
Anyways even if you don't want to hear my rambling about dates, there's gonna be something I really want to share underneath the cut, I'll put some big bold header text so you know where to scroll to.
Now, it all starts here, with Melia's Mimikyu, which we are there to see caught, giving us a concrete date, October 10th, 198X.
Now you may be asking yourself, but Sparkie, the screenshot says 1984? That's because my buddy Nym, who is on the dev team, stated that to its memory, the year is calculated based off your system date. Meaning that the year will change depending on the year you play Rejuv in. However, Jazz's post that I got this from does mention in the tags how the rest of Melia's pokemon are caught from 1981-1983. I had an old save file kicking around that was near Blacksteeple, and checking "Emma's" Pokemon in that I can also say that these dates are variable based off system time. Being 198X-3 through 198X-1. For simplicity's sake we're going to be based off of System Time being the year 2024, mostly because shit like 198X-1 is hard to read. But just keep in mind that as Rejuv is set in 202X these dates have about a 10 year range they can vary by, this will come back later, take note of this.
I want to establish before we go forward, you can also see how this works for yourself rather easily, if you go into the past and catch a pokemon, the date it's caught at will be your system time, minus 40 years. This, combined with some plot elements such as Melia's birthday being after she catches this Mimikyu confirms that the past segments take place exactly 40 years before present day, with the Time Crystals not sending you back or forth to a specific time and date, but rather a set amount of time forward and back (in this case 40 years).
Anyways, this also lets us know that Storm-9 happened a little over 39 years ago as of the game's start, and at some point during the game's time span we will hit the 40 year anniversary. I always thought it was 50 years before the game's start, I don't remember if I got that from somewhere in game or it's just one of them things I got in my head, but between the wiki and a reply from Zumi on one of my tweets it's actually 40. If anyone has the same misconception I had, I hope that clears it up.
But through what we can gleam in game, we can actually tell (roughly) when Storm-9 happens! Judging by the fact we can still visit the past at the end of the .karma files, Storm-9 has not hit the past yet. It's going to happen very soon, but it's not there yet. Thankfully, we have a very concrete date on when that would be, December 25th, 2024, as the Xen Raid is just one day later. Meaning, that as of December 25th, 1984, the Aevium region is still fine. This combined with the fact that there is a note on the door of the house occupied by the A-Gang near Hyoshi City that says they'll be out until the Summer means that they are going to be at school until late May, early June, assuming it runs at similar time frames to a school in the U.S.. Meaning that, at some point, most likely in Early 1985, but possibly for about a week in Late 1984, is when Storm 9 hits. You could extrapolate more (i.e. no teachers/other students in the academy during the Interceptor's Nightmare Realm means people might've been on break, meaning it was Late 1984 and the gang was just hanging out at the academy) but as that's explicitly stated to be not entirely accurate to how that day actually was, I'm not going to do that.
HI IF YOU JUST WANT THE FUNNY INFORMATION SCROLL HERE
Anyways, now that you've heard me ramble about dates like your history teacher, we get to the fun part! That being I get to tell you about the A gang! That being we know the protag choices are 17-18 years old, and given that we know Storm 9 happened in either very Late 1984 or Early 1985, we can assume that the A-Gang were those ages during Storm-9. Meaning their birth years could range between 1966-1968, placing them firmly in Gen X, meaning they are chronologically old enough to be some of the people reading this's parents!
But that's not all, do you remember how I stated that Rejuv took place in 202X, meaning it could be any year of the 2020s? And thus, the past segments take place in any year 40 years before that, in the 1980s? If we were to say, put the year Rejuv takes place in in 2020, then that would mean the A Gang would be born in the years 1962-1964.
The general consensus on baby boomers is that they were born between 1946-1964.
The A Gang could, conceivably, be baby boomers.
Have a nice night everyone.
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i hate accidents: the ball
femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington
summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son
sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball
y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents
content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, intersectional low self-image of y/n, positive/supportive families, nondescript mention of gagging (not related to self-image) in [III.iii], sexually charged 18+ interactions in middle to end of [III.iv]—minors dni, please stop at the end of the paragraph that begins "you repeat his words with sped up mockery"; you may resume at "you jut out your hip"
word count: 15.7k (of 38.8k)
story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.
additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).
author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.
tagged: @omgsuperstarg @stvrdustalexx @bedobeeeee @crazymar15 @kahhorri @mayalopes @benedictbridgertonss @athensflower @02wrldz @queerlavalier @merlslrem @pillsbury-doughgirl @lamourdure3ans and all who have read either/both sections one and two—thank you. <3
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“you look like a princess, y/n!” hyacinth squeals in delight.
“i regret not being of age yet to attend balls,” gregory sighs. “i would have been honored to ask you for your first dance.”
you beam at the youngest bridgertons with all the fondness in your heart. judith, an elderly maid of number five, had attempted to dispel hyacinth and gregory from the room as your hair was done, but you had asked her to please allow them to stay. the two kept you at ease throughout the foreign process, and their sweet sincerity kept you grounded amidst the anxiety that still floods your veins.
“you are both too kind. and fear not; tomorrow morning we will have a ball all of our own,” you lean in for a whisper, them following suit to listen. “and perhaps we will need the talents, and bravery, of a young sorceress and a young knight to save the guests from the intrusion of an unruly wyvern.”
“you promise?!” hyacinth and gregory yell at the same time. you hold out your pinky finger, just as you used to do with your siblings, and the two young ones wrap their pinkies around yours.
“i promise.”
“you are all done, miss y/l/n,” says alice, placing the last pin into your hair. she steps back and curtsies. her formality towards you renders you uneasy; she treats you as above her but you are of the same world. you school your facial features from showing your unease; you do not want to upset her or have her wrongly think that she has done something wrong.
“no need to call me ‘miss.’ i am simply y/n!” you grin at alice. “a friend.”
she smiles, albeit a bit sheepishly.
“of course, y/n. are you ready to see yourself?”
you shudder in a breath. you had asked not to be prepared in front of a mirror. to have seen your transformation so readily reflected at you at every point of this process—
you exhale frantically. the maids and genevieve had graciously accommodated your wishes, both going so far as rearranging this room and her fitting room to avoid any lines of your sight with a potential reflection; you were, and are, utterly grateful.
but i am unable to delay the inevitable any longer.
standing up and squaring your shoulders, you give alice a feeble nod. she bows her head in response, a small, encouraging smile on her lips, and leads you to the mirror as hyacinth and gregory turn in their seats to watch you cross the room.
it is just a dress. it is just a tiara, and just some jewelry, and just some gloves, and just some shoes, and just a bit of makeup. it is just you. it is still you. be the courageous person you are, y/n.
or—
just before you see even a miniscule bit of your reflection in that accursed mirror, you shut your eyes tight.
—be a coward.
you continue step by agonizing step, approximating where the mirror is, and shudder in another breath.
perhaps i am being too dramatic. perhaps i can faint and feign illness. perhaps i shall run away by way of the nearest window. perhaps i—
“the mirror is to your left, y/n; whenever you are ready,” coaxes alice.
you exhale once more.
or perhaps, i should open my eyes.
and so you do.
oh.
“oh,” you say aloud.
the person you see in the gilded full-length mirror is, somehow, a complete stranger and entirely you.
the one time you’ve worn makeup before was for your elder sister’s wedding: a bit of your mother’s rouge on your cheeks and lips to have some color to your otherwise dull face. now, your cheekbones glow with a blush much more complimentary to your complexion than a mere red as your lips shine with a gossamer of a similar shade. entirely new to you are the glimmering minerals on your eyelids that magically bring attention to your eyes and make them shine like starlight.
your eyebrows have been plucked (much to your initial pain but your current appreciation), maintaining their shape and fullness but now without strays.
soft tendrils of curls frame your face, and your hair—normally worn down when not working—has been pulled back into a loose coiffure and styled with sprigs and small blooms, the crown of your head graced with a silver tiara.
“this,” violet smiled fondly when she first set the tiara on top of your head, “is the tiara i wore to my first ball after my presentation. i had insisted on keeping it, thinking i could pass it on to my daughter when her first ball had come. but daphne was resolute on having her own tiara, and eloise was resolute on not wearing any,” violet laughed, her eyes shining when they connected with yours, “i see now, though, perhaps it was always meant to be yours.”
“violet, i— i cannot wear this. it is too— it’s too—”
sumptuous? opulent? regal?
no.
well, yes, the tiara is all those things. but those were not what had concerned you then. it’s too—
“beautiful,” you admitted quietly.
something as beautiful as that surely does not belong on the head of someone like you.
“well,” violet smiled, “then you are merely proving my point, my dear. it perfectly suits you.”
you hold out your hands, flare out your fingers, and stretch out your arms, examining the dark forest green of your long satin gloves, mesmerized that a muted color with such depth and richness could be achieved through dyes.
moving your hand, you touch one of the small rosewhite pearls adorning your earlobes and, with your other hand, touch the inky oblong pearl that shimmers violet, indigo, and green as it hangs from the thin, black velvet choker around your neck.
“my dear,” mama appeared in your doorway one evening as you wrote at your table, “do you require jewelry for your occasion?”
“oh. i suppose i do? i hadn’t given it much thought.” jewelry had been the last thing on your mind of things that terrified you of the impending ball.
“well, if you have not been offered anything by the bridgerton family yet, i thought— i thought perhaps you might like these.”
she approached you, a small wooden box in her hand, and placed it on your table. taking the box into your hands, you looked at it and then up at mama. she smiled at you but something of her countenance seemed strained. nervous. you offered her a smile in an attempt to assuage whatever concerns preoccupied her mind and, turning back to the box, unclasped it open.
“these are the earrings and necklace i wore when i married your papa. they were gifts from your grandmama that were gifts from her mama. i had tried giving them to your sister when she was to be married, but she thought… they are plain, nothing like what those fashionable people wear, i am certain; but if you have nothing else, i—”
you shot up from your seat, throwing your arms around your mama, feeling how she reeled from the ferocity of your sudden embrace, as you clutched onto the box of her wedding jewelry.
“they are beautiful, mama,” you said quietly but emphatically as the vehemence of your emotions tried to trap your words in your throat. “they are the most beautiful things i have ever seen, and i am so— i am so honored to be bestowed with the blessing of wearing them, and of wearing them proudly. thank you.”
you heard how mama sniffed her nose, and how she tried to hide it, as she gently rubbed your back, as she always had in your moments of vulnerability.
“i love you, my child.”
“i love you, mama.”
you then touch your exposed shoulders. the neckline of your dress, nowhere near your neck, follows the curved peaks of your breasts to meet and form a small v-shape in the crevice of your bosom.
“where is the chemise?” was the first thing you had said when you first tried on the gown at the modiste.
genevieve grinned.
“there is none.”
your jaw dropped.
“then what of a stay? what sort of stay would be worn with this?”
turning slightly, and noting your rather bare upper arms in the process, you angle your exposed back towards the mirror. another v-shape, its furthest point down a third of your bare spine.
“my dear, both you and i know that you already know the answer to your inquiry.”
“oh, my good g—”
never, in your life, has the expanse of your upper body been so naked and on display than in this ball gown.
“i do not mean to doubt your artistry, genevieve; truly!, the dress is magnificent, but—” you turned to kathani, who had exclaimed and clapped with immense delight upon seeing you in the gown, “is this—— permissible?”
the viscountess had arched an eyebrow at you then.
“y/n y/l/n, concerned with the rules of society? and of high society, at that?”
“no— no!” you yelled all too loudly as genevieve chortled and placed pins for final alterations into the dress. “i just, i just do not want to embarrass you and your family, is all.”
you had not meant for your voice to come out so quiet and small. the older women’s faces softened immediately.
“you could never embarrass us, y/n,” kathani stated with such tenderness. then she smiled. “you look beautiful.”
the off-white base layer of the dress feels luxurious against your skin, the fabric hugging your upper body, puffing out at the sleeves, and, from the underbust, flowing and falling into a cone silhouette for the skirt—but what truly awes you is the artistry of the outermost layer. a cream translucent silk, the piña seda (you recall genevieve proudly naming it as) of the outermost layer glistens while you sway and turn your body, light shifting and transforming the ever beauty of the dress, the swish of the skirt moving like how waves are described in the passages of your books and in the reminiscing of your parents’ memories. lined at the underbust begins the intricate thicket of embroidered foliage, painstakingly threaded with innumerable shades of greens and blues, a shimmering teal threaded throughout to gleam in tandem with the sheen of the fabric. the embroidery of foliage then grows and thickens as it cascades down the middle of the dress and comes to an encircling end a few inches above and around the floor-length hem. in the negative space of the piña seda are spread out, small ivory embroideries of floral motifs.
it is a dress deserving of someone most beloved in titania’s garden court.
“indeed,” genevieve affirmed, a smile on her lips akin to kathani’s. “those in attendance will not be prepared. you will look the most beautiful of all.”
and perhaps…
perhaps you should be unnerved by how different your dress will be from the others’ of the ton. perhaps you should be unnerved by how easily you will stand out from the crowds. perhaps you should be unnerved by the attention, the whispers, the stares you will inevitably receive with your dress, with your appearance, with your presence, with your very existence. but, instead—
“i do look like a princess,” you say finally. quietly.
you do look beautiful.
like you could belong amidst the ton.
like you could belong with the bridgertons.
like you could belong with him.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“are you anxious, y/n?”
you turn to gregory at your side and see the swell of worry in his eyes.
“what gives you that impression?”
“you are shaking terribly,” hyacinth comments from your other side, replacing her usual pluck and wit with a worry akin to her brother’s.
the two had volunteered to escort you from the dressing room that you had been prepared in to the grand staircase of number five. with their arms hooked around yours, gregory on your left and hyacinth on your right, the youngest bridgertons have been walking you down the corridor. your heart aches with anguish: you know you have failed when the children are the ones to care for the adult.
“i am sorry to have concerned you both. yes, i— i am anxious.”
“it is reasonable to be anxious. but there are a great many cakes at these balls, or so i’ve heard, so you can eat one, and then another, to help ease your nerves!”
“how is that of any help, gregory.”
“it is plenty of help!”
“to eat and eat when she is already uneasy? the last time you were uneasy, you nearly—”
“do not recount that in front of y/n!”
“why not!”
“it is not— it is not proper!” gregory’s voice jumps in pitch, causing a swift blush to form on the apples of his cheeks. hyacinth snorts.
“why does your voice do that?”
“i do not know! kate said it is natural for bo— for young men to experience such a thing!”
“aren’t young men meant to be tall?”
“i am an inch taller than you now!”
“you are not!”
“i am too!”
you laugh. the youngest bridgertons halt their dispute and look at you.
“i must say, your usual squabbling is keeping me much at ease,” and you offer a sympathetic smile to gregory. “i am sorry that it seems to be at your expense, however.”
his eyes shine.
“you need not worry about me! i am glad to see you smile.”
“i as well,” hyacinth adds. you turn to her and see how her eyes shine too.
“i am most grateful to you both for being at my side on such a night.”
“we are most grateful for you, y/n.”
“that is something, and probably the singular thing, hyacinth and i can agree upon.”
you plant soft kisses on the tops of their heads, just as mama and papa and your elder sister had done when you were their ages. gregory and hyacinth nestle their heads into your upper arms and only part from you when the three of you reach the top of the first set of steps.
“are you ready?”
though you wish to say ‘no,’ you brace yourself with a deep inhale and nod.
your heart quickens with each step as time around you slows. your mouth has gone dry, and your body feels entirely numb, sensation only returning to you when you feel hyacinth and gregory unhook their arms from yours. turning your head, you see them stepping backwards, away from you, leaving you at the center of the landing to the rest of the grand staircase. you face forward once more, and ahead, below, you see the gentlemen and ladies of bridgerton house, waiting for you, looking at you.
you swallow.
for the very first time, in your dress, by yourself, you take a step forward.
breathe, y/n. shoulders back; tilt your chin up, but not too much; just as kathani had taught you. and just, breathe.
but it is hard to breathe with all eyes on you. with—
i must control myself. i must not seek him out. i must not seek out his face. i must not seek out those o—
you step on the hem of your dress and feel yourself start to fall forward. thankfully, god, for whatever reason, has blessed you with enough dexterity in this very moment, and you manage to catch yourself from tumbling down the steps as you hear gasps from above and below you. you mumble an apology (you don’t know why; it is not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear) and offer everyone a smile. upon seeing their relaxed shoulders and reassured expressions, you continue to descend the staircase.
stupid benedict. distracting me in remembering how to walk, and how to breathe, and how to—
oh.
i am doing it again.
shit.
goddamnit, stupid benedict!
somehow, you reach the landing of number five’s entrance hall without any additional accidents and, approaching the bridgertons, immediately look to the viscountess. as if knowing you seek her approval, kathani nods her head; a beam illuminates her countenance. you feel yourself ease, your shoulders relaxing (that you promptly square again; you are, after all, pretending to be a lady for the night), your heart racing less, if only minutely, and manage a smile. you feel someone take hold of your gloved hand and, turning to face the source, see violet gazing at you.
“beautiful.”
it is all she says, but with such tenderness in her voice, it makes your heart swell.
“the importance of appearance,” rasps eloise, causing you to turn to her, “and the lengths gone to achieve so-called perfection of such, especially for those of feminine disposition, is an entirely antiquated, offensive concept that must be eradicated from our, and all, societies—— but you do, look, beautiful, y/n.”
you grin.
“we’ll eradicate it together; and with help along the way, i am certain.”
when she responds in kind, you turn to the gentlemen, and, to your mortification, colin and anthony bow at you. the high society etiquette directed towards you from your friends overwhelms you with an embarrassment that you cannot even begin to fathom; they haven’t performed such formalities towards you since your first meeting all those months ago. but, in spite of your horror, the sincerity of their intentions, as well as their countenances, touches you deeply.
“madame delacroix and the maids have outdone themselves,” remarks anthony. “as mother and eloise have said, you look beautiful, y/n.”
“indeed,” colin beams. when he turns to benedict, however, his smile transforms into an expression befitting of a fairytale creature; one with mischievous intentions. “what say you, brother?”
you follow his line of sight and connect with ocean eyes. the flood of self-consciousness and the tempo of your heartbeats magnify hundredfold under his gaze, the butterflies within you fluttering the most violently they ever have, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze.
anthony, with what looks like a smirk, nudges his brother with his elbow. as if suddenly aware of where he is, benedict hastily bows at you and, returning his ocean eyes to yours, says,
“you look— well.”
you hear eloise snort. turning your head towards her, you see she has completely sucked in her lips. to her left, kathani smiles massively. to kathani’s left, violet remains ever poised but with wide, sparkling eyes. you still feel self-conscious but are infinitely amused by whatever is happening to the bridgertons and, with a playful smile on your lips, return your gaze to benedict.
“thank you, mr. bridgerton. i had felt uneasy with an unnerved stomach earlier, but i am glad to know that my health appears to be in proper order.”
and you deeply curtsy at him.
from above you hear the sweet giggles of the youngest bridgertons. ahead, in your periphery, you see how anthony closes his eyes as he sucks in air through his nostrils and how colin, with an unabashed laugh, clasps his hand onto benedict’s shoulder.
“well!” anthony booms, attempting to control his smile on what ought to be an authoritative expression. “i believe we have a ball to commence. shall you lead the way, viscountess?”
and with an expression both equal in authority and warmth, kathani declares,
“i shall.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
you had grown ease of mind knowing that you would not be asked to dance. not only were you a stranger to everyone in the ton aside from the bridgertons and penelope, you were also not handsome like the debutantes flitting about the room, swishing prettily in their gowns, strategically but delicately fluttering their eyes at a gentleman with which they wished to dance. with anonymity and a plain face, you enjoyed the haven of people observing, snickering at the artifice and smiling at the sincerity. kathani chatting with her guests. anthony standing by her side. penelope dancing with colin. eloise hiding behind a plant. violet beaming at her family. (you tried to convince yourself that you had not noticed the absence of a particular person.) your nerves have finally begun to calm, finding content in your station at the margins of the dance floor.
when colin bridgerton approaches you, hand outstretched in your direction, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“miss y/l/n, may you do me the honor?”
“i’m sorry, what?”
he laughs.
“will you dance with me?”
you gape at him.
“you’re mad.”
“my mind is perfectly intact.”
“this is unwise.”
“this is the best decision i have made this night.”
“i shall surely step on your toes.”
“i have worn my sturdiest shoes for the occasion.”
the corners of your mouth tug down into a moue at the third bridgerton’s stubborn charm. his grin merely widens as your eyes narrow to slits at him. penelope approaches from behind the beguiling imp and smiles warmly at you.
“it will be fun,” she encourages. “i promise.”
penelope! no!
“et tu, brute?” you bemoan.
she shrugs.
“what is a ball without dancing?” penelope offers. sweet innocence colors her voice, but the delighted glint in her eyes reveals her true duplicitous nature. she knew exactly how to play the game of this conversation, no doubt a devious plot concocted between her and her beau.
you sigh.
“fine,” you huff, slapping your hand into colin’s palm. “i would be honored, mr. bridgerton.”
the diabolical duo laughs at the sarcasm that drips from your words as colin leads you to the lineup on the dance floor.
–
“how is the dance treating you, miss y/l/n?”
“i hate you.”
colin guffaws. (you see in your periphery how heads shift towards him and how eyes narrow at you. the partner you had just left looks at you with particular scrutiny.)
“if your hatred towards me is the cost of you enjoying the ball, then it is a burden i shall carry, and happily so.”
“has anyone ever told you how infuriating you bridgertons are?”
“no, but we very well know that we are,” he grins, “and we take immense pride in it.”
you groan, throwing your head back. (you hear murmurs around you. not ladylike.)
“are you truly not having fun?” the gentleness in his voice makes you look back at him. his expression is soft. sad. guilty. “we can leave the lineup, if that is what you would like.”
you consider his words and his offer.
“i am having fun,” you reply truthfully. his eyes light up at that and your heart warms at the sight. “it is just— being in a circumstance so wholly unfamiliar— it’s overwhelming, is all, i think. but…” you feel a smile form on your lips, “knowing that you all—as infuriating as you bridgertons are—are here with me, by my side, wanting me to enjoy myself, wanting me to be happy, it makes all the overwhelming feeling worthwhile. i am happy. you all make me happy.”
colin doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you as the two of you dance still. you are about to inquire—
“i am grateful to call you my friend, y/n. becoming your friend has been one of the greatest blessings to have been bestowed upon me and my family.”
you suck in a breath.
as is becoming yours has been one of mine.
but another thought also lives in your mind. so, on the exhale of your breath, you smirk.
“only second to falling in love with penelope, yes?”
he laughs, an uncharacteristic shy smile forming on his lips as he looks at his feet and then back at you, eyes shining incandescently.
“i hope you do not take offense to being second.”
“being second to penelope is truly, sincerely, still a victory in of itself. you are very blessed, indeed, to be her premier.”
you did not think colin’s eyes could shine brighter than they had mere moments prior, but you suppose— no, you are certain that this is the effect that the love of penelope featherington has on the third eldest bridgerton: the light in colin’s eyes is absolute radiance.
“‘very blessed’ is to put it very lightly.”
with unabashed grins, you and colin continue to dance. you have to walk most of the steps, often keeping good on your promise and stepping on his toes, but your partner is deterred neither by your incompetence nor by his injuries. the two of you laugh (drawing leers from the other guests, you notice but brush off) and end your dance with exaggerated flourishes of a curtsy and a bow to one another.
“you underestimate your dancing skills, miss y/l/n,” colin remarks with a beam.
“see if you feel the same after tending to your bruises, mr. bridgerton,” you beam back.
“colin bridgerton!”
you both whip your gazes to the call of colin’s name and see a man fastly, eagerly approaching.
“hastings!”
hastings? why does that sound familiar?
colin and the absurdly handsome man embrace, smiles broad and sincere.
“i was uncertain you would be joining us on this occasion.”
“we would have seen to arriving early, as we had intended, but augie is proving to be quite unpredictable with his tantrums as of late.”
“he must take after his uncles,” colin smirks with odd pride. that makes the other man chuckle.
“unfortunately, it seems to be so.”
he then shifts his gaze onto you. his expression is curious and— sweet? kindly. you feel yourself become rather self-conscious as you notice, in your periphery, colin assuming a posture of gentlemanliness.
“my apologies for my dreadful manners. simon, this is miss y/n y/l/n. y/n, this is simon basset.”
simon bows most graciously at you.
“good evening, miss y/l/n. it is a true pleasure to finally meet you. i am simon basset, daphne’s husband.”
daphne?
as in daphne bridgerton?
you recall the day you and benedict toured the art gallery: a portrait, a fairly recent one, it seemed, of a beautiful young woman and a beautiful young man—the duchess and the duke of hastings, the plaque read.
your jaw drops.
“you are the duke!” you remember the etiquette kathani taught you. “your grace!” and you sloppily curtsy.
simon laughs.
“that is hardly necessary. please, if you feel comfortable in doing so, call me simon.”
“yes— of course!, your— simon,” you compose yourself. “and you may call me y/n; i would prefer it, actually.”
simon grins.
“then, y/n, may i have the honor of having your next dance?”
your jaw drops again, your composure completely falling away. you look at simon, who is utterly amused by your reaction, and then to colin, who is utterly delighted by the turn of events, and back to simon.
“that is a mistake.”
that earns guffaws from both of the men. (you feel stares falling upon them and, once again, scowls falling upon you.)
“i am more than willing to make that discovery for myself, if you will allow it.”
you throw back your head (ignoring the additional glares shot your way) and, with a sigh, whip it back to look at simon with a fatigued, but earnest, smile.
“i shall allow it.”
colin bows his head at you, his grin having never left his countenance since the end of your dance together, and steps to the side as you place your hand into simon’s outstretched one and are led to the next lineup by the duke.
–
“has the duchess accompanied you to the ball this evening?”
“while it is poor courtesy to speak on behalf of my wife when she can speak for herself, i can say, with confidence, that she would much rather you call her daphne.”
“kathani had taught me your society’s etiquette in preparation for the ball, in the event it would be necessary,” you roll your eyes. “while i find it all utterly ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary for me in particular, i want to honor the knowledge that my teacher has bestowed upon me as a way to honor her.”
simon grins.
“you are a dedicated student. indeed, she is in attendance. the last i had seen her, she was tending to benedict.”
your heart sinks.
oh no.
“tending to benedict? is he unwell? did something happen? is he all right?”
you hear how your voice rises in pitch and grows louder and more frantic with each word. (you try not to care for the stares that you feel on you. they are not of importance right now——or ever.)
is that why i have not seen him all night? because he is in poor condition? shall i leave the ball? shall i see where he is being tended to? shall i—
“y/n?”
oh. yes. you were having a conversation with simon.
“sorry, what did you say?”
“i had said that i did not mean to worry you,” simon says sincerely, but there is something in his smile. not suspicious, neither mocking nor teasing. it is as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotion. “i simply mean that she is speaking with him and— encouraging him, is all.”
you feel the entirety of your body, mind, heart, and soul ease; but now, you are perplexed.
“encouraging him? whatever for?”
“i had not stayed with them long enough to hear the details of their conversation; i had sought you out rather immediately.”
“me!”
the dance had timed perfectly that upon receiving such information, you are forced to turn to another partner (who is unnerved to have you as a temporary companion). when you reunite with simon, his chuckling has mostly subsided.
“indeed. the viscount had encouraged me to ask you for a dance. the viscountess then stated that you required the practice.”
“i—— am utterly lacking in words in how to respond to that.”
“if it is of any comfort to you, it was something i had already intended on doing.”
“that is, rather strange?”
he grins.
“i can see how that is so from your perspective, yes. but from mine,” and it surprises you how suddenly simon’s countenance softens, “i had to find out for myself how wonderful this y/n y/l/n is to have so easily won the affections of all the bridgertons at number five. daff and i, as well as francesca, were becoming quite jealous that we did not have the good fortune to spend time with you as the rest of the family has had.”
“the family has… spoken of me?”
“in these past months of knowing you, you have become their most beloved topic of conversation. hyacinth and gregory idolize how resplendent of a storyteller you are. eloise adores being challenged by your intellect. colin aspires to your ferocity of quick wit. kate cherishes every discussion you share together. anthony reveres your unwavering resolve. violet becomes overcome with delight at every recounting of a memory in which you are involved. and benedict…”
you swallow.
“yes?”
you hear how feeble and quiet your voice has become.
“never stops speaking of you; so much so that it would be impossible to abridge what he loves in you.”
you shut your eyes closed at the words “he loves” and attempt to control the tears that threaten to flow at the word “you.”
the love he has for you is not the love you have for him.
“i— i did not know that they held me in such high regard,” you whisper.
you flutter your eyes open, grateful that no tears have fallen, and are greeted by the gentlest of smiles from simon. it assuages your soul.
“the highest of regards. they care very deeply for you.”
“and i care very deeply for them,” you declare softly. you then feel yourself break out into a smile. “i cannot say the same for you, yet, but i can see it forthcoming.”
simon throws his head back with a loud laugh, your smile transforming into a large grin (as you ignore the scowls that fall upon you). simon whips his head back to you, and he too wears a large grin.
“i am honored that you see the potential within me.”
with a final spin, you and simon release the other’s hand, ending the dance in a curtsy and a bow, both of your grins non-faltering.
“thank you for bestowing me the honor of dancing with you.”
you snort. (you hear scoffs and other suppressed noises of disapproval.)
“i fail to see how much of an honor it is to have someone incessantly knock into you, but if such is your feeling,” you curtsy with much theatricality and, upon your rise, let out a sigh of relief. “now, i shall retire to the margins once more.”
simon, once again, looks as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotions, but in it you detect— delight? you narrow your eyes.
“what?”
“you are not meant for the margins, y/n; please forgive me,” and with that, simon bows, his smile still non-faltering, and turns to leave you in the middle of the dance floor.
you are about to call out his name, curious and agitated by his vagueness—
“y/n?”
you turn around to the familiar voice and are greeted by a smiling anthony.
“oh no. are you going to ask me for the honor of having my next dance?”
the viscount looks as if he is about to howl with laughter and attempts to mask it, poorly, with his absurdly elated smile.
“is the idea of dancing with me truly so appalling?”
“the idea of dancing more is what i find so appalling.”
“i shan’t force you to do anything you do not want to do.”
“but how will your pride take it?”
this time anthony fully howls (earning looks of confusion at the host and their looks, predictably, turning to glares when they trace the impropriety back to you).
“i am always working on humbling myself,” he says, his expression softening. “i assure you that i, as well as my pride, can manage your rejection if it means that you are happy. you need not worry about my well-being.”
these damned bridgertons, and their damned charm, and their damned sincerity.
despite your internal accusations, you smile. you offer your hand (hearing a gasp or a few around you), and beaming, anthony takes it.
–
“you look like a princess, y/n!”
the saccharine words of hyacinth echo in your mind. with the transmutative magics of your fairy godmothers in mama, violet, kathani, genevieve, judith, alice, and the maids of bridgerton house, the impossible was made possible: you look like a princess. but it is not until this very moment, after descending a regal staircase, after entering this enchanting ball, after dancing with two dashing gentlemen and now a third, that you feel like a princess. you recall how you and your siblings played imagination; how you often asked to be the princess; how you did it so often that mama sewed you a dress from scraps of fabric and papa crafted you a crown out of discarded branches and your elder sister announced you as princess y/n whenever you played and your younger sibling waltzed with you around the first floor of your home. it makes you elated with childlike wonder how fortunate you are to be here and how lovely it is to be here, how strange and wonderful it is that imagination has become real life; as if it is all a wish for which you did not know you had wished, a wish that you did not know you had wanted to come true until it came true.
but—
“is there something on your mind, y/n?” you hear anthony ask, sometime after returning to him as your partner. “you seem pensive.”
“ah, yes. despite my gripes with you, and your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—”
“i gave you an option not to do so!”
“i am not finished speaking!”
he huffs out air through his nostrils, waiting with what seems to be a morsel of patience for you to continue.
“despite my gripes with you, your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—” anthony gives you a tired look that of an older sibling; you grin, “i am enjoying myself. i just wish, i just wish my family could be here with me, to enjoy it too.”
anthony’s expression softens immediately, and it makes your heart tighten. you know with what gravity, duty, and love he looks after the entirety of his family; you have witnessed it at every given second since becoming his friend. if someone were to be with you as you navigate this pain, you are glad that it is anthony.
“we shall invite them to the next ball we host,” he declares. your jaw drops. “it was a lack of foresight on my part for not doing so for this occasion, and i shan’t make that error again.”
you try to do rough estimations of what costs that would entail for the bridgertons— dresses and coats and shoes and four to six sets of two abstained days of work at least.
“anthony, i cannot possibly ask you to—”
“you did not ask,” he grins. “i offered. and i do so wholeheartedly. it shall not be a trouble for us, just strategic planning as kathani and i work the books. and before you protest—” you frown, both disappointed and flattered that anthony could sense your retaliation, “it is something i—as well as the rest of the family, i am certain—wish to do. if you won’t consider it for yourself and your family, then perhaps consider it as a gift to us selfish bridgertons.”
that makes you laugh loudly as you feel tears form in your eyes (whispers of you be damned). expression turning gentle once more, anthony continues,
“it would be an honor to finally meet your family. if they are even an inkling like you, then they must be truly wonderful, indeed.”
with a small sniffle of your nose and all the gratitude in your heart, you smile.
“they are. they are truly wonderful. i love them so much.”
anthony smiles in return with a nod of his head.
“then it is settled.”
“you are a good brother, anthony.”
you have wondered often if that is something anthony knows. while the bridgertons’ love for one another is apparent in all that they do and say and breathe, you haven’t heard them say very complimentary things to one another, particularly to the eldest. it is typical of families to tease and to jest, you know that intimately, but you also know how important, then, it is to tell your family what you truly think of them, how you truly feel of them. they ought to know just how much they are loved.
though his overall demeanor is composed and dignified, the softness in anthony’s eyes reveals his true emotion.
“and you are a good sibling, y/n.”
< their dance eventually comes to an end. someone approaches them. >
“good evening, brother,” benedict turns his ocean eyes to you. “good evening, y/n.”
“good evening, benedict.”
you vaguely hear something in your periphery. you turn to it and see a brilliant grin lighting up the viscount’s countenance.
“huh?”
“i had said that the viscountess is calling me over to her. i must pardon myself.”
“oh. yes. farewell, anthony.”
his grin broadens, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he bows. you see how, as he brings himself upright, his eyes shift towards his brother, the delight in his grin never leaving but something in his eyes… softening? before you can fully process it, he has turned and now walks towards kathani.
you turn back to benedict.
“i—— good evening, y/n.”
“good evening, benedict. though, we have already greeted each other this night, just moments ago.”
“ah, yes— that—— that would be correct. and— is… correct.”
he is anxious. your heart aches at the sight, and you want to reach out and touch him, comfort him, ease whatever his concerns are—but you refrain.
benedict clears his throat.
“are you— are you enjoying yourself?”
while heavy by benedict’s current state, your heart cannot help but glow brighter at his question.
“yes, tremendously so. the dancing has been plenty fun, despite how horrendous i am at it.”
that makes benedict laugh, and relief floods your body, mind, soul, and heart. it is good to hear him laugh. to see him smile.
“i do not think you are as horrendous as you think you are. your form has been quite good.”
you cock your head, feeling the scrunch of your eyebrows and the smirk on your lips.
“you have been observing me?”
his jaw drops, his body stiffening again. suddenly shy, he looks at his shoes and, with a cough, looks back up at you, and you attempt to hold in your gasp.
how.
how is that, after all this time, he makes these butterflies within me flutter still.
“i— i do not have a clever diversion for that. yes; yes, i have. i suppose i have been building the— the courage within myself.”
“‘the courage’? the courage for what?”
he swallows.
“to ask you to dance with me.”
oh.
“oh.”
he looks… he looks scared. exposed. vulnerable.
you feel them within yourself, too.
he offers his hand.
“may i dance with you, y/n?”
you place your hand in his.
“yes. yes, you may, benedict.”
i am terrified of nothing else and would love nothing more than to dance with you.
benedict leads you to the floor, his ocean eyes never leaving yours, your eyes never leaving his.
the quartet starts up, and you detect how it is music for a waltz. of all the dances you were taught, even you can admit that you were best at learning the waltz.
…
you curtsy as he bows. benedict places his hand on your waist, and you try not to elicit your gasp from feeling his touch.
< their dance commences. they are silent. a lot of staring and shit.
< notably, y/n is not cognizant of the ton’s perception of her while she dances with benedict as she had been with her previous partners. it seems her sole focus in this moment is dancing with benedict, being with benedict. her heart, mind, body, and soul is with him.
< y/n’s mind goes Rampant when benedict places his hand on her exposed shoulder. >
do not close your eyes, you reprimand yourself. if you close your eyes, you will indulge. you will indulge in this sensation. in this touch. in his touch. in benedict’s bare hand on the expanse of your exposed skin. in imagination. in fantasies. in thoughts. in other thoughts on other parts of your body that you so, so very much want him to—
“i had not spoken properly.”
you try not to shudder a gasp upon hearing his voice.
“pardon?” you say, a bit breathless. the dance calling for it, benedict twirls you, and you are now face to face again.
“earlier; when i had commented on your appearance, i had said you looked well.”
you snort, recalling the peculiar word choice, and that earns a smile from benedict.
“what i had meant to say is—“ he swallows, “you look beautiful, y/n.”
“i think,” you respond perhaps too swiftly, “that is testimony to genevieve’s skill and not to my appearance.”
“i think genevieve only enhances what is already there.”
you want to change, you don’t want to change— you do want to change the topic. you cannot handle whatever— whatever benedict is insinuating. the indecipherable, intense, attentive gaze of his ocean eyes on you. it is so much; it is too much.
“she spoke of you.”
shit. why did i say that?
his face immediately falls, ocean eyes transforming with it.
shit.
“genevieve spoke of me? with you? why?”
“kathani had accompanied me to the modiste, and i had shared with genevieve how i became acquainted with penelope and the bridgertons,” you half-truth. “talking about the family, and then you, was a natural consequence.”
“what did she say? about me?”
you try not to wince at the urgency in his voice.
“she shared how you and she had— an intimate and passionate acquaintance,” you divulge, using the words your friend had to describe the artists’ relationship. perhaps you imagine the sensation, but you feel benedict wince as you dance. “and that it was brief and no more.”
“she said that? ‘brief and no more’?”
“indeed.”
he sighs. you detect relief in the exhale, but perhaps you had, once again, imagined it. you always had an active imagination; trying to bend what you perceive to what you wish was real.
“i see,” is all benedict says.
“do you care for her?” you inquire. it is truly masochistic, what you are doing. but you cannot help yourself. it is something you often do when benedict is near. when you and he are so close.
there is a small silence.
“i did. at least, i think i did,” he shares. “i was hurt when our— acquaintance came to an end, but i was not heartbroken. i had known nothing of heartbreak, not until—”
and he suddenly stops speaking, sucking in his lips.
“until?”
“nothing. nevermind. forget i had said anything,” he says all too quickly. you laugh, and he scrunches his face in adorable disapproval at you.
“well, that only makes me the more curious, benedict! the mystery of it, and your very clear blush, indicate it must have been quite the event.”
“i am not blushing!”
“you cannot lie about something i can literally see.”
“you are infuriating.”
“and what do you think you are?”
benedict just pouts at you, though you see the twinkle in his ocean eyes. you want the twinkle to be of affection, but you will settle for amusement. for friendship. you take pride in how you can elicit this reaction out of him. you take joy in how he can elicit this reaction out of you. you love him, and you are grateful that is something you can say and know and feel. even if he does not love you as you love him.
“the first time i felt heartbreak,” he begins, finally giving in. you perk up in anticipation. “was when— was when you had walked out of the house after i had crumpled the paper to the floor.”
you nearly stop in your tracks, halting your waltz with benedict entirely, until you find a way to recover and continue the steps with him. he is looking intently at you, waiting for your response. you inhale a breath and on the exhale say,
“oh.”
it is a pathetic response, but it is the only one you can muster at this moment. breath has entirely left your lungs, your heart palpitates at a maddening rate, the lightning of benedict’s touch and proximity magnifying at every passing second.
“i had hurt you, this person whom i—” he swallows, “whom i care for, deeply and completely. i was, and am, ashamed of my deed and the arrogant thoughts and beliefs that led me to do it.”
“i have long forgiven you for that, benedict.”
“it is something of which i am not deserving.”
“you cannot tell me what to think or do,” you challenge, arching an eyebrow at him to add levity to the conversation. benedict smiles, despite himself, and it makes your body flood with relief and joy.
“i would never dare.”
“as you shouldn’t,” you grin, then inhaling and exhaling through your nostrils. “you need not flagellate yourself for what you did. that accomplishes nothing, and guilt is entirely useless in the structures that be,” you say resolutely. more softly, you continue. “my forgiveness is something i gave you willingly because it is what i truly wanted. because i knew, and know, how you wish to do better. i see that in everything you do; in your art, in your character. it is something i admire in you.”
benedict simply stares at you, his ocean eyes impossible to decipher again. his gaze is overwhelming, but you refuse to break it.
“i was about to say how undeserving i am of your compassion,” he says, “but then swiftly realized you would have just admonished me.”
you laugh.
“you were correct in thinking so, yes.”
he looks at you still, his expression still impossible to decipher, but there is something soft about it.
“thank you, y/n.”
the butterflies within you flutter once more.
“and if you ever wish to discard your paper again,” you diverge from your feelings, “simply hand it to me. i am always in need of more.”
he laughs fully, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight, and you feel the flutterings violently rage within. perhaps diversion was not the wisest choice (or perhaps it was, if it meant that you were the one to make benedict laugh like that).
“i have gotten quite good at maximizing the amount of negative space on a sheet, but nothing would delight me more than to support your writing.”
“i am most grateful for your patronage, mr. bridgerton.”
benedict makes something of a gagging noise, and you snort loudly.
“you are making it strange with the master-servant relation, y/n.”
“ah, so you are learning,” you comment with a sagacious nod of approval. it is now benedict’s turn to snort.
“what can i say?” he grins. “i have the greatest of teachers.”
“they have done quite well; please give them my regards.”
“i shall.”
and with the music coming to an end, you turn to face one another, wide and wild smiles on your faces. you curtsy as benedict bows.
“may i fetch you a drink?” he inquires after you are both upright again.
“is alcohol served at these occasions?”
benedict laughs.
“champagne it is.”
he gives you one more bow, lingering a moment more with one more smile, before taking off to retrieve your drink.
you try to bite back your smile, but it’s entirely useless. you twirl in your spot, feeling the swish of your dress in the spin, for you cannot help yourself. you cannot help how much joy radiates off of you in this moment, how giddy you are. it feels like a fairytale. you look in the direction benedict took off and feel your smile widen.
it is dangerous what you are doing— indulging in this. but you do not care.
this is undoubtedly the most wondrous night of your life.
“so you’re the pauper that the bridgertons have invited to their ball.”
you freeze.
“how else would you have been asked to dance by the host—the viscount and a bridgerton, nonetheless; his two brothers; and the elusive duke of hastings? it is an endearing sight, really.”
her posse snickers.
“the bridgertons have always been so kind and thoughtful in that way, extending their hands to the less fortunate. why they chose you, however, remains a mystery. if it were a pretty face that appealed to them, i perhaps could have understood, but you are simple at best.”
“you are cressida cowper,” you state.
penelope and eloise had warned you about a cruel creature amongst the ton, and the young woman before you matches all of the criteria they had described: icy platinum hair, draconian eyes, and a haughty disposition that ought to be reserved for the royals.
cressida daintily gasps and smiles at you with what seems to be all the mockery she can muster.
“i see that my reputation precedes me! though, only those of my standing can refer to me as such. cannot have my name tainted by the mouths of the lowly.”
you feel the gazes of other guests on you. you hear muffled sneers.
this is entertainment for them.
you should say something, stand up for yourself— against cressida, against her posse, against the ton— but you don’t. you can’t. your mouth has gone dry, your mind has gone silent, your body has gone numb. you have never, ever felt more powerless.
“your dress— did the bridgertons pay for it? of course they did. pity, though, for their wealth to go to waste on such an offensive thing. allow me to assist you—”
and she pours her drink onto you.
you try not to gasp at the chill of the liquid making contact with your skin. looking down, you see a reddish purple stain seep into the cream fabric of your ball gown as it continues to travel downwards.
you hear cressida giggle. you look up.
“better,” she simpers. “beautiful at last.”
her posse sneers with delight. the guests who had tried to suppress their laughs do nothing to hide their mirth now.
this is entertainment for them. my humiliation— it is entertainment for them.
you step into cressida’s space, eliciting a stunned gasp from her as the others follow suit, and shove your face as closely to hers as possible.
“if we were not in your domain, i would rip out your delicate hair and strike my hand across your pretty little face. but i am a lady—not in blood nor in title, but in character. and with your words and your deeds, you have shown just how utterly undeserving you are of such a title with your complete void of morals, compassion, and integrity. i do not care what you think of me, cressida, or what drinks you pour on me because i can rest easy in my sleep and waking hours knowing with perfect certainty that i am nothing like you. i bid you good night.”
and maintaining the ferocity of your glare on her horrified eyes, you muster up the most mocking, deep curtsy you can, turn, hitch up your skirt, and run away. you cannot care for the booming silence from that creature and her posse, for the murmurs and glowers of the ton thrown your way. you cannot take time to process what words a flutters-inducing voice snarls at cressida.
no.
you must simply run away, quickly and efficiently, because you refuse to give into these monsters’ satisfaction of seeing your tears.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
the cool air of the night whips your face as you run as far and as deep as you can into the gardens. you curse your damned shoes, for they are slippery and nothing like your sturdy boots, and they make you realize even further how much you have fucked up in allowing yourself to get this far. in allowing yourself to go to the ball, in allowing yourself to dance, in allowing yourself to fall in—
feeling your shoe catch on something, you fall forward and throw your hands out in front of you, your gloved palms digging into the bark of a tree trunk as you attempt to steady yourself. you attempt to control the staggered rhythm of your breath, the sobs that choke out of your throat, the palpitations that threaten to collapse your heart.
why did i allow myself to get this far?
“y/n—”
you snap your gaze over to the call of your name as your stomach knots, somehow, even now, with flutterings upon hearing his voice.
“benedict, no— just— no,” you manage to croak out, stepping away from where he approaches. you hold up your hand, as if it is a magical force that will push him away. it does not. “just go, please, just go.”
“i refuse to leave you, y/n, you are hurt—”
you cackle, sniffling the snot that tries to escape your nostrils. you push your remaining hand off the tree and turn towards him.
“hurt? what gave you that impression? is it the tears? they are just water, benedict, they will dry.”
“this is not the time to jest!”
“then what do you want of me!”
“to allow me to help you!”
“why! why do you care! why do you care for some, some low status person like me!”
“that is not how i see you!”
“THAT IS WHAT I AM.”
he freezes. you feel yourself clenching your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms through the satin of the gloves that were bought for you.
“you are the son of a viscountess, a brother to a viscount. i wonder every day if my family will have enough food to eat at our one meal. we—” you gesture between the two of you, “—are not of the same world. and maybe, maybe it should have stayed that way. to, to have stayed in our own worlds. we should have stayed in our own worlds!”
“and is that what you want?” he shoots back.
“what?” you snark.
“is that what you want? for us to stay in our own worlds?”
you fall silent, words suddenly failing you, breath suddenly leaving you. he huffs out a breath and continues.
“if that is what you want, i shall stay away from you. i shall never bother you. i shall never hurt you as i have. we shall—” benedict swallows, “we shall forget each other. if that is what you want, y/n, i shall give it to you.”
you do not respond to him. you stare into him as he stares into you.
“is that what you want?”
you shake your head as you feel fresh tears rush to your eyes.
“then what do you want?” he softly asks.
you flutter your eyes closed and breathe in. on your exhale, you open your eyes to the tear-blurry sight of benedict still looking at you with such tenderness in his ocean eyes.
“i want you,” you whisper.
you barely have time to process anything else when benedict surges forward and wraps his arms around you in a crushing embrace. tears fall even harder than before as you cry into his chest and wrap your arms around him.
benedict pulls back from the embrace to look at you, to cup your cheek, to wipe away the tears that fall so quickly from your eyes.
“i want you, y/n. i want to be yours. i want to be in your world, i want our worlds to be one. i want to go wherever you go. i want to make you laugh and to make you smile every day and every night; i want to do everything with you. i want to be with you, to share this life with you. from the moment i met you, from the moment you intended to shake my hand, i have wanted nothing more than to share all the time i have on this earth with you. i do not care for balls, i do not care for the ton, i care— i care for you, y/n. these are not the circumstances in which i wanted to confess this, with you crying and us yelling at one another, but i must be true with you. i—”
“benedict?”
“yes?”
“may i kiss you?”
benedict’s jaw drops and you laugh at his shock, sniffling your nose as you beam at him. he quickly recovers, breaking out into the smile that has always made you flutter with butterflies, the smile that you always secretly hoped, dreamed, wished was reserved for you. and you begin to think that, after all this time, perhaps it is.
“good god, please, yes—”
he barely completes his ‘yes’ when you jump forward to crash your lips into his. benedict practically trips backwards with the force of your eager leap, the two of you laughing into your kiss at the messiness of it all, as he holds you both steady.
this is your first kiss. you are so glad that it is benedict.
and somewhere within you blooms the hope that he is your last first kiss.
you have no idea what you’re doing, or what you should be doing, but you are far too much enjoying having benedict’s lips on yours, your hands on his cheeks, his hands on your waist, and your bodies pressing more and more into each other to give the slightest care. and the smile you feel against yours makes you think that benedict doesn’t mind—at all.
you pull apart to breathe, but your lips do not move far from one another.
“i love you.”
“i love you, too.”
“and i am sorry.”
“for loving me?”
you feel benedict jump back as he holds you, his face absolutely crestfallen, panic flooding his eyes, and he’s about to open his mouth to speak when you giggle and peck his parted lips with yours.
“i’m teasing you, my love.”
benedict’s eyes soften but quickly glint with mischief. you’re curious about the expression when you feel him tickling the sides of your waist.
“okay, okay!” you gasp with laughter as he tickles on. “i— i yield, i yield!”
benedict grins victoriously, his tickles fading into him softly rubbing circles on your waist.
“i am sorry for saying that is not how i see you, when you spoke of your social standing. i had not meant it that way, but i understand now how it was understood, and i should not have said it as i did. i know that i have lived a life of unfathomable ease with the wealth and circumstances into which i was born. the privileges i hold are not things i had reflected on, really, until— until i met you.”
you soften at his earnestness, by the way he humbles himself before you. but you cannot help the giddy mischief that bubbles from within.
“did you only reflect on your privileges as to win a femme’s favor?”
benedict’s jaw drops again, but you see how his ocean eyes shine with like-minded playfulness.
“do you truly think so lowly of me?”
you grin.
“perhaps.”
you feel benedict teasingly threaten his hands into tickling position onto your waist, and laughing, you shoo them away. he grins and softens his gaze once more.
“what i wanted to say to you earlier is— i wish you did not speak of yourself so harshly. as if you are unworthy of care from me because of your status. i care for you, i love you, y/n, as you are. as you were, as you will be. with all your circumstances, all your experiences, all your deeds, all your words, all your thoughts, all your feelings. for your heart, for your mind, for your soul. i love you because you are you, and i wish for you to see that, for you to see you as i see you. as so many of us see you.”
“i— i do not know what to say.”
“you do not have to say anything; just to, if i may ask of you, seed my words into your heart and mind and soul and know them to be true, wholly and completely,” a playful smile forms on his lips. “though, i must say, i am rather pleased with myself for rendering a writer with ferocious conviction speechless.”
you roll your eyes, but your voice is soft.
“you have had that effect on me for quite some time, benedict.”
benedict swallows and gently rubs circles onto your waist again.
“i love you, benedict.”
“i love you, too.”
< y/n and benedict, hand-in-hand, start to walk towards the house; they are taking their time. >
“are you certain you want to return the ball?” benedict inquires. “we can stay here in the gardens and wait until the last of the guests have gone.”
you hum.
“i would like to dance.”
“ah, was there a gentleman or a lady who caught your eye, miss y/l/n?”
“oh, loads. i hope it won’t make you terribly jealous, mr. bridgerton.”
“it will, but i shall simply stare at them maliciously if their hands are to roam.”
“yes, my form is reserved for your hands and your hands alone.”
you exchange grins.
“indeed.”
benedict nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and you laugh. he lifts his head and plants a soft kiss on your temple.
“are you certain? i do not mean to doubt you or your wishes to dance. we can dance out here, under the bright light of the moon. i want you to feel content and safe.”
“i do feel content and safe. with you. with the family. within myself. i shan’t let the ton or cressida ruin my first ball. though, the idea of dancing in the moonlight is quite enticing. perhaps another night?”
“you have my word,” and bringing your hand to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. a serene silence falls between you two until benedict makes some sort of a noise in his throat, as if to clear his voice.
“i, uh, must say,” benedict begins, “your confrontation with cressida was, uh, quite— alluring.”
you stop, letting go of his hand, and stare at him.
“alluring?”
a delicious blush colors your love’s face.
“indeed.”
a newfound bravery blooms in you.
you step into his space, not breaking eye contact with his blown out pupils, the ocean of his eyes mere outlines. you sneak your lips towards his ear and hear a soft whimper emit from his lips.
“is that something of interest to you, mr. bridgerton?” you murmur, your bottom lip barely grazing his earlobe. you feel him shiver and inhale. “when you see someone be put in their place?”
he exhales frantically.
“it is something of interest to me when— when you do it,” he admits, as if out of breath. you smile, pressing your bottom lip softly into his earlobe. he does nothing to hold back his moan as you do everything in your power to hold in yours.
“that is good to know,” and quickly rip away from him.
in your step back, you take in benedict’s state—flustered, expectant, ruttish—and wink at him. you turn and walk away at your leisure, putting on a performance of superiority as you hide your own arousal.
it is only a few moments later that you hear benedict follow you.
“you,” he says, voice still fraught with desire but full with love, “will be the death of me.”
you look back at him and grin.
“and what would you like me to put on your epitaph?”
“benedict bridgerton, he who, in life and in death, loves the best soul to have ever existed.”
you cannot help your giddy self and close the distance between the two of you once more, grabbing his face and pressing your smile into his. benedict happily obliges as he places his hands at the low of your waist and pulls you closer into him.
< they get into it!
< y/n takes off her gloves so that she can touch benedict; she is about to throw them on the ground. >
“wait—”
and he takes your gloves.
“hm?”
“your gloves. they were costly to make,” benedict states as he stuffs them into the inside pockets of his jacket. “i don’t want to be flippant in letting them be discarded to the ground.”
you gape at him.
“you concern yourself with the cost of my gloves?”
“why, yes, of course, it is something i—”
you clutch onto the lapels of benedict’s jacket and push him backward into a nearby hedge, his mouth now agape and his pupils dark with a desire you very much want to satisfy.
“i find your consideration quite alluring.”
in the midst of his apparent arousal, benedict giggles, and that makes you grin.
“what is it?”
“a hedge, y/n? of all things to anchor me against?”
you roll your eyes.
“it was this, benedict, or the bark of a tree.”
“ah, so i should be grateful then.”
you repeat his words with sped up mockery, making him laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkle in the adorable way that is so very distinctly benedict, and you capture your love’s lips again to shut him up, smiling and laughing into the kiss.
…
“what do you want?”
“you. whatever you want, benedict, i want it. please.”
“are you certain?” he breathes into your ear.
“god, yes, benedict, please, yes.”
“then—”
benedict positions his head downward, burying his face into the crevice of your bosom, and before you can even begin to tease him for his absurdity, you feel the wetness of his tongue flat against the curvature of your right breast. your gasp of surprise quickly transforms into an ungodly guttural wail, feeling yourself dig your fingernails into benedict’s back, arching into him to steady yourself, as he painstakingly drags the flat of his tongue from your right breast against the expanse of your exposed chest to the length of your right shoulder. dazed and euphoric, you feel how benedict sneaks towards your ear, hovers it, panting ragged breaths,
“i’ve wanted to do that since you descended the stairs in that dress. and—”
taking your left hand, benedict pushes your middle finger and forefinger fully into his mouth. he methodically works his tongue against them as he guides your hand to pull and push in him, his blown out pupils never once leaving your intoxicated stare. you feel the desperate urge to throw your head back at the incandescent eroticism that throbs from your fingertips to the rest of your body, but may god smite you if you willingly tear your eyes away from the divine sight of benedict’s almost oceanless eyes gaping into you as his gorgeous mouth sucks on your fingers. just before you feel as though you are to fully blank out and ascend into the heavens, benedict rips your hand out of his mouth, the action creating an obscenely delicious ‘pop’ sound, and, wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulls you back into him, your face finding respite just below his shoulder.
“i’ve wanted to do that since first drawing your hand.”
you laugh-cry into his jacket.
“shit, benedict.”
your love laughs and nudges his head into yours and rests it there as he softly rubs circles on your back with his thumb.
“please—” good god, breathe, “please remind me to ask you more frequently what you want.”
“did you enjoy it?”
“no, benedict, i quite plainly hated it.”
“i’d be glad to accept your critiques.”
“i know you would,” you smile into his jacket and, lifting your head, are greeted by your favorite sight: benedict, with his soft smile and his gentle ocean eyes.
“i have never felt like that before,” you admit in a whisper.
“nor have i,” he whispers back. that shocks you, and you must have made your reaction visible because benedict emits a laugh through his nose, soft smile and gentle ocean eyes unfaltering.
“but you have been with others before; you’ve had similar experiences, yes?”
you had assumed that your exhilaration must have been, apart from it being benedict, rooted in your lack of experience in such things.
benedict brushes a loose strand of your hair away from your eyes and tucks it behind your ear, his hand moving down to cup your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing it.
“yes, but those were different.”
you cock your head in response. he smiles, as if it is apparent.
“because they are not you.”
the sweetness of benedict’s ocean eyes are quickly replaced with shock then delight and then you don’t know what because he closes them as you crash your lips into his. whatever you had just felt before, you want it again. you want benedict. all of him. and you want all of him to feel what you just had.
you lick his teeth, and granting your wish, benedict opens his mouth more, groaning, bringing his hands to the curvatures of your ass, pushing your bodies even closer together though no space left exists between the two of you. you move your hand to the back of his head and, gripping a tuft of his hair, pull it roughly just as you capture his tongue with your mouth and suck hard. the sounds that benedict produce in reaction are entirely inhuman, but you vaguely deduce he is trying to say your name, and you’ve never attended a concert but, my god, nothing will ever sound as harmonious as the symphony that is your name gutturally trapped in benedict’s throat.
continuing with the work you’ve done to undo benedict thus far, you take your other hand and start to rake it against his body, starting at the base of his throat, taking time and leisure to explore, lowering and pressing into his chest, wondering wildly what beauty exists behind his damned shirt, lowering and feeling the firmness of his stomach and trying not to completely undo yourself with the sinful, transcendent thoughts of putting your tongue there, lowering and lowering and touching something curious and unfamiliar and hard and—
when he pushes you off of him.
“benedict, i— i am so sorry,” you panic, “please, what did i—”
“no, no,” he swallows, “you did— you have nothing to apologize for, my love, you were— uh— you were doing quite——” he clears his throat, “you were doing quite well; very well, actually…”
you continue to frown, still concerned.
“then why are you so tottery?”
“because— because if we were to continue, i do not think— i know i would not last for— um, for very much longer.”
you jut out your hip, putting the knuckles of your fist on it, and furrow your eyebrows at him.
“benedict bridgerton, i still do not understand what you are trying to convey. speak plainly.”
“we should stop.”
your jaw drops, as does your hand from your hip.
“why?” you practically whine. you should be embarrassed by your desperation, but to be entirely frank, you couldn't care less. benedict huffs out a laugh, still breathless, and, stepping towards you, lays a tender kiss on your forehead.
“as much as i would love for us to continue, i think being in the family gardens with a ball being held a few meters away is hardly an ideal location for the more— involved aspects of such activities. the aspects i’d like to explain to you,” he takes another step into your space, lowering his voice to an unfamiliar but enrapturing gravel, “the aspects i’d like to show you.”
you swallow your whimper.
“i—— i would very much like that,” you manage. and then you grin, “though, exploring such aspects in the family gardens sounds like it would be quite the adventure. a calculated risk, if you will.”
the alluring tone of benedict’s voice is completely replaced with a giggle, and your grin broadens as you press even closer into him and nudge your nose against his. benedict rests his forehead against yours and flutters his eyes closed.
“what did i do to have you love me back?”
you flutter your eyes closed.
“you were you. you are you.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< ahead, y/n sees kathani. she makes the connection that kathani must have accompanied benedict as a chaperone so that y/n wouldn’t be “disgraced” by having a man by himself chase after her.
< as the two approach the viscountess, kathani recognizes how disheveled y/n and benedict look and promptly fixes them to look more presentable. she takes some hedge leaves out of benedict’s hair. >
“i see that you are well, y/n?” inquires kathani.
“never better, actually.”
she laughs, a smile falling on her lips.
“i am sincerely glad to hear that.”
< they walk closer to bridgerton house. >
“you are fortunate that it was not anthony who volunteered to chaperone. he would have not reacted well to his loved one being dishonored, as he would say, particularly on family grounds.”
“oh dear,” you say, nervous and suddenly self-conscious. you do not want to be the target of the eldest bridgerton’s wrath. “what have i done to dishonor—“
kathani laughs.
“i wasn’t referring to you, chellam. i was referring to him,” and she juts her chin out at benedict.
“me!”
“anthony will be furious when he finds out that you have been— private,” she says, gesturing to his newly tidied appearance, “with y/n in the gardens. not very gentlemanly of you.”
“he won’t find out!” benedict pauses. “he won’t find out— right, kate?”
kathani just makes a face of feigned deep thought and you chortle.
“kate!”
“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict.”
“but what if it’s for love?” he implores. he says it facetiously, but you feel with what conviction he exudes his true feeling.
kathani’s expression softens as she looks between you and benedict. you offer a small nod and a smile, confirming her thoughts. she beams at you but then narrows her eyes at benedict. there is no heat to her gaze; she is, however, having the most sublime time making her brother-in-law squirm.
“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict,” kathani repeats. benedict groans, throwing his head back like a disgruntled child, and you belly laugh at him.
“i hope you are ready for gregory to be your second,” she continues.
you almost double over as benedict snaps his head forward to look at his sister-in-law.
“gregory!”
“indeed. it is a shame as well— anthony’s accustomed second being the one he has to duel,” she sighs dramatically. “oh well. colin will make a fine replacement.”
“this family is ridiculous,” you declare, grinning like mad. “gregory seems a tad young, though. what about eloise? i am sure she would be a more than suitable second for benedict.”
“oh, i have no doubt,” grins back kathani, “but i would not dare involve a woman in the idiocy of men and their ludicrous concepts of honor.”
you and kathani laugh loudly, delighted by how much you are enjoying yourselves, untroubled by benedict’s moping.
“it has been wonderful being in love with you, benedict,” you state simply. “it’s a pity that it has to come to an end so soon."
kathani snorts. benedict stops in his tracks and gapes at you.
“you think i would lose the duel!”
“anthony is more stubborn; he would let it fuel his will to live.”
“i think you underestimate how much i love you and how that fuels my will to live.”
you smile. in your periphery, kathani smiles. despite his current displeasure with you, your love smiles.
“i suppose i do.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< upon returning to the ball, y/n, benedict, and kathani see how anthony and violet are ensuring that the cowpers are leaving. before the family leaves, y/n approaches cressida. >
“i do hope to see you at another one of these events. if you find a way, of course, not to have yourself kicked out.”
and you curtsy. you turn to your love, his mouth in a wide smile and ocean eyes sparkling, and offer him a wink. you hear the quartet start up.
“i believe it is time for another round of dancing. care to be my partner?”
“i would love nothing more.”
< they dance. it is sweet, silly, romantic, and delightful. both y/n and benedict touch each other beyond what is considered proper, like hands laying too low on the waist or eliminating the space between their bodies, but they truly do not care. their unabashed joy is abundantly evident to everyone in the ballroom, but they are only focused on one another. they are in their own world. they giggle, they grin; it is the happiness they both deserve.
< they dance the next set.
< after her and benedict’s third dance together, y/n makes eye contact with violet, who is at the margins of the dancefloor, eyes wide with joy. >
“as much as i love dancing with you, my love,” you beam, “i think i am in need of a new partner.”
< y/n approaches violet and with a bow asks her for the honor of being her next dance. though delighted, violet remarks how she is too old, and y/n says that the youngsters can learn a thing or two from her wisdom and skill. >
“we would need permission from the host,” offers violet.
“from anthony! you birthed him! you granted him permission to exist!”
that makes violet laugh.
< violet agrees, and they walk hand in hand to the dance floor. in this dance, y/n and violet are partnered, benedict partnered with penelope, kathani partnered with anthony. >
…
“you’ve told each other."
“has anyone remarked how keenly insightful you are, violet bridgerton?"
“no,” the dowager replies with twinkling eyes, “but it is something of which i am well aware, and take great pride in. i am happy for you both.”
“i am so glad to have your approval.”
“oh tosh! as if a mother’s approval or disapproval can get in the way of real, true love.”
“perhaps so, but it is affirming to have the blessing from someone you so dearly love in a matter such as this.”
“you make it easy to love you, my dear.”
< the dance calls for a switch in partners. y/n becomes partnered with penelope, and violet becomes partnered with benedict. >
“thank you, pen.”
“whatever for?”
“for bumping into me at the markets.”
penelope laughs.
“accidents are quite good, are they not?”
“i despise them, actually,” you declare with a grin.
< penelope reveals that benedict shared with her why he was not seen for the first three dances of the night. >
your jaw drops, and penelope merely titters in response.
“is that why i didn’t see him! because he was lurking in the crowds to prevent men from approaching me?”
“it has been my discovery that the bridgerton brothers do not handle their jealousies well.”
“do you think gregory shall be the same?”
“oh, i am entirely certain. he shall likely be the worst of all.”
the two of you snort as you are sent back to your partners, penelope with benedict and you with violet.
“and what has you and penelope in such giggles?”
“making barbs at your sons.”
violet laughs.
“they make it awfully easy to do so, do they not?”
< the dance comes to an end. violet plants a soft kiss on y/n’s head.
< turning, y/n connects eyes with benedict who wears an incandescently happy expression. >
how could you not see it before? how in love he is with you.
< tired but elated, y/n takes a break from dancing. she reunites with the rest of the bridgertons at the ball. y/n finally meets daphne, who remarks that she has heard so much about y/n. eloise shares how the family wished to check in on y/n when she had returned to the ball to see that she was well; in a rare smile rather than a smirk, eloise shares that, upon seeing her dance and dance again with benedict, that she looked quite well indeed. at some point in the conversation with the bridgertons, y/n inquires when she can meet francesca.
< time passes, and joy is had amongst the bridgertons, penelope, simon, and y/n. y/n cannot believe her happiness.
< the last dance is called. benedict approaches y/n. >
“may i have the honor of being your final dance of the night?"
“you aren’t tired of me yet?”
“i shall never tire of you, y/n.”
upon taking your hand, benedict twirls you once then twice as he leads you towards the dance floor. giggling and grinning, you decide to do the same to him, causing him to giggle and grin right along with you.
< they dance a fourth time. >
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< the guests have made their leave from the bridgerton ball. colin, eloise, and violet have gone to their respective bedchambers.
< anthony, benedict, kathani, and y/n walk up the steps of the grand staircase. anthony has his hand clamped on benedict’s forearm and pulls him up the steps with particular determination and quiet fury. >
“i know where i sleep, brother! i have slept there since we were children!”
“i am well aware of that, benedict, and i am also well aware of how you— roam when enticed.”
benedict looks at anthony, to you (you just shrug as you look on at the exchange with excitement), and back to anthony.
“do you people really think so little of me!”
“i do not think little of you, brother, i just know you.”
benedict’s shock deepens incredulously, though you see the smile underscoring it all.
“i am a man of honor! i am a gentleman!”
“yes, as am i, as is colin, as was father; all bridgerton men are, and all bridgerton men are idiots around the persons for whom they have affections. now, go into your bedchamber,” anthony finishes as he shoves his younger brother into the room.
“you are a nightmare!” you hear your love shout from within.
“and you are to stay here for the remainder of the night!” he shouts back, leaning forward to grab the knob to benedict’s bedchamber and pulling the door shut with a loud thud. he turns to kathani, composure returning to his senses.
“my dearest, may you call samuel and lawrence, please? i shall have samuel stationed here and lawrence stationed outside benedict’s window. they will be paid double their wage for these extemporary responsibilities.”
you laugh with your whole stomach and feel tears sting your eyes. you have no concern in hiding your howls until you remember hyacinth and gregory are asleep and promptly clamp your hand over your mouth. your hand succeeds in muffling your laughter, but marginally.
kathani rolls her eyes at her husband and deeply sighs.
“i shall,” she replies, smiling at her love’s antics.
pleased with her answer, anthony right about turns at benedict’s door, places his hands behind his back, and stands up tall, taking his temporary duty as guard with the utmost gravity. something then eases in his posture, and he turns to you.
“i hope you have enjoyed your night, y/n.”
your heart swells.
“it was wondrous, anthony. thank you.”
he beams, brilliant delight in his eyes.
“i wish you good rest.”
and with a bow of his head, anthony turns away from you and assumes his station once more, gravity and perfect posture and all.
the viscountess turns to you, her smile having softened, and says, “let me escort you back to your bedchamber. i shall help you prepare for bed.”
–
“despite his many flaws,” kathani says with all amusement and fondness in her voice as she removes the pins from your hair, “anthony is, indeed, a man of honor and honesty.”
“i never had my doubts, but—” you snort, “that has certainly proved it.”
“it is because he thinks so highly of you,” she shares, looking at you in the mirror. you turn around in your seat and connect with her eyes, eyes that are filled with so much warmth. “he cares deeply for you, y/n. anthony is only that overbearing and overly protective when it comes to his family, and he sees you as our family. we all do.”
you suck in air through your nostrils, feeling the swell of your heart. how did you get so fortunate as to be so loved by this family?
though, you detect something in kathani. her words are sincere, of that you are not doubtful, but they do not seem complete. it is as if she wants to say more, if the blossoming twinkle in her eyes is indicative of anything. but kathani does not elaborate.
instead, she picks up the brush on the vanity and gently brushes your hair. it reminds you of when your elder sister used to brush your hair before bedtime. you close your eyes, humming.
“i see you all as my family, too.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< the next morning, late morning. the dining room. >
“you are infernal,” benedict deadpans to anthony, staring at his brother and taking his seat next to you.
“you are incorrigible; i was correct,” anthony responds, his eyes not leaving his paper.
“correct about what, brother?” hyacinth asks.
despite their current rivalry, benedict and anthony both freeze. kate speaks on their behalf.
“your eldest had deemed it necessary to have lawrence stationed outside below benedict’s bedchamber window in the early morn and was proved correct in doing so; your second eldest had attempted to escape by way of that route.”
“stationed outside his window? why would that be necessary?” gregory inquires. he turns to benedict. “and why were you trying to leave through your window?”
in his periphery, benedict sees you whipping your head. you seem to have suddenly found some interest in the painting on the wall faced away from the current scene. he notices how you hide your smile behind your fist and how you attempt to suppress the convulsions of your laughter. kate, on the other hand, unapologetically laughs.
“i am certain you will learn in due time, gregory. it is something of a tradition, it seems.”
“will i get to participate in this tradition?” hyacinth enthuses.
“NO!” benedict and anthony shout in tandem. they look at each other, and the elder gives a ‘see!’ face to the younger. benedict just rolls his eyes.
his eyes eventually land back on you: you have now totally hidden your face in your hands with elbows perched on the table for support, any attempts at hiding your laughter now entirely gone. your entire body vibrates as you somehow squeak and guffaw into the palms of your hands.
“ugh, why do adults always speak in such vague statements!” hyacinth grumbles as she slumps in her chair and crosses her arms. she then suddenly shoots back up and looks at you. “y/n, you only speak in riddles when we play! may we play now?”
“yes! may we play now?” gregory pipes up.
“please!” the two youngest plead in tandem. benedict looks to you, and wiping away your hands to reveal your face red from laughter, you say,
“i would be— i would be delighted to do so,” you take sharp breaths in between attempts at controlling your laughter. “perhaps—” you full on snort, and it makes benedict break out into a grin, “—perhaps, after the young sorceress and— and the young knight slay the wyvern, they— they will save the— the—” you laugh hard again, “the princess, captive and forlorn in her tower.”
gregory and hyacinth shout their joy and take off from the table.
“you haven’t been excu!— oh, nevermind,” anthony grumbles in an uncanny, childlike resemblance to his youngest sibling.
benedict watches as you use your forefingers to swipe at the corners of your e/c eyes, fits of laughter still bubbling out of your mouth.
i love her, and she loves me, he thinks in awe. it has been on repeat in his mind since you confessed to one another in the gardens just the night prior. she is mine, and i am hers.
“your lordship,” you giggle still as you look at anthony, and benedict snickers, “may i be excused to play make-believe with your youngest siblings?”
anthony rolls his eyes with much theatricality, but his smile at you is sincere.
“you are not my sibling,” he states, but benedict catches how his elder brother quickly glances at him with eyes that say ‘yet,’ “you need not my permission, but yes, you may.”
you bow your head in dramatic gratitude, causing kate to titter and anthony to look to the ceiling, and you lift yourself up from your seat.
before you follow after his siblings, benedict reaches out and gently takes your hand. you look at him, and he feels how his stomach flutters when his blue eyes makes contact with your e/c. just as it did the first time, just as it did every time after.
benedict feels you softly rub three circles on his hand. he softly rubs four circles on yours.
“good day, princess,” you say with a wink at your love, slowly slipping your hand away from his and then turning to walk out of the dining room. benedict stares at you as you leave.
i love her, and she loves me. she is mine, and i am hers.
“when do you intend on proposing, brother?” anthony smirks as he puts his teacup to his lips.
benedict smiles, looking off at where your laughter is heard.
“later this afternoon.”
anthony chokes on his tea, and kate, patting her coughing husband’s back, arches an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“without a ring?”
benedict turns to look at the couple and grins.
“who said i don’t have a ring?”
“you are joking,” anthony says matter-of-factly. “we all are excited at the prospects of y/n officially joining this family, but you just confessed your love for one another not even twelve hours ago. we are still breaking fast! there were guards at your door and your window! how could you have already procured a ring?”
benedict smiles, digging into his pocket.
“i do not jest, brother.”
and, with pride, he holds up a thin band made of twisted paper.
“now, if you will excuse me,” benedict announces, lifting himself out of his seat, giving a kiss to the top of kate’s head, and ruffling anthony’s hair. “i must be going.”
“and where are you off?” anthony demands as he straightens out his hair.
“do you think i am going to propose to y/n without asking her family’s permission first? would not be very gentlemanly of me if i did.”
“how do you know where she lives!”
“that is what you were asking penelope last night,” kate answers. anthony looks at his wife, incredulous and in awe. benedict grins.
“exactly so, sister. i’ve always known you held all the intelligence between you two. i would have seen to it sooner, but—”
an image of e/c eyes and ink-stained hands flashes in his mind, the flutterings in his stomach intensifying. butterflies— that is what he will paint next, he decides.
after he finishes his portrait of you.
“—i was held captive in my tower.”
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