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total-dxmure · 5 months

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✦ INVISIBLE STRING THEORY →【ELLIE WILLIAMS】→ CHAPTER TWO

pairings: modern!marine ellie x reader

summary: the marines didn’t ruin ellie. ellie ruined ellie. after being medically discharged she feels lost. being sent to live with joel is more of a last ditch effort to save her and less of a fun reunion for the father-daughter duo. jackson is worlds different than chicago, but the fresh air and sprawling countrysides are a welcome reprieve. ellie finds herself finding comfort in more than just the change in scenery though. after losing your girlfriend due to an accident you feel as though you’ll never find love again- but that was before meeting ellie williams. the two of you figure out that you have more in common than just the fact that she and your girlfriend were both marines though. tethered by some invisible string, the two of you meeting has to be fate. who would have known that you were the golden ticket to ellie’s recovery?

warnings: eventual smut! lots of tension building and mutual pining. ellie falls first and hard. small town girl meets a frightening, strong ex marine. TW: talk of panic attacks, ptsd episodes and death. come for the ellie smut and stay for the plot and fluff. (A/N: this chapter is just plot/character building. next chapter we're getting to the good stuff)

⬶ previous chapter | next chapter ⤅

The old farm truck rocked back and forth as you made your way up the all-too familiar dirt path, heading in the direction of the greenhouses. You’d already let the hens out to graze and feed and the last thing you had to do before dropping today’s produce off was check on the nurseries.

Johnny Cash’s southern twang hummed gently over the speakers, your well worn-in cassette tape having been the first thing you reached for this morning. The sun had risen just a few hours ago, and after a few cups of much needed coffee you were ready to go.

The caffeine had done the lord's work, having cleared your brain of any anxious background noise. You could actually function when you had tasks at hand. The second you slowed down though… well, that was a different story. You were trying hard not to imagine Abby sitting beside you in the beat-to-hell red pickup, her blonde braid tossed over her shoulder as she stuck her arm out of the window. You used to joke about her being part dog, what with her loving the wind on her face so much. You missed being able to reach out and wrap a stray strand of blonde hair around your finger, only giving it a soft tug when those blue eyes of hers looked at you with a little too much heat behind them.

So instead of looking at the empty passenger seat you busied yourself with turning up the volume, country music crackling over the shot, old speakers. You all but jumped out of the car the second you put the car in park, ready to get your hands dirty and your mind preoccupied.

You couldn’t remember how many times the two of you had snuck off to the greenhouse when your mother had gotten a little too overbearing back when she still lived in the main house with you. There wasn’t a single surface in the old rickety building that abby hadn’t fucked you on or vice versa.

You walked along the rows and rows of seedlings, looking for any sign of water rot or bug infestations. Everything was perfect, every stem and leaf a vibrant green. Tomatoes, all different kinds of summer squash, and beans of every variety; you had the gift of a green thumb. Your father was more than happy to sign his company over to you right before he passed. All five acres of his property belonged to you now, and with that every bit of responsibility had been placed upon your shoulders. You used to resent the fact that you were so young and in charge of so much. Now you were thankful for the constant work. Distractions. You hated seeing your dad’s life work being summed up as a mere distraction, but it was the only thing that got you out of bed in the morning.

Everyone in the family knew that your dad had wanted a boy when your mother’s pregnancy was first announced. It was a family business, the job having been passed down to him by his own father. Still, he had been ecstatic to show you the ropes. Rather than taking up dance or art like most other little girls your age, you spent your free time elbow deep in mud. You wore the bows and fussed over getting new outfits, but overalls were your daily uniform.

You wore a pair even today, your work boots tightly fastened to ward away any unwanted pecks from overprotective mother hens. Today was bound to be monotonous, as it always was. All you had to do was repot a few strawberry plants. Maybe if you were lucky a goat would find a hole in the gate and escape. At least it would give you something to worry about that wasn’t Abby related.

You slunk over towards the sinks, pumping soap into your dirt covered palm to wash off the dirt. You rubbed your hands together to begin lathering but froze when you realized your right hand felt bare. You brushed your thumb against your middle finger only to realize that it was just as you had feared.

Your ring. It wasn’t there.

White hot dread locked your limbs as you turned your hand over, the dainty opal missing from your middle finger. You blinked, hoping that you were just seeing things. You didn’t even turn off the sinks before racing back over to the repotting table, as if the promise ring had grown legs and would escape you. Your eyes frantically searched the table, pain shooting through your knees as you dropped down on all fours, pushing dirt and leaves aside to get a better vantage point. Nothing. It wasn’t there.

“Oh god. No! No, no, no.” You all but screamed, eyes filling with tears as you pulled yourself off.

You broke out into a nervous sweat, the blood rushing from your head. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening right now.

You didn’t care if you killed the plants, you ripped the strawberries up by their stems, shaking their roots out as you searched their new pots.

Every. Single. One.

Empty.

Abby had given you that ring just before her last deployment, promising that she would be giving you the real thing once she got back. Of course, she never did. It was single handedly the most important piece of jewelry that you had ever owned, even above your grandmother’s pearls and engagement ring. How could you be so reckless? Why hadn’t you thought to leave it in the car?

“Stupid! I’m so fucking stupid!” You screamed, tossing a clay pot on the ground in a fit of anger. It shattered behind you, exploding into a thousand tiny pieces.

You spent an hour sifting through dirt and untangling roots before you finally realized that it was a lost cause. The ring was gone. You’d wrecked the entire greenhouse in your frantic search and the strawberries were just as you expected: dead.

You slammed the door shut behind you, the old window panes shaking with the force. You had barely thrown yourself into the pickup before your body was wracked with full body sobs. White knuckling the steering wheel you leaned your head forward, completely unbothered as the horn blared.

How could you lose something so precious to you? It had been the last gift that you had ever received from Abby. The last. There was no possible way to replace something that was that special to you. Her hands had touched that ring. She’d been nervous to give it to you in the first place, anxious that two years hadn’t been enough time to give you something that sentimental. It was the meaning behind it that had you clutching at your chest, your fingernails digging into your shirt as if you could rip your heart straight out from between your ribs.

She was going to replace that ring once she got back. Give you the “real deal” once she was back home and able to have a ceremony.

But there would never be a ceremony. Never another ring. Never another Abby.

Never. Never. Never.

It felt like you were losing a piece of her, and with that came the revelation- the same one that you’ve already had a thousand times- that she was really gone. There would be no do-overs; no alternate universes where the two of you could be together. The reality of your situation sat heavy in your throat, clogging your airway.

The loss of Abby had eclipsed your heart completely, and darkness was all that was left.

You stayed in the car until your eyes had practically swelled shut and there were no more tears to shed.

The car ride back to her childhood home was completely silent, the only sound being the engine of Joel’s shiny new truck. She did her best to compliment him on the new purchase, but Ellie was sure that she didn’t sound even half as enthusiastic as she had hoped she would. She didn’t feel like being an actress today. Not when he already knew how bad she was doing. Joel had taken one look at her as she got off of the plane and frowned, grabbing her bags only after giving her a bone shattering side hug.

“Well I missed ya,” He finally spoke, causing her to jump in surprise. The sound of his baritone voice soothed her nerves over though. “I’ve really missed you annoyin’ the hell outta me at all hours of the day.”

Ellie cracked a small smile at that, leaning her head into the plush leather seat. The last time she saw Joel was when she had first been transferred to the Kindred Hospital back in Chicago, which was where she had rotted away for a full week. Her eye and face healed up quickly but her back was a different story. She’d been burned badly and had all of the nasty scars to prove it. He had stayed by her bedside for the entire week and had helped her to readjust to being back home in her apartment. The nearly debilitating pain was the only thing that had distracted her from the gravity of her situation back then.

Her therapist said it was normal to disassociate for long periods of time when the body and mind are put under so much stress. Ellie still felt like Ellie back then, but it was only because she didn’t have any real grasp on reality. It was just a few days after Joel left that she finally snapped out of it. She was one of the only five that survived. She was told that landmines were the cause of so many deaths in Iraq.

“It happens all the time out there. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

She didn’t want her unit to just be another statistic. They weren’t just numbers. They were people who had loved ones at home. Loved ones that they had to leave for months and months on end. She couldn’t help but shoulder all of the blame. Ellie was the one that had led them out there in the first place. It was her fault, so why hadn’t she died right along with them? She would have considered herself lucky if she had lost her life right along with them. These were the people that she saw daily. Ellie had developed deep friendships with every member of her unit. She knew the details of all of their lives- the names of their children and loved ones back at home, what they wanted to do with their lives once they were dismissed- how could she not feel like someone had ripped her soul to shreds? How could she not constantly remind herself, every second of every goddamn day, that she was the reason.

She was a ghost. A mere shell of the person that she once was and she had no one to blame but herself.

“I didn’t know you liked me being annoying so much,” Still, she turned to Joel and cracked him a small smile. It was more for his sake and less for hers though. “I’ll make sure to turn it up a notch while I’m here.”

The older man grumbled, shaking his head slightly as he kept his eyes on the country roads in front of him. “That sounds like a threat.”

Ellie could tell that he was playing with her. They were professionals when it came to teasing each other, often to the point that people thought that they were seriously bickering. The short haired female let herself settle into the normalcy of the moment. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the accident or her mental state yet, so it was easy to pretend that things were still…okay.

So that’s exactly what she did. She began to pretend. Ellie allowed herself to be transported back in time. This was just another Tuesday. She’d get back home and sweet talk Joel into cooking her an after school snack. Then she’d go up to her room and procrastinate doing her homework so that she could reread one of her comics.

“Got anything good in here?” Ellie asked before opening up the center console. “I’m not gonna find anything nasty, am I?”

Joel’s lips pursed as he tried to fight off a smile. “Don’t go rifflin’ through my shit, kiddo.”

Her eyes snagged on a familiar purple book, and for the first time in a while something yawned to life in her chest. Joy.

“What do we have here?” She pulled out the book of puns, using it to fan herself before she cracked the bad boy open.

“Ah, don’t start.” He groaned.

She didn’t take the time to wonder why he had put the well loved book in his brand new truck. Instead of allowing herself to be overcome with endearment she flipped to a random page, her lips turning up in the first genuine smile she’d had in months.

“Where can you find a tiny coke?” She asked him, turning in her seat so that she could face him, tucking one of her converse-clad feet underneath her.

“Hey! Get your dirty shoes off of my new upholstery!” Joel reached over and gave her knee a slap.

Ellie reared back, holding the book of puns tight to her chest.

“Come on, try and guess.”

He groaned, rolling his eyes as he leaned his arm against the door.

“I don’t know… tiny town.”

Her nose wrinkled, an eyebrow quirking up at his half assed answer.

“Shitty guess, but alright.” She mumbled under her breath. “Mini-soda.”

“Hilarious.” He said sarcastically, turning onto the familiar drive.

“I think I saw you smile though.”She leaned over to give his cheek a poke, but he swiftly batted her hand away.

The truck’s all-terrain tires crunched over the gravel driveway, revealing the only real home she’d ever lived in. The house and yard looked exactly the same as it had whenever she was a teenager. She sighed out a breath of relief, not knowing how much well she would have handled any sort of severe change. Ellie opened the passenger side door before Joel had a chance to put the car in park, eager to settle in after the flight. She wanted to shower, and that surprised her a bit. A welcome surprise.

Maybe things would be better for her here.

“You didn’t turn my old room into some perverted sex dungeon while I was gone, did you?” She teased as she grabbed her tan duffel bag, easily tossing it over her shoulder as she bounded up the stairs.

He laughed as a response, following close behind her so that he could unlock the front door. She didn’t know why he even bothered. He lived in the middle of nowhere, and they rarely got visitors.

“I’ve got some guitars in there that are worth a fortune.” He’d told her the last time she’d asked.

It had been one of the few times that Ellie had snuck out of the house after curfew. She’d been unable to haul herself back into her second story window once she’d gotten back home and had been forced to sleep in the beat up old hatchback that he had bought her for her sixteenth birthday. Breakfast that morning had been… tense, to say the least.

“I didn’t touch your room… but I did get a dog, so make sure not to let her out.”

She paused at that, turning to look at him with wide eyes. There had been a strict “no animals” rule back when she lived with him. She never thought she’d see the day where Joel Miller would adopt a pet, let alone a dog.

“You got a dog?” She was still in disbelief and half expected him to fucking with her.

“Buckley is a good boy. He shits on the floor sometimes and barks all hours of morning though. It’s almost like having you home.” He teased, bumping his shoulder against hers so that he could shove his key into the lock.

The deadbolt clicked open, and low and behold there was a dog. He looked like some sort of lab mix, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he anxiously waited for his owner’s return. Ellie was too excited to come up with a witty response to Joel’s joke. She tossed her duffle down on the couch, quickly getting down on her knees so that she could pet the dog.

“He’s not much of a guard dog, is he?” He asked, closing the door behind him.

The second that Ellie’s hand tangled into his thick black fur he flopped down, eager for love. Ellie smirked, looking at Joel over her shoulder.

“I don’t know. He looks pretty ferocious to me.”

The sudden knock on the door had Ellie’s lips downturning, eyebrows pinching in confusion. She didn’t like the idea of company right now, and the last thing she wanted was to socialize with anyone. For a second she feared that he had called a doctor or therapist to come out to the house to see her. She wasn’t sure if she could take another “come to Jesus” meeting this week, and she was barely holding it together as is. Ellie put her hands on her knees, pushing herself up to stand before she nodded at the door.

“Company?” She simply asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Joel ignored her obvious distaste, wrenching the door open quickly before she could stop him. It sure as hell wasn’t Tommy. . . and Ellie doubted that most doctors wore overalls, even in Jackson. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, the golden rays shone through the vast expanse of trees on the property, making it almost look like the world was on fire. The warm glow behind the beautiful stranger made her look ethereal almost, her eyes watery and cheeks flushed. At her feet was a cardboard box packed to the brim with fruits and vegetables. All at once Ellie became startlingly aware of the fact that she looked like absolute hammered shit. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her skin was paler than it had ever been before, and she was wearing an old NASA shirt and dingy sweatpants. If she noticed her disheveled appearance she didn’t show it.

The smile that she beamed in Joel’s direction didn’t quite reach her eyes, and a strange sense of understanding flickered in Ellie’s gaze as she took a few inquisitive steps forward. Ellie Williams knew what suffering was like; true suffering. Looking at her was like looking in a mirror, her well hidden misery plain as day to the auburn haired female.

“Sorry I’m so late, Mr Miller. My truck was giving me problems.” Her voice was beautiful. Melodic in a way that Ellie’s wasn’t.

Spring. . . this girl was spring incarnate.

And she was lying through her teeth.

She’d been crying. Ellie could tell. Still, Joel was already peeking his head out of the door, looking in the direction of where she had parked.

“I could take a look at it for you.” He was being dismissed with a small wave of your hand before he could even get the words fully out.

“That’s so nice of you, but I’ve got it cranking up again. It shouldn’t give me any more trouble today.” Her hair fell off of her shoulder as she leaned down to pick up the box.

Ellie moved forward without thinking, picking up the heavy box for the girl before her fingers could even grip the sides of the cardboard. “Here, let me get it.” She said, craning her neck up so that she could speak directly to the woman.

There wasn’t a single thing about you that Ellie found undesirable. In that moment she was completely certain that you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, even with the pain and memory that swirled behind your bright eyes. Their eyes locked, and much to Ellie’s embarrassment, she held her gaze. She watched her with the same sort of silent appreciation.

“-I think it would be good for her. What do you say?” Ellie hadn’t noticed that Joel had been talking the entire time.

The woman blinked a few times, tearing her eyes away from Ellie. “Huh? I’m sorry, do you mind repeating that?” She was nervously tucking a few strands of unruly hair behind her ear, shifting in place on the front porch.

“I was just saying that Ellie is going to be staying out here with me. I think working with you on the farm would be good for her. It would help her to get out of the house, and I know you’ve been pretty busy since it’s just you running things now.” Joel put a hand on Ellie’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Supportive. Non-judgemental. He was reminding her what would be good for her mental state right now, and having something to do with her hands would certainly help to take her mind off of things.

“O-Oh!” The girl’s lips parted in shock, her eyes flickering between the two of them. “Yeah, I don’t see why not. I get a pretty early start though, so don’t feel obligated to wake up as early as I do.”

“I’ll wake up.” Ellie said quickly, nodding her head.

Her words held a tone of desperation and it had Joel’s head whipping around in her direction. He probably wasn’t expecting her to be so supportive of his last minute idea. She couldn’t be sure if it was because she genuinely wanted to get her mind off of things or if the farm girl’s looks had anything to do with her enthusiasm. Ellie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt drawn to someone like this. Relationships were the last thing on her mind these days.

“Can you start tomorrow?” The other girl asked, shoving her hands into her front pockets.

Adorable. She was adorable. Ellie felt her breath hitch and all she could do was nod as an answer for your question.

“Alright. . . “She began to trail off, backing up a few steps on the porch. It seemed like you were in a bit of a hurry. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” Ellie repeated back to her.

She leaned back, lifting the box higher up on her chest so that she could watch the woman get back into her mud stained pickup truck. She only took a step back when Joel started to close the door on her.

“So you’re actually fine with that? I didn’t think you would go for it, honestly.” Joel rubbed at his stubbled chin, flashing her a small smile of approval.

“There’s no way I want to be stuck in a house with your ass all hours of the day.” Ellie quipped, walking to the kitchen so that she could place the vegetables on the countertop.

“I think workin’ there would be good for the both of you. That poor girl has had an awful year. . . I think you’d be good for each other. She needs a friend.” Joel’s voice was somber as he followed her into the kitchen.

Ellie turned to face the older man, swallowing hard as he leaned against the doorway. He was being a bit cryptic. It seemed like he didn’t want to be the one to tell Ellie the girl’s business. Still, she was curious, and she didn’t want to be blind sided tomorrow just in case she wanted to talk about it. Ellie wasn’t usually nosey, but she had a strong urge to get to know her.

“What do you mean by that?” Ellie’s first guess was that she had to be going through some sort of divorce. Joel had mentioned the fact that she was on her own now, so coming to that conclusion was natural.

“No, nothin’ like that,” He cleared his throat before pushing off of the door frame, slowly beginning to unload the box's contents. “She lost her girlfriend and her father this year. She’s the kindest girl. . . you’d never know how much she’s sufferin’ based on how she acts.”

“Oh.” Ellie frowned, having realized that your mourning must be the reason for your sad, sad eyes. She understood how it felt to lose so many people so close together. Better than anyone, really.

“Oh.”

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cute-pluto · 2 years

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im watching rtgames persona playthrough when does komeada akechi get here

#its very good game honestly if i was more into games i would have been convinced to get it from what ive seen so far #But where is the token komeada. theres so much fanart of him wher is he its been two chapters hasnt it #theres so many characters in this game good lord. in a fun way i think.#cutepluto screams

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ambrosiagourmet · 1 month

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In chapter 28, Marcille lays out why the journey she's been on has been worth the pain: because they were able to bring Falin back. The injuries, the indignity, and the mess of it all - they are tolerable primarily in context of destination she believes she's reached at this point.

In truth, of course, the story is far from finished. In fact, I would argue that this is actually where hers really starts. This scene holds the seed of the very thing the Winged Lion will exploit to lead Marcille to become the Lord of the Dungeon. After all, with a desire as far reaching and deeply held as Marcille's, if the only acceptable outcome is success, what other choice does she have but to bargain with the infinite?

So let's talk about this idea - where it leads her, how Laios' path intersects with it, and how they both help each other move forward in the face of failure.

First though, I want to step back and talk about something else: the shapeshifter chapters.

With these chapters recently covered by the anime, there has, of course, come plenty of fun discussions about which version of each character belongs which other character's perceptions, and what that means.

One thing I've seen pointed out a few times is the fact that both Laios and Marcille's impressions of each other are based around Falin. Marcille's version of Laios is larger and more masculine, because those are the traits that stuck out to her in contrast to Falin. Laios' version of Marcille was directly inspired by her appearance and demeanor when resurrecting Falin.

So why is this important to a discussion about Marcille being focused on success? Well, it shows us where Laios and Marcille's relationship starts: built primarily around their shared love for Falin. It's from that shared beginning that they begin to learn about each other on their own terms.

And this is true for the whole group, to be clear. They are united by circumstance - love for a lost companion, a sense of responsibility, a desire for freedom - but they all grow and help each other beyond that circumstance. They help Senshi bury the ghosts of his past and eat some Hippogriff stew. They help Izutsumi open up to mutual love and friendship. And they learn so much about each other: about Chilchuck's family and Laios' love of monsters and Marcille's desires to live life alongside others.

In the particular case of Marcille and Laios, understanding each other is what lets them save each other. It is not through Falin that Laios talks Marcille down from the edge the Lion has brought her to, nor is it through her that Marcille comforts Laios after the demon is defeated, when it is still unclear how everything will work out.

In fact, it is very specifically the unknown fate of Falin that Marcille comforts him about.

She is willing to accept the outcome - willing, now, to embrace the journey itself, rather than only accepting it as a means to an end.

This is a lesson she learns from Laios, and it's a lesson we watch Laios learn, too.

Just before making her deal with the Lion, Marcille recalls everything that led her to that moment. She lingers on the pain, recalling the worst of their journey:

She only pushes through by remembering her goals: saving Falin, and equalizing the lifespans of her friends to match her own.

And yet, 10 chapters later, when reflecting on why she actually wants to see her goals through, it is the good parts of that very same journey that shine through.

There's an inherent contradiction here, one which Marcille doesn't know how to face. How can the suffering that she tolerates also be the love that drives her forward? How can the loss that she's worked so hard to reverse also be the very circumstance that created a world she, now, cannot stand to give up?

And Laios confronts her with the truth. Because it just is.

Losing Falin forced him to open up to others in a way he never had. It forced him to choose what he cares about, and in making that choice, it gave him the opportunity to be seen. To connect with others.

He has already had to come to terms with the fact that Falin's death has given him something - he would not have been able to kill her again if he hadn't.

There is something here that is fundamental to Dungeon Meshi's understanding of what life even is. Like, I don't think it's a coincidence that part of Laios' speech to Marcille in chapter 85 is actually first seen in the chapter where they fight off ghosts.

In 'Sorbet,' while possessed , Laios thinks that it would have been better if the dragon had eaten him, instead of Falin. The ghosts make people lose their will to live - they are dragged away from life.

When he's pulled back from that brink, Laios realizes that he can't move forward without accepting that she is gone. He even compares the way he was holding on to her to being possessed: it pulled him away from life, from the present moment.

To carry on, he must accept what has been lost, and focus on protecting the life that they still have.

Like Marcille, he has to accept the contradictions of their journey. That life means eating, and eating requires death. That sometimes one must be selfish in order to be kind, and that selflessness can easily be twisted into to cruelty.

That loss will, inevitably, lead you to find happiness that you may not have found otherwise.

This is how he gets through to Marcille. And I think part of the reason he reaches her with these specific ideas is because those contradictions are baked so thoroughly into their relationship.

Marcille only met Falin after she had been left behind by Laios. Laios was able to reconnect with Falin because she left Marcille. They both met each other through Falin, and yet they only really got to know and care for one another after she died.

And of course, that's why Marcille uses the same ideas to comfort Laios, in the final chapter. It is because of Laios that she is able to accept the journey for itself, and not need the happy ending to justify its meaning to her.

Together, they help each other move forward, and accept that they may not be able to bring Falin back.

Which, if I'm being honest... I think this is the reason Falin can come back, narratively speaking, without the resurrection feeling like it takes away from the themes of the story.

After all, she doesn't do it for Marcille or Laios - she does it for her own sake. Her own hunger and her own desire to eat are the things that lead her back to life.

All three of them, together, end the story like this: not clinging to the things they are afraid to lose, but knowing they can choose to move forward together.

And, importantly, this happy ending is no longer the thing that gives the journey meaning. Rather, it is the privilege of the journey itself that is her happy ending: the chance to walk alongside others in the time they have, to get to know each other, and to eat well.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #marcille donato #laios touden #falin touden #dungeon meshi spoilers #dunmeshi analysis #for anyone keeping track I'm on pdt so it IS still the same day that I said I'd post it on #PUT DOWN THE TOMATOES

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dragon-kazansky · 1 month

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Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Season one

Chapter Sixteen - Entanglement

♡♡♡

When you wake up in the morning, you spend a good few moments simply smiling up at your ceiling. The memories of last night come rushing back to you.

You feel giddy.

When the concert had finally ended, Lord Hardy escorted you out to your carriage. He plucked a rose from a nearby potted rose bush and gave it to you. He also had not let you depart without placing a kiss upon your gloved hand.

Your mother had been ecstatic on the way home.

The end of the season was drawing in. It seemed you had managed to secure a match after all. Perhaps you would write to him once he returned to the country.

Your mother and yourself would be staying in London.

Your maid came to wake you, and before you knew it, you were up and ready to face the day. You met your mother for breakfast. All she did was gush about the concert and how proud of you she was.

You couldn't stop smiling.

As you tuck into your breakfast, the butler comes in and declares you have received a gift. You glance at your mother and then back at him as a maid comes in carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

"From Lord Hardy, ma'am."

You grin and look at your mother as she squeals with glee.

Things are looking up for you.

♡♡♡

"Then where did you meet her?" Elosie asks her brother as she follows him through the house.

She was, of course, referring to Genevieve.

"About town," he responds.

"At her shop?"

"Should you not be off somewhere, getting ready to attend your very first ball?" Benedict asks her, hoping to cease her questioning.

Eloise groans.

Hyacinth looks up at Anthony and asks if she may join in on the fun this summer at Aubrey Hall. She is asking about their usual game of Pall Mall.

Anthony snaps out of his thoughts and agrees that she may, as long as she does not touch his lucky mallet.

Eloise sits down with Benedict, continuing to question him.

She had thought her brother had been interested in you, but it seemed she was wrong. Which made his friendship with the tailor even more intriguing to her.

"What other places might Madame Delacroix frequent besides her shop?"

There was also the thought that Eloise suspected the tailor to be Lady Whistledown.

"Many places, Eloise, for her many interests." Benedict responds, sketching in his book. He had still been working on his art since he last saw you.

"You mean her many secrets. You should be careful, Benedict. Madame Delacroix may not be who you think she is," Eloise says. "And consorting with her, well, there may be consequences."

Benedict shushes her quietly, hoping the others didn't hear that.

"I would have expected this from anyone but you," he says. "You think just because Madame Delacroix has a paid occupation, or because she does not reside with the bounds of Grosvenor Square, she's different. Is that it? That she is somehow less deserving of my attention because she is not whom polite society deems appropriate?"

"That is not what I'm saying at all." Eloise clarifies.

"Then what are you saying?"

Eloise sighs and looks at her brother. "You are right. I should prepare for our sister's ball."

"Perhaps you should."

Eloise stands to leave but is stopped by the entrance of Violet entering the room.

"Aunt Winnie jas sent word. Francesca will be arriving home tomorrow," Violet smiles.

"How exciting!" Hyacinth beams.

"Perhaps she can tell us of time spent far from London," Colin comments.

"Fran has missed so much," Gregory points out.

"Mm. Indeed." Violet nods. "It certainly has been an eventful season, what with Daphne and the duke, and then Anthony and..."

Anthony lifts his head.

"Yes, well, never mind." Violet stops herself from going further. She leaves the room.

Benedict sighs as he sketches in his book.

♡♡♡

Eloise knocks on the door of the modiste urgently. Madame Delacroix opens the door, dressed in her robe. Her shop wasn't even open today.

"Miss Eloise, you should come back another day when the shop is open."

"I had hoped you would make an exception for me," Eloise chuckles. "I need a dress for my sister's ball."

"You already have a dress for your sister's ball."

"I need another one. A young lady can never have too many dresses." Eloise forces out another chuckle.

She is let in.

"Oh! Perhaps this one." Eloise goes over to a bright yellow gown. "It would make me look quite in fashion in the eyes of the Featheringtons, I rather think. Unfortunate young ladies. They are still quite stung from Lady Whistledown's recent exposé."

Benedict lurks on the stairs, listening to his sister talk. Did she know he had come here?

"I wish the author would write something flattering about them!" Eloise continues.

"Perhaps she will."

"What makes you say that?" Eloise asks.

"Because she knows what is good for her business, and angering loyal customers is not good."

"No... No, it is not." Eloise agrees. "Whether those loyal customers be Featheringtons or Bridgertons, even... Lady Whistledown might wish to examine what she writes about both."

"Indeed."

"I have heard people say that men, such as my brother, if you will, can withstand rumour and gossip, but... I am not always so sure."

"I know why you are here, Miss Eloise. You are very smart, and you care very much about the people in your life, as you should. But you must know I have no intention of compromising anyone."

"That is good." Eloise says. "Because the queen is enraged. So whoever Whistledown is should be careful. I would hate her to be silenced before she has a chance to change her ways and make things right."

"I believe Whistledown is smart enough to take care of herself," Genevieve states.

"Yes. She certainly is." Eloise smiles. "Charming chatting with you, Madame Delacroix."

Eloise leaves.

"Lock the door." Benedict says, looking at her once his sister has left the shop.

♡♡♡

Lord Hardy had come to visit you. You hadn't stopped smiling the entire time he was at the house. Conversation was engaging and thrilling. You were eager to know more about him, and he about you.

Your mother watched you both talk feeling like everything was coming together.

When Lord Hardy requested you join him, your mother had no qualms against him taking you out for the afternoon. You chuckled as you prepared to go out with him.

A boxing match.

You are reminded of the one Anthony brought you to. The thrilling fight you saw. Not exactly a place for a lady, but you were not about to argue.

"Is this alright?" Hardy asks you.

"Yes. I must confess I find it quite thrilling. Though mother may lose her mind if she finds out."

"As far as your mother knows, we are promanading through the park."

You chuckle as you take your seat next to him, keeping your arm hooked around his. You were looking forward to this.

"It is considered a gentleman's sport, but why remain proper when we can have a little fun?" Hardy grins.

You chuckle.

"Lord Hardy, I think I rather like the way you think."

"Thinking is a dangerous activity, but one I am quite happy to encourage. You must also call me Thomas. I insist."

You smile. "Very well, Thomas."

The Bridgerton brothers enter the arena hall. You spot them immediately. They enter in reverse order. Colin, Benedict, Anthony. Each with a top hat upon their heads.

They don't seem to notice you. You're sat quite far up. Your eyes follow Benedict for a moment. He looks well.

Distance seems to have come between you recently. You've seen him a lot less, and he always seems rather busy.

With the end of the season around the corner, you don't expect you'll be seeing much of him at all. Violet had mentioned Aubrey Hall, their family estate. She had said you were welcome to visit them up there.

You hadn't decided if you wanted to go. Perhaps not. Not if Thomas was going to have all your attentions.

Who knows, maybe you'll be a married woman next time you saw them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats. The match is about to begin!"

Thomas smiles at you as you smile back.

The fight starts. You and Thomas cheer along with the crowd as you watch bother fighters. Will the man you want to win. Thomas had placed a bet on him. You had told him that you had seen Will fight before.

Will gets a hit in and you cheer.

Thomas chuckles.

Across the ring, Benedict has spotted you. He sees you sitting there with that man on your arm. He turns his eyes quickly back to the fight.

Why should he care that you're here?

Why should he care who you came with?

You cheer again as Will gets another hit in. And another. And another.

But then it switches up.

The Beast hits back. Again and again and again.

You find yourself standing from your seat. Thomas doing the same beside you. You call for Will to hit him back.

He falls to the floor.

The bell rings.

You cling to Thomas's arm as you watch half the room explode into cheer. You watch Mondrich lay there. It was like he chose to stop fighting. You wondered why.

"Come on, get up!"

He did not. He just accepted defeat.

After the fight, you took Hardy's arm, and he guided you down to the entrance. When you reached the doors, you bumped into the Bridgerton brothers, well, two of them. It was Colin who saw you first and spoke your name with a smile.

Benedict turned to look at you. Colin tipped his hat to your companion. "Lord Hardy."

"Mr. Bridgerton." Thomas nodded back.

"Lord Hardy," Benedict greeted, though he seemed less enthusiastic about it. He then turned to you.

"Shame about Mondrich," you say.

"Yes, quite. Unexpected." Colin comments.

"Is he alright, do you know?" You ask.

"I believe so."

"Shall we go?" Thomas asks you. You look at him and nod. You bid farewell to the brothers and walk away with Hardy.

Benedict follows you with his eyes.

Colin nudges his brother, and Benedict turns his eyes away. He gives Colin a smile and walks on.

♡♡♡

"I am confident I could last a few rounds in a boxing ring."

Daphne had invited you to the Bridgerton house where her family was gathering. Her sister Francesca had returned from Bath, and they were all getting together. The duchess extended the invitation to you, which was nice.

You hadn't seen much of them the last couple of weeks. You accepted.

You chuckled at Anthont words about boxing. He seemed fit enough but did not quite strike you as a boxer. You supposed it was because you can only see him as the Viscount.

"Well, that is certainly a match I would like to see." Benedict responds.

He had been rather quiet with you since you arrived at the house.

You look up and see Daphne and Simon jad arrived. You smile at them both and get up to greet Daphne. She takes your hand with a smile.

"It's good to see you," you say.

"Yes. We haven't had the chance to talk much," she replies.

Francesca then comes over to greet Daphne and her husband. Then Hyacinth, too. You chuckle at the excitement in the room.

Hyacinth steals Simon away for a bit.

"Show me what you have been learning, sister." Daphne requests, wanting Fran to play the piano for her. You join the two ladies at the piano.

Eloise is eating chocolate alone on the sofa. Well, she's alone until Benedict sits down with her.

"I do not share food." Eloise scolds him.

"You are not to do what you did the other morning ever again," he scolds her back. "Do you understand, Eloise?" He asks her.

"You mean visiting my new acquaintance?" She grins.

"She is not your acquaintance."

"I was wrong about her. She is wonderful. You have nothing to worry about."

"I was worried about anything."

"Not worried about what?" Anthony asked, coming over and sitting on Eloise's otherwise. He held his hand to Eloise. She stared at it and then gave him a chocolate.

"Uh, I... I have a friendship with Genevieve Delacroix," Benedict confesses. "The... modiste."

Anthony stares at his brother.

Silence hangs over Eloise's head.

Then Anthony answers. "Good for you, brother. You deserve contentment. We all do."

Benedict and Eloise both look at Anthony with surprise and confusion.

"If the lady contributes to that, then I'm happy for you." Anthony leaves.

"Whatever is in those candies?" Benedict asks. He takes one for himself and stands to join the rest of the family.

"Your pianoforte is quite impressive," Daphne comments. Francesca smiles at her. You agree with Daphne.

"Join me, brother," Fran requests, looking at her third eldest brother.

"Yes, Colin, why not a song?" Violet smiles.

"If I must," he agrees, coming to the piano.

Francesca plays the piano as Colin sings. It's an upbeat song. Gregory and Hyacinth spin and dance while Anthony claps. You laugh softly as you watch.

The song comes to an end, and you applaud Colin for his wonderful singing.

Hyacinth returns to the duke's side to question him about his horses. Violet scolds her lightly, but Simon answers all her questions.

You smile at the sight.

Benedict is slouching in a chair nearby, and you go over to him.

"Hello."

He looks up. "Hello."

You look at him sheepishly for a moment before speaking again. "Are you well?"

"Quite well."

You sigh softly as you look down at your hands. "I've missed you."

Benedict looks at you with gentle surprise. "You have?"

You nod. "Mmhm."

He sits up a little straighter. "You appear to have been busy." He comments.

"Yes." You know to who he refers to.

"Does he make you happy?" He asks.

You nod.

Benedict lets that sit for a fresh short seconds and then inhales softly as he reaches over and settles a hand over yours. "Then I am pleased for you."

You smile at him.

"Thank you."

He removes his hand and sits back in his chair again. You at least feel like some of the air between you has cleared. Yet, he still seems a little guarded.

You say no more and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

♡♡♡

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#Bridgerton shade of blue #benedict bridgerton x reader #Bridgerton #female reader #dragon writes

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uglypastels · 2 months

Text

Ridlington Park | I | Eddie Munson regency!au

Author's Note: It has been a long, long time, but I am back with another obnoxious AU. I hope you enjoy as we embark on this new adventure in Regency England. This story has been in the works for almost 2 years and is still far from finished, but I am having too much fun with this and have way too many ideas on where to take it, so suggestions are very much appreciated.

Word Count: 10k

Do be warned, Dear Reader, for this story in its entirety may contain:

female!reader. slow burn. forbidden romance. jealousy. pining. smut. alcohol consumption. swearing. OC family. horses. talks of arranged marriage. historical facts as well as trivial inaccuracies.

Due to the adult nature of the story, this author also kindly but sternly requires underage readers to pursue other works.

Author's Previous Works | Correspondence | Join the Taglist

Chapter One: A Game of Perseverance

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.”

– Jane Austen, Letter to her sister Cassandra, 1798

Three stories high, full of balconied windows, the house stood tall and overlooked the entire street. Ridlington Park, they called it, and situated at the centre of life–that is, London–the front door of the building was enveloped in flowers matching the seasons all year long. Currently, it was bright peonies that caught the onlooker’s eye. The perfectly trimmed bushes and trees were planted symmetrically, leading up to the front doors, giving visitors the right impression of what they could await once they stepped inside.

The residing family had spent a good fortune and effort ensuring the house represented them perfectly: clean, fortunate, and grand, but all done so in the utmost respectable and modest fashion as they were never the ones to boast. The walls had a light, warm tone reminiscent of early mornings in Spring, and the interior was decorated with portraits, new and old, beautiful oil sceneries of lands near and far, and busts and vases.

The evening was slowly approaching, the sun setting over the windows of the drawing room, enwrapping everything in a golden glow. The family sat silently around the room, giving each other the peace and quiet required for an uneventful afternoon followed by a slow night of fortunate sleep. The only sound appreciated was the pianoforte siding against the window, gracefully played by Mother. Four children sat around the separate corners of their world, enjoying the music while focusing on their own activities. Like most nights, these consisted of either reading or needlework, engaging in small conversations with one another occasionally.

As typical as any evening at Ridlington Park, it was highly unusual for the rest of London– a city which runs on scandals and gossip. Outside, the streets were bustling with lords and ladies of the Ton making their way back home from the markets, gardens and their fellows’ tea parties, gossiping about the latest impropriety to have occurred. After all, such topics, no more than nonsense really, were simply inescapable. And no matter how hard they tried to ignore it all, one way or another, it would always find its way up to the Byrnwick family. Most of the time, you, Gentle Reader, could hold yourself accountable for introducing the rumours proudly, much to your brother’s annoyance, who did his best to turn the pages of his novel as loud as possible as you talked with your mother from across the room.

‘Have you heard what happened at Lady Faulkner’s ball?’

‘Yes, sordid, really.’ Your mother sighed, turning around. ‘I am sure her family is in quite the uproar.’

‘Please,’ Christopher, your brother, shut his book down in frustration, clearly incapable of making any progress amidst the conversation. ‘If she had not wanted to get caught, she should have maybe ought to think twice about being out with a man in the middle of the gardens for everyone to see.’

You glared up at him. ‘Well, it is absurd that a woman cannot even stand in a public space with a man without bringing disgrace onto her entire family.’

‘Believe me; she did much more than just standing.’ Christopher scoffed, quickly receiving a cold stare from your mother.

‘Still, it is unjust.’ You ignored his insinuations. ‘Think of how men are free to go out at any time of day or night with whomever they please.’ You stabbed your needle through the cloth a bit harsher than intended.

‘My, you sure seem to be giving all this much thought. Have you any plans we should know about, sister?’ Your brother smirked.

‘Christopher!’ Your mother scowled. ‘That is quite enough.’

‘I was only joking, Mother,’ Christopher sighed, ‘we all know she is not going anywhere anytime soon.’

You were ready to retort angrily, or at least throw your needle at him, when the doors to the drawing room opened, catching everyone’s attention by storm. Five pairs of identical eyes directly aimed at the door frame, only softening when recognising the intruders. A welcoming of surprised gasps greeted the Lord and his eldest, Nicholas, as they entered the room. Not one foot in the room, and all activities were being put to a halt as the rest of the family gathered around the men—a loving reunion after a months-long journey from the Americas.

It was a surprising return, for father and son had yet to write of their plans in recent times. The last letter was received at Ridlington Park over three weeks ago, stating that the weather was amiable, if not a bit too humid, and that the family missed each other deeply. The lack of correspondence, therefore, was also an immediate subject.

‘But why did you not write, dear?’ asked Mother, after embracing her son. Nicholas was too occupied by his youngest sibling to answer; airways tightened in the arms of his 11-year-old sister, Marjorie. His father responded instead:

‘How could we write at sea, my love? The message would not have gotten here any faster than we did,’ the lord chuckled to his wife. He was correct, too, of course. His eyes seemed to surpass the gaze of his present family members in search of the one missing piece. ‘Where is Annabelle? I thought she would be home by now.’

‘She is home, with her husband,’ you explained carefully. Your father blinked slowly, coming to terms with this fact he had tried to avoid for so long. Annabelle had married last season and was very well off, to a Duke, no less, but it was still a big adjustment for the family seeing her gone and out of the house. Even with her frequent visits, it was strange to have one head less at the dinner table; one less chair occupied each evening, one less song played on the pianoforte.

‘Ah, well then,’ Father cleared his throat, ‘then we are complete.’ He looked at his wife and five children. One day, there would be even fewer of them. They will all be leaving the nest one by one. For some, marriage was long overdue, and as a man of high society, he could not wish his children a suitor or a lady soon enough, but as a father, he dreaded the day that the following proposals would take place.

Marjorie, becoming impatient and not as sentimental about her family’s reunion, tugged at Nicholas’ sleeve. ‘Come, you must tell us everything about your journey!’ She kept pulling until the eldest brother had no choice but to follow her and sit on the couch. Soon, everyone else joined on the chaises.

‘I am afraid there is very little to tell,’ Nicholas said, taking a chocolate biscuit off the tray beside the sofa. ‘It was all rather dull.’

‘Do not be ridiculous, brother,’ Fitzwilliam, the second-youngest and still hungry for adventure and the world outside of the Ton, looked at his older brother with high expectations. ‘I do not believe you and Father had been gone this long and did not experience anything worthy of a tale.’

You listened on as your siblings bickered, arguing over the value of a story, and its worth of being told and heard. Finally, after listening to it for about a quarter of an hour, you had to agree with Nicholas; it was all rather dull. No wonder neither he nor father did not bother to mention anything but the weather in their correspondence. Their days quickly grew into a pattern one is used to in travel and business. A pattern you might have understood if you cared to pay attention.

This attention only returned to the room when you heard your name being spoken. The conversation had shifted from the events that had been missed overseas to the town's happenings. Just as dull and irrelevant, some might say, the most interesting thus far was the staff changes at the house, and even these held very little consequence to you, but to this, some may disagree wholeheartedly.

‘So, the season has begun, has it not, sister?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Some weeks ago, yes.’ You did your best pretending not to feel an effect from this, occupying yourself with your needlework that was turning out far below the usual standard. ‘But do not worry; you have not missed much. In fact, I think things will finally begin to get a bit interesting with you back home.’ Nicholas had always had a taste for dramatics and had been known for having a very… loving nature. In the past years, you must have witnessed him falling in love at least a dozen times, preparing a proposal to half of these women, going through with it twice now, with one nearly making it to the alter if not for the bride getting caught in quite a compromising position with a footman.

For the next few weeks, Nicholas was known as the heartbroken gentleman, and you would have felt bad for him… if it was not for the fact that women from all over town came around to console him, day after day, of course not knowing that when his bride-to-be had been making arrangements with other men, your brother had been too busy charming ladies himself. It took a month for him to proclaim his love to another woman again.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ Nicholas deflected your comment, quickly looking over to your mother and second oldest brother, Christopher, ‘any fitting suitors I should be aware of?’ As the eldest brother, Nicholas made it his duty to ensure his sisters found good husbands. That meant status and wealth but, above anything else, a good and genteel nature. You remembered how picky he was when Annabelle had been searching for a husband, even more so than your parents. Still, it was something you appreciated about your brother. His protectiveness showed the little heart he still held for you and the rest of your family, as much as he tried to hide it away.

Your mother bit her cheek, holding in the many thoughts and opinions she must have kept for herself. So did Christopher, who shared a very knowledgeable look of many words with Nicholas, one he understood clearly but you could not decipher just yet. However, you assumed the general message had been sent and received.

‘If you had seen the choices, brother, you would understand my predicament and situation all too well, believe me.’ Pretending to seem unbothered by the encrypted messages being sent around the room, you preoccupied yourself once more with the needlework.

‘I believe it is what you believe, sister,’ Nicholas turned back to your mother, ‘do you have a list of names? I shall go through them in the morning, see if it really is as bad as we are being told.’

You had wanted to reply, most likely in a dishonourable way, but you held your tongue and fell back in your seat, letting the rest of your family plan out the rest of your life, just like they had always done.

Unbelievable, Nicholas was home for all of five minutes, and he was already making lists. And knowing him, which you would like to think you did, it was merely a formality for your sake. He would already have a dozen names at the top of his head, ready to send out invitations to men for an audience with you.

Therefore, you were not surprised when, only a few days later, at the breakfast table, Nicholas told you about all the guests Ridlngton Park would soon be welcoming.

‘There is Mr Elton, and Mr Brookes will be coming over for tea; I also heard Lord Frankworth is interested in a visit, so is Mr Campbell, and—’ he kept on giving you names, with all of them entering one ear and immediately leaving through your other. You could not care less who wanted to see you, not after spending the last month trying your hardest to escape all of their attempts at promenading, lunching, and chatting of sheer nonsense.

‘I must ask you to be ready for your first audience before 10; a dress is already prepared in your room.’ Of course, there was a dress. All you could do was smile as you bit into a forkful of egg.

‘Oh, and there is one gentleman I would particularly like you to meet,’ your father chimed in, almost as if with an afterthought that he recollected at the last minute. You looked up at him apprehensively. ‘I had made a nice acquaintance of his father on our travel. What was his name– Harrolds, no…’ ‘Harrington, father. It was Mr Harrington.’ Nicholas corrected before looking over to you as he shared more. ‘He is a tradesman, quite successful. His only son had joined us on the ship back to England.’ The emphasis on his lineage was made with an apparent inclination. There were no more heirs, meaning the son would inherit the man’s entire wealth. ‘Certainly seems like a reasonable young man, clever too. The two of you will have lots to speak of.’

Well, I certainly cannot wait to meet him,’ you forced out a smile before quickly getting on with your meal despite losing all your appetite. At that moment, your stomach felt like a hollow pit, eating away at you, ironically.

‘You know, if you gave this all a chance, you might find yourself to actually enjoy it in the end,’ your mother commented with a tight lip.

‘I am sure I shall enjoy it then, as it means that it has all, in fact, ended.’ You sighed deeply, ‘I simply do not understand why this is a must in my life? Why must I marry this instant?’

‘Do not worry, dear. You are still young; you still have plenty of time, ' your father said, missing your point entirely and making you roll your eyes. ‘But your mother is right, too, a more agreeable attitude towards this will make things much easier.’

‘For whom, exactly? Is it for me to enjoy myself, or for everyone else as you will not have to endure me any longer?’

‘Can you really blame us?’ Nicholas mumbled, receiving a kick in the shin in return. He spent the rest of the discussion rubbing the targetted spot on his leg with a pained crease between his brows. You, besides gaining the small victory of maiming your brother, found yourself yet again on the losing side of another family dispute. Like all its predecessors, this battle ended with you pushing back your chair with a harsh scrape of the panelled floor and slugging back to your room where a dress awaited.

It was beautiful; you could not deny that. Elegant and straightforward, it accented all your finest assets for interested suitors. It was comfortable: not too heavy or too textured in its pattern, it was made of soft material that slipped right on, with the fit of a well-tailored glove. Your hair was pulled up and out of your face, leaving nothing to hide behind.

‘You look lovely, miss,’ your maid said with a kind smile as she put the final pin in your hair.

‘Thank you, Claire.’ You muttered, noticing the saddened sympathy enveloping her features as she knew like no other how much you detested everything about what you were about to go through. ‘Have you got any advice? On how to endure it all?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she shrugged, brushing something off your shoulder. ‘I suppose you could try making them uninterested in you, so they will want to leave sooner.’

‘That thought has crossed my mind,’ you admitted, ‘but I also do not want to put my entire family to shame.’

‘Of course, miss.’ Claire nodded. As she finished working on your presentation, you pondered over your possibilities. Indeed, presenting yourself as improper had been your first idea, and its appeal remained, but you were too afraid of the repercussions. If the gentlemen were to think of you as a lady without any manners, all it would do was put your upbringing up for question, something your parents did not deserve whatsoever.

You also considered spreading gossip about the men coming to introduce themselves, which would scare your mother off them immediately, ensuring they were never to return by your parents’ preference. But it felt cruel to make up such lies. You were sure that in other circumstances, these were perfectly fine men. At this particular moment, you just happened to despise them and everything they stood for.

Perhaps the most appealing option was to simply not attend the audience. To run away and never to return… at least until the afternoon, once all the men had lost all their patience. But that would only cause you more trouble.

The ideas rolled around your head for the rest of the day, even once the suitors sat opposite you in the room. It was all incredibly dull, if not just mortifyingly humiliating, with your mother sitting only across the room, occupying herself with a book, or so it seemed because she most definitely was listening to the conversations attempted on your part.

‘So,’ as most of the dialogues began, the Lord whose name you already forgot spoke, clearing his throat, ‘I hear you read.’

‘Yes, ' you said, blinking to avoid staring too blankly at the wall behind the man, ignoring the balding patch atop his head.

‘Grand,’ he smiled, somehow satisfied with your response already.

‘Do you… ride?’ you asked, hoping that at the least your mother heard your attempts at making a connection and would release you from this torment soon enough on the principle of your good sportsmanship.

‘No, God no, horses are far too beastly for my liking, unless we are speaking of the track, of course.’ The man scoffed, ‘However, I prefer more dignified activities, such as hunting.’

‘Of course, you do,’ you smiled, but the expression never reached your eyes. ‘What about chess? Do you play?’

‘I do not have the patience to commit to such silly games.’

Patience, you thought, or intelligence? And how ironic of him to speak of perseverance. You watched him take another small sandwich from the tea tray provided on a side table, which you were taught to ignore so as not to be observed as “gluttonous”. After all, no one wanted to marry a lady that ate all day.

Considering that, you grabbed a plate and a piece of cake from the top of the tray and bit into it. The soft sponge melted on your tongue. In the meantime, you were asked a question, but you could not possibly answer with a mouthful of cake, could you? Once you had finished, you considered grabbing a second portion, but you could feel the judgmental look of your mother digging into the back of your head.

You put the plate back down and your hands on your lap.

‘I’m sorry, my lord, could you repeat the question, please. I fear I may have lost myself for a moment.’ And so, it continued. Thankfully, the man excused himself not long after, thanking you and your mama for the time, just for his seat to be replaced with someone else almost immediately. This time, the gentleman was significantly younger, with thick hair atop his head and charming eyes, but the second he spoke, you knew this would not reach much further than the comfort of this room. At the least, you did not see this relationship going any further than any of the other acquaintances you had made that day.

By lunchtime, you felt your eyes burning with fatigue, possibly caused by a constant suppression of tears. How much more could you possibly take of this torture?

‘Mr Elton was quite a charmer, was he not?’ Your mother commented as she sipped her tea.

You suppressed your initial thought, rephrasing it to cause less offence, ‘He is too stubborn and self-centred. He barely let me speak a single word, too occupied by his own achievements to expect me to have any.’

‘Well, Lord Frankworth seemed to care very much for what you had to say.’

‘Only because he barely managed to string any thoughts together himself,’ you sighed.

Your mother tightened her grip on the teacup before smiling. ‘Soon enough, we will find you a perfectly fine young man, dear. You just have to remain open-minded.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Speaking of, your next suitor should be here shortly.’

You did everything in your power not to groan at the announcement and instead nodded politely. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Harrington, the one your father was so keen on you meeting.’

‘Ah,’ yes, the American. The only thing that gave you some slight hope in the situation was that Mr Harrington had already spent plenty of time in the company of your father and brother Nicholas and had seemingly gained their blessing. But nothing could help you gain the energy to entertain yet another man with polite conversation. The sun had been beaming into the room since the early morning, only growing warmer and warmer, making the hairs at the small of your neck stick.

‘Will you just excuse me for a moment, mother.’ You got up.

‘Is something wrong?’ She looked suspicious but with a glint of worry in her eye.

‘I am quite fine, just require some fresh air, I think,’ which was not entirely a lie.

‘Alright then, just make haste, child.’ Mr Harrington was on his way, after all. ‘We do not want to keep the man waiting.’

‘Of course not,’ you smiled, heading towards the door. When the large panels closed behind you, you picked up your skirt and ran toward the gardens. Your footsteps echoed through the corridors, and you caught several members of the house staff glancing your way with inquisitive looks.

Ever since you could remember, the grounds around Ridlington Park had a fantastical power about them. It had been the turf on which you would spend countless childhood summer days playing games with your siblings, whether the competitive or imaginary type. But no matter what the six of you could think of, your favourite game would always remain Hide and Go Seek. The gardens were a perfect place for it, with endless nooks and crannies one could disappear into. It was nearly a giant maze, and you had mastered it from a very young age. Whilst most got lost between the shrubbery and flowers, you knew exactly where you had found yourself.

There were plenty of hiding spots you enjoyed over the years, some that to this day remain a mystery to the rest of your family, but nonetheless, it was the stables you adored the most. It was a safe haven for you on many days, to the point that you had nearly become invisible to the staff working there.

The stables were located in the far east corner of the grounds, and the walk towards it already cost more time than you had if you had ever planned on returning that quickly. Undeniably, there was a pinch of shame and guilt nipping at your heart towards the strange Mr Harrington, but that soon dissolved when you heard the neighing of Barley Sugar, a golden-brown mare you proudly called yours. A gift and result of a successful business trade made by your father years ago, the horse technically belonged to all of the Byrnwick children, as much as any of the other horses under the family’s possession, but the bond between you and that particular horse just turned out to be that much stronger.

This was visible as soon as you entered the stable. Barley Sugar went wild at your presence, happily swinging her head from side to side.

‘Oh, we can both use an escape, I see,’ you grinned, petting the horse, who leaned into your touch immediately. ‘How about I get you out of here, hmm?’

But your plans were quickly interrupted by a voice. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.’

❀❀❀

An average sea voyage from the Americas to England should take approximately 16 days, considering the weather corresponds with the sails of the ship. During this journey, passengers would most likely endure days upon days of heavy and tall waves bashing across the ship’s sides, and that is to be expected in favourable conditions.

As Lord Byrnwick and his eldest had boarded the ship headed to London, the sky had been bright blue, and it did not change far beyond that. There was, of course, a risk for the two of them to sail across the world as they did, them being head of the family and its heir. A journey such as this one can go awry in many ways, and if it were not for the dangers of seafaring, there were the Anglo-American tensions to consider. After all, the previous year's war was still fresh in everyone’s mind, and one could not be careful enough when entertaining both sides. Luckily for the Byrnwicks, they were not of the superstitious kind, and good fortune had always seemed to be in the family’s favour up until the very moment they stepped on the boat to return home, many years beyond that.

Ever the convivial one, the most considerable success of the trip, according to Lord Byrnwick, was not the business or diplomatic aspects of their ventures but the social. The man immensely enjoyed meeting other like-minded spirits from across the pond, and there had been plenty of fine nights at gentleman’s clubs spent over fine spirits and betting games, discussing all sorts of topics and exchanging information on all subjects. Promises were made to keep in touch whilst arrangements were made for more future meetings. It was only the polite thing to do.

But aside from acquaintances and business partners, an addition to the household had also been made. Of some sort, that is, for it seemed that the two had found a new groom in America.

Now, Gentle Reader, do not conclude of the worst, as the groom we speak of is not the sort one is meant to meet at an altar but the kind who spends his days tending the horses and carriages. The young man, Mr Munson, had been doing precisely that when the Byrnwick heir stumbled upon his conveyance services in town, in dire need of transport for his regular means, which had already been occupied by his father for the day. It was an encounter by utter chance but certainly one with greater consequences.

Several days later, coincidentally, a letter from London had arrived. Five pages long, each written by a member of the family recounting their most notable memories of the week. The children spoke of the ton's gossip and anecdotes of what occurred at home. Mother, however, took it upon herself to write of more important matters regarding the household. Many topics had to be discussed, but in the middle of her letter, there was mention of the unfortunate passing of the family’s barn manager, Mr Falstipp. It was an unexpected death, leaving the entire house in shock as the man had been working for the family for longer than the children had been alive. But it also resulted in the question of what was to be done now?

It was likely only because the interaction had been so fresh in his mind that Nicholas suggested finding a replacement for Mr Falstipp here in America. This was an unusual offer, as his father commented, especially since they would not leave for home until another few days, but that was to be resolved by having the footmen take care of the horses for the time being. Besides, Nicholas was sure his siblings would be more than happy to help with the chores.

The next day, he returned to the public stables and immediately noted how much cleaner they seemed than any other in town. The horses also looked exceptionally well taken care of and content.

Mr Munson had just been feeding a colt when Nicholas eagerly announced, ‘Mr Munson, may I offer you a proposition?’

This, to no surprise, startled the other man for various reasons. ‘Sir?’

‘This must be a peculiar request, but you see, as of recently, my family has found itself in need of a new stablehand and from what I have seen you do, you, sir, would be the perfect candidate.’ Nicholas had the smile of a man losing his sanity, but his words could not be more genuine.

‘Your family—’ Munson blinked, ‘you mean in London.’

‘Yes, and I understand that this might be a problem, but trust me when I say that you will most certainly find England to your liking, Mr Munson.’

‘Please, call me Eddie.’

‘As you wish,’ Nicholas agreed.

Eddie pondered over the offer for a short moment. It would have taken him no time to decide if it was not for what he was to leave behind, but he knew that his current employer would be able to find his replacement in no time, as jobs in town were hard to come by.

But what must have been even more challenging to obtain was a ticket out of the wasteland he called home. For years, he had dreamt of an escape, never imagining it to be possible, and suddenly, here comes this stranger offering it to him on a silver platter.

It would be terrifying to move so far away, he knew that, with many risks, but the further away he could manage to go from where he was now, the better.

Eventually, after a minute of silence that left Nicholas restless and on the verge of embarrassment, Eddie smiled: ‘It would be my pleasure to work for you, sir.’ And he had meant that wholeheartedly. While it had only been a short few interactions that he had had with the man, the young Mr Byrnwick had already shown Eddie far more kindness than any of his prior employers, or any other man in his life, for a fact. Most importantly, the man knew nothing about Eddie’s past, which must have been the biggest selling point in the life-changing choice.

‘Marvelous. You will not regret this, Eddie.’ Nicholas leaned in to shake his hand, only to realise that Eddie was still carrying the giant bucket of feed. ‘Well, we shall finalise everything on the boat, shall we?’ And so they did.

A week later, Eddie found himself still in shock at his circumstances. He could not believe he was really to be leaving for England until the moment he set foot on the boat, and even once the sails had set and the American coast was nothing but a grim line on the horizon, the fact did not seem to settle in his mind just yet.

Over the next 16 days, he had encountered the Byrnwicks only a handful of times. First, to meet Lord Byrnwick who, as head of the household, wanted a final say on the matter. A bit late, thought Eddie, as the boat had long departed the harbour by then, but his ticket had already been paid for, and thus, he had little else to complain about. He had quickly made peace with the idea that he could make his new life across the ocean work no matter the circumstances. He had done it before, so what is one more homeless night under a new sky?

But the lord seemed all too happy to have found his staff replacement. Overall, the man was nothing like Eddie had expected a gentleman of English high society to be. From his previous experiences, the type often was rather conceited and arrogant, with a transparent opinion of anyone below their class. His new employer and his son, while undoubtedly lordly, had a modest nature about them. Quickly, Eddie had also gathered that the spontaneity with which Nicholas Byrnwick had called upon him for a job opportunity was not uncharacteristic of him, as the young man was rather energetic in his step and impulsive in his actions.

But no matter how unassuming the men were, they did belong to a different rank of man and, therefore, stayed on the boat to the upper decks, engaging with the rest of their kind.

The travel moved on slowly, but in the end, it was also a mere blink of an eye moment, and before he had realised it, Eddie had reached the shores of England. It was another day or two of travel to be done by horse. A carriage had been acquired for Nicholas and his father, but Eddie and the rest of the staff that travelled with the family for their adventure rode on horseback. No matter how much Eddie enjoyed the form of transportation, it was a tiring experience after several hours, but it also allowed him to meet the people he was to work with and, through that, those he would work for.

‘So, what is the rest of the family like,’ he asked Mr Trowbridge, the lord’s valet. If there was anyone who could tell Eddie something, it would be this man.

‘Well,’ Mr Trowbridge had a particularly nasal tone about his voice that especially came forward at the beginning of his sentences, ‘I do not believe there is much to tell. They are as any other family, really.’

‘My good man, you can hardly expect me to believe there is nothing worth telling about these people,’ Eddie laughed. ‘If it puts your mind at ease, I am only asking for the simplest facts—nothing to interest my fancy.’

The valet pondered over this for a moment. ‘Very well. You have, of course, met the Viscount and his eldest.’ He took a moment for Eddie to respond with a nod in agreement. He then took another moment to consider his following words. The longer he took, the more keen Eddie felt to suggest what to speak of.

‘What about Lady Byrnwick?’

‘Lady Byrnwick is most amiable and has a very caring character, but you will not find her in the stables often unless she is searching for her children.’

‘Not fond of horses, is she?’

‘Rather the outside—-’ Trowbridge cleared his hair vigorously. ‘In the sense that the sun and pollen often leave her poorly. But the children…’ he punctuated his half-sentence with a heavy sigh.

‘They are a handful?’ Eddie assumed. To this, Trowbridge searched for another description but found himself lacking the vocabulary, leading to a confirmation.

‘I have worked for this family for nearly three decades, and I will assure you that each member is as proper a member of society as the next. While boisterous, they have been taught to be independent individuals.’ The valet's tone made Eddie consider how much of their good decorum was in gratitude for the man’s own intervention and guidance.

‘At 27 years, Nicholas is the eldest, and the responsibilities of this role are one of the few aspects of his life which he takes seriously, I cannot put any doubt behind that.’ Indeed, whilst extremely impetuous, the heir’s son also understood the duties of his position and towards his family.

‘Then there is Christopher. The boy has immense athletic abilities but not much beyond that. For a young man of his age of five and twenty, one would assume he would be able to compose himself with a bit more propriety, but it is very difficult for him. He is adventurous and rarely can sit still for an extended period of time, including his mouth. It is suggested that people be careful of what they say around the man.

‘The eldest daughter, Annabelle, married just before we had departed for America, thus is now the lady of her own house.’ Something in his tone suggested he was sad to see the young woman leave home. This possibly has to do with the fact that Miss Annabelle (Now known as Duchess Annabelle Ramsbury) was the most dutiful and respectful of the six children. ‘The marriage had been long overdue as she had just turned 22 on the day of the ceremony, but a love match was found nonetheless.’ The valet guffawed with pride. It was clear to Eddie that, while considering them a nuisance, the man cared deeply for the family he served.

‘I must admit, Trowbridge,’ Eddie chuckled in this horse’s trot pattern over the uneven paths. ‘When you began speaking of the family, I had imagined the children to be… well, children.’

‘How old are you, Munson?’ Trowbridge asked, somewhat bluntly.

‘Twenty, sir.’ Perhaps closer to his next birthday than the last.

‘Ah, just the age of the second daughter then,’ he nodded in agreement. ‘She may perhaps be the most… rebellious of the kin. It is all in good spirit, as you must imagine, and I am sure the interest in such nonsense will dwindle as she matures. She is also the most fond of the family horses; thus, you will see her quite often, I expect. But as her sibling, she has mastered the care for the animals as well as the equipment.’

As he spoke of your skills, something about Trowbridge's expression communicated particular dismay to Eddie. ‘Is that bad? For a young woman to know how to carry herself around a horse?’ He, for one, certainly did not see a problem in it. On the contrary, it was an instrumental skill to develop for anyone.

‘It is not exactly lady-like, is it?’ Trowbridge spoke as if that was the only relevant argument on the matter. Eddie had learned from a very young age that some opinions were better left unsaid, and seeing him as the senior in age and position, Eddie thought it unwise to argue with the valet on his first official day of employment. He instead simply nodded in understanding. Instead, he opted to continue the civil interrogation—

‘What of the youngest two? What are they like?’

‘Fitzwilliam is a dapper fellow. He is but seventeen, but very accomplished, though I cannot say he knows how to put his acquired skills to good use. He has ambitions that cannot be denied; it is just a question of whether these ambitions can ever be met.

‘And lastly, we have Miss Marjorie. A darling girl, I assure you,’ Trowbridge stated. I can only suggest not letting her size fool you, Munson. She has managed to wrap her family around her little fingers the moment she learned to mumble a word, leaving her to cause quite the ruckus for the past eleven years.’

‘I do not see how that involves me, Sir,’ Eddie said. By this time, the sun had begun to set over the fields they passed, and soon, the company would break for their overnight travels at a nearby inn.

‘It had come to my attention over the years that Mr Falstipp–the previous groom, that is— had been quite lenient on the children and their usage of the horses. This has caused a number of incidents that I would rather not see a repetition of.’

‘Understood.’

‘I am unaware of your er– American customs,’ the valet began his lecture, ‘but you must also know that here, ladies are not to ride unaccompanied—something that has been protested in the family to no avail, but it is simply the procedure. There must always be a chaperone nearby to supervise, whether that is a senior member of the family or an entrusted member of the household.’

‘I do not expect to have gained that trust just yet,’ Eddie said earnestly.

‘But let us hope you will.’ The smile Trowbridge gave Eddie was kind at first glance, but the movement of his eyes that inspected him told an entirely different story. He knew he still had much to learn about navigating himself around the kinds of people that were the Byrnwicks, even those who worked for them. The moment he set foot on English soil, he knew it would be challenging to fit in if he ever planned to do so.

The truth is that he did not plan such a change. For you see, Dear Reader, Mr Eddie Munson was also a radical. He did not believe in adapting to society, which was visible in his entire being. One can also imagine the struggle he had to endure when given a uniform to wear. Frankly, the ensemble did not differ much from how the man dressed himself before, but the simple fact that he was told to wear this particular set of clothing upset him severely.

On the first day after his arrival at Ridlington Park, he had managed to justify himself out of dressing in the required clothing by claiming that the trousers were a smidgen too tight. Without another size available, he was told to wear the clothes on his back until the new, fitted attire arrived.

But the clothes did not even begin to reach the problem of the horses he was meant to care for.

Turned out, while he had been given all sorts of warnings against the family, what Eddie should have been preparing for was the beasts that homed the stables. The stubborn animals would not let him touch them, and any attempts were met with angry stares and stomping of the hooves.

‘Easy, there,’ Eddie spoke as softly as he could, taking small steps in any direction that would not enrage the stallion whom he was currently attempting to feed. White Liquorice, a white Arabian, was undoubtedly an animal worthy of a viscount, and from the moment he had stepped into the Ridlington Park stables, Eddie knew that the Kentucky Saddlers and Quarter Horses he grew up with were no match for these and he would quickly have to learn to get on with them if he was to stay here.

Yes, the first days were hard, but not even one week later, he had gotten used to the rhythm of operations. It helped that, working as the barn manager, he was the one in charge and mostly left alone. Mr Trowbridge had visited him to ensure he was adjusting to the new working conditions, which was kind, but besides that, Eddie rarely saw anyone but footmen requesting the carriage to be prepared for the family.

That is until one afternoon when he heard the doors open and someone walking inside. He had been around the corner of the stables, cleaning some grooming tools.

‘Oh, we can both use an escape, I see,’ he heard the intruder speak. It was soft and gentle, most likely referring to one of the horses. Immediately, Eddie was reminded of one of the conversations shared with Lord Byrnwick’s valet. He swiftly got up from his seat and immediately found the culprit.

He watched you pet one of the horses—Barley Sugar, was it—-petting her in a way he had not yet managed to do confidently. ‘How about I get you out of here, hmm?’ These words triggered him to jump into action.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.’ He stepped forward, but his words startled you, causing you to turn around. As you did so, your foot got caught in an old set of bridles Eddie had still planned on detangling and putting away. The surprise coming with the unexpected presence of someone else, combined with the awkward position of your foot, led you to fall over with a shriek.

Eddie cursed under his breath as he watched you huff on the ground. ‘Let me help you,’ he extended his hand to you, ‘and my apologies, it was not my intent to—’

‘Who are you?’ you said in a tone that could only be deemed skittish, if not directly fearful, but not enough to deny his offer to help you stand. Your reaction was validated as you had never met the man standing before you. You eyed him up and down, and the more details you noticed, the more you were sure that you had just stumbled upon a robbery, nay, a kidnapping.

The man's presentation spoke for itself, truly. His long hair was dark and unkept, well over his shoulders. His clothes were nothing like the workers around your house were meant to dress like, making him stick out like a very sore thumb. The trousers were old and worn, and the shirt was loose over his upper body, revealing—oh god, was that a tattoo?

It was clear this is how you were to die.

‘Are you here to steal my horses?’ you blurted out before you could think.

‘What?’ He blinked. ‘No, please, listen—’ but you did no such thing. Instead, you did the only thing a lady in distress could do.

You screamed bloody murder.

‘Help! Anyone! Help—’ you would have kept on going, shouting over his attempt at reason until he finally shut you up by placing his hand over your mouth, his other hand sturdily over your upper arm. The two of you stood there for a moment, chests both heaving in all forms of panic, listening for footsteps or any other presence, but the only sound was the soft breathing of the animals around you.

‘I will let go now, miss,’ Eddie said slowly. Both your eyes were wide from the uncultivated situation that had just occurred. ‘And I will explain everything to you, just, please—and I beg you— do not scream.’ You nodded your head beneath his palm in agreement. Eddie counted to three as he stepped back and finally let go of you. Despite him never blocking your airways, you inhaled deeply.

‘There is absolutely no reason to panic, ma’am.’ His accent was distant, one you had never had the pleasure of hearing before. His eyes, large and dark, locked you in, almost making you lose count of the lingering feeling of his hands on your body. He had given you a moment before he continued speaking, ensuring that you would not resume your screaming or make a run for it.

‘What is your reason of being here?’ You inquired.

‘I work here. Have been, for the past week. I think it was your brother, in fact, that gave me the position. We met on his travels.’

Now, come to think of it, you remembered your family's conversation on the day your father and brother returned. There had been talk of new staff—a young man they had brought along with them from America as an official replacement for the late Mr Falstipp. But that did not explain his attire.

‘You could be fired for breaking the dress code alone, you know. Not to mention for the, uhm, actions you had just performed.’ You commented.

‘Well, you can always report me, miss.’ Eddie, against all his better judgement, smiled.

‘Maybe I should.’ Your heart was still pounding, and you felt so disoriented that even a simple smile made your head spin. ‘What is your name?’

‘Eddie.’

‘Well, Mr Eddie—’ you began, just to be quickly interrupted.

‘No, just Eddie.’ Eddie shook his head.

‘What do you mean? Do you have no family name?’ You had heard of men bringing in street urchins to work for them, but surely, this man was too old for such charity. And you could not imagine your brother to perform such acts of kindness anyway.

‘I do.’ His smile only widened in amusement at the conversation. ‘Eddie Munson.’

‘My, is it usual in America to introduce oneself like that?’ Never had you heard of a man introducing himself by only his first name, let alone a byname.

‘It is usual to me,’ he quipped, ‘And it is more common than not introducing yourself at all.’ The way in which he looked up at you from under his lashes felt accusatory, but you could not find it within you to be upset at the critique, so you gave him your name instead.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Miss Byrnwick.’ He gave you a small, polite bow that reminded you more of how children play Lord and Lady rather than a gentlemanly act. Next thing you knew, a smile was pulling at the corner of your lips, and a small giggle was ready to escape.

For some reason, you hesitated to say your following words: ‘It is a pleasure, Mr Munson.’

‘Please, call me Eddie.’ While always respecting the titles of others, Eddie never saw himself as one to follow such formalities.

‘That is most improper.’ You held back the urge to scoff.

‘But I insist.’ There was something in the corner of his eye that you managed to catch a glimpse of—this spark that no sunlight or fire could match. It was pure mischief, a spirit of chaos. But still, to call a man you barely knew by his first name was simply not right. Your family may jest as they please about your rebelling attitude to primitive customs, but you had to admit that some things ought to be done in a proper manner. And this was certainly not it.

However, Mr Munson saw it in another light but did not find enough of an interest in the subject enough to argue it further. Rather, he cleared his throat briefly and observed you for a moment.

How silly you must look in your fancy dress! Your hair was done up to match, and your shoes were most likely covered in mud. There was also no doubt that he had overheard you talking to your horse about running away. You had good faith that he could connect the pieces to form the complete picture.

A bird flew past a window, making you glance past Eddie’s shoulder in haste.

‘I hope I am not keeping you from any other plans, miss?’ He finally asked. Could you be so bold as to admit that he was saving you from other commitments by conversing with you?

‘No, of course, not Mr Munson,’ you persisted. ‘I am simply cautious.’ Come to think of it, your screams must have been heard all around the grounds. If those who heard, in turn, had an ounce of common sense amongst them, they would have called for someone in the house. If that was the case, your mother would be here momentarily, and then it was back to the house for you. All you could do now was hide.

‘May I ask what are you being cautious of?’ Eddie followed you with his eyes as you walked through the stables, looking for a hiding spot.

‘If you must know, I am currently on the run,’ you stated while looking over a haystack in the far corner.

‘Ah, so whilst you had accused me of being a criminal, it was you who had been committing the crimes then? Should I now scream for help?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, ' you said, attempting to climb the hay to get past it. ‘I have already brought much too much attention to myself.’ Your foot slipped, making you tumble back down to the ground. The accident made you stop for a moment before attempting to climb again, looking over your shoulder at the man. ‘Are you not going to even try and stop me?’

‘Oh,’ it was as if he had awakened from a deep thought or had just realised that what you suggested was exactly what he ought to do. ‘Well, would you listen if I told you not to climb up there?’

You pondered his question for a short moment. ‘No, I highly doubt it.’ Thus, you resumed your climbing. As you did, you heard the shuffling of his feet behind you. The next time you slipped up, this time from a far higher distance, he had been in precisely the right place to catch you in his arms.

‘I cannot assure you I will be able to catch you once more, so it is in good conscience that I suggest you stop, ma’am,’ he said as you got back to your feet.

‘You are right,’ you admitted. Then you realised just how close the two of you stood and quickly occupied yourself by looking for another hiding place. That is when you noticed it. You had spent years in this stable and knew every inch of the space, yet… ‘Have you moved things around?’ You looked back at Eddie.

‘Only a little. I’m afraid my predecessor did not have a flair for organisation,’ he explained.

‘That may be so, but I would prefer you would put things back as they were.’

‘Excuse me?’ Eddie could not help but laugh at the demand.

‘Your new floor plan has completely disoriented me, ' you admitted. ‘It is unbecoming.’

‘My apologies. I will be sure to put things back as they were, then.’ His laugh still echoed his words.

You had not expected him to actually agree to this request. ‘You will?’ But quickly, you regained your composure and tried to hide the surprise in your voice. ‘Very well, thank you. Then, since you have discarded all of my possible hiding locations, what do you suggest I should do?’

‘I suggest you run.’ But it was not Eddie who had answered you.

‘Mother, ' you gasped. What was it, in God’s good name, with everyone sneaking up on you today? Lady Byrnwick stood at the threshold of the stables with her arms crossed. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she took a step inside. You prepared yourself for a disciplinary outburst, but instead, your mother focused on the man standing next to you.

‘You must be Mr Munson.’ The kindness in her voice was laughable. The overcompensation of her kindness threw both you and Eddie off.

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ You noticed that he bowed his head in a much more orderly fashion than he had done to you.

‘I hope my daughter has not been too much of a nuisance.’

‘Not at all.’ Eddie politely replied.

‘Good, good. Well, I can already see that my son did a good job in finding you,’ she stated as she looked around the retouched interior. ‘And I hope that you will grow to enjoy England.’

‘I’ve had nothing to complain of yet.’ Eddie proudly said with that smile of his, and for a moment, you thought to have caught his eyes on you for just a second. Your mother nodded along with his words in satisfaction, but this cheeriness dissipated as soon as she directed herself to you.

‘Has your headache cleared, dear?’ Her eyes were spitting fire.

‘Yes, mother.’

‘Then we will be on our way.’ She stepped aside, giving you room to walk outside. ‘Goodbye, Mr Munson.’ Eddie had become the unintentional victim of the venom that perferred your mother's words.

He was polite enough to look away as you made your shameful walk through the aisle between the horses’ stalls, but you couldn’t help but look behind you one final time as you left and catch his favourable grin. What a peculiar man he was, indeed—one whose presence you immediately began to miss.

Perhaps that was because of the company you were in at the time.

‘Have you gone completely mad?’ Your mother scowled. ‘Mr Harrington has been waiting for well over half an hour.’

‘He is still here?’ You stopped in your tracks. This day could not have gone any worse. It seemed like everything you had been doing was working in your favour.

‘Yes, so you better come up with a clever excuse for your tardiness as I will not be embarrassed any longer. I swear, have you no shame?’

‘I am truly sorry mother, I had lost track of the time.’

‘Doing what exactly? What were you doing in the stables, exactly? Considering you had told me you were going out for some fresh air.’ Yes, the air around the horses was not exactly to be called “fresh.”

Unfortunately, you had no satisfying answer to any of your mother’s questions. Come to it, you yourself were unsure what exactly had brought you there in the first place, not to mention what made you stay. It must have been a sense of child-like naivete to think you could hide from your problems the way you attempted.

Problems that were coming closer as Mr Harrington walked towards you through the aisle of hyacinths that grew all around you in various colours.

‘What is he doing here?’ you mumbled towards your mother.

‘Considering the lovely weather, I had offered for us to sit out in the gardens.’ Your mother spoke out loud. That is when you noticed the set table and chairs under a large parasol on the patio.

‘I hope you do not mind. I took the initiative of taking a stroll in your absence.’ Mr Harrington spoke in a cadence that would have been new to you if not for the fact that you had spent the last hour in the presence of a very similar tone.

‘Of course, not,’ your mother had regained her ability to smile. ‘May I introduce my daughter.’ And so she did.

‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. I completely lost track of time.’ You apologised and were ready to offer your hand to Mr Harrington when you noticed how filthy your gloves had become. In a panic, you pushed both your hands behind your back, trying to distract the man with a wide grin.

‘The important thing is that we are all here now,’ he manoeuvred, which you could not help but agree with, then led you to the patio.

The next hour went by faster than you had ever imagined it would. Mr Steve Harrington turned out to be not only a great conversationalist but a rather fascinating one at that. It was only a fault of your own that you were distracted for a larger part of the conversation. There was simply something about the man’s brown eyes that constantly reminded you of somewhere else. He was very charming and, abiding by your brother’s promises, had a great, though perhaps somewhat awkward, wit. It seemed that his confidence, once clearly overt, had been lowered, causing him to stumble over his words at times and laugh at his own mistakes in a deprecating manner, but never enough to make it a bother in your eyes. Truly, it was all rather endearing.

But you could not, for the life of you, figure out what exactly caused these fumblings in his character, as nothing seemed to be particularly wrong with the man. Though you did not see him as an academic or scholar of any sort, from the way he spoke, you could tell he was one of the more clever men you had the fortune of meeting. And his looks were certainly no topic of discussion either. He was tall and lean, with a wonderful smile and soft brown hair that apparently was more common than imagined, as were those dark eyes and the way he held you in his arms—

You took a sip of the cold water as Mr Harrington expressed his gratitude to your mother for the audience and made sure the message would be conveyed to Lord Byrnwick, too. You nodded and smiled along. Even when he bid you farewell and bowed his head, your mind was elsewhere. As if expecting something to emerge from behind the hyacinths, you could not help but glance in the Eastern direction of the gardens.

‘See, it was not all that bad, was it?’ your mother immediately said, pulling you back to the patio. By then, Mr Harrington had excused himself and was crossing the patio to the exit from the grounds but had turned briefly for a final goodbye, which you met with a polite wave.

‘No, I suppose you are right, mother.’ You had persevered against all odds. As you watched the gentleman leave, you felt quite content with the meeting—happy, some would even say. The only problem was that you could not make quite clear what, or rather, who brought on this particular mood.

To be continued...

Thank you so much for reading!! I really do hope you enjoyed this chapter. Remember the best way to support writers is to reblog and share. I love to hear what people think of my stories so feel free to leave a comment or an ask or message.

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gingerhastoomanyobsessions · 4 months

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the lords in black are so interesting to me because. they’re so us. we’re watching the citizens of hatchetfield suffer for our own entertainment just as much as they are. we’re their accomplices in all of it

pokotho made hatchetfield into a musical because musicals are entertaining. and we ate that shit up! it’s soooo fun watching a little man scramble as the world around him bursts into song. the musical genre is satirized because pokey knows how the genre conventions work just as well as we do. we like watching musicals so much that black friday and npmd are musicals, too, even though they don’t revolve around pokotho’s plans as much as tgwdlm. we want them to sing. pokotho does too.

bliklotep is the audience and the audience is bliklotep. trail to oregon calls the audience “the watcher with one thousand eyes” and that’s not all, in watcher world blinky seems to be able to see through the eyes of anyone and everyone who loves spectacle. he wants to see the characters go through angst because WE love angst. it’s fun to watch alice and bill express their buried frustrations. blinky wants it to end in bloodshed because he loves tragedy, and let’s face it, so do we. it’s like that one post about how hamlet is aware of the audience and is angry that we don’t do anything to intervene because we want to see how it plays out. personally, I think blinky could have stopped the woodwards if he really wanted (he’s an elder god, after all) but alice shooting him shifted the narrative so that the emotional payoff would be more fulfilling if they escaped. and blinky loves a good story.

t’noy karaxis has blorbos. we joke about it, but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? he’s the fan who watches the movie again and again and again and again to see his favorite character’s dramatic death scene. he’s the guy who writes and reads angst fics by the hundreds because he likes to see his faves cry. he’s the hatchetfield enjoyer who’s on the edge of their seat waiting to see how ted kicks the bucket this time. the bastard’s box is pretty much just an ao3 account filled with whump and hurt no comfort. he’s sadistic AND he genuinely adores ted, because we fans are often cruelest to the characters we love the most. he puts ted through character growth— the realization that his life went the way it did because of his own mistakes, his inability to be vulnerable with jenny before it was too late— and he does that by writing a 56-chapter angst fic that’s still updating to this day

nibblenephim is the fan who voraciously devours every scrap of content that a creator produces and demands more, more, more. let’s face it, the fandom will never let starkid rest until we see this story through to its end. and then someone will demand a sequel series. nibbly is hungry because we will never stop yearning for more stories. he’s simple because that desire itself is simple— as humans, we need creativity like we need air to breathe. nibbly wants more because we want more. and we will never be satiated.

wiggog y’rath is the ruler and the king because he’s the self-inserting writer. I think jon matteson plays paul *and* wiggly for a reason— wiggly is the only lord in black to be played by the same actor in every single show, and that actor also plays the protagonist of tgwdlm. wiggly wants to be the protagonist. he tries to force himself into the human world of hatchetfield because he wants to participate, dammit! he wants to be the bestest ruler that the earth has ever seen! everyone has to love him because he’s going to be their bestest fwiend! when he appears in human form he’s gonna be the prom king! he’s the ebony dark’ness dementia raven way of the hatchetfield multiverse. he wants every human character to bend to his whims and to love him and to put him at the tippy-top of planet earth because he’s the writer and the writer’s main character, you fuckheads, and he can make whatever story he wants, whether the other characters like it or not! if you’ve ever written a self-insert story? congratulations! you’ve been wiggog y’rath.

and the funny thing? I don’t think the lords know that they, too, are as fictional as anyone else in hatchetfield. maybe blinky knows— he sees through the audience’s eyes, after all— but I don’t think the others do. if they did, maybe they’d be a little less tyrannical. a little bit nicer.

but then the starkid writers wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, would they?

#the lords in black #starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #npmd #join me in the metafiction analysis hole.#the real villains of hatchetfield are the starkid writers themselves and those of us who want to see the shows!#the only reason the lords in black fuck up the world is because WE want to see that story!!!!!#note: the ‘you fuckheads’ bit was meant to be in wiggly’s voice/pov. I do not think the good people of starkid fandom are fuckheads.

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hiatuswhore · 17 days

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𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑀𝑜𝓊𝓉𝒽𝓎 𝒪𝓃𝑒 𝒱 — 𝐵𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓉𝑜𝓃

♕ A/N: Yeah so this hiatus has been so criminal. Honestly my “writers block” has just been insecurity. I’ve gotten into this bad habit of comparing my writing styles to others and that is such a viscous and toxic self attack. Long story short, I’m a little dummy who needs to remember why I got into fanfic writing in the first place, to have fun. If you feel like it. Please please please send feedback. There’s one final part left. Maybe some bonus chapters with the new season.

♕ SUMMARY: Oh, the most scandalous season of the year has come to pass. After quite the successful year for the Bridgerton’s the eldest son plans to throw his hat in the ring. Concurrently the Sharma sisters do just the same. One a spinster, the other hopeful romantic, and the middle daughter? What can be said about such a force that is not said when she enters the room. Good luck to all who pursue her.

♕ WORD COUNT: 4.7K

♕ WARNINGS: None

previous — Masterlist — next

BLINK. SMILE. NOD. You remind yourself every few seconds. Edwina leads the conversation with a jubilant smile.

Meanwhile, you tally each time Kate’s gaze meets your own as she watches you walk a tightrope, waiting for an inevitable fall. You sit out of place, Kate on your right and your mother on your left. Both rubbing the mustard yellow onto Edwina’s arms, your nose scrunching at the pungent wafts of Haldi. Each time Edwina’s gaze meets your own, you smile. You tilt your head, doing what you do best, offering your unwavering support—no matter how much your chest knots.

“Didi, are you okay? You are so quiet,” Edwina says, leaning forward to capture your gaze. You smile, lying through your teeth, “You are to be wed soon. I shall miss you, is all Bon.”

“You must calm yourself, Bon. Keep still,” Kate smiles down at a jittery Edwina. Her joy practically spills out, her every move indicating pure excitement.

”It is all so strange. I have faced a thousand tomorrows, but they all have been leading to this one,” You pause. Tomorrow. Every laugh, jest, slight—all of it leading to tomorrow. The day you make a fool of yourself—the mark of your first-ever regret. Though your mother speaks, the words do not reach you. The sinking in your chest renders you silent, almost queasy.

”Oh, it has...caused you doubts?” Kate’s cautious tone has your ears perking up, and your absent gaze finds Edwina. Your mother nudges you with a gentle smile, a reminder of her presence.

”Bringing the wedding forward is a sign of genuine feeling, but...well,” Edwina pauses, a sigh leaving her lips as she finds her words. Your heart was banging against your ribcage as Edwina glanced at you. “It has unnerved me. Didi, perhaps you should truly consider Lord Beauregard’s proposal. He’s a wonderful companion to you, and he seems to care. That way, we can navigate all this together.”

”I don’t know, Bon. It’s a lot to consider,” You tilt your head, a tight-lipped smile across your lips, "but right now is not about me or Lord Beauregard. It’s about you and the Viscount.”

“Your sister is right. Rest assured, Edwina, the Viscount adores you. He has devotedly courted you and made his intentions clear from our first arrival. Even going out of his way to procure (Y/n)’s and Kate’s approval. There is no lady better suited for the Viscount,” Your mother’s adoration beams on her prized child, your expression faltering nearly imperceptibly.

“I just—I still wish that when he looks at me, I could be certain that he truly loves me. Like—like—“ Edwina looks around as though the words sit in the room with all of you. Then her gaze finds yours again, “Like how Lord Beauregard looks at (Y/n). His fondness for

her is so evident, written right on his face. I fear, in fact, that the Viscount does not look at me often enough to even tell.”

Your mother and Kate glance at each other with a collective sigh. You lower your gaze, fiddling with the top lace of your peach gown and swallowing the sizzling golf ball in your throat. Kate speaks softly, this time avoiding your direction entirely, “Looks can be powerful, Bon, but also fleeting. Displays of mere passion, perhaps. Nothing more.”

”So the Viscount feels little passion for me?” Edwina exclaims, amusement dancing in her gaze as your mother chuckles. You force a chuckle from your lips, quiet and timid, the antithesis of your very being.

Clearing your throat, forcing a smile to the surface, you grin, “What Kate is failing at saying is that true love is different. It’s complicated and unpredictable. That’s the fun of it. It’s there when you least expect it. You worry now, but fear not, Bon, when it clicks, it clicks.”

“Since when have you become so knowledgeable about love, Miss, avoiding marriage and love?” Your mother teases. Each of your giggles fills the room, and for a moment, only a moment, the dread no longer exists. For a moment you are back in India, in your childhood home.

You cringe at the sudden intrusion, turmeric overwhelming your nostrils as Edwina’s hand gently swipes the mixture across your cheek. Her saccharine giggle contrasted with your wide-eyed stare. She speaks with a whimsical glint in her eyes. One like your own but doe-eyed and hopeful, not calculated and mischievous. “It is said, when spread on an unmarried person, Haldi will help them find a worthy partner that brings the complicated and unpredictable excitement too.”

”Well, Haldi can mind their business,” You tilt your head with a sarcastic smile, earning your mother's pointed stare. Kate chuckles and shakes her. Edwina turns to Kate, who offers a warning stare.

“Now, now. You shall receive it too,” Edwina says, stroking the Haldi across Kate’s cheeks. You fail to ignore the Haldi on your cheeks. It sits like a reminder that tomorrow will come whether you are prepared or not. You shall watch him marry Edwina. Your sister, nieces, and nephews shall be his—but never you.

“Hey!” You exclaim, once again pulled from your thoughts as your mother spreads Haldi across your chest. Reaching into the mixture only takes seconds before the four of you make a mess of it. The giggles are seemingly endless.

Despite the joyous moment, it’s fleeting as the hours seem to fly. Before you know it, you stand in a lavender gown that matches Kate's. You maintain an expression void of emotion, seemingly zoning out—the subtle indicators, near imperceptible. Light sweat coated your brow, and deep sighs left you as though the air was limited. You thank every and any god above for the smokescreen that keeps your beloved family from noticing. Sitting by the window as servants help Edwina prepare, you watch as Kate retrieves the gold bracelet with emeralds dancing across the band.

Edwina stands in front of the full-length mirror. Her eyebrows pinch at the sight she catches in the reflection. Her smile was curious and of awe, “Didi? What are those?”

”I brought them with us from home. I knew this season would be a success,” Kate smiles down at Edwina as she closely inspects them with a warm gaze. You keep your gaze outside the window, willing yourself to ignore every ailment that plagues you. Far too busy pondering potential ways to avoid attending Edwina’s pending nuptials.

Edwina’s head tilts as she searches for familiarity, “they are quite beautiful. How have I never seen them before?”

“They belonged to my mother. Amma wore them on her wedding day and saved them,” Edwina asks if they were saved for Kate. Kate chuckles lightly, “I brought them for you. I insist, beautiful bangles for a beautiful bride.”

”Will you wear them with me?” Edwina asks, but Kate shakes her head, assuring Edwina she will be no bride any time soon. Edwina’s gaze shifts to you, “Well then, Didi, you may very well be a bride soon. Could you wear one with me?”

“Bon—“ You sigh, your gaze meets Kate. The pity in your eyes only furthers the stir in your chest.

“I’m so nervous, but you are the bravest person I know. I don’t know, it may be silly, but wearing this, I shall have a piece of Kate with me up at the altar and knowing you’re wearing it too,” Edwina pauses, her gaze pleading as she holds the bracelet out to you, “It’ll be like we’re in this together. Maybe I can channel some of your courage.”

At the touch of your fingertips, the metal chills against your skin as it soon shackles you to your living nightmare. As Edwina returns to getting ready, you visibly falter for the first time. While your sweet little sister fails to see it, Kate’s quickly at your side. She excuses the both of you slyly, your hands trembling in hers as you both exit the room.

“Bon—“ Kate says, but you offer her a sharp, “don’t.”

You walk with haste to the nearest glass, throwing down a quick shot, ignoring Kate’s advisory against alcohol. Your eyes are misty as your defenses crumble around you. Taking a deep breath, you quickly steel yourself, marching back into the room, rendering Kate unable to console you.

It all passes in a blur as you stare absently out of the window once more. The arriving guests. The bracelets. The wedding gown. Your mother's gushing of Edwina’s beauty in her gown only fuels the fire that slowly burns from the inside out.

“Didi,” you gaze from the window onto your approaching sister. She smiles warmly, taking both your hands. Your heart caught in your throat when she said, “You love him.”

“Wha—I—uh?” You stammer, eyes widening as you try to wrap your brain around her easygoing persona.

“You should not be afraid to tell Lord Beauregard how you feel. You have been nothing like yourself, and I’ve forgotten you have not seen Lord Beauregard in some time now, and you shall see him today. Just tell him,” Edwina says, smiling sweetly. The panic fades into a tremendous relief as your shoulders fall.

“Today is your day. Don’t worry about me, Bon,” You smile, gently squeezing her hands.

“Oh, my beautiful girls,” Your mother says, her gaze moving between you. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, her eyebrow pinching, but the door opening steals her attention away. Concurrently, your body tenses.

“Come. Let us put all the nasty gossip behind us for once and for all,” Your mother stands, taking one of your hands and Edwina’s. Kate joins, taking your own and Edwina’s free hands. She offers you a comforting squeeze. “Let us give the ton a wedding to remember and show them who we truly are.”

Outside the curtains, you stand at Kate's side as if a prisoner were standing before the guillotine. Your corset seemingly constricting as your mind fails to move your legs. You grip Kate’s hand tighter, your ears ringing so loudly you can hardly hear your whisper to her, “I fear I cannot do this, Didi.”

”You are the strongest person I know, Bon. You can. I’m with you all the way. For better or worse,” she whispers. Looking up at her, you blink back tears, and a nervous chuckle leaves you with a final quick whisper: “It sounds as if we are to be wed.”

Kate lets out a soft as she gently pulls you along with her. Servants pull the sheer curtains away as you both pass through. Your gaze finds William in seconds, sitting with Aunt the Queen. His gaze was cold and focused on the groom. You never meet the groom's gaze despite it searing a hole into your head.

You curtsy to the Queen, and William’s gaze remains behind you. As you take your place behind Kate, your gaze meets the grooms for only a second—your breath hitch as you approach the entrance, awaiting the inevitable. A smile takes your face at the sight of your mother and Edwina. Despite everything, your dear little sister always amazes you with her beautiful presence.

Archbishop begins the ceremony, but his words do not reach you. The ringing of your ears grows louder, your right hand soon fiddling at your side. Your smile falters into an absent stare as the bangle on your wrist becomes more noticeable than the gown that covers much of your skin. You let out a shaky exhale, your left hand crushing the stems of your bouquet.

Squaring your shoulders, you take a deep breath and stare forward. A weak smile on your lips as Benedict shoots you a wink—the calm brief as your gaze meets the groom. You refocus on Benedict, but it’s mere seconds, and you both return. The bobbing of his Adams apple, light sweat above his brow, his gaze unfocused, hazy—perhaps you imagine it. You are in Edwina’s place, standing before Anthony, not with a joyous smile but a smug one. A reminder that each day would be a challenge, one you’d both happily accept—a future.

“My lord,” The Archbishop shatters the fantasy with a firmness, tearing your gaze from him; you focus on Kate’s shoulder.

A brief reprieve as the wedding crashes violently with the present reality. Your left hand grips the bouquet stems so tightly it rips beneath the force of your palm as your right hand trembles at your side, the bengal sliding menacingly around your wrist. You tense as your racing heart becomes your only focus, clashing with the loud ringing in your ears.

Anthony looks around the room, and again, his gaze finds you. Edwina’s eyebrows pinch as she follows his gaze. You do not look up from Kate’s shoulder, confident that one wrong move shall bring your end. Even as Edwina turns back, prompting Anthony, his gaze flicks to your unwavering stare on Kate’s shoulder. Your trembling hand matches the pace of your raging heart as you force your tears to remain in your lids.

“I, Lord Anthony Bridgerton,” Archbishop recites, his words ringing loudly in your ears as they hit you head-on. The bengal slips from your wrist, releasing you from its confines. Your eyes close with a sigh of relief as everything quiets. Anthony stands before you when your eyes open, holding the bengal out to you. You glance at Kate, her gaze panicked as she looks between Anthony and yourself.

Lifting your hand, you falter for a second; the moment has lasted far longer than it should. Your gaze locks with his own as you reach out cautiously. His thumb brushes against your own faintly at the touch of the metal. Muttering a thank you and apology, you return to your spot with your gaze low and lips pursed, holding the bengal not placing it back on.

“I need a moment!” Edwina shouts, her voice echoing through the silence. Your eyes widen, and she’s rushing down the aisle from the altar before you can even process. A sea of indiscernible chatter fills the room as you watch your mother rush after Edwina. It all soon returns, the ringing in your ears and your chest constricting. William rises from his seat, his gaze gentle as he stares at you. You look everywhere but at Anthony. Kate grabs your hand, pulling you back down the aisle out of the ceremony.

”—we will call for tea, and once you have something in your stomach, you will be strong enough to go back out there. The Viscount—“ You stand in the doorway, Kate standing a few paces in front of you, your mother a few in front of her. Edwina paces the room, taking deep, haggard breaths. Your mother fumbles to recover the moment, “The Viscount will understand, yes Kate? (Y/n), dear, perhaps you might find that tea—“

“It is not tea that I want; it is the truth!” You freeze in place as Edwina looks at you in a way you have never seen her look at anyone. Though words enter your mind, they do not leave your parted lips. Your mother voices her confusion as you stand as a deer in headlights, teary-eyed and guilty. Edwina continues mercilessly, “Still uncharacteristically quiet, sister, how telling of your deceitful nature!”

“I don’t understand what is happening,” Your mother's gaze bounces between you. Kate sidesteps in a failed attempt to hide you from Edwina’s view, your presence only furthering her rage.

“I shall tell you what is going on, Mama. Your daughter does not love chaos, as she claims. She loves destruction! Decimation at the tips of her fingers, slowly poisoning all she touches!” You blink through your tears, unable to find the words or even begin an explanation.

“Edwina—“ Kate interjects and appears to be the only intervention that deters from her verbal assault.

“Oh, you cannot deny it now, Kate! You enable her! You always have. The two of you are constantly deceiving me. Together in your deception! You knew! Didn’t you? You knew of her feelings for him, ” Edwina narrows her eyes at Kate, the implication of her words giving your Mother much-needed clarity. Meeting your mother's gaze, your head tilts, all but pleading for comfort without words.

“Alright, that is enough. No good can come from this at present. Let us all take a moment to calm ourselves, shall we,” Your mother says, moving to Edwina’s side. She sits Edwina down, dissolving into a bundle of tears. You try to voice an apology, but your Mother turns to you, speaking sternly, “I said that is enough. You have done enough today.”

”Mama, please. I didn’t want this, please. I’m sorry,” You cry, panting softly as your words spill out. The ringing in your ears returns and grows louder steadily with each passing second. Kate interjects only to receive the same sternness, “And you. You have kept so very much from me.”

”Mama, please,” You cry; reaching out for her, she pulls away and points to the door.

“Anywhere else right now, (Y/n),” She says. Rushing out of the doors, everything splinters into a heap of colors and sounds. You pant as though you have run miles rather than mere steps. When you rush into the first set of doors you find, you rush past several faces you cannot make out. Your breathing choppy and staggered, your hand trembling without pause as you pace vehemently.

“(Y/n),” You cringe at the sound of your name, shaking your head as sobs rattle you to your core. He takes your hands, guiding you to the floor. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not William. I’ve ruined everything; I’m a terrible sister—a terrible person,” You cry, shaking your head; he places a hand on your cheek, stilling you as he wipes a tear.

“You’re far from a terrible person. Stubborn, sure, but not terrible,” He chuckles, tilting his head down to meet your gaze.

“You don’t understand—“ Panting endlessly, William keeps his gaze locked on you and takes a deep breath in and out. He continues to do so until you follow, and even then, he continues for a few moments.

”I’ve made my intentions with you—my uh, my feelings very clear. And when I realized your impact on Anthony and me, I was angry and jealous. He’s so at ease with you even when you’re annoying him, and you seem to forget anyone else is around when the two of you interact,” William says with a slight smile. Your face falls at his words.

“William, I am so sorry—“ Your voice wavers and William chuckles, shaking his head before you can continue. He nudges your side with a grin.

“No apology needed. I only wish for you to be happy (Y/n) just as I wish for Anthony, and with time, your sister will share this sentiment. Of that, I am sure. I must warn you, though, things will grow far worse before they grow better,” William says, resting your head on his shoulder; he kisses the top of your head. You close your eyes, refocusing on deep breaths.

After a few minutes you clear your throat, “I should go, the last thing I need is another scandal.”

“You’re nothing but trouble, Miss Sharma,” William grins, shaking his head. A giggle leaves you as you wrap your arms around him, squeezing his tight.

”Thank you for this,” You mutter, squeezing a little tighter as he kisses the crown of your head once more. As you head back to the room, you pause as Kate sits outside with her head in her hands. She looks up at the sound of your approaching steps, quickly rising at your sight. Neither of you says a word before silently agreeing you both must face this head-on, accomplices. You knock gently upon the door, and Edwina’s face manages to sink even further at the sight of you.

“What?” She asks coldly; before you can get a word in, Kate inquires about your mother, but Edwina cuts her off, “You seem to know all. How could I possibly offer any insight of my own?”

”Edwina, please. Your anger is with me, not Kate,” You say, earning a huff in response.

“Mother is off, getting some air,” Edwina opens the door wider before moving from it entirely. You take a cautious step inside, still lingering by the door as Kate closes it behind the two of you.

“Edwina, I never wanted to hurt you. By the time I realized, it felt far too late to say something. So, I thought that I would swallow it down to avoid this because I wanted you to

be happy. I know you wanted this badly, but I didn’t realize how deep this ran. But it does not matter; I am unfit to be Viscountess, but you, you’re perfect for it,” Your voice wavers as her teary gaze meets your own. Edwina scoffs, shaking her head.

“He said the same thing. I half expected to discover that the two of you prepared it ahead of time. Perhaps it speaks to your compatibility or your deceitful nature,” Edwina shakes her head at you, her gaze cold as ice.

“Edwina, (Y/n) has always supported. You and I both know she is not deceitful. Misguided, certainly. Stubborn almost all the time. But she’s our sister,” Kate says, eyebrows pinching as her head tilts. Edwina’s gaze bounces between the two of you. Her eyes land on Kate.

“I do not know which pains me more. Both your betrayals or your pity,” Edwina says, her head held high with a conviction you never knew her to be capable of.

“Edwina, we are sisters—“ Kate takes a step toward her, reaching out for her hands but halts at Edwina’s next words, “Half-sister, with the misfortune of having (Y/n) as a sister. I want you both to recognize that I am a grown woman and for the first time in my life, I can make a decision based on what I would like.”

Edwina glances over at you, her at ease presence furthered unraveling your nerves, “I have already imagined the life I would lead with Lord Bridgerton as Viscountess at Aubrey Hall. It lives in my mind and is mine to do with as I like. So, if I choose to marry Anthony, it will be because it pleases me and no one else. I need you both to understand that. If I go through with this wedding, it will have nothing to do with either of you.”

You swallow thickly every version of reality where you have no place in her life evident. Kate's reassurances fall victim to the high pitch. Like nails to a chalkboard in your ears. Your personalized torture.

Kate remains at your side, the silence jarring. Uncertain of an appropriate reaction, you find yourself in a hazy void. You refuse the tears pushing at the edge of your lids, no words in reach to synthesize the depths of the pit in your chest. Time fuses into a distorted blend of unrelenting dread. The footman delivers the summons, the neat handwriting familiar.

Kate hesitates as you ask her to join you. Would it fuel the fire? Further the divide? Perhaps. Even still, you both cross the silks and satins of the entryway—the wedding hall. It's still as breathtaking as you all left it.

”You sent word for me?” Your eyebrows pinch as Anthony's words linger in the air. Kate answers as your lips merely part, and no words leave you. You glance at Kate, who mirrors your visible confusion. Approaching footsteps carrying the answers to each lingering question.

Edwina enters like the calm before a storm. Her hands clasped in front of her, her gait determined, and her mindset. She passes Kate without sparing her a glance, Edwina’s gaze bouncing between you and Anthony, “I have made my decision. I thought it best that you both hear it from me.”

“Edwina, perhaps we should speak privately,” Kate suggests, earning a mirthless chuckle.

“No, and quite frankly, I am giving our sister a courtesy I was not granted,” Edwina keeps her head high, her presence delicate yet commanding. She turns to Anthony, who has not looked away from you. A rare sight of pure vulnerability in your eyes as you look at Edwina. Silently pleading for forgiveness. A soft sigh leaves Edwina as she keeps her eyes on Anthony, not continuing until she has his full attention, “I cannot marry you, Lord Bridgerton. You cannot provide me with what it is I want. What it is that I deserve. What everyone deserves. I may not know exactly what true love feels like, but I certainly know what it is not. It is not deception or, wandering eyes, or a role to be fulfilled. I cannot marry you because I cannot betray myself. You will never meet my eyes in the same manner that you met my sisters on that altar today. You will never...”

Edwina falters, a sigh escaping her as she briefly glances toward you and back to Anthony, “You will never look at me the same way. I would be your Viscountess, your wife, the mother of your children, but I would never be yours because you’ll be hers.”

Your eyes find Anthony as her words seep into your bones. Edwina addresses you and Kate with words of contempt and eyes of sorrow. Her retreating form leaves a heavy silence as Kate rushes after her. Neither of you move, Anthony at the altar and yourself a few paces down the aisle.

“I thought I taught Edwina nothing, but I fear she too shares the ability to scorch the earth in a fit of rage,” You chuckle, the tight-lipped smile dissolving into a huff, “I have ruined everything.”

”You speak as though you did it alone,” Anthony says, meeting your gaze in the same spot where he was meant to recite his vows.

“I should go,” You whisper, watching as he glances off, seemingly pondering something. Clearing your throat, you square your shoulders, “Lord Bridgerton.”

”You should stay,” He says, an odd ease to his demeanor. You can only wonder if he feels the turmoil that rages within you. He tilts his head, “Your sister is braver and wiser than us both. She had the courage to act on what she sensed between us. And here we are, you ready to flee and myself standing perfectly still. We’ve felt it for months.”

You inhale sharply, and the reality is apparent: you cannot escape this. Speaking hardly above a whisper, you fidget with the skirts of your dress, “I’ve lit more than enough fires today. If I were wise, I would go.”

”Then, only for a moment, my pyromaniac, play the fool with me. Humor me in this inevitability, a fate that cannot be. Explore the untenable depths of our desires for this moment only before we face the reality waiting for us out there,” Anthony holds out his hand to you. His smile does not reach his eyes as you stare at his hand before you.

A sigh leaves you as you chew on your bottom lip. You cross your arms, raising your head high, “If I am to play the fool, you will have to address me by my proper honorific, of course.”

”And what’s that?” Anthony’s eyebrows pinch as you turn your head.

“Viscount Bridgerton, of course,” You smirk as the realization slowly dawns upon him. A hearty laugh leaves his lips as you accept his hand with a gentle grin.

“The sky could be falling in, and you would find a way to jest,” Anthony smiles as he shakes his head. You nod, chuckling beneath his gaze, far closer than you were a few seconds prior. Neither of you, aware of when or how you got so close. The warmth brings a merriment that blurs the line between what can and cannot be.

The violins.

The flowers.

The gossip eager Ton.

The bride and groom at an altar without wedding bells. ”I fear I have destroyed my relationship with my sister.”

“And I, with my best friend.”

You give his hands a gentle squeeze on your own, gasping as he pulls you forward. The touch of your lips light at the climax of your shared fantasy. As you both pull apart, the warmth chills. You are not husband and wife; you are a scandal.

A smudge on both of your reputations.

#bridgerton imagine #Bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #Bridgerton x reader #Anthony Bridgerton imagine #Anthony Bridgerton x reader #Anthony Bridgerton fanfiction #Benedict Bridgerton imagine #colin bridgerton imagine #Daphne bridgerton imagine #Eloise Bridgerton imagine #Penelope featherington imagine #Kate Sharma imagine #Kathani Sharma imagine #Edwina Sharma imagine #bridgerton au #Bridgerton au imagine #Anthony bridgerton au #Francesca Bridgerton imagine

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catsteeth · 3 months

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The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 2 ✿:+ White Mare

previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: slow burn, MDNI, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, alcohol consumption, mention of parent(s) death, mention of arranged marriage, mention of prostitution, mention of NSFW themes

Word Count: 3037

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Ever since that day in the stable you filled your days with reading, sewing, mindless activities to keep yourself busy. Anything to relieve your mind of the horrors of Kings Landing and your shameful thoughts of the giant who roamed the halls. Loras and you grew distant since you rejected his hand in marriage, in turn you spent your time with the Starks. It was hard at first to be without your only friend but you were determined to get your cousin out of this city. But it wasn’t hard when Sansa clung to you like a scared beaten dog. You were treated no better of course. But at least you knew how to handle such cruelty with a stepmother like Lysa.

“Don’t let them see you cry,” You’d repeat holding her face “Don’t let it show. Don’t you see how much pleasure he derives from seeing you like this?”

Arya would teach you small things she learned during her sword training, and in all honesty it was the most fun you’d had in years. You found yourself becoming more and more invested in those little girls' well being.

It seemed as soon as Nedd arrived in Kings Landing his time ended.

That day seemed like a dream. You were summoned by Cersei to her Chambers.

“Has Lord Stark mentioned anything to you about the nature of your fathers death?” Cersei questioned you calmly as she poured wine into her gablet.

“My fathers?” You asked genuinely confused, she nodded as she sipped her wine “No, your grace.”

“Good. It would be cruel of him to spark paranoia in the mind of a grieving daughter.” She said as she paced the room with her goblet of wine in hand.

“Paranoia?” If you weren’t before you would be now.

Cersei interrupted you once more “Lord Stark will be arrested for treason today. Somewhat unrelated but it would seem that Lord Stark’s head is filled with paranoid thoughts.”

You didn’t understand why your uncle was on trial for such a crime. You were just a girl to these men, they didn’t speak of such things with you, that is yet. “Little bird, you are a clever and strong girl. I know you are loyal, loyal to the Starks, they are your family. But it is important to be loyal to your allies just the same. Sometimes family will only drag us down, allies however can make us stronger.” Cersei not so subtly threatened you.

You nodded politely, as soon as you could leave you tried to find your little cousins.

You found Arya by the stables. You noticed the men lying dead on the ground with the Stark girls baggage. You saw Arya holding her bloodied sword after pulling it out of the stable boy.

She was horrified, you approached her slowly and quietly.

“Arya” You spoke gently but that didn’t stop Arya from jumping and pointing needle at you. “Arya, you need to run.” You said softly, almost a whisper.

She ran to you dropping needle, she wrapped her arms around you. You held her close but kneeled to her height.

You held her face with both your hands and your eyes bore into hers. “Your family is not safe here. You are not safe here.” Your grasp on her head did not waver. “You have to find a way out, get to the city, find a way out of the city, get to the north.”

“I can’t!” She began to whine as she cried

“You can!” you stroked her hair trying to keep her attention “You killed those men?”

“Just the stable boy” she cried softly

“You killed a man. That's more than most women will ever kill.” You pulled her face closer trying to make sure your words reached her “Listen to me those men will come and they will kill you. Don’t trust anyone, never tell them your name, never tell them your house. Lie, and get good at it. Kill if you need to.” You said as you grabbed needle and put it in her hand, “Now go.” You say as you let go of her and she runs off.

‘Good’ you thought as you watched her run away. As you watched you didn’t notice the tears that had fallen from your eyes.

Soon enough you were summoned by Cersei to witness Nedd’s verdict.

She didn’t anticipate what came next, and neither did you, watching the death of your uncle.

You held Sansa through it. As she screamed and cried, you tried your best to conceal her eyes.

Your eyes however dodged from your uncle to The Hound behind him. You hoped he would do something to stop it, but he didn’t

And so, it happened.

The second hand of the king died.

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He thought of it every night.

The moment he touched you, your skin, the moment his rough hands caressed your throat.

He rolled the thought over in his mind millions of times. Gods’, it tortured him to no end. He tried to bury himself in his duty, bury himself in any woman who looked the slightest bit like you on the Streets of Silk, even taking himself in his hand at the thought of your scent…. More than once.

The thought of you sparked resentment and anger in his chest. He was Kingsguard now, he had no use for a woman, had no use for these emotions he felt.

He hated you for it. Hated you for the way he wanted to rip Loras’s head off anytime he saw you and him in the garden. Hated you for the way he thought of your eyes everytime he closed his eyes. Hated you for the way his mind would wonder at you at any turn even on duty. Hated you for the way his chest tightened anytime he caught even a glimpse of you around Kings Landing. And he hated you for the way your eyes caught his. Each time it was like a deadlock, those eyes, they were a bow and arrow and they shot through him each time.

He grumbled under his breath anytime you were near. Purposefully look away from you as if you didn’t exist. You pretended not to care, but you fought hard just to catch a single glimpse of his face. The burns that draped across the right side of his face like the sheer lace curtains you had in your room in the Eyrie that distort your view from the window.

Neither of you had much time to think about these emotions during the following days. You were spending your time mothering Sana as she grieved her fathers death. The Hound was now King Joffrey’s personal bodyguard now that Robert was gone. A terrible task truly.

Even worse one when your stubborn and rebellious tongue didn’t obey your better judgment around the new king. The Hound tried to convince himself he hated it, but it turned him on even if he didn’t want to admit it. He tried to keep you safe, as safe as he could. Whenever you shot an annoyed glance, a cleverly concealed insult Joffrey's way, the Hound would simply divert Joffrey’s attention to something else. But if you ever got on Joffrey's bad side he couldn’t do much, far be it from him to question a king. On Joffrey’s name day you tested his patience. Joffrey had you and his lady Sansa accompany his side during his Name Day celebration. However you felt a slight sting of joy knowing you’d be so close to him once again. But more so your stomach turned in on itself. Joffrey no doubt invited you for the explicit challenge of trying to elicit some kind of reaction from you in some way. This became clear once he continuously asked for your input on the celebratory fighting. You’d had a small fascination with combat at first. It was like a dance but with blood and swords. but soon you’d grow bored of it.

As The Hound had beaten a man to a whimpering submissive pulp the fight was over. Joffrey clapped and cheered as The Hound removed his dog helmet.

Still you were stunned by him. You wanted to hate him for not helping your uncle. You tried to hate him but in all honesty you knew he couldn’t do anything to stop it. He’d no real power, no real way of stopping it.

“Well struck, Dog!” Joffrey shouted, and snapped you out of your trance.

Joffrey turned to you and Sansa “Did you like that?” he asked, taunting you and her.

“It was well struck, your Grace.” Sansa replied, stoic.

“I just said that.” Joffrey said, his eyes narrowed, his tone deepened.

Ser Meryn looked over in Sansa’s direction. You knew what that meant,

“I found it boring.” You chimed in, your eyes just as narrow as his.

“You did?” He asked with the same threatening tone

“Mm” you nodded

“And what man did your house bring to fight?”

“Brought no man.” You shook your head

The Hound returned to his station by the Kings side. He pretended not to listen but he was, intensely.

“You brought no man to my name day tournament?” He questioned further, you knew he would have taunted you further. To state it was for lack of good men or perhaps your dead father’s power died with him, that your house was to die with it.

“Not one.” Your head whipped towards Joffrey, gaze sharpening. “Not one man wished to celebrate your name day it would seem.”

“Ser Meryn.” Joffrey commanded.

You noticed the Hound's head tilt in your direction as Ser Meryn walked towards you and slapped you across your face, cutting your lip with the armor of his glove. As Ser Meryn walked away you turned your head back towards Joffrey.

“You are a pretty girl, a little more plump than I would like, but still a pretty girl.” Joffrey said “You should be more agreeable in tone, or you might find you won't be so pretty.” He smiled as he threatened you.

“Hm?” He waited for your response as you wiped the blood from your lip.

As you looked up, “Do you wish for me to cry, your Grace?” you asked almost mocking.

Joffrey began to dryly chuckle at your remark, probably about to order another hit for you as Ser Dontos Hollard stumbled onto the tournament drunkenly. The Hound cleared his throat, getting Joffrey to shift his attention towards him and not you. With his attention shifted you were safe once more.

Your eyes stayed on the Hound however. You knew what he had done for you, however subtle it was, you noticed.

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You found yourself spending more and more time near your mare. The moon shined on her just right for her coat to shine almost like metal, and your candle light shined on her just perfectly for her to glow like the sun. Lika, she was the only thing left you had from your home. You’d begin to yearn for the times you’d be furious with your fathers decisions and his useless attempts at comforting you. Because at least if he’d seen you were struck the way you had been, he’d have taken you home. He’d have helped you. But for now, you had Lika.

As you sat in front of Lika’s stable, you read some book you’d stolen from Tyrion at some point. It was hardly interesting, infact you’d almost fallen asleep but Lika nuzzled her snout into your neck and sniffed you deeply, jolting you awake before you smiled and wrapped your arm around her head. You began to stroke the side of her head as you heard a low and deep voice beckon from the entrance of the stables.

“Fuck are you doin’ girl.”

Your head snapped towards him, relief befell you once you saw it was him, the Hound.

You looked back towards your book, “Reading, or I was anyway.” You replied softly

“Read in your room,” He said gruffly as his large hand opened the doors to the stable wider. He was so tall he ducked into the doorway as he walked inside.

“I’ll decide where I read.” you said defiant as always.

With a dry chuckle he began to walk towards you, “Words like that are the reason you got that cut on your lip.”

“You don’t have to remind me of it.” You thought to yourself how this is exactly how you must sound to Sansa.

“Fuck-” He hissed under his breathe “You don’t want my help? Suit yourself.” He huffed “But don’t scream for me when you need it.”

“I won’t want it.” You say softly “Anyways, you can’t help me.-” You began as he cut you off

“I helped that Tyrell you love.” He said with venom in his voice and a softness in his gaze.

You furrowed your brows, stood up and faced him head on “And I have thanked you for it.”

“I know you helped that Stark girl escape.” He said matter of fact

You huffed “What do you want from me?” you asked pained

“I want you to stay away from me.”

“You seem to forget you came to me.”

“You should run from me, you should tell me to go.”

“I don’t run.”

“That’s the fucking problem with you, girl. If you’d any sense you’d think of yourself. Change that tone of yours. Change those eyes, the way you look at people… like you want to gut them.”

“I do want to.”

“Stubborn” he chuckled darkly “Stubborn will get you beaten.”

“Why did you come for me?”

“I saw the light-“

“No. If it were anyone else you’d’ve gone on your way by now.”

“Fuck does it matter?”

“Sandor-”

“Don’t call me that.” He hissed

“Tell me,” You say, raising a hand to his scarred cheek. He flinched and backed away quickly. His scowl deepened. He moved away from you, he turned to face outside the stables. “You wrapped your hand round my throat, and you won't let me touch your cheek?”

“It’s different, you’re not ruined.” He said whilst he stared into the nothingness outside the stable doors.

“Am I not?” You asked, your words felt sharp.

“No, no you are not.” His words felt gentler.

“I’ve no one, I’ve only this cage I sit in.”

“You’ve got someone,” He scoffed over his shoulder at me, my eyes looking up at him widening against my will. “You’ve got that Tyrell,” You huffed, “That stark child that follows you like a bloody shadow.” He looked back into the night, “I’ve got no one,”

“You do,” You say without noticing how bold it was until he turned to you, “Or you would, if you’d let them.”

“My brother.” he mumbled, his head hung low as he walked closer to you. “Pressed my cheek to the fire.” He finished, unwilling to give anything else. “I know you’ve heard the story, Baelish, that cocksucking rat, no doubt told you.”

“Course he did.” You didn’t lie, you never could to him. “But I asked you.”

He smirked slightly, his head still slightly turned away from you not wanting you to see.

Your hand rose to caress his cheek, you did it slowly. He flinched his head away slightly and in turn you pulled your hand back slightly. As his head came back, moving closer towards you. You moved your hand to his cheek once more, slowly. He grabbed your wrist before it could make contact with his face.

“Look at me,” He hissed “I’m a killer, the things I’ve done-” He thought back on those things “You don’t want this girl.” His grip on your wrist did not loosen, as if he was genuinely trying to protect you. “You’ll wed some lord, you’ll have his sons, and you’ll be far and gone from this shit city.”

“I don’t want to wed a lord.” Your eyes now are not so hateful but sad.

“World, doesn’t give a fuck what you want.” His hand reached out, slightly cupped the back of your head, hardly touching. He ran his hand down the length of your hair. Once he reached the end of it he held a lock of it in his hand to examine the color in the candle light. His deep, rich brown eyes reached yours once more. He could swear yours sparkled in any light.

“I’ll walk you to your chamber.” He said gruffly, peeling his eyes away with yours. He grabbed the book in your hand and walked towards the doors of the stables.

You let out a staged huff as you followed him.

As he led you through the halls you realized that you were doing just that, following him. He knew where your chambers were and knew how to get there swiftly.

The thought lit a fire in your chest.

As he arrived at your door he stopped, as you opened it you turned to look at him.

“You stole this from the imp.” He grumbled as he held up the book you did in fact steal.

Your eyes went from the book to him, “Are you going to report me to the Queen.” You said, you smiled slightly with your eyes. Testing him and his loyalties. He growled under his breath and walked off.

The way you tested his patience stirred something in him.

He’d definitely be taking himself in his hand that night again.

Is love the death of duty. Or is duty the death of love?

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mackjlee9 · 1 year

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Mammon x Demon!Male!Reader [Smut]

Warning; stuck-in-a-wall trope, overstimulation, mind-break, master kink, fwb au.

Masterlist.

Game; Obey Me: Shall We Date?

Requested by Mister "A" on AO3.

(M/n) was a well-known demon in the Devildom, whether it was because of his looks or magic it didn't matter that much. He was powerful, almost as powerful as Lord Diavolo, why? No one knew, but they knew not to mess with him.

Everyone knew of the unspoken rule, but did Mammon care? Not one bit, that's for sure. Even so, it brought him so much fun and... a good fuck every once in a while.

The way they met wasn't extravagant or anything, Mammon was working in Hell's Kitchen after he fucked up and Lucifer scolded him for it, taking his dear Goldie away until he learned from his mistakes... kinda useless, Lucifer should know by now that Mammon would always be Mammon. He met (M/n) there, a man that looked rich, even if he didn't try, his demeanor and behavior screamed "rich bitch" everywhere you looked.

And Mammon just took the chance.

That chance took him to (M/n)'s bed, ending with him thoroughly fucked and almost unable to move on his own.

He kept encountering him, and with time, they just turned into friends with benefits.

But now, Mammon is really questioning the reason he came over, watching through the invisible wall how (M/n) walked closer to him, unbuckling his belt.

I'm fucked...

//////

(M/n) had received a text from Mammon telling him he had been gambling and lost a lot of money, so he needed to hide from Lucifer and the people he owned money to for a while, just until he was able to get the correct amount, or have someone else pay for it.

He doubted for a few seconds, painfully aware of how Mammon would take someone's expensive belongings to sell and continue gambling, he has a really bad habit of stealing and losing it all, so, even if he's not used to using his powers unless he absolutely needs to, (M/n) went around his apartment, placing spells around anything that could catch Mammon's eye, specifically leaving the expensive stuff in plain view.

He trusted Mammon would never steal from him, he's never done it before, but this time, he was hiding from Lucifer and who knows how many other people, so he couldn't be sure.

The most valuable stuff was in his room, and leaving a good amount of money on the desk, he placed the biggest trap on it. The other spells would only zap him or create a wall of protection, but this? This was gonna trap Mammon until he decided to break the spell.

A few minutes later, the bell rang and Mammon's voice could be heard through the door.

"(M/n), open up~!" He said in a cheerful voice, making the male show a small smile as he rolled his eyes.

He opened the front door, being greeted with a hug from the white-haired male before he made himself at home.

They didn't do much, they watched a movie, a few chapters of a popular series, and talked a bit, unusual behavior for them, since they only met up to have sex, but not this time.

"I need to use the bathroom, excuse me," (M/n) muttered setting his beer down, standing up, and going to his bathroom.

"Sure~ I'll wait," Mammon said looking down at his phone. He heard the bathroom door close and he stood up, searching around to find anything he could take without (M/n) noticing, "Nope, that's too obvious," he whispered while looking at the big black vase holding a bouquet of flowers, "Well... it looks really expensive-"

He bit his tongue and turned around before he decided to take that, and he kept swiftly looking around, soon spotting (M/n)'s bedroom door open. His mind flashed with all the small but valuable things he has seen in there while getting his brains fucked, and taking a deep breath to steady his speeding heartbeat, he walked in.

Mammon didn't have to search around for long, because on top of the desk, very obviously in plain sight, there was a small pile of cash. He didn't think much of how it was placed, it was almost as if it had huge arrows pointing at it, and a megaphone repeating 'Money! Right here, Mammon!' over and over again.

Everyone knows that Mammon isn't the brightest of the bunch, and he's aware of that, and tries to be better, it just... never works.

Rushing without a care in the world, Mammon placed his hands on the money and grabbed it, but before he could react, the trap had been activated, the money disappearing as it was never there, he tried to move closer to look around to find it, but as he bent over the desk, he got trapped in a spell. A magic wall.

Now he realized he fucked up.

(M/n) came out of the bathroom, and saw the living room empty, so he knew his plan might've worked, he just had to find Mammon, and by the sounds coming through the slightly open door of his room, he didn't have to look for long.

There, he saw Mammon struggling to try and break free from the grip the magic wall had on him, but it really wasn't working, even more, since the spell (M/n) used disabled the abilities of who it catches, so Mammon really wasn't getting out of there. And while trashing around, Mammon had seen over his shoulder through the invisible wall.

And that takes us to the present.

"(M/n), how nice it is seeing you! Could you please help me?" The (h/c) haired demon stayed silent for a few seconds, enjoying the flustered look on Mammon's face after being caught, and soon a smirk grew on his face, reaching his hand down to unbuckle his belt.

"You need punishment, love."

//////

"M-master, please... I-I can't cu-cum anymore~," Mammon's words were slurred, his eyes rolling into the back of his head with every hard thrust inside him, hitting and stimulating his prostate endlessly, his hands gripping the desk, leaving the scratch marks of his nails on the dark wood.

(M/n) kept a tight grip on Mammon's hips, using his magic to create a phantom hand that would grip his white hair, pulling it and keeping his head up.

"You should've thought twice before trying to take my money, darling," (M/n) slowed down his thrusts, his hips flushed against Mammon's, every inch of his cock buried deep inside him.

"Fuck~!" Mammon's voice came out an octave higher, his legs trembling, his dick twitching and oozing cum, "I'm sorry, please! I won't... I won't do it again, Master~"

(M/n) made the phantom hand turn Mammon's head a little toward him, their faces almost pressed together through the wall, "You mean it?" Mammon nodded frantically, tears filling his eyes and drool slowly dripping down the corners of his mouth.

"Please, I'm sorry... please please I can't-" his words were mumbled, sounding almost like a babble, and (M/n) was enjoying the view of an overstimulated Mammon, maybe a little too much.

"You want me to let you go?" Mammon whimpered and nodded, whining a small 'yes~' as his hands desperately gripped the desk harder, his legs were trembling so much he was glad (M/n) and the wall was holding him up, "Make me cum then."

(M/n)'s words were followed by hard, deep thrusts, filling every inch of Mammon's pulsating insides, making him cry out with pleasure, cum just leaking from his cock and his body shaking from the feeling of his prostate being pounded. He was fully crying now, tears sliding down his face and neck, some drops falling to the ground he was standing on.

Mammon's mouth was wide open, releasing lewd moans and whines, his eyes closing every few seconds, his eyelashes soaked with his tears.

What a pretty sight~

The phantom hand released Mammon's hair, sticking its fingers in his mouth instead. Mammon moaned around the digits in his mouth, and with slow motions, the hand started finger-fucking his mouth, making the demon choke on his moans and drool.

Knowing about Mammon's small oral fixation was a nice detail (M/n) casually found out, and hearing Mammon's muffled moans, getting louder and louder just made him feel accomplished, especially when he felt Mammon clenching around his cock every time the fingers went to far back in his throat.

He really liked this fucked dumb Mammon, so maybe he'll start leaving money out everywhere where the greedy demon could try and take it. Just maybe.

(What the fuck did I just write 💀 this is the worst)

(I ran out of ideas, if you didn't realize 🙃)

#obey me #mammon #obey me shall we date #anime #one shot #male reader #reader insert #x reader #smut #sub!obey me #top reader #top male reader #mammon x reader #mammon x male reader #obey me x reader #obey me x male reader #.mackjlee9 writes

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starryevermore · 24 days

Text

i will go to secret gardens in my mind ✧ tamlin

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

pairing: tamlin x archeron!fem!reader

summary: you have always been a wallflower, but to tamlin, you are the finest rose in the garden.

word count: 7,676

warnings?: angst with a happy ending, unrequited feelings, pining, multi pov, plot twist perchance??, not proofread

PART TWO

The Spring Court had been rebuilt. What would have been a joyous occasion under any other circumstances, for perhaps any other court, left your family scowling as they looked over the invitation that landed on Rhysand’s desk this morning. An invitation to all courts—to come to Spring and celebrate the burgeoning court. No one, it seemed, wanted to go. It was understandable, of course. After everything that Spring’s High Lord, Tamlin, had put Feyre through—had put your entire family through��it almost felt like walking into a trap. But call you naïve, or perhaps a tad too optimistic for your own good, but you wanted to believe that Tamlin might have truly turned over a new leaf. Sometimes, it took someone losing everything to learn the value of all that they hold dear. No one wanted to go, it seemed, except for you.

Well, and Lucien, but he often fought in Tamlin’s corner. “Tamlin is a far cry from what you remember him as,” he said. “What he did to Feyre was horrible, but he’s trying to make amends. Isn’t the point of the Night Court to offer second chances?”

“We don’t owe that worm a second chance,” Nesta snarled, her eyes narrowing at Lucien.

“It might be good for Feyre to close this chapter of her life,” Lucien continued.

Rhysand rolled his eyes. “Because you care so much about Feyre’s wellbeing. Remind me, what were you doing while she wasted away in that manor?”

“All I’m saying is, you should consider hearing him out. We all were troubled after Under the Mountain. His actions were, are, shameful, but that doesn’t mean he cannot regret what he did.”

You noticed the tension in Feyre’s shoulders and reached out, placing your hand on top of hers. “You don’t have to go. I just thought it might be fun. We haven’t just gone out in so long.”

Rhysand’s narrowed gaze turned on you. “Then we can go to Rita’s, or take a walk down the Sidra. Hell, I’m sure if we asked Tarquin, we could have a nice trip down to Summer if you’re wanting to go somewhere warm. We don’t have to go all the way to the damned Spring Court for fun.”

A sigh escaped your lips. You rose from your seat, turned to leave. “Forget I said anything.”

Feyre looked up at you. She said your name, standing to follow after you. “If you want to go—”

You waved her off. “It’s alright. I didn’t want to go that bad. I only thought it would be fun, but Rhys is right. We can do something else instead.”

She said your name again, but you ignored her. You understood why she of all people would be apprehensive of going to Spring. Trust and believe, you understood. Tamlin was hardly the most wonderful person in Prythian in your eyes. He let Feyre waste away, he sold you, Nesta, and Elain out to Hybern in a vain attempt to get Feyre back…At every turn, it seemed like he was dead set on humiliating her. But when it was all said and done, he still gave up a kernel of his power to bring back Rhysand. “Be happy, Feyre,” he’d said. It was nothing groundbreaking, it was not even close to an apology for all he’d done, but it seemed like a step in the right direction.

As you retreated to your room, you didn’t have to look to know you were being followed. Ever since Elain had accepted the mating bond with Lucien, Azriel always trailed so close behind you, he was like a second shadow. When you reached your room, you left the door open, allowing him to slip inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

You took a seat in the bay window, looking out over the city of Velaris. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

The cushion sank underneath Azriel’s weight. You moved over, avoiding your knees knocking into his. “I just want to know what’s going on in your mind.”

“Does it matter? Rhysand has made his decision clear.”

“Of course it matters. It matters to me.”

It should’ve tugged at your heartstrings to hear him say those words. But all you were reminded of was how Azriel pined after Elain for so long, and for Mor for centuries before that. You were all too aware that you were just the latest object of his affection. “I don’t know. I just…It feels like something is calling for me to go there. Something trying to tug me along until I finally cross over Spring’s border.”

When you spared Azriel a glance, you noted the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. “You should tell Rhys that. He might be more amenable.”

“Rhysand is hardly amenable to anything that isn’t already in his favor.” You shrugged. “It’s not as if I’m Elain, with some vision about why we need to go to Spring. I just…I don’t know. I have a feeling it’s somewhere I should be.”

Azriel looked you over. Perhaps he was trying to ascertain if you’ve lost your mind. And maybe you had. You could hardly explain the feeling, deep in your chest, that pulled you towards the Spring Court. The feeling only intensified when you learned of the invitation to come to Spring’s celebration. “I’ll talk to Rhys for you. He’s been wanting to forge alliances with the other courts. If he’s able to extend a hand to Spring, other courts might be willing to work with him.”

You shrugged again. “Do as you please.”

He reached for your hand. You allowed him to take it. At least you found a modicum of comfort in the gentle squeeze. Azriel’s mouth opened—to say what, you weren’t sure, for a knock sounded against your door. It opened shortly after, Feyre slipping inside. Her eyes fell to your joined hands. The corner of her mouth quirked upwards. You pulled away. One of his shadows trailed after you.

“We’re going to Spring,” she said, smiling. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

You stood up, crossing the room in a few strides, then took Feyre’s hands. “We don’t have to if it’ll cause you pain. I don’t mean to dredge up those terrible memories.”

“I am High Lady. I can set aside those feelings for one night, if it might end in an alliance that will benefit my people. Besides, Lucien might be right. It might do me some good to speak with Tamlin under better circumstances.”

“Are you sure?”

She offered you a smile. “I’m sure.” She squeezed your hands. “You haven’t asked for much since you’ve come here. The least I can do is give you this.”

You shook your head. “No, Feyre, you’ve already gave up so much for our family—”

“Hush. If I didn’t want to do it, you know I wouldn’t.”

“Fine. But the second you’re uncomfortable, we all leave, okay?”

Feyre nodded. “Okay.”

Rhysand was certainly giving you the cold shoulder since Feyre insisted that you all go to the Spring Court, but you could hardly find it in yourself to care. Not when you finally got to trade in the darkness of Night for the blossoming life of Spring. You couldn’t wait to finally leave Night’s borders. You couldn’t quite remember the last time you had the opportunity to leave, save for the war with Hybern. Other than that, though, you had bounced between Rhysand’s many homes, going to whichever place made you least likely to pick a fight with the High Lord. These days, that was primarily the House of Wind, since he had given it to Cassian and Nesta. That, of course, left you with even fewer chances to go out. If you didn’t have an Illyrian to fly you down, you would have to brave the 10,000 stairs. And you were no Valkyrie—you were sure you wouldn’t even make it down a few dozen before throwing in the towel. Of course, you were certain that Azriel would be more than pleased to be at your beck and call.

After all, he sat on your bed now, watching as you rifled through your dresses, trying to pick something out to wear.

“You look beautiful in anything,” he said. “Why are you putting so much effort into this?” A hidden question was on the tip of his tongue—Were you trying to impress someone? Perhaps him?

“My mother always said, when you go outside, you look your best because you never know what will happen.”

Azriel stood up, crossing over to your wardrobe. A scarred hand wrapped around yours, stopping you from flicking through the dresses. His voice was husky as he asked, “And what do you think will happen?”

Your face grew warm. Even if you knew that he was only pursuing you because you were an Archeron, for a male to be so close to you…Well, it was easy to get you flustered. Stuck between Nesta’s vivaciousness and Elain’s sweetness, it was easy for you to fade into the background. When your family was better off, everyone flocked to Elain. After your family became rich again, Elain garnered so many men’s attention. Even Feyre, when your family was its lowest, found herself with someone, if just for the pursuit of pleasure. But you…You were a wallflower through and through.

“Anything. Nothing,” you said.

Your breath stilled as Azriel pulled a dress from your wardrobe. It was a beautiful blue tulle dress. Silver stars littered its entire body. There was a tasteful slit up one side. Somewhere in your chest of drawers, you knew there was a matching pair of long, sheer gloves. You had gotten it for Starfall, but found yourself tucking it away in favor of a simpler gown. It, however, wasn’t lost on you that its color complemented Azriel’s cobalt siphons well.

“You should wear this,” he said. “In case something does happen.”

You found yourself nodding.

A soft smile crossed his face. It took everything in you to not look away, lest you give him the wrong idea. You may have been a wallflower, but you were not a demure female. “I’ll let you get ready then.”

You nodded again.

Azriel placed the dress in your hands. You expected him to leave, but he lingered still. His hand grasped yours, pulling it up to meet his lips. He made eye contact with you the entire time, hazel eyes twinkling, before he pulled away.

When he was finally gone, a sigh escaped your lips. A part of you, you recognized, should have been delighted at Azriel’s attention. He was an attractive male. He had so many qualities that you admired—protective, loyal, kind. But anytime you looked at him, you were reminded of his past history with females. How he pined after Mor for centuries. How he fixated on Elain. In both cases, each made it clear in their own ways that it would never go further. And here you were, certain that you were sending clear signals that you were uninterested, and yet…There he remained. Where was Rhysand, telling him to leave you be? Could you only be left alone if you had a mate?

Perhaps it would be easier, you mused as you changed into the dress, if this tug in your chest was for Azriel. That, by going to Spring, something would happen that would make the bond snap for him. At least if he was your mate, you could convince him to get a home of your own, far away from the busybodies occupying the Inner Circle. At least you would finally feel free enough to breathe on your own.

You spared a glance in the mirror, satisfied with your hair and makeup, before leaving your room. It shouldn’t have surprised you to see Azriel waiting on the other side of the door, shadows swirling around him. His face brightened as he saw you. An arm was extended toward you. You took it.

“Beautiful, just as I expected.” Azriel smiled at you. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

All eyes were on the Inner Circle as you entered the manor, but you were too busy looking at everything else. Spring was…Mother, it was more beautiful than anything you had ever seen before. Not even Elain’s gardens held a candle to the beauty housed here. It was difficult to imagine how a Court so ethereal could have been in ruins just months before. It was easier, though, to see how Feyre could fall in love with this land.

It was even easier, you mused, to fall in love with Spring’s High Lord as he stepped into the Inner Circle’s path. It was the first time you really got a good look at him. When you were taken, you hadn’t dared look at your captors. And when you came out of the Cauldron, you cried so hard you couldn’t see. But the male before you now…Wow.

“Welcome,” he said, extending a hand to Rhysand. As Rhysand shook it, he turned to Feyre. “Thank you all for coming. I cannot imagine it was an easy decision to make.”

Feyre tilted her head in your direction. “Thank Lucien and my sister. It was their convincing arguments that brought us here.”

Tamlin’s emerald eyes fell to you. Something in your chest tugged harder, but you couldn’t dwell on it as Azriel took a subtle step in front of you. A charming smile passed across the High Lord’s lips. “Well, thank you, too,” he said. “And if I may, I must offer the utmost apologies for everything that transpired the last time our paths crossed. There is no excuse for my actions.”

You tried not to flinch at the mention of the Cauldron. The memory of being submerged as a human, reemerging as a fae…How everything was so different, too intense. It was, perhaps, the darkest part of your life thus far. You prayed it was never so dark again. “It wasn’t all bad,” you found yourself saying. “At least now I can live a long life with my sisters.”

“That is a generous way to think about it,” Tamlin said. He took a step toward you, a hand outstretched. His eyes flicked to Azriel as a growl escaped the Spymaster. Still, he reached for your hand. When you slipped it into his, he lifted it toward his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Something, something akin to joy, swirled inside of you. A tendril of a shadow pulled your hand from Tamlin’s. “Would you be so kind as to share a dance with me?”

“I—” The Inner Circle tensed around you, though you caught Lucien rolling his eyes at their antics. A dance didn’t seem so horrible, but you hated the way Feyre looked so uncomfortable at the prospect. You wished you were a daemati and could see what she was thinking. “Perhaps later. I should like to spend some time mingling.”

Tamlin seemed disappointed, but he still smiled as he said, “Of course. Have fun.”

He nodded at Feyre and Rhysand before disappearing into the crowd.

“It was like he disappeared the moment he laid eyes on Y/N,” Mor remarked, plucking a glass from a passing waiter’s tray.

“Don’t,” Feyre warned. She looked at you, her eyes wide with worry. “Don’t fall for his charms. Dance with him if you so wish. But…I don’t know how much I believed him to have changed.”

“I won’t. I haven’t forgotten what he’s done to you. It will take more than charming smiles and offers for dances to win me over,” you said, turning away from her. Your heart clenched at her distrust. Well, perhaps it wasn’t distrust. To be here, to be in Spring again, must have been extraordinarily difficult for her. But you were her sister. You knew her struggles, her pain, better than most. You weren’t going to throw all that away because Tamlin was kind to you. You weren’t that sort of female.

A scarred hand caught your wrist before you could slip away into the crowd, perhaps find a nice corner to hide in and people watch. “Would you? Like to dance?” Azriel asked.

“I see Kallias and Viviane. I would like to say hello.”

You could feel the Inner Circle’s eyes on you as you disappeared into the throng of fae. Though you were no daemati, you could practically hear their collective thoughts: You would be better off with Azriel. But what did they know about you?

Coming here was a mistake. You’d decided so hours ago as you could see various members of the Inner Circle keeping tabs on you from the corner of your eye. Despite hardly making a move from the corner you resided in, save for trips to the refreshment table or conversations with the few friends you had made from other courts, they still hovered. You wondered if it was under Rhysand’s orders, or perhaps Feyre’s. To make sure you didn’t slip away to dance with Tamlin, become the next pretty thing trapped in his gilded cage.

You sucked your tongue against your teeth as you watched Azriel approach you from across the room, Nesta and Cassian slipping off onto the dance floor. The changing of the guards. Your eyes rolled. Of everyone, Azriel’s presence was the worst. While the others would linger, he would stay by your side, trying to coax conversations out of you or pull you over for a dance. It might have been sweet if you weren’t all too aware that it was a vain effort to keep you from Tamlin. And unlike the others, who would have been merely following orders from the High Lady and Lord, Azriel had his own ulterior motives.

When you lost sight of Azriel, dancing couples blocking each other’s view of the other, you took the opportunity to slide out a nearby door and into the hall. They would be furious to learn you left—especially when it was because of you that they were even here. But you couldn’t handle the hovering any longer.

The music from the ballroom soon faded into the background as you walked down the hall, searching for some sanctuary. There were groups of fae lingering around the hallway, but none paid you any mind. It was refreshing, if you were being honest. They had no idea who you were, who your sisters were, of what they had done to save Prythian (or doom this court). You smiled at one couple, wrapped up in each other’s arms, blissfully unaware of all that happened around them.

You spied an open door and slipped inside. It was far smaller than the ballroom, but still grand. Paintings hung along the walls—a few you recognized to be in Feyre’s style. The thing that caught your eye, though, was the handsome piano in the middle of the room. A smile tugged at your lips. It had been so long since you’d had a chance to play. During your family’s dark years, you of course didn’t have access to any instruments, much less one so expensive. When you arrived in Velaris, straight out of the Cauldron, you had clung to the instrument, letting all of your pain flow out of you until there was nothing left. These days, though, you had strayed away.

You took a seat at the bench and ran your fingers along the ivory keys. You tested a few notes to see if it was still in key, but you didn’t make it very far.

“Do you play?”

Tamlin stood in the doorframe, watching you curiously. Panic settled in your chest. If the Inner Circle, if Feyre, found out that you were alone with Spring’s High Lord, you knew they would be less than pleased. But that tug in your chest—it pulled harder than it ever had before, and that brought you an odd sort of comfort.

“Yes.”

“May I hear you play something?”

You eyed him, trying to ascertain if this was some trick. As much as you wanted to believe your family was being overdramatic, you did wonder if they knew something you didn’t. When you sensed no ill motives, you gave a nod.

As you pressed down on the keys, it felt like everything melted away around you. There was no inter-court politics to be wary of. No Shadowsingers following close on your heels. No sisters whose heart would surely break if she knew you were letting him in. Just you and the music that flowed out.

“That was beautiful,” he said as the final note rang through the room. He took a few steps closer to you. Tamlin extended a hand. “I wish, though, that I could still hear it while we danced. If you would like to, that is.”

You stared at his outstretched hand.

“Just say the word if you don’t wish to. I know you didn’t dance out there, but I thought, perhaps, without all those eagle eyes watching you—”

You took his hand. “I’m not the best dancer.”

“That’s alright. Neither am I.”

Tamlin was a right liar, he was. As he spun you around the room, you clumsily just missing his feet, you knew he was a liar. But the awkward dance made you laugh, harder than you had in a long time. The tug in your chest pulled more than it ever had before.

“If this is you at your worst, I would hate to see how skilled you would be after a few lessons,” you teased.

“We could take lessons together,” Tamlin suggested. The thought made your smile grow, though you weren’t entirely sure why. “Maybe after tonight, your High Lord will let you visit more often.”

“Perhaps—” you began to say.

“That will never happen.”

Shadows swirled around you, tugging you out of Tamlin’s arms. You gasped, a chill running down your spine. Large wings kept Tamlin out of your view. When you tried to look around Azriel, his hands came to rest on your hips, holding you in place.

“Did he do something to you?” Azriel asked.

“What? No!”

“You just disappeared. Everyone’s in a panic. Feyre looked ready to kill, Nesta ready to hide the body. We didn’t know what happened to you. We didn’t know if you were hurt or—” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at Tamlin. “—or worse.”

“I’m fine! I’m not some damsel in distress—”

“Of course not. But you have to understand—”

“No! You have to understand that you are not my knight in shining armor, Azriel! I am not so stupid to just waltz headfirst into danger. If I ever found myself in such a position, I would have screamed or called out for Rhysand and prayed he was listening. I do not need saving, especially not—” You caught Tamlin’s eye over Azriel’s shoulder. Something snapped into place, a golden thread tying you to him. “—especially not with my mate.”

Azriel’s eyes flashed. Hurt, maybe? Or anger? “He can’t be—”

“He is. He is the reason I felt the calling to come to Spring, Az. He’s my mate, and you have to respect that.”

Behind you, you heard a flurry of footsteps as the room quickly filled. Your eyes squeezed shut. Fuck. Was it not enough to have to deal with Azriel? Did everyone else have to come, too?

Feyre’s voice rang through the room. “Y/N, come here, please.”

“I should be allowed to make the choice to come, shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what the Night Court is all about?” You looked at her, a solitary tear dropping down your face. “What? Are choices not allowed when it goes against your wishes?”

“Please,” she repeated, her hand reaching out for you.

Tamlin stepped around Azriel, stood by your side. “I would not hurt her, Feyre. I have given you every reason to distrust me, to hate me, but I wouldn’t do anything to her.”

Feyre closed the distance between the two of you, Rhysand hot on her heels. She snarled at Tamlin, “I have every reason to not believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

“I understand—”

Her finger jabbed at his chest. “Don’t. Don’t you dare give me any honeyed words or false promises about how Y/N—my sister—being your mate changes things. A skunk still stinks even when it hasn’t sprayed.”

“Feyre, please, can’t we just talk this through—” you tried. This was going horribly wrong. You hadn’t imagined any of this would happen just by following the tugging in your chest. A mate, you might have suspected. But all of this—

Her head snapped toward you. Her eyes glazed over as Rhysand spoke into her mind. When they cleared, she spoke with the authority of a High Lady but with none of the love of a sister.“You said we could leave if I became uncomfortable. I would like to leave,” Feyre said. “Rhys, please, get her out of here.”

Rhysand’s hands were on you, winnowing you away, before you could even dare to make your protests. But you didn’t miss the pain in Tamlin’s beautiful emerald eyes.

Feyre had made a terrible mistake. Since that horrible, awful ball, you were moved into the River House so she and Rhys could keep an eye on you. While you might not have been able to leave the House of Wind without an Illyrian to fly you down or otherwise brave the 10,000 steps, that didn’t mean that you wouldn’t try to go. At least here, they could make sure you remained in place. Anyone who wished to see you, save for Spring’s Cauldron damned High Lord, could. They just needed to make are that something horrible wouldn’t happen.

But you hadn’t left your room in weeks. They would send food up to you, but would find only small bites taken out of it when they came for the next meal. You had said scarcely a single word. The only time you would move from your bed was to take a bath, where you would sit for hours still. Once, Feyre had gone to check on you, to make sure that you hadn’t hurt yourself, and found you staring at the bubbled water, unblinking. You hadn’t even realized she was there.

The only person you seemed to respond to was Azriel. He would go to your room, crawl in your bed, and play with your hair. Sometimes, Feyre would linger in the doorway, watching you and him. Azriel would talk to you, try and convince you to leave your room. You would only cry.

And now, Feyre paced the length of Rhys’s office, chewing on the corner of a fingernail. Rhys sat at his desk, his face leaned against his palm.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I don’t know how to make this better. She, she’s wasting away in there.”

Rhys let out a sigh. “There is an obvious solution to the problem, though not the preferred one.”

Feyre spun on her heel, narrowing her eyes at her mate. “You know perfectly well that I can’t just let her be with Tamlin. It would be safer sending her into a viper’s den.”

He rose and crossed the room, took her hands in his own. “You don’t mean that. You and Tamlin were not right for each other, especially after everything that happened Under the Mountain. You no longer wanted the same things as him. Was his actions wrongful? Of course. He could have tried to help you, but you also pushed him away. It was doomed from the start.”

“And I should let her go into a doomed relationship with him?” Feyre poked her finger at Rhys’s chest. “She is too good for that. She deserves a better mate.”

“I agree. But the Mother found reason to bind their souls together. You once thought I was something straight out of a nightmare, but look how far we’ve come.”

“I recall you hating Tamlin for everything he did to me.”

“And I do. I still do.” A sigh escaped Rhys’s lips. “But I also look at Y/N and remember having to leave you behind in Spring. I remember collapsing in Mor’s arms, begging for just a chance with you. I was a shell of myself then. I worry that if we keep them apart, we’ll lose her either way.”

Feyre turned away. She looked toward the door. For a flicker of a moment, she wished she could go back to that horrible cottage, when she was still a human. Even if survival was a struggle at best, she didn’t have to worry about your sweet soul being taken advantage of.

“Send a letter to Tamlin,” she finally said. “Tell him he is welcome to come here. If Y/N so wishes to leave with him, she may. But make clear, if a single hair on her head is harmed, if we receive a single word that she is being treated as anything less than what she deserves, it will constitute an act of war.”

Tamlin stared up at the River House. He had moved faster than he had ever moved before when the invitation to come to the Night Court was extended. So fast, he realized with a glance at his feet, he forgot to put on shoes before winnowing away. He hoped you wouldn’t mind. Ever since Rhysand had winnowed you out from under his nose, he had been a mess. If Tamlin thought losing Feyre was him at his lowest, it paled in comparison to losing you. Worse yet, he had the previous experience to know he couldn’t give into his desperate impulses and expect everything to go smoothly. No, he had to tread carefully.

Still, he found himself sending you letters over the last few weeks. Tamlin never received a response, but he never expected one. He wasn’t sure how well you were being surveilled, if the Inner Circle were taking active steps to keep you from contacting him. But he hoped his words brought you some modicum of comfort.

The door swung open before he had a chance to knock. Rhysand looked him over. “You didn’t have time to at least make yourself presentable?”

“I thought if I took too much time, the invitation would be rescinded.”

Rhysand’s brow raised. “I wasn’t aware you could have such intelligent thoughts. You know, since you had sided with Hybern so readily in the beginning.”

Tamlin bit back a snarl. It would not end well to pick a fight with Night’s High Lord. He knew good and well he was out-powered, and he was sure that Feyre’s threat should also extend to any threat her own mate faced. Instead, he said as diplomatically as he could manage, “It was a terrible mistake, but one I would make again if it would give me a chance to live a long life with my mate, should she so have me.”

Feyre appeared, pushing Rhysand out of the doorway. She, too, scrutinized his appearance, nose wrinkling at the sight of him, but at least had the courtesy to say nothing about it. “You came quickly.”

Somewhere in the distance, Tamlin could hear Cassian chortle and mutter something about “that’s what she said.”

“I did not know how long this invitation of hospitality might remain open.” Tamlin searched Feyre’s eyes, searching for a sign of your wellbeing. “Is she alright?”

Tamlin watched as Feyre swallowed, her hands subtly shaking. She had always cared deeply about her sisters, perhaps you more than Nesta or Elain. Where Nesta could hold her own and Elain was sweet enough to charm any potential suitor, she worried that you were too quiet for your own good. Too willing to slip into the shadows and be forgotten.

“She has hardly eaten since that night. We…We have fixed dinner. We thought she might be more amenable if you brought a plate to her room?”

“Of course, of course,” Tamlin said. Feyre moved out of the threshold, motioning for him to step inside. He did. “Has she…?”

“She hasn’t said a word. She just sits and stares. I thought females were able to suppress the bond. I don’t understand why she is so afflicted.”

Tamlin suppressed an eye roll. He had to play nice, at least until he could see you again. Until he could find out if you wished to be his mate. “You took her choice away, Feyre,” he bit out, weighing his words carefully. “Anyone would be heartbroken by such a betrayal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Rhysand snarled, but Tamlin ignored him. He maintained eye contract with Feyre until she looked away, gesturing to the dining room. “Take a plate to her room. Just up the stairs, third door on the right.”

He gave a curt nod and did as directed. Every step weighed him down. Tamlin was grateful, at least, for the plate in his hand, to distract him from the sinking feeling in his chest. Neither you nor him had closed off the bond. Tamlin felt every bit of your anguish and he had done everything he could to send comfort down the bond. Every day, he prayed to the Mother that it helped you. Now, as he stood on the other side of your door, he wasn’t sure it did.

The door was ever so slightly ajar. Tamlin pushed it open. The sight nearly made him fall to his knees. You were laying in bed, back to him, staring out the large window overlooking the gardens. If it wasn’t for a subtle rise and fall of your chest, he might have thought you dead. Tamlin stepped inside, walking around your bed, until he faced you. He set the plate on your nightstand and knelt in front of you.

“Have my dreams begun to torment me, too?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” Tamlin whispered back. He reached out, cupping your face in his hand. His thumb run over the swell of your cheek. “I am here. I am real. Feyre allowed me to come.”

“I cannot even trust my subconscious now,” you said. You rolled over onto your back and stared up at the ceiling. Your comforter moved with you, revealing the papers you kept clutched against your chest. Your eyes fell shut.

Tamlin sat on the edge of your bed. He reached over and brushed your hair from your face. “Open your eyes, please. I am here. Feyre had Rhysand send me a letter, inviting me here. I can show you if you like?”

An eye opened. “I doubt you could. Everyone knows that written word in dreams hardly makes sense.”

He pulled the letter tucked away in his pocket. Carefully unfolding it, he pressed it into your hands. Your other eye opened. Slowly, you sat up, dropping the other letters—his letters—from your grip. Your eyes scanned over the page, once, twice, three times. Slowly, you looked up, as if seeing him for the first time.

“You’re here?”

“I am.”

“Feyre allowed it?”

“She did.”

Your hand moved to your mouth. You chewed on your thumbnail. “She would hate me if I left.”

“She would not. And, even if she did, that is her burden to bear. Feyre cannot keep you sheltered here anymore than I could her.” Tamlin grabbed the plate and held it out to you. “Could you eat first, before we talk about this? Please?”

You stared at the plate for a long, silent more. Tamlin nearly thought you hadn’t heard him. He was ready to ask again, the words on the tip of his tongue, when you looked up at him. “Could we go to the gardens to eat?”

“Of course.”

Tamlin extended a hand to you. You slipped yours into his grasp. Joy soured through him. He bit back his smile as he helped you to your feet. His hands were quick to move to your waist, steadying you as you swayed. How long had you been laying there, in that bed? Had you even left it? A part of him, a territorial part he worked hard to keep at bay, had half a mind to scold Feyre for waiting this long. He, of course, would be a hypocrite if he did. But you also deserved someone in your corner.

Slowly, the two of you moved out of your room and down the stairs. At the creak in the wooden steps, all conversation in the dining room ceased. There was a scrape of a chair. Feyre appeared in the doorway as you reached the bottom step. You didn’t make eye contact with your sister as you turned for the exit.

“Y/N wished to eat in the gardens,” Tamlin said and followed after you. He did not wait for Feyre’s response.

You stared at Tamlin, chewing on the bread that Elain had made. He made no protest when you plopped yourself on the dirt path. He only sat across from you and watched as you slowly ate your food. It nearly made you sick, if you were honest. You hadn’t experienced this level of hunger since you were human. You remembered when Feyre would bring food home, how you would have to eat slowly so you wouldn’t vomit it all up. There was something about such extreme hunger that it almost felt like food couldn’t save you from the gnawing pain.

“I still do not quite believe you’re really here,” you said.

“I can promise you, I am.” Tamlin reached for your hand, and you allowed him to take it. His thumb stroked over your knuckles. “I have missed you. If I wasn’t concerned that an unprompted arrival would have waged a war no court could surely handle, I would have come sooner.”

“It was not right what they did…” You trailed off.

Tamlin’s emerald green eyes twinkled with curiosity. “But?” he prompted.

“I am not sure I can find it in my heart to leave them,” you said. His face dropped. His hand started to pull away, but you tightened your grip. “Feyre and Nesta are still here. While Feyre may have given the order to take me away, she is my sister. She sacrificed so much for our family. I feel like I would be throwing it all back in her face to go to Spring with you. At least when Elain left, she was going with Lucien to Day. People she could trust, you know. I worry that if I leave with you, she would never see me again.”

He straightened. “I would never keep you from your sister. Any of them. I have done little to prove such, but I have learned from my mistakes with Feyre. I have grown, am still growing, from them.”

“Not because of you,” you corrected. “You know how she feels about you. Even if I extend an invitation to her, she still may never come. And she may never extend one back. I could never forgive myself if I damaged our relationship so.”

Tamlin’s eyes searched yours. For what, you couldn’t be certain.

“If she does so, she would be the one to damage the relationship. I have hurt her greatly, I understand. But, if she chooses to plant herself between you and I, that is her choice to make and her consequences to bear.” He reached over, cradling your face in his hand. “You are a grown female. If this is a mistake of its own, then it is your mistake to make. She cannot keep you here any better than I tried to keep her in Spring.”

You looked away. You pushed the plate away and began to rise. Tamlin followed after you. As you began to walk down the path, he trailed after you. He kept a distance between you, far enough that he wasn’t on your heels but close enough that he could be at your side in a few long strides.

In your heart, you knew he was right. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal, no matter how hard you tried. After everything Feyre has done, after all she has suffered, staying with her was the least you could do. Yet, why would you sacrifice your happiness for hers when she was so quick to rip it from you without even listening to what you had to say? You could not yet forget the cold look in her eyes as she ordered Rhysand to winnow you away. She was not your sister then. She was anything but.

“Come to Spring,” Tamlin said from behind you. You paused in your step. You did not turn, but you listened. “It does not have to be permanent. Come to Spring, see if this is worth it. If you decide that it is not, then I will not stop you from returning here. I will respect whatever choice you make, but I would appreciate it if you could give us a fair shot. That is all I ask of you, I swear it.”

You turned. You looked past Tamlin at the River House. You were certain that Feyre and Rhysand were trying to listen in on the conversation. You were sure they were waiting for your answer. But, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care what they thought. After all, they hadn’t cared to ask if you even wanted Tamlin as a mate.

“One chance,” you said. “One chance, and if I decide to that I would rather a relationship with Feyre, you must not follow.”

“I promise, whatever you decide in the end, I shall respect it.”

Feyre watched as you gripped Tamlin’s arm, an apologetic smile on your lips. She had a million things she wished to say to you—a hundred warnings, a few hundred thousand promises to have her door open to you if you ever want to come back, and an acceptance to the offer to visit Spring in a month’s time. Instead of saying any of those things, she mouthed a goodbye while Tamlin winnowed you away.

Rhys’s hand fell to her shoulders, steadying her as she swayed on her feet. Somewhere in the distance, she could see Nesta and Cassian hovering. Elain and Lucien busied themselves with clearing the dishes.

“She’ll be alright,” Rhys said. “He is not so stupid as to make the same mistakes again.”

Feyre hummed. “Is this where you say it's different with mates?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen too many awful mated couples to say that with any ounce of sincerity. But, I will say, he does seem different with her.”

“And if he isn’t,” Nesta said, stepping toward her, “he will pay tenfold for any pain he causes her.”

Feyre nearly laughed as she watched Cassian nod enthusiastically to Nesta’s threat as he bounced Nyx on his hip. She could only hope that you knew how protected you were—that you had the entirety of the Night Court to support you should trouble ever make its way to you. But any laughter she had, any words she wanted to say, died in her throat as shadows flooded the River House.

Azriel.

Shit. Rhys had sent him off on a mission a few days prior. Azriel had been reluctant to go—one of the few times she was certain that Azriel would fight her mate to the death on an issue. But it was Feyre’s promise to keep you safe in the River House that gave him leave to go. She had forgotten that when she had the letter sent to Tamlin, when she bid you goodbye. You were gone now and, worse, you hadn’t said goodbye to him.

“Where. Is. She.”

Feyre turned, looking at Azriel’s towering form darkening the doorway. His wings were flared out behind him, beating furiously as his shadows continued to search the home for any sign of you.

“She has gone to Spring, with Tamlin.”

Azriel growled. His nostrils flared. The shadows began to swirl around Feyre. Rhys took a step in front of her, ready to block any attack sent her way. Would Azriel attack her? Why would he be so upset about not being able to say goodbye to you? She knew he pined after you, but she thought it was like Mor and Elain. Something one-sided. Had she missed something?

“It was her choice, brother,” Rhys said. “We are welcome to visit her whenever we so please. If you would like, we can go now, just so you may have a chance to talk to her.”

“If I go to Spring, I’m bringing her straight here. This is where she belongs. Not with that swine of a High Lord.”

“She has every right to choose to be with her mate—”

“No!” Azriel snapped. “I am her mate!”

It felt like time froze. Everyone stared at the Shadowsinger. Even Elain and Lucien came out from the kitchen, concern about his antics. Feyre blinked. No, that couldn’t be. Tamlin was your mate. You had felt the bond with him, and he you.

“Triads are a thing of legend,” Rhys said slowly. “They haven’t existed in millennia…Cauldron, no one has ever been sure they were ever truly real. You aren’t suggesting…”

“All I know is that the bond snapped when I found her crying after Nyx’s birth, so certain she’d lose her sister, brother-in-law, and nephew in one fell swoop that all three of you surviving overwhelmed her. It snapped as I held her, trying to reassure her that all was right. That no one would hurt her or her family.” Azriel took a step toward them, glowering. “You have sent my mate into a lion’s den. Lesser males have killed for lesser slights.”

“Azriel, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—” Feyre tried.

But he was already gone—wings rustling against the wind as he flew away. To where, she couldn’t say for certain.

PART TWO

#tamlin imagine #tamlin x reader #tamlin x fem!reader #tamlin x female rader #tamlin x you #tamlin x y/n #tamlin fanfiction #tamlin fan fiction #tamlin fanfic #tamlin fan fic #tamlin fic #starrywrites #starryevermore

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amongemeraldclouds · 3 months

Text

better than revenge | chapter five: smash!

Lorenzo Berkshire x Reader (ft. Ex!Mattheo Riddle)

Series trope: Fake dating

Chapter five summary: You and Enzo get to know each other and end up showing him how studying together can be fun. 1.8k words.

Warning: Cursing, angst, fluff, no use of y/n, slight suggestiveness.

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“The best way to deal with your anger, aside from good ol’ revenge,” Enzo starts, “is to break shit.”

“When you said we were going to The Breaking Point, I didn’t think you meant it literally,” I say, looking at graffiti scrawled all over the building tucked neatly in an alley.

“Come on, it’s going to be fun,” he says holding my hand and leading me inside.

Once we’ve got our safety gear on, Enzo reaches for the dishes and consecutively throws three plates against the wall. The smashing of plates sounds almost melodic, like wind howling through chimes.

“Stressful week, huh?” I ask him.

“I’m getting my ass handed to me in Potions,” Enzo replies, throwing another plate for good measure.

He hands me a pile, “but never mind that. Your turn. Think of something that angers you, imagine they’re the plate and then throw it.”

I think of Mattheo’s annoying smile and take aim. Crash!

The sound of his laugh. Smash!

Seeing him kiss her. Crash!

I still love him. Smash!

I’m such an idiot. Crash!

I’m out of breath when the final pieces crash on the floor.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

“I haven’t felt this good in weeks!” I exclaim, twirling on the sidewalk as we make our way to dinner. I ignore the curious glances I attract and walk ahead, beaming.

Enzo laughs, “told you, I’ve got ways to help you release stress—”

“Without being a perv,” I finish his sentence.

“Not what I was going to say, but okay,” he muses.

“You winked at me! It’s your fault I assumed, Lorenzo Berkshire” I glare at him.

He raises his hands to concede. “Fine fine, but never call my by my full name again. You’re scary,” he shudders.

“Tell me more about Potions,” I say, tamping down my smile.

“I’ve been having a hard time memorizing the right ingredients. I keep mixing up horse hair and horseradish, or moondew and moonseed. Why do they have to sound so similar?” he explains, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“That sucks, I can see why it can be confusing,” I say, fixing his hair absentmindedly.

“I can help you study!” I offer.

He smirks, “you know, Mattheo and I compete with grades. He may be naturally smarter and doesn’t have to apply himself as much, I’ll give him that. But I work hard and even skipped a grade because of it. It’s how we’re in the same grade even though I’m younger and I’ve been lording it over him ever since. But Potions…”

I see where he’s going. “Potions is a nightmare. So by studying together, you’ll get better grades and outrank Mattheo again. Even more incentive to help, fake boyfriend. Let’s make that phase two of The Book.”

I grab his arm and see him smiling down at me. “Let’s study at your dorm next week, it’s gonna be fun!”

“Why not at the library so people can see us?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Because my ways are not allowed at the library, it’s loud but fun,” I say.

“Oh?” He asks with a devilish smile.

“I did not wink at you, Berkshire! I didn’t mean it that way,” I smack his arm.

He laughs, “I’ve never heard the term ‘fun’ and ‘studying’ in the same sentence, but if anyone can do it, it’s probably you.”

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

“Have you ever heard of mnemonics?” I ask Enzo.

“Stop making up words.”

“I’m not! Mnemonics is a way we can memorize things through key phrases and words. Okay, so look at this,” I open a Potions textbook to one of the instructions.

“Felix felicis, liquid luck. To create this, you need ashwinder egg, horseradish and heat. No horse hair here. To make it easy to remember, use the phrase “ashes take root in the heat.”

“How does that make it easier?”

“The key word you need to remember is ashes. What do they do? They take root in the heat. Ash is short for ashwinder egg and next time you’re confused between horse hair or horseradish, remember which one is the root vegetable?”

“Horseradish!” He exclaims. “Ashes take root in the heat. You make this so much easier! Why can’t you be our Potions professor instead?” “Snape would have your head if he hears you,” I say. “But wait, we haven’t got to the fun part yet. Once you have your phrase, you then have to turn it into a song.”

Enzo laughs indulgently, “like one of those children shows?”

“You laugh at my methods, Berkshire. But it won’t be so silly once you’re exceeding expectations in class. You gotta trust the process.”

“Does the process know we’re trusting it?” He quips.

“Isn’t it so much easier memorizing song lyrics than class notes?” I retort. He nods, considering me.

“Come on, Enzo. We can even sing it to the tune of your favorite song.” He gives me a pained look but gives in and hours go by, we have our key phrases and songs that go with potion ingredients and techniques.

Laughing, Enzo takes my hand and lifts me off the chair, spinning me around. “We’ve done the singing, now let’s dance.”

“But there’s no music,” I comment as my cheeks flush when I feel his hands on waist, inviting me to sway with him.

“Move with me,” he says, “we can use this as practice for when we attend a ball.”

I close my eyes and imagine music as I follow his steps, trying to avoid stepping on his foot. His hands feel strong and reassuring, guiding me as he hums a soft tune. We move in comfortable silence and I relax into the moment.

“You did well today,” I tell him as he spins me again and he bows, marking the end of the dance.

“Only because I had a fantastic teacher,” he remarks. “I’ll definitely outrank Mattheo with you by my side.”

“What’s the deal with you and Mattheo, anyway? Why are you rivals?” I ask.

“It’s therapy time, huh?” He says, settling in his bed and I sit beside him. He takes a moment, turning the question over in his mind. “It started when we were kids, our mother would have us play these games to see who bested each other. Did you know, we even competed to see who’d eat the most vegetables during dinner?”

“Well…” I say, bewildered. “That’s one way to get you to eat healthy, I guess?”

“We didn’t grow up in the same household, of course,” he continues. “So I only knew him through the occasional awkward family dinner. But our mother, if you scored better grades or won some contest, that’s when she would come visit and spend time with whoever won. We’ve been that way ever since,” he shrugs.

“You realize that’s not normal, right?” I ask.

“Is any family even normal?” He counters.

“No, family dynamics are weird. Mine isn’t any better,” I agree. “I just mean that you don’t have to compete for love. Someone can love you exactly as you are, you don’t have to earn it. That’s what my mother used to say” I explain.

He looks at my eyes, speechless and searching.

“You know that, right?” I try. Of course he doesn’t. “You don’t have to try hard to be loved.”

We sit in electric silence as he shifts his gaze down my mouth before meeting my eyes again. I want to hold this boy with sad eyes, so warm and full of life, but alone here in the privacy of his room it will be real.

“It’s getting late and Theo will be back soon from the party.” I clear my throat and brush off these feelings, whatever they are. I rise from his bed and take my things. “This was productive, let’s do it again tomorrow.”

He blinks, shaking off the moment. “Of course, yeah. Thank you.”

Enzo walks me to the door and bids me good night.

“Good night,” I reply, rising on my toes to kiss his cheek.

I walk back to my dorm and glance at my watch. It’s much later than I thought. I briefly pause when a voice interrupts my thoughts.

“If cuddling is the best part, he didn't do it right.” I look up and see Mattheo watching me come from the direction of Enzo’s dorm.

My annoyance flares, “Why hello to you too, Mattheo. Don’t you have some girl to disappoint?”

“Oh I never disappoint in bed,” he says with a smirk and I look at his dark eyes, remembering heated nights and all the ways I’ve come undone for him and with him. Memories of warm skin tangled in sheets, moaning messes, and the euphoric maze we lost and found ourselves in.

I shake my head and sigh, “do what you want, Riddle. It’s what you’re good at anyway.”

That shuts him up and I walk past him.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

The next few weeks go by and Enzo and I get into a comfortable rhythm studying together. We spend meal times together at the Great Hall and visit Hogsmeade on weekends in the name of fake dating.

I approach Enzo as students file out the room from Potions class.

“Look here,” he beams, showing me his grade.

“Exceeds expectations! You did it, Enzo!” I engulf him in a hug and laugh in surprise as he twirls me around before setting me down.

He looks at Mattheo making his way to the exit and calls out, “not that I need a number to prove I’m better than you, brother, but it seems the numbers have spoken again.”

Mattheo pauses and looks back, “is it really a win, brother, if you needed someone’s help to get there?” He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

Enzo puts his arm around me. “You mean, I get to outrank you, after skipping a grade by the way. And I have an incredible girlfriend by my side? I don’t see what the problem is.”

I step in, “Well Enzo, not everyone knows what they have when they have it.” I shift my gaze to Mattheo, “Matheo wouldn’t understand, now would you?” I shake my head condescendingly.

“Come on, we have to celebrate!” I wink at Enzo and he grins at our inside joke as we walk out.

When we reach the hallway, he leans in to whisper, “you winked! Are we really going to celebrate?”

I smack his arm and whisper back, “that was just for The Book. Behave.”

“Okay, just checking. Because you know I wouldn’t mind at all if—” I glare at him and he holds his hands up in retreat.

I soften, “You can, however, get a congratulatory kiss.” I pull my arms around his shoulders and kiss him. He smiles against my lips.

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Author's note: I recently went to a similar place where I got to break stuff and I knew these characters had to do it too. I nearly named this chapter "break plates, not hearts" hahahaha.

Oh and Mattheo’s first line comes directly from an episode of Veronica Mars iykyk.

Taglist: @hoeforvinniehackerrr @i-think-you-are-gr8 @thecraziestcrayon @adreamingpendulum @themarauderswife7 @midsoulz @ultramarinetovelvet @val-writes @lafrone @daisiesformylove @mildly-delulu @allebasi05 @enha-stan @skb4000 @nat1221 @s0urw00lf

#lorenzo berkshire x reader #lorenzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire imagine #enzo x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheoxreader #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #mattheo riddle #lorenzo berkshire #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle x reader #slytherin boys #enzo berkshire #slytherin x reader #slytherin x slytherin #amongemeraldcloudswrites

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diorsluv · 6 months

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feather , part 1

“ not another take ”

series m. list next chapter

( socialmedia!au )

yourusername

liked by _quinnhughes, markestapa, luca.fantilli, and 78,682 others

yourusername after 19 years of being my brother, jamie still takes the worst photos

view all comments

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→ yourusername calm ur tits bro ✋

username1 what’s going on in mark’s replies..

lhughes_06 when are you coming back 🙏

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lhughes_06 i’m so lonely without you i need you to come back 🙏

lhughes_06 THOSE COMMENTS WERE NOT ME I SWEAR

→ yourusername awww i can’t believe you missed me that much

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_quinnhughes are you flying up here when we play the ducks?

→ yourusername YOU KNOW IT

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→ _quinnhughes blocked.

username29 jamie’s an amazing photographer

liked by jamie.drysdale

username93 LUKE’S COMMENTS LMAOOO

→ yourusername he wants me to clarify that it “wasn’t him” (you shouldn’t believe him)

yourusername

liked by adamfantilli, lhughes_06, _alexturcotte and 92,177 others

yourusername guess who’s who??

tagged: edwards.73, markestapa, luca.fantilli, rutgermcgroarty

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mackie.samo how come i wasn’t invited 🙁

→ yourusername I’M SORRY THEY KIDNAPPED ME SO I COULDN’T INVITE YOU 💔💔💔

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→ yourusername mack’s the boss, sorry rut

username47 tag yourself i’m the skeleton mark’s hugging

→ username22 how’d you know it’s mark wtf

→ username90 i’m the yellow glasses ethan’s wearing

jamie.drysdale of course you go and do this as soon as you get back

→ yourusername DON’T JUDGE

adamfantilli luca’s the second right one on the right photo isn’t he..

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→ adamfantilli mom got mad at me because YOU left the house messy before we left to catch our flight

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liked by yourusername

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next chapter notes ) this was actually so fun to make im excited to make moreeee 🫣 also the official nickname is drizzle i’m calling it rn bc drysdale=drizzle=drizzy=drizz AND I KNOW IT SOUNDS STUPID BUT I SWEAR YOU WILL COME TO LOVE IT

#umich hockey #luca fantilli #adam fantilli #ethan edwards #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes fic #mark estapa #mackie samoskevich #cole caufield #quinn hughes #jack hughes #trevor zegras #alex turcotte #jamie drysdale #dylan duke

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ivymarquis · 11 months

Text

Blind Date

Me: “why the fuck is this fic taking so long to finish?”

The fic: *is the longest singular piece I’ve ever written for one chapter*

Pairing| John Price x F!Single Mom!Reader Rating| M Word Count| 8.4k Kinks/Content/Warnings| Drinking (everyone is clear headed), run ins with a shitty ex, mentions of abuse from prior relationship, these two are incredibly down bad for each other, oral (m! and f!receiving), protected piv, squirting

There is a certain catharsis in lamenting your dating horror stories with men to a married lesbian who’s over a decade older than you. Kate is always willing to lend an ear, and you’re positive that she gets a kick out of your misadventures in the way so many married people did while listening to their single friends.

“I swear I’m this close to just giving up all together and embracing spinsterhood,” you grouse with a drink in your hand after the work day had concluded.

You like to think your standards aren’t unreasonable. Someone kind, with their head on straight. It felt like finding a man who respects you as a person is becoming too big an ask and you very simply would rather be alone than deal with the endless hoard of men who seem hell bent on destroying any confidence you have in yourself.

“What about the guy you went out with yesterday?” Kate inquires with her head tilted. Must be fun, listening to your ramblings with a devoted partner at home.

“Oh did I not tell you? He was engaged!”

Kate pulls a face like her drink soured on her, matching how you’d felt at the time.

“Even better- guess how I found out he’s engaged.”

“She showed up at the restaurant?” Kate hits the nail on the head on the first try.

“Bingo,” you raise your glass in a gesture of affirmation before finishing it off. “Somehow I ended up being the one getting yelled at in that situation. Un-friggin-believable.”

You don’t abuse your work privileges to creep on people you meet in your personal life, but public record could have spared you if he’d been married. Harder to find out about an engagement from a total stranger who was determined to not let you find out about it and didn’t have social media.

“There’s always the other side,” Kate teases.

“Women scare me too much, I get all nervous.” You could appreciate an attractive woman as much as the next gal but good God you just could not help yourself when it came to men. The subtle way their breathing would change before they made their move, that low timber growling in your ear. The sheer weight of one on top of you as he manhandled you into the bedding-

Dear Lord, you need to get laid. Maybe you’re fixating on it too much because you’ve had an over 2 year dry spell. That tends to happen after a baby though. Especially with a pain in the ass ex who thinks he can pick and choose when to be around (and becomes absolutely incensed each time you remind him he could be consistent or he could stay home).

Kate is thoughtful for a moment, clearly kicking around an idea she hasn’t fully committed to in one direction or another. You can see the moment she decides to proceed with the thought. “Depending on what exactly you’re looking for, I might know someone.”

—

And here you are on a Saturday night, nerves clawing at your belly like a rabid dog.

Most (well, all) of the men you’ve dated you met online. There’s almost additional butterflies beyond the first-meet jitters knowing that the date is set up by a mutual friend.

There’s more at stake, even if the stakes are relatively low pressure. If the guys you met online did something incredibly out of pocket you never had to see them again, and held no qualms divulging the events to friends. Your romantic life has been full of misadventures but has given you a handful of stories, and as strangers you never have to consider any possible fallout in telling those stories.

Your son is with your mother for the night, allowing you the opportunity to focus solely on yourself this evening. No concern about keeping an eye on him while getting ready, worrying about what possible trouble he’ll get into when your back is turned.

It is hard at times- striking that balance between wanting to be a good mom and also wanting to be acknowledged as a desirable woman who has needs. A lot of men are shitty about it. You’d grilled Kate for every detail of his reaction when being informed of your young son. You don’t need another ambush regarding your disinterest in making it work with your son’s father.

She’d soothed your nerves- he hadn’t batted an eye, was about as worried about your reaction to how often his job pulled him away as you were about him having a poor reaction to being a single mom. You both have responsibilities that have to be placed above a relationship, now go play nice and have fun.

You tell yourself you can have one drink while waiting at the bar of the restaurant you’d agreed to meet at.

White wine ends up being your pick- not quite so easy to suck down as a tasty cocktail full of liquor, but gives you something to occupy yourself with.

You’ve only had the drink a handful of minutes before hearing someone clear their throat slightly behind you, and then your name.

Kate has shown you a photo of what he looks like so you’re not caught off guard when you turn around.

He’s handsome. You expect that but it’s different seeing him opposed to just the photo. Kind eyes, a warm smile on his face as he takes you in.

At least you both seem pleased with the big reveal.

“I’ve got a table waiting for us if you’re ready, love.”

He holds out a hand to let you balance yourself as you dismount from the bar seating, allowing you to steady yourself in your heels.

His hand is warm on your waist as he guides you and you’re already smitten by the time the pair of you sit down.

You’re fifteen minutes into dinner when you decide that so long as he a) is willing and b) doesn’t say or do anything completely deranged, you are going to ride Captain John Price like a mechanical bull at a shitty dive bar at the end of the night.

Perhaps the bar is in hell but either way you have been utterly deprived the past few years and he is checking plenty of boxes for you.

“So you work with Kate?” Starting off on the easy footing- the common ground that leads you both here.

“I do. Not directly- I work more on the tech side. I’m an independent contractor, I basically built the entire system she runs off of.”

“Beauty and brains,” his praise warms you, an impressed expression on his face. “Would explain how we’ve never crossed paths if you were hiding in a backroom surrounded by monitors,” he teases.

“You’re actually not that far off the mark,” not that you hide persay, but keeping that contract keeps a roof over your head and food in your child’s mouth. That keeps you busy. The fewer people who know how to work your program, the harder you are to get rid of.

You may or may not have hidden a few kill switches. Job security you call it. Though it’s not exactly first date material to talk about how you’ve got a government agency in a mutual understanding- keep extending your contract, and the program continues to work.

Either way, you don’t have much contact with the soldiers. Maybe you have passed each other in the halls but probably not- you’re certain a face like that wouldn’t have escaped your notice, introduction via a mutual friend or no. But you decide to utilize that mutual friend to shift the conversation. He’s hedged around talking about his work- on his end, sees that as the thing that might be a deal breaker for you. Probably wants to delay that until you've at least gotten your entrees.

So you go from business to hobbies. And it’s probably not entirely fair, but you’re about to see what his sense of humor is.

“Kate mentioned you’re a big soccer fan?” You make sure your expression is wide and doe eyed as you ask the question.

His eyebrow twitches- caught, no doubt, between wanting to leave a good first impression and biting back it’s football over here, love.

You crack far quicker than you initially plan, the wide grin on your face as you let him off the hook he’s good naturedly trying not to bite.

“Beauty, brains, and a comedian, lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, I had to. In fact, it was in her terms for this,” you make a vague gesture with your hand.

“Trust Kate to wheel and deal just to get my blood pressure up,” he muses as he takes a sip from his drink.

The conversation rolls easily enough- an ebb and flow as one of you poses a question, the other answering before allowing the first to say their contribution to the subject and moving on.

He’s charming, attentive, and a good storyteller. The way he carries himself screams military without being overbearing. He’s relaxed back into his chair and something about the scene in front of you makes you want to climb into his lap like a domesticated house cat.

Being the field captain to a specialized task force it’s no shock that he’s in incredible shape and you find yourself slightly distracted on more than one occasion by his hands and forearms.

The food is wonderful though the company is better- you end up moving back to the bar for fresh drinks and to free up the table for the server.

You spend a good length of time just talking with him at the bar.

John’s attention is on you but it’s clear he’s proverbially chewing on something the further on you go.

“That is the look of someone with a question they’re not entirely positive they want an answer to,” you’ve got a habit of being a touch direct at times. Amazing how it streamlines a conversation though.

“Observant one, aren’t you?” He pauses, takes another sip of his drink. “It’s probably none of my business, but ah- is your son’s father in the picture at all?”

It was your turn to take a drink. This was always such a fun topic of conversation. Frankly the number of men who took your ex’s side when the whole custody arrangement gets brought up alarms you.

But he has a right to his son.

Fuck that.

Your child is not property and you do not give a singular shit about your ex’s feelings- especially if it comes at the expense of your son’s safety. But it saves you a substantial amount of time not wasting energy on someone who could not understand the reason for your decisions.

“The short answer to the question is no. I had already left him by the time I found out I was pregnant, and given I left because he’s a raging alcoholic- with the emphasis on the rage-,” what a nice, polite way to say he is an abusive asshole. Your gaze shifts down towards the bartop, missing the way John’s expression softens as he reads between the lines of what you say. They’re not pleasant memories, but you’re not a wounded bird anymore- you’ve tended to your clipped wings and grown new feathers. “I didn’t want him involved.”

“He ended up finding out from a mutual acquaintance, and while he claims he wants to be around, he hasn’t done much other than blow my phone up at midnight trying to throw his weight around every time he gets a new girlfriend. So I get to be the cold blooded harpy that he gets to cry about- which is fine by me. On paper he says he wants to be involved, but he’s made absolutely no effort to arrange plans or anything while sober. I haven’t seen him in over 2 years. I can’t trust him to be a safe parent, and since he’s not on any official records I get final say unless he wants to go to court over it.”

Your whole little house of cards hinges on the fact that your ex wants everyone to bend over backwards for him while doing nothing for anyone else. All it would take would be one subpoena for a paternity test and your hands would be tied. He is an incredibly functional alcoholic, so there isn’t a criminal record or anything you can do to prove he would be unfit. There’s no proof of the abuse he inflicted on you.

Which means, if push comes to shove, you would be forced to relinquish sole custody and hand your child over for unsupervised visitation.

But that requires effort on his part. And that effort is the only thing keeping your little house of cards afloat.

“Sorry that’s probably way more information than you wanted-“ good job. Everything was going great until you laid out your drama.

“No apology necessary; I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

And there’s no lecture about how you should give your ex a chance, that the opportunity to raise his son could make him change for the better. No dissertation on how you owe it to your son to do whatever it took to make things work with his father (that had been a weird way to end a date, and the only reason you hadn’t gotten up sooner and left was because it was such a bizarre conversation you’d half convinced yourself the whole thing had to be a bad dream).

You’re not a wounded bird and on the one hand it’s a good thing to get everything laid out on the table, but on the other you don’t want to sit and mope about your personal troubles. You’re actually enjoying John Price’s company, and don’t want to think about your problems.

And yes you are enjoying the time for what it is but part of you can’t help but also keep an eye out for… any opportunities for a transition.

As hot under the collar as you are, John’s gaze makes warmth coil in your gut in a way that has nothing to do with the wine- he’s being a gentleman.

It’s sweet. He’s being polite and respectful and showing sexual discipline while making it clear he’s interested.

And for all your bemoaning of prior dates with other men who aren’t captains of specialized task forces about how they were too pushy and too presumptuous and a nice dinner paired with drinks doesn’t entitle them to you dropping your panties—

Yet here you sit, hours into a conversation when you’d decided 15 minutes in you want to jump his bones. And you have to be patient otherwise you’re a total hypocrite.

You’re not entirely subtle. The pair of you are perched on barstools again, much closer than the table allowed you to be with the two of you angled towards each other.

Your dress looks good on you. A jewel toned blue that compliments your skin beautifully, the hemline stopping above your knees and loose enough to bounce tantalizingly when you hit your stride walking.

It’s not exactly an olive branch, but it is an offering of sorts when you carefully take the leg closest to John and cross it over the other. The hemline of your skirt slips up your thigh, exposing more of your leg. It stops just shy of exposing the top of your stockings and the clip to your garter. It does show just a hint of the darker border to your stockings, the lace peeking ever so slightly before transitioning to the sheer material that covers the rest of your legs.

You’re incredibly pleased with yourself when his eyes flick down for a split second and linger before snapping back to your face. Got you. He tries to hide behind being caught with a sheepish clearing of his throat. It’s adorable, really.

Your cheeks are starting to get sore from all the smiling and laughing that’s occurred over the past few hours. But he’s pleasant company so it’s a discomfort you’re happy to deal with.

You look past him for a split second- nothing in particular catching your attention but just taking in the scenery of the restaurant behind you. Your eyes are back on him in a moment only for your brain to process what it saw after a delay.

There’s no fucking way-

Yes. Yes there is. Your ex is mingling in the background, and you don’t even realize the smile on your face has fallen to a flat line like all the previous giddiness is draining out of you and pooling on the floor below.

It would not take a captain of an antiterrorism task force to see your sharp shift in disposition, so John notices immediately.

“Everything alright, love?”

Maybe he won’t see you. Maybe, if there is a God and he is merciful, your ex won’t look in your direction, won’t see you, and you can continue your cheerful plan of trying to seduce your date.

And whether there is not a God or he is just not merciful- either option remains with you having the same shit result. He turns his head and makes direct eye contact. God damn it.

You look back to John. You’d hoped you could move past talking about your ex for the evening. “Remember how I said I haven’t seen my ex in over 2 years?”

There’s a twinge of relief on his face- the look of a man grateful to not be the cause of your displeasure.

“Let me guess- he’s right behind me?”

“Not quite “right behind”, but yes. Hopefully he’ll just-“ a short huff off agitation leaves you as you cut yourself off.

So much for hoping he’d simply mind his business and stay with his group. He’s making his way towards the pair of you at the bar, and you can tell he’s had a good number of drinks in his system just looking at him.

You’d become extremely proficient at gauging how drunk your ex is at a glance. A skill you developed while still with him and one that doesn’t seem to have faded.

This is, you know without question, going to end up being absolutely humiliating for you. You just know it.

“I am going to go ahead and apologize now for whatever is going to come out of his mouth,” you inform John.

His hand finds your knee, giving a light, reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be alright, love.”

“Well what do we have here?” is the warning shot letting you know he’s not going to show any form of civility.

“Hello, Michael,” you greet cooly, mind spinning a hundred miles an hour trying to figure out how to end this conversation as quickly as possible.

“You don’t have time to answer my texts but you’ve got time to go out. That’s good. Good to know you’ve got your priorities in order,” he starts.

“Answering your texts isn’t even remotely on my priority list, you know that.” You’re trying incredibly hard to keep yourself from being outright nasty but a whole lot of old wounds float up to the surface at the sight of your ex.

Maybe your new feathers aren’t as filled out as you’d initially thought. You feel raw and exposed and it’s difficult to think. You know what you should do, how you should handle it- and there’s still that one little part in your brain that is keeping tabs on John and his response to all of this.

“Your priority should be my son-“ he starts,

“-who is with his perfectly capable grandmother for the evening, thank you,” you finish for him, jaw set tightly. “Why are you here?”

The direct question is aggressive but you know the cycle with him too well to allow him to steer the conversation. He’ll run you in circle after circle until you’re so frazzled you can’t discern left from right.

“Can’t say hello and introduce myself to your new fella? Come on now, where’s your manners?”

Your eyes widen as Michael reaches a hand out- there is no way this asshole is about to grab you in public.

Quick as a snake, John runs interference and drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his fingers holding the shoulder furthest from him lightly.

The entire length of your back and shoulders are blocked by the SAS captain, forcing Michael’s hand back as there was no easy place for it to land that wouldn’t also be touching John.

Up until now, John has been quiet and assessing the situation. Not bowing up or trying to assert himself- letting you deal with your ex and navigate the situation for yourself.

The look on his face is downright unpleasant to put lightly. This is the man in charge of an elite task force, who barks orders at soldiers who drop everything at once because he told them to-

-and you don’t feel so exposed anymore. You find yourself sitting up a bit straighter only for John to gently stroke his knuckles against your shoulder in a soothing gesture. The gesture isn’t a miraculously grand one, but one that makes you realize you’re not alone in this situation even as disorienting as it is. And if you’re being honest with yourself, the upright posture and shifting of your thighs isn’t so much a stress response to your ex as you keying in on John’s response to the whole situation.

“John, Michael- Michael, John. There, now you’re introduced.” Go away now please.

Your ex is too drunk and too full of himself to see the writing on the wall, and continues to poke the bear. “Well, since she doesn’t seem to want to give a proper introduction-“ he sticks an arm out, and you can’t help but notice how the simple gesture causes him to need to correct his balance. Good lord it was barely dark out and he’s already-

Well. Not your problem. Not anymore, at any rate.

John is sitting to your left, his right arm the one that’s draped across the back of your chair. The pair of you flash a quick look to each other, John lifting his arm from your chair to take Michael’s hand and-

God.

Damn.

It.

The exchange is actually as hilarious as it is embarrassing (You can’t quite decide if it’s all the second hand cringe variety, or first hand because Look, John! Here’s the father of my child! I sure know how to pick a partner! Is still coiling in the depths of your stomach). You’d prefer if it simply never occurred at all.

You can see your ex’s forearm flexing as he shakes John’s hand. The microexpression that flicks across your date’s face confirms your suspicion- Michael is (for some reason) trying to use an overexaggerated grip to establish some sort of dominance in the situation.

The quick really? that reads on John’s face rapidly turns to a bemused and subtle if that’s how you want to play then, a barely noticeable shift in his own grip resulting in Michael wincing.

“Captain John Price,” his tone is easy, betraying none of the pissing contest your ex instigated and is failing miserably to get one over on John.

Your ex mumbles his full name, clearly realizing that whatever his brilliant little plan is a) isn’t so brilliant to begin with b) he might just be alert enough to acknowledge the fact that he clearly has no true plan. He came over with the intention of being an asshole and has been flying blind the entire time.

There’s one woman from the group your ex split off from who is watching the three of you keenly. If you were to guess, she is probably his new girlfriend.

You can’t help but wonder- does she know enough to know that this is routine behavior for him? That he throws himself headfirst into a situation he hasn’t planned out- isn’t sober enough to plan out? Situations that don’t need to occur just so he can throw his weight around? Too petty to give a genuine “Hello, how are you? It’s been a while. I want to talk to you about Sam when we’ve both got some free time?”

Everything is vindictive. Constantly worrying about not being undermined and being respected to the point he gets in his own way. Actively sabotages his own opportunities. In dire need of therapy to work through his issues because you know the alcohol is how he copes and you’d sympathized at first but the reasons became excuses and then he’d started blaming you and-

-John places his arm on the back of your chair again and you pull yourself out of your mental spiral.

“I think your date is waiting for you, Michael. Best not to keep the lady waiting.” John observes, his tone neutral despite being a clear dismissal.

“You’ll be hearing from me later. I want to see my son.” Michael’s ignoring John’s presence but taking the hint.

You don’t fling a final barb at him. The venom has been drained out of you and you just want the interaction over and done with. Let him have the last word. You just want him gone.

You merely cast a look over at the woman who is Michael’s date for the evening and hope she’s got better sense than you did- that she leaves before he sinks his claws in her too.

The weight that settled in your stomach upon first seeing him is finally lightening up on you. You know you’ll wake up tomorrow to a barrage of phone calls and text messages that you won’t answer. It’s probably not good you’re so desensitized to the idea that it barely registers as a problem. Merely one of life’s many inconveniences.

“You alright, love?” John’s voice helps you shake the last of the tendrils that cling to you.

“Yes. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting to run into him of all people tonight, is all.”

“Never fun being ambushed, is it?”

You take a bit of a risk- you know enough about his job but he’s steered the conversation away from it every time the topic would naturally shift that direction. You know how Kate’s work can go and you assume his is very similar. “Well you’d certainly know more about that than I would.”

It works. The two of you break out in grins, and you find yourself no longer worrying about Michael and your focus readily settling back on John where it belongs.

At some point- long after the single cube in John’s drink has melted, and the condensation of your wine glass has soaked the bev nap underneath it, and more importantly long enough that you don’t feel that you’re fleeing the restaurant- the suggestion is made to go back to John’s. “No more surprises, hm?”

You gladly follow him. You’d taken an Uber to get to the restaurant, anticipating drinking and hoping to go home with him, so you have no worries about your own car.

You can easily see him being the type to give you a quick, chaste kiss on the doorstep after safely dropping you at home. In another universe you’d appreciate the restraint, enjoy fleeting touches over the course of a few dates that get more intense each time before finally finding yourself in his bed.

In this universe however, you don’t have to wait. Don’t want to, either. You get to indulge your earlier impulse of crawling into his lap, knees spread wide on either side of his waist. Lowering your hips allows you to feel him and what exactly he’s packing between his own legs. Your hips cant in short motions and heat coils heavy in your gut.

From the feel of things he’s proportional and John is not a small man. There’s a brief flicker that runs through your mind that you might be in over your head with him. The pent up lust and desire stifles that flicker. You’re more than game to see what a night with him ends up being like.

His hands are warm against your skin- one cupping the back of your head and keeping you close as the pair of you make out, the other settles on your hip and keeps you steady as you grind down on him.

You are possessed with the desire to get his cock in your mouth.

It’s cute how his face follows yours as you pull away from him.

“Help me with my dress?” Your question is perfectly innocent as you turn your back to him, presenting the zipper that runs down the length of your back.

His pleased laugh warms you, a shiver of desire and anticipation running down your spine as his breath fans across the back of your neck.

You’ve got a surprise waiting for him underneath your dress, partially revealed as one of his hands holds the top of the dress steady while the other draws the zipper down.

You gave him the hint you were wearing stockings when you’d baited him back at the restaurant, letting the heavy fabric of the dress fall to a heap around you before kicking it off to one side.

Turning back to face him, John seems quite enraptured with his surprise.

The lingerie set is a matching shade as your jewel toned dress, the garter belt clipping to the sheer black thigh high stockings.

There’s always that split second hesitation when revealing yourself to someone- the anxiety of if they’ll be pleased with what’s presented to them.

John is the first person you’ve been with since you’ve had your child, and the slight anxiety quells quickly at the look on his face.

John looks like he wants to eat you alive. Any insecurity is knocked firmly aside by desire quickly ramping back up.

Placing one hand on his thigh to steady yourself as you lift a leg to take your shoe off, John is quick to stop you. “Leave them on for now, love.”

It’s a request but it’s not. Really that doesn’t surprise you- he is someone who is likely used to having his whims accommodated to. You find yourself having no urge to defy him, nodding in compliance. If John wants your heels to stay on, then they’ll stay.

He guides you between his legs, enough space between his knees for you to slot yourself in. With him sitting on the bed he’s shorter than you standing straight up in your heels. Bending down to give a quick, teasing kiss you let yourself drop to your own knees.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to,” you assure him with doe eyes and are rewarded with him settling into the bed as your hands go to work on his belt.

Unable to resist teasing him, you mouth at his bulge through the thick fabric of his pants. You’re rewarded with a soft cant of his hips, having his belt undone and working on the button and zip of his pants in record time.

Your earlier suspicions are correct. John is a big boy in more ways than one. You want him in your mouth- now.

While you’re occupying yourself with getting his pants off, John shucks his shirt and shoes.

He is, simply put, delicious to look at. From the broad muscling to the thick dark hair running from his chest down his abdomen. He doesn’t have the hard chiseled abs of a man who lives in the gym but the sturdy build that comes from having useful, functional muscle that’s put to work.

And that’s incredibly hot. He’s girthy as hell in your hand as you give a few strokes before putting your mouth on him.

You’re not entirely certain if deep throating him is going to be an option, but by God you’re going to try.

“Bloody hell, love.” John grunts while you bob your head up and down the length of him. You’re gauging just how much of him you can get in your mouth- where your threshold is before your gag reflex wants to kick in.

He’s petting you. Doubtless trying to fight the urge to fist your hair, his hips struggling to stay still on the bed.

You want him to. You feel feral, all the pent up sexual energy you’ve been storing for God-knows-how-long welling up all at once. You want this man carnally and your brain presently thinks having your hair held in place and your throat fucked is a fantastic idea.

John clearly has other plans, restraining himself and letting you work at your own pace. That low, deep breathing paired with his soft grunts and voiced encouragements stoke the flames of your arousal hotter.

Eventually you do need air, pulling off of him for a moment. Your hand works his shaft and teases the tip of him as you lean forward to run your tongue up and down the length of him, dropping a bit lower to lave at his heavy sac. He jolts which only encourages you to do it again.

You know your eyes are one of your better features- you’ve heard the compliment enough times both in and out of the bedroom, holding John’s gaze as you lick him back up the length of his shaft and circle the head once before having caught your breath enough to wrap your lips around him once more.

The second time around you’re able to get a bit more of him down your throat, but not all the way. What you can’t reach you stroke with one hand, the other resting on his thigh to help balance yourself as you work. You can feel the tension building in his thigh as he gets closer, pleased with yourself.

It’s a heady feeling. You don’t know exactly all the dirty details of his job but understand enough to know you’ve got a powerful man at your whim right now and that scratches a deep seated itch in you.

“Good girl,” his praise washes over you, warm and welcoming. “Just like that-“

You’re intent on sucking the soul out of him, all doe eyes and hollowed cheeks with those painted red lips. Eventually he gives into the urge to grab a fistful of your hair. He doesn’t do anything to interrupt the rhythm you’ve settled into, letting you move as you see fit.

He bites out your name and you feel the muscles in his leg drawn tight. “I’m getting close, love.”

It’s not quite a question. You give your not-answer by doubling down on him. You’re so close to having him in your mouth all the way to the base. You don’t want to back off. What you do want is for him to finish down your throat.

You get your wish. John’s fist tightens and you let out a grunt as his thrusting results in your nose pressed against his public bone.

The taste of him doesn’t really register as he spills inside your mouth, your focus on breathing through your nose and keeping your gag reflex down.

He’s petting your hair again, praises falling freely from him and soft apologizes. “Lost myself for a moment there, love. You alright?”

You keep your mouth hilted on him for a moment to prove a point- you’re fine, he didn’t push you past threshold- before finally releasing his softening cock.

He’s pulling you up to him after that, an open mouthed kiss that flusters you considering he just came in your mouth. “You’re just a treasure,” his voice purrs in your ear. “Only fair I return the favor, hm?”

He guides you to lay on the bed, knees hanging over the edge before he turns to settle between your legs.

He starts at your neck. You’re ticklish at one spot his lips, squirming in his hold with a giggle. “Sensitive, hm?”

You nod out a “mhm,” that breaks into a breathy moan as he works his way down your chest. Rather than removing your bra his hands work to pull your breasts free from the cups before paying particular attention to your nipples.

His hands are warm as they roam your ribcage, the heat of his body seeping through the lace of your outfit as his fingers trail across your skin and the delicate material.

“You’re so soft, love,” you don’t quite know how to respond to the compliment, mewling wordlessly in pleasure at the attention.

That seems to appease him as he kisses his way down your sternum and to your belly, the expanse of most of it covered by the fabric of the garter belt.

His eyes flick up to your own as his lips travel closer to the apex of your thighs. Where you’ve been lying patient and pliant in his grasp, the eye contact draws something tight in your core and you squirm again.

The next thing you feel is teeth as he nips you. “Be a good girl for me,” he tells you, soothing the soft throb of his bite with his tongue.

You force yourself to still as he moves lower, lower, lower- taking his time and having you thoroughly worked up before moving to the next patch of skin.

When he’s down far enough he slides one of your thighs over his shoulder, that arm looping under your arm and banding across your abdomen.

It’s his turn now to mouth at your clothed sex.

He pulls the gusset of your thong aside after a moment of teasing, his lips descending on you.

“Oh,” your hand immediately finds purchase in his hair, a pleased whimper escaping you at the feel of John’s tongue.

John feasts on you. There’s not much else that can be done to describe it. It’s lewd and wet as he laps at you, the flesh of his tongue doing little to soothe the burning ache inside you and only ramping it up.

Those eyes are wicked as he gazes up at you from between your thighs. The hand resting on your lower stomach is pressing ever so lightly, like John wants the pressure there but not too much yet and you’re once again struck with the idea you might be in over your head with him.

“John, please,” you beg. It feels good but you need more, lust clouding your brain as your hips rock against his face.

“You need to be patient, love. I’ll take care of you. Just relax, hm?”

It dawns on you that he’s probably running down the clock until his refractory period is up. That he doesn’t want to get you going too quick and then be stuck not quite ready to perform.

It’s an assumption, and you’re not 100% sure that you’re correct, but it’s a solid enough option that you move forward with that in mind.

The thought almost makes it easier to relax into the bed- the idea that John is going to pleasure you with his mouth until enough time has passed and he can get it up again. That he’s not just mindlessly toying with you with no end goal in mind.

It feels good you’re just stuck being greedy and wanting more stimulation despite knowing that won’t happen until John decides he’s ready to give you more.

You almost jump when the fingers you’ve been waiting for make their presence known. His mouth moves to focus on your clit, lips making a seal and sucking on it. You cry out, hips canting as his fingers gently rub at your labia.

He starts with one, gently sliding it in and out of you. Your back arches in satisfaction of having something to clench on and rub against. It’s more satisfying than just one of your own- that was for sure.

“That’s it love,” John praises you while easing a second one into you.

The second finger is what you were looking for, stimulation wise. John pets and strokes you, thumb gently working over your clit in soft circles before putting his mouth back on you.

He doesn’t just find your g-spot. John’s fingers are placed so they hone in on that spongy bit of tissue tucked inside you. He doesn’t let up on it, tongue working on your clit as you arch your back helplessly and moan.

That pressure is back on your abdomen, the hand not currently stroking you to nirvana pressing down on your belly.

You moan and buck against his hold. Your orgasm is creeping up on you and it’s like he’s determined to make you squirt.

“You keep that up and I’m gonna make a mess,” you warn him- not entirely certain how he’ll respond to the prospect of you squirting on his face.

John looks delighted and you realize that yes, you are in over your head with him.

There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he pulls back from you, “You promise, love? Don’t tease me.”

Oh dear God- Next thing you know he’s reaching over you to pull a pillow from the top of the bed, wedging it underneath your hips before returning to his place between your thighs.

You’re flustered at how eager he is to see you squirt. His mouth is back on you, sucking on your clit and making your legs shake as two fingers go right back to abusing your g-spot, his free hand pressing on your belly increasing the pressure that is mounting by the second.

There’s nothing else for you to do but grab a fistful of his hair and hang on. “Please- oh! J-John! Right there,” at your encouragement he locks in on the spot that’s got you arching your back and your thighs trembling.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me,” he’s moaning encourments against your skin and you feel like a bow drawn tight and ready to snap. You’re so, so close.

The sounds he draws out of you- both from your mouth and between your legs- are filthy and vulgar and you don’t care at all as he gets you teetering just on the edge.

You’re practically gasping for breath, eyes screwing shut as the hand not buried in John’s hair fists the sheets next to you. You babble his name, chants of John all your brain can muster.

All that pressure coiling in you snaps and gushes out, literally and metaphorically.

“Good girl, making such a mess for me,” John’s praise has you flushing hot while his fingers work you like he’s making sure he can wring out every single last drop.

He stops when you have nothing left to give him, a trembling mess shivering in his hold.

Your brain at some point made the windows shut down noise, needing a moment to settle as you process what John just did to you.

This is the hardest you’ve cum in ages, certainly better than the orgasms you’ve given yourself during your little dry spell.

You return to the land of the living with his lips on yours, tasting yourself as he soothingly strokes your side. “You back with me?” He asks, eliciting a nod from you.

“Please tell me you have a condom,” your tone is pleading. You still want to ride him but you’ve learned your lesson about practicing safe sex. Once was, in fact, all it took for things to go off the rail.

“I do,” he stands, moving to the nightstand and opening a drawer.

Now that your legs feel somewhat compliant you sit yourself back up.

No sooner than John’s got the condom on then you’re guiding him back down, having him lay on the edge of the bed.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, getting yourself situated so your heels don’t catch on his sheets, but you’re straddling him with the leg closest to the edge of the bed hanging over the side as the opposite leg folds underneath you. You hover over him while getting everything lined up. The position of your legs allows you to alternate which one is supporting the brunt of your weight, a factor that is going to be fairly important once you’ve hilted yourself on John.

Even with how pliant your body is it takes a moment for the head of him to breach you.

“Oh,” you let out a breath as you sink down on him. You’re not able to get all the way to the base of him on the first go, getting your weight underneath yourself and lifting almost completely off of him before dropping down again. You get a little further this time, a moan escaping you.

“That’s it, love. Nice and easy,” his voice coos in your ear, that low timber having you liable to melt.

He’s thick. Not in a way that’s insurmountable to manage, but you have absolutely no complaints with how he fills you and anticipate being pleasantly sore in the morning.

Two more slow bounces have you sinking low enough to hilt yourself on him, taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of sitting fully on his lap.

One of his hands braces on your hip, the other his thumb circles your clit. You squirm at the stimuli, relishing in the feel of him before getting to work.

This is what you’ve been drooling over all night. Your reward is very well earned in your opinion. Moaning lowly as you bounce up and down, your movements are initially slow and languid but pick up speed as you get your bearings. John’s heavy exhales and grunts when you clench only serve to wind you tighter.

“You feel good, pretty girl? Hm? You like bouncing on my cock?”

You flush- a ridiculous notion given how you’re quite literally hilted on his dick-, face hot from the dirty talk.

The hand on your hip helps guide you to a pace that’s pleasurable for the both of you, eyes rolling as he thrusts his hips in a way that makes you see stars. “Yes! John- yes! Oh it feels so good,” your voice a low purr as he delivers on every fantasy you’ve had this evening.

The stretch of him in you feels absolutely incredible, knocking the air out of you on each bounce. It doesn’t take long until that knot begins to form again, growing steadily as you rise and fall in his lap. The press of his finger circling your clit draws staggered moans, bracing on him for support.

“Been thinking about this all night,” John grits out. “Wanted to flip you over the bar top and have my way with you right there on the dining room floor.”

You moan at the confession, feeling less like a rabid dog with no impulse control now you know you’re not alone in the intense desire that had struck once you’d laid eyes on him.

“Probably wouldn’t have- ah! st-stopped you,” you tell him. The grip on your hip tightens at that, another moan escaping you as you bounce on him.

Your eyes roll in pleasure, cunt practically fluttering from the way he keeps getting you to clench. The thickness of his girth doesn’t just let him keep hitting that spot in you with lift of your hips so much as the mushroom tipped head of his cock drags across it.

“Aren’t you just a fucking treasure,” he praises.

Your thighs are burning, eased by the position of your legs and John’s grip helping you but becoming more present with each wet clap of your sex against his lap. It almost helps you tip closer to another climax.

Your eyes squeeze shut, a staggered breath escaping you.

“Eyes on me,” he tells you and you comply immediately.

“John, please I’m so close,” your thighs are shaking again, threatening your already precarious balance.

“You need more, pretty girl?”

You shake your head. “No-no. Just don’t stop. Please don’t stop!”

And bless him, he doesn’t do anything to fuck up your rhythm. The fingers circling your clit keep the same tempo and pressure perfectly, his free hand still helping guide you up and out of his lap before sitting you back down.

You know you’re about to come but are caught off guard by how sharp it is as you squirt for a second time.

The sight of you spurting across his abdomen nearly severs any control John has left. The next thing you know John’s abandoned your overstimulated clit in favor of rolling you onto your back, your heels clattering to the floor from the motion. Your legs go instinctively to clamp around his waist for security- only one of them does, the other stopped by wet fingers gripping your thigh by your knee as he spreads you open. His weight is held on the forearm bracing next to your head by the time you process the shift in position.

“You alright, pretty girl?”

You can’t quite get your words out but manage a nod. “Ye-yeah,” you eventually stagger out as he waits for a verbal confirmation.

With the comfort that you were fine, that gives John the assurance he needs to seek his own pleasure.

More than satisfied with your two climaxes, you lay limp and pliant in his grasp while he chases his own end.

The wet squelch of his cock splitting you open with each thrust was loud and obscene although you were too far gone in the blissed out pleasure to care. Your whole body feels delightfully tingly, your head swimming pleasantly.

You clench down on him a few times, more for his benefit than anything else. You’re spent but more than willing to help him across the finish line as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muttering praises that are punctured with short, sharp thrusts before he stiffens as his own climax hits.

The two of you have both broken into a light sheen of sweat by the end of things. After a moment to recuperate John stands with a “I’ll be right back.” (And you unabashedly enjoy the view of his ass while he retreats to the bathroom.)

True to his word he returns shortly, evidently having disposed of the condom with a towel in hand for you.

The pair of you get yourselves clean and sorted. Before you can decide how you want to ask, John seems to already know what the question is.

“You don’t need to leave, do you?”

Again it’s not entirely a question, but still gives you an out if you want to take it.

You don't want to take the out.

#john price x reader #captain john price #john price #x single mom reader #cod x reader #cod mwii #my writing #now I gotta name this bitch because I totally plan on a whole series and the other characters can’t be calling her love all the time lmao #i wrote and coded this whole thing on my phone because my laptop has once again quit on me

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