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fayes-fics · 3 days

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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hewwokitti · 2 days

Text

Brat (JJ Maybank x Reader)

It’s not like you mean to be a brat sometimes it just comes out. You know JJ doesn’t like when you’re rude and you’re good- at least getting better- at controlling your mouth but your facial expressions need work. So that's how you found yourself with JJ’s hand firmly on the back of your neck, pushing you into the chateau after sneering at something John B said.

“How many- How many fuckin times do i have to tell ya to fix your damn face huh? I ain’t playin with you today. Get your ass in there”

Yup you’re screwed.

He bullies you inside, smacking the globe of your ass all the while.

“JJ.. I’m sorry, I-“ you’re cut off as he roughly grabs your face, making you squeal.

“Yeah… Yeah you’re boutta be REAL sorry here soon dolly. You know where I want you c’mon.”

And you do, assuming the usual position on the bed, ass up, cheek against the undone bed. He comes up behind you, rough hand pushing your face into the mattress even more. “I keep tellin you kitty to play nice huh? don’t need you bein a bitch to my friends.” JJ emphasizes his words by pushing your face harder, making you cry out.

“Shh shh shhh” he utters condescendingly, while flipping your flimsy skirt up, rubbing the now exposed flesh. “don’t want them to hear how much of a bitch ya are for papa hmm?”

You screw your eyes shut, whimpering softly. He’s right, the pouges are right outside and any loud sounds would be sure to make their way to your shared friend’s ears.

Your thoughts are cut off by the sharp sting of JJ’s hand colliding with your ass, feeling the flesh jiggle at the impact “Answer me” he barks.

“n-no!!” you wail. JJ grins.

He pulls your head up by your hair, leaning over you, lips pressed against your ear. “Now, you’re gonna be good for me hmm? gonna take this dick then, ya gonna walk this ass,” he grabs a handful tightly, making your eyes roll back, “back out there n apologize”

“Y-Yes im sorry!” you say.

“mmm save it, you’re not sorry yet.” JJ says, as he throws your head back down. “Don’t even wanna look at ya right now, got me pissed the fuck off, that what you wanted?” He unbuckles his pants and ties the belt around your neck like a collar, using the long tail like a leash.

He rams into you, making you let out a garbled scream as he pounds into you, teeth bared giving you his all.

“Yeah, this is what you needed. Gotta get the bitch fucked outta ya don’t ya? Fuckin whore.”

The tight belt around your neck makes your head swim, all you can feel is JJ… JJ… JJ.

“Nah nah nah what’s my name kitty?”

You hadn’t realized you’ve been saying that aloud but with the way your blood circulation has been cut off, you can’t realize anything other than his dick deep in your guts. “D-daddy-y-y” you whine out, speech almost incoherent with the rhythm of his bruising thrusts.

“That’s right kitty, I’m your daddy, I’m your fucking daddy… jesus kitty you’re squeezing the life outta me SHIT you’re such a WHORE”

His harsh words make your eyes roll back, the only thing keeping your face up is JJ’s pull of the belt. The moans you let out are staccato, more like high pitched grunts, long nails clawing at the belt but not tapping out yet.

“O-oh man, you gonna cum kitty? don’t lie to me, can fuckin FEEL it” JJ spits out.

You nod vigorously, unable to speak, pushing back against him as best you can.

“FU-Uck yeah kitty cum with me c’mon” he let’s go of the belt, the rush of blood back into your head makes you squirt around him, screaming his name between gasps of breath as you flop onto the bed. JJ growls as he empties inside, thrusts slowing but not stopping making your toes curl with the overstimulation.

“There ya go kitty hmm? don’t that feel better?” He rubs your back as you let out little gasps and twitches.

After a while, once he’s calmed you down enough, he’s helping you clean up, getting you into comfy PJs.

“Okay mama, you good?” he holds your face in his hands, lifting it up casually to inspect your throat, a red rim of his belt mark makes him feel just the tiniest bit bad. He massages it as you croak out “‘m good now J”

He hums in response, “A’ight then, up you get, there’s some apologies ya gotta make now hmm?”

reblogs n likes apreciated! lemme know ur thoughts are requests

thank you to @rafeysdoll (ofc) @siriusly-star-crossed, @monkichixo for proofreading!

#jj maybank x reader #animatedglittergraphics-n-more #outer banks #jj maybank #jj maybank imagines #jj maybank blurb #jj maybank fic #rudy pankow #rudy pankow x reader #rudy pankow fic #rudy pankow smut #jj maybank smut

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applejuicebegood · 2 days

Text

The Softest of Jason Todd HCs

Fem!Reader A/N: Some of these were originally conceived for the lovely, talented, wonderful @midnightorchids. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FALLOW HER RIGHT NOW

Jason fell for you slowly. It was the kinda falling that took on the form of severe distraction and confusion during his patrol time. The only spot in his second life he had crafted into hours of precise control and expectancy. He hated how, as he was clicking a mag into his handgun, his mind would flash to your smiling, blushed face. He hated how you would unintentionally make him trip and stumble over the roof-tops of Gotham. He hated how recalling the chime of your laugh made his hands sweaty under his leather gloves. He hated how he had to take off his helmet in the seclusion of an abandoned wear-house because recalling how his hand slipped in to your on your last date made his face heat up to the point where he felt like he would pass out.

Once he realised that the nervous pounding in his gut whenever your shoulders brushed was in-fact caused from a growing crush on you, he panicked. The eventual confession was awkward and stumbled, him making it clear that he needed time and room to figure it out. He took your smaller hands into his, promising that no matter what, for now he would figure it out with you at his side. Of course you agreed, squeezing his hands in confirmation.

Ya'll are soulmates, period. Very big 'he is half of my soul' energy. Your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Your words have already been said by the other before you can string them together in your head. You share in each-others grief and rage. Five years into the relationship, Jason knew you so well (and being raised in a family of detectives) that you would never have to explain your frustration or annoyance - and on days like that he would always be ready to wrap you up in a weighted blanket, forcing a cup of raspberry tea into your cold hands and his headphones over your ears with one of his audiobooks already playing. Carrying you to your shared bed for you to fall asleep leaned up against his chest, his thick arms wrapped tightly around you.

Despite his availability of wealth and status, he keeps your date-night very low-key and personal. On his off days from Red-Hooding, both of you would have cooking nights. Where you would sway and giggle with the slow drift of music coming from the kitchen radio. You would make something hearty and filling. You wanting to see Jason sigh in the comfort of good food. You both would curl up with your steaming bowls on your couch, probably watching Tangled (at your request). It's all extremely cozy, Jason smiling into your skin as gratitude blooms in his chest for you. For having created this safe, hidden expanse of reassurance. All while the harsh Gotham wind whipped just outside your window.

This man is smitten- he worships you entirely. His is in awe of you, even as both of you grow old, his love and his care for you never relents or dwindles.

Ya'll would go to museums and art galleries and he would point at statues and paintings of goddess and queens and say 'you', under his breath. It's so horribly corny but it makes you hold his arm just a bit tighter every time.

After you both moved in together, he developed a habit of making your coffee alongside his and bringing it to you in bed in the mornings. This eventually just became your routine on weekends when you both had enough time to bask in the slow creeping of sunlight over each-others skin.

He's a romantic at heart, a part of him you had to slowly unearth under years of torment and blood. You were the one to force him out of his cave of isolation and into the reality of him deserving softness and joy. It's a dept you have assured him he doesn't need to pay back. That doesn't stop him from trying.

Giggles and smiles like a little boy if you kiss his forehead, specifically at the roots of his white streak. You think it's one of the prettiest things about him.

Unintentional scary dog when you guys are out together. He's got his hand laced with yours or floating somewhere on your hip or lower back. It's mostly due to his anxiety, constantly having his head on a swivel. It's all heightened due to the fact that he has the most precious, important individual standing next to him. Whether it's at one of his Dad's galla's or trips to the local library, he likes to have you near him.

Bitch has multiple playlists made about/for you (a lot of Noah Kahn and TV Girl)

Example:

A/N: I may be gay but I have a very special place for sappy Jason in my heart. Please send in any requests regarding our boy (or any of the bat boys or girls)- I really love writing for the people in this fandom.

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syrupfog · 2 days

Text

Sanji who just wants a job as a sous chef but has yet to be hired, but has somehow managed to enter the world of being a private chef for extremely wealthy families.

He hates them they remind him of childhood but he needs the cash.

He starts working for Mihawk.

Mihawk who only eats odd, simple foods. Things that Sanji feels insulted to make. A LOT of toast with cream cheese and jam, honestly.

Sanji’s bored out of his mind (he starts canning the fruit from Mihawk’s garden to pass the time)

Then one day, bursting through the front door come two people his own age, a woman with pink hair and a man with green, DEMANDING to know why Mihawk moved without TELLING THEM, HIS OWN CHILDREN

Sanji immediately pegs them for stuck up assholes. He’s grown to respect Mihawk, at least (he’s better than the Charlottes were). Spoiled rich adult kids who expect their lifestyles to be funded. Ugh.

Mihawk blinks and says that he DID tell them.

There’s a lot more shouting as Sanji quietly pickles beets in the background. They come to some sort of truce around the idea that Zoro (the green haired one) lost his phone, and Perona (pink hair) blocked his number after Mihawk called at 2am about his yams.

They’re good yams, Sanji thinks.

He also learns that they were on a “road trip of self discovery”. He’s not sure what that means. It sounds like rich kid speak for “spending spree”.

They integrate into the household though and, after being introduced to Sanji, Perona demands pink. Anything strawberry.

Zoro says he’ll eat anything. Sanji doubts that.

He tests it.

He makes extravagant dishes.

Zoro doesn’t seem to even notice, eating without complaint.

Honestly it’s good practice. He uses it as an excuse to get back into the hang of the fanciest things Zeff taught.

But he still doesn’t like them. Rich assholes. Mihawk’s simple toasts get him a pass.

One thing about Zoro though is that he seems to spend all his time working out, so he comes looking for food at the ODDEST times. And SOMETIMES Sanji is ASLEEP. He’s got a room in the old servants’ quarters and Zoro will appear at any hour.

After the third time being awoken at 2am, Sanji snaps.

“I’m preparing you a fucking shelf full of onigiri,” he says, pointing with a judgmental finger at Zoro’s chest. “That’s going to be your midnight snack from now on! Some of us need our beauty rest!”

Zoro blinks down at the finger. “Okay,” he says. “I mean. You clearly need it.”

Sanji scoffs in outrage. He’s still half asleep. He aims a kick at Zoro’s head before he can process his one rule (“don’t hurt clients”).

Zoro dodges.

His face breaks out into a grin.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Curls,” he says.

Sanji stumbles. He regains his footing and stomps down the hall, face aflame.

He makes thirty onigiri.

Zoro eats seven.

“There, that’ll last you three more nights,” Sanji says.

Zoro nods. “So what time do I wake you up to get you to fight me again?”

Sanji splutters. “No!!” He shrieks. “It’s three in the morning! I know you’re a rich fuck with nothing to do but some of us have jobs! I’m on call 24/7 here!”

…he regrets it as soon as he says it.

Expects to be fired on the spot.

Zoro frowns. He crosses his arms. “Fine,” he says, tersely. “Go to bed.”

Sanji… does. He avoids turning his back on Zoro as he leaves the room, a bad feeling churning in his gut.

When he makes breakfast the next morning, he’s expecting to be fired as soon as Mihawk arrives, but Mihawk mentions nothing.

Neither do Perona or Zoro when they appear, hours later.

Sanji feels like he’s walking on eggshells until Zoro appears in his kitchen in early afternoon.

“Hey,” says Zoro. “I talked to my dad.”

Sanji hangs his head. “So I’m fired?” He asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Fucking what? No, Jesus. I just said you should have a regular work shift. Only like, ten hours on call.”

“So you docked my pay,” Sanji says flatly.

“Now you’re being an ass,” Zoro growls. “NO, you’re being paid the same, you’re just going to have time off when I can’t bug you. That cool?”

Sanji frowns, suspicious. “What do you get out of it?” He asks.

Crossing his arms, Zoro scoffs. “Not getting yelled at at 2am, mostly.”

“You could’ve just not woken me up,” Sanji says.

“You make it real hard to be nice to you, Cook,” Zoro says, running a hand through his hair. “I know you don’t like me, but I was just trying to do something nice.”

Sanji melts a little, but he’s not willing to give in entirely. “Well thanks,” he says. “For not firing me, too.”

Zoro rolls his eyes. “We’ve all had shitty jobs where we want to yell at customers,” He says.

“Now I KNOW you’re lying,” Sanji argues. “I know how rich you are. I know what Mihawk pays me.”

Zoro looks… funny at him. “Did he ever happen to mention that we’re adopted?”

Sanji blinks. Thinks of Zeff. “Uh, no?”

“Yeah,” Zoro says. “Fucking Daddy Warbucks situation. I was seventeen. Trust me, I know customer service. Had to work to eat.”

“Well that’s not fair,” Sanji says. “Now I feel like a fucking ass.”

“You ARE a fucking ass,” Zoro says. “Want to fight when you’re off work? Officially your shift ends at 6 now.”

“Dinner is for seven so that won’t work.” Sanji says. “Shut up I have a chef’s integrity.”

“You’re not turning down fighting me?” Zoro asks, sounding oddly hopeful.

“You spend all day working out so it’ll be unfair,” Sanji says. “But sure, I’ll kick your ass. Winner chooses what filling goes in your onigiri.”

“Spicy salmon,” Zoro says.

“Pickled plums,” muses Sanji.

They do end up fighting after dinner, out in Mihawk’s fancy topiary garden (he maintains it himself).

Bruised and panting, they end up making out behind the large rabbit-shaped tree.

It becomes A Thing.

#zosan #my writing

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mariasont · 1 day

Text

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus - S.R

a/n: im so sorry in advance

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x reader

summary: in which spencer needed you but he needed drugs more

warnings: drug use, angst, imperfect characters

wc: 2.9k

December 19th, 2021

You were tired, each movement a chore as you fumbled with the key and heaved the door open to your shared apartment. It welcomed you with its hushed darkness, broken only by the intrusive light of the streetlamps outside, which bled through the windows and stretched shadows across the room.

It was quiet, too quiet. Keys clinked quickly onto the counter. "Spence? Are you here?"

No answer. Your brows contracted in a frown as you moved with increased urgency through the apartment, heading down the hall to your shared bedroom. There he was, on the bed, his back to you, shoulders tensed and drawn up as though bracing against something.

At the creak of the door, he turned towards you in a slow motion, his eyes glossed over, movements sluggish. The signs were unmistakable--the ghostly colorlessness draped over his skin, the faint tremor in his hands, the beads of sweat on his forehead.

His speech was slurred whether he realized it or not, words melding into each other. "Hey... I didn't hear you come in."

A cold hand gripped at your heart, dragging it down to the soles of your feet, as the vial on the bedside table glared back at you.

"Spencer, you promised," your words trailed off, choked by the tears that now glistened at the edge of your eyes, your hand dragging through your hair, while the other reached out for the bottle. "You promised me."

His gaze lingered on you, heavy and slow, as if each movement you made was effortful to follow. "I...I know. I just...I tried."

"But we've been doing so well. The therapy sessions, the support groups. I thought it was helping. You told me it was helping. You've been clean for a month."

You were trembling, your eyes searching his, but you could barely stand to look at him. It was a bitter pill that you didn't want to swallow--that the person he was right now wasn't him. It wasn't the man you loved, the one who stayed up late to braid your hair, the man who laughed at your jokes even when they weren't funny and he didn't understand them, the man you envisioned as the father of your children.

"What happened?"

"I didn't mean to."

June 2nd, 2021

You were humming to yourself, the melody trailing off as you placed your bag down, but your steps towards the refrigerator halted by the unexpected clatter from the bathroom. You froze in the spot—Spencer should be at work. Your heart was pounding, with a boyfriend who did what he did for a living you were always prepared for the worst.

Your hand found the pepper spray in your bag as you inched forward, the distance to the bathroom shrinking with each pulse of your racing heart. The door was barely open, but the sliver of view revealed Spencer, syringe clutched tightly, his damning evidence, desperation drawn across his face.

"Spencer? What are you doing?"

Shock rooted you to the spot, watching him spin around--a ghost of himself, eyes alarmingly wide and bloodshot, as he furtively tucked the syringe out of sight.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Your body reacts before your mind can, pulling away sharply from the venom in his voice. It's a voice you don't recognize. He didn't even speak to you like that during arguments. Confusion clouds your mind as you retreat, one cautious step after another.

"I...I forgot my lunch. I came home to grab it. Spencer, are you okay? What was that?"

His face crumbled, his hand outstretched in a silent plea, but you, still trembling with apprehension, still unsure, took another step back, your gut twisting at the way hurt reflected in his gaze.

"I can't—it's not what it looks like, okay?"

"But it is, isn't it?" Your hands are clasped behind you, knuckles white, eyes searching his face for something, anything. "It's exactly what it looks like. You're using."

His shoulders sag, his hand reaching behind him to stable himself on the counter as he ran a hand over his face. You were well-acquainted with his past; though you hadn't been there, his stories painted a hauntingly clear picture. If the man responsible wasn't already dead, you'd take him out with your own bare hands.

"But Spencer it's been eight years... what? I just, why now?"

He gave you no response, just the slow, defeated bob of his head, chin sinking to his chest. You released a weary breath, the act itself a release of the pain that tightened around your heart at the sight of him. You closed the distance between you, your hands reaching out, fingers aching to weave through the strands of his hair.

"Hey, look at me, it's okay. We can get you help, okay? Everything's going to be fine, baby."

"No!" His voice erupted, too forceful, but it faded as fast as it came, his words turning to a raw scratch. "No, no... 'M sorry, sweetheart. I can't let this get out. I could lose my job."

Tears carved a path down your cheeks, unchecked, as you held his gaze, hands fastened around his arms.

"Spencer, I don't care about your job right now. I care about you," you plead with him, your fingers slipping between his. "You need help."

"You wouldn't get it, okay?" he murmured, his curls tumbling forward as his hands left yours to gently cup your face. His hands were cold. "Just give me some time to handle it. I'll stop, okay? I can stop."

You were silent, the lack of experience of the situation paralyzing your thoughts, rendering you unsure. How were you supposed to go about this? Who could you tell? You knew the consequences of telling Hotch or even Morgan, knew the depression that would follow if Spencer lost his job. You wanted to believe him; you really did.

"Okay."

December 19th, 2021

"Okay, let's do rehab."

Spencer stands from the bed, invading your space, his voice rising with a sharp edge that was reserved for moments like this. "I'm not letting you ship me away to some facility."

"Spencer, it's not shipping you away, it's getting you help, real help. I gave you a chance, okay? Multiple, actually. I did what you asked. I did everything you asked, please baby."

With each step he took, his actions grew increasingly erratic, and his words more fragmented, as he raked his fingers through his tousled hair. "You don't understand! I watched my mom, her experience with those places... I won't end up like that."

You lowered your voice, infusing it with a softness as you extended your hand towards him, only for him to dismissively shake off your touch. "Please, you're not yourself. You are so much more than this... than what it's making you."

"You don't think I know that? You think I want this?"

You took a step back, an action that had become second nature to you.

"I know. Spence, I know. Please, I'm on your side. I'm always going to be on your side," you pleaded. Your words were desperate. "I just need you to fight, and sometimes fighting is accepting that you need help."

The eyes that had once held such clarity and focus, now seemed distant, looking through you rather than at you. His words a blurred murmur. "I can stop. I just need time... I can handle it."

The familiarity of the words seemed to hit you like a truck, robbing the breath out of your lungs, tears and snot trickling down your face.

"How much time, Spence? How many more chances? I can't watch the man I love disappear before my eyes, please."

August 12th, 2021

Your back throbbed with a dull ache from a day of cleaning, but the task, weirdly enough, was one of your favorite things to do. Your fingers drummed against the wood as you started to put away Spencer's laundry, only to be interrupted by the unexpected feel of something cold and hard in the drawer. You knew it before you saw it. Inside, a collection of vials lay in a row, mocking you.

Your heart plummeted, fingers curling around the vials, the chill of the glass seeming to seep into your skin. You felt a scream clawing at your throat and tears brimming your eyes, but your voice was trapped in silence. Each step was fueled by anger as you made your way to the bathroom. The toilet bowl gaped at you, and without hesitation, you flung the drugs into the water, freezing mid-action as the front door opened.

Footsteps—his footsteps—echoed as if he had a sixth sense. "What the hell are you doing?"

You reached for the flush, only for his hand to encase yours in a startling grip, your eyes flaring wide as you tore your hand back. "Let go of me."

"You have no right."

"Yeah, Spencer? I have no right?" You hiss, shoving him just enough to carve out some distance. You couldn't breathe. "Why do you still have this? You told me you stopped."

You watched as he crumbled before you, tears prickling at his eyes. Each breath you took was unsteady, but your actions were certain as you pressed him into you, as close as humanly possible. Desperation clawed at you; you wanted this to stop. You wanted to take his pain, to make it yours, you'd do anything.

"'M sorry," he choked out, barely audible, his hand cradling the back of your head while the other clung to your waist. "I'm so sorry."

December 19th, 2021

"So, I'm the one at fault?"

"That's not what I'm saying—,"

Neither of you were making sense now; his confusion mirrored your own, and both of you knew this. You were angry, he was angry, both of you a well of grief, feeling everything and nothing simultaneously.

"Well, it sure sounds like it Spencer."

"I just need...space."

The words bit you on the ass, prompting a hollow laugh to rise from your throat--a sound that bore a closer resemblance to a mangled sob than anything.

"Space? You don't get space, Spencer." Your words didn't sound like yourself, like you were listening to someone else speak them.

May 23rd, 2019

You were sweet. It was what had first drawn Spencer to you, the way you radiated a warmth that was almost overwhelming to everyone. You were the kind of person who never met a stranger, nurtured by your innate effort to go out of your way to put a smile on people's faces.

There you stood, delicately snipping away at a bouquet's ends, a soft hum escaping your lips, with blue headphones nestled over your ears, isolating you in a peaceful bubble as you worked. You hadn't seen him approach, frankly, hadn't heard him either, so when you chanced a glance upwards, his unexpected figure prompted a yelp, sending the flowers tumbling to the ground in a colorful cascade.

In a clumsy rush, your headphones were swept off, a stream of apologies tumbling from your lips as you absorbed the sight of him. Short brown hair that framed a face with eyes so stunningly brown they shimmered like molten gold in the light, and he was impeccably dressed in a grey blazer over a rich red sweater, with a crocked tie and white dress shirt underneath.

You thought he'd have to be dying of heat, but he didn't show it.

"Sorry," he murmured, a toothless smile spreading wide across his face as he dipped his head for a closer glimpse of you.

Under the weight of his gaze, you felt a sudden surge of self-awareness, regretting not putting a little more effort into your appearance that morning.

"No, that's my bad, I should really try and pay attention to my surroundings more often."

He gave you another smile in response and that one nearly killed you, teeth and all, and it was so disarmingly handsome it felt like a bolt of lightning had struck, almost knocking the wind out of you.

You were seized by the kind of overwhelming yearning you'd only seem in those cheesy romance movies. You wanted to ask him out, but that was a first for you, so you found yourself blatantly ogling him, utterly transfixed.

"Do you work here?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Sorry, how can I help you?"

"Do you have any bouquets with Lathyrus odoratus?" he asked, eyes roving among the arrangements. "They're a member of the Facabeae family. Interestingly, they have the unique capability to convert atmospheric nitrogen into a more usable form through nitrogen fixation."

You gave him a lopsided smile. "Do you just know that?"

"Uh, yeah."

You hummed in response, fingers tapping the counter before moving between aisles to find what he was looking for. "These?"

"Perfect," he said with a nod.

As you assembled the bouquet, your hands moved nimbly, and you couldn't help but steal a glance at his left hand--no ring in sight, a promising detail. But he was buying flowers, that couldn't be a good sign for you.

"Your girlfriend will be ecstatic with these beauties."

You thought you were being slick, but he'd later tell you he saw right through you, I mean, of course he did.

"Oh, no, no girlfriend," he clarified, almost too quickly, sending a flutter through you heart. You concealed your budding smile by bowing your head, giving the bouquet your full attention. "They're for my mother."

You practically melted. "That's so sweet..."

You lingered on the words, feigning the need to ask for his name, it was a stretch, sure, you didn't really need his name in this context.

"Spencer. Spencer Reid."

You returned your name with a beaming smile. "Well, it's wonderful to meet you, Spencer Reid."

You presented him with the completed bouquet, ringing him up while discreetly stealing glances his way.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, anytime."

He came back every week after that.

December 19th, 2021

"You're not the person I fell in love with."

Now that stung. You felt like he had just knocked you on your ass and he hadn't laid a hand on you. Mostly because he was right. You weren't.

You were on edge more than not, your patience wearing thin more than you'd like to acknowledge, and you couldn't remember the last time you had flirted with Spencer like you used to. You couldn't remember the last time you begged for him to come to bed just to feel his arms around you, couldn't remember the last time he'd come home early just to see you, the last time you'd had sex.

You used to be so happy. You used to surprise Spencer with his favorite homemade cookies, leave hand drawn comics on his desk, carefully adjust his tie every morning, listen so intently to every lengthy explanation he had for everything.

You wanted to blame him, wanted to scream, to fight, to kick, but your body refused to cooperate. You were cemented in place, your stare heavy, silently begging him to take it all back, but the words hung in the air, unrevoked.

"You're right." A softness flickered in his eyes, his hand moving forward, but you stepped back. "Don't touch me."

"I didn't mean that—,"

"You meant it, or you wouldn't have said it," you said, your voice cracking as tears stained your face. "I can't keep doing this, Spencer. I've tried, god knows how much I've tried, but it's like you're not even here. I don't recognize my own reflection, let alone us. I love you, Spencer, with a love so deep it fucking scares me, but I can't stand by and watch you kill yourself."

April 23rd, 2024

"One sec!"

The bell over the door jingled, prompting you to snap the inventory boxes closed, nudging them back with your hip as you maneuvered through the storefront, balancing the boxes towards the desk.

"Here let me help!"

The boxes obscured your view, but a hand with neatly polished nails gracefully relieved you of one, placing it gently on the ground.

You let out a light laugh, easing your own box to the floor. "Thanks, I somehow always underestimate the weight of soil."

The woman was breathtaking, the kind that could make you second-guess the fairness of fate. She seemed more suited to the glossy pages of a fashion magazine than the worn-down, way overdue for a deep clean, flower shop.

"How can I help you?"

"Just a dozen roses, please."

You offered her a brief nod, reaching for one of the pre-arranged roses from the shelf behind you and placing it down on the counter.

"Could you leave a note?" she asked, her glittering finger lightly pressing against the fabric of her dress. Now that was a rock.

"Of course," you say, your hand deftly sliding open the drawer beneath you to retrieve a card. "Just let me know what you want it to say."

As she spoke, your pen hurried to keep pace. "A year of marriage and a lifetime to go."

You flashed her a warm smile. "Congratulations. Who should I make it out to?"

"Spencer. Spencer Reid."

Nausea churned in your gut, somersaulting into a sharp, searing sting. This must be some cruel joke. But the date wasn't April 1st, and the woman's serious expression stripped away any hope of humor.

You swallowed hard, writing the name of the man you'd thought would be your husband. While ringing her up, you did everything in your power to conceal the tremble in your hand and the tears that were just moments away from falling. He hated roses.

Your eyes followed her as she left, watching her every step to the car and out of the parking lot, until she was just a speck in the distance. The realization hit you like another wave of nausea--why could he get clean for her and not you?

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #Spotify

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littlexdeaths · 1 day

Text

bye bye bye - e.m.

y2k eddie munson x girly reader

opposites attract masterlist

warnings: gareth is a dickhead, hope y’all like some cheesy fluff, eddie is a complete dork but we love him for it.

a/n: this is a repost of my first y2k eddie fic, with some much needed edits and additions. i will be working on editing and posting the rest of this series soon. i hope you enjoy 💕

word count: 1.5k

Today really hadn’t gone how you’d planned.

You had been hanging out with Eddie and his band mates, something you’d done quite often. Only this time you made the mistake of wearing your *NSYNC tour shirt.

It wasn’t a secret that you and Eddie had polar opposite tastes, it was apparent by just looking at you. You were all pink, bubblegum and boy bands. And your boyfriend was a leather clad, heavy metal enthusiast.

Despite these differences, you fit so well together.

And as they say— opposites attract.

But one of his friends was always more standoffish towards you because of it. While you were always nice to Gareth, he seemed annoyed anytime Eddie brought you around. But today that annoyance had seemingly reached its peak.

And all over a stupid t-shirt.

Eddie had gone to get you both a drink, leaving you in the living room with the three other males. They were discussing the newest Linkin Park album. Which oddly enough, was a band you actually enjoyed outside your normal realm of music.

You perked up at the mention of the album, as it had been the only thing Eddie had been playing since it was released. Feeling eager to see what they also thought of it.

“Oh come on man, you can't say Meteora is better than Hybrid Theory,” Jeff scoffs, shaking his head in response to Gareth’s admission as Eddie leaves the room.

The male rolls his eyes before tossing a piece of popcorn at Jeff’s head, “See that’s where you’re wrong dude, have you tried listening to the albums back to back?”

You take this as an opportunity to add in your two cents, trying to include yourself in the conversation despite your nerves.

“Well, personally I think both albums are great in their own—”

You are interrupted with a loud snort as Gareth rudely cuts you off, glancing down at your shirt before meeting your eyes.

“Why would we care about your opinion of it? All you listen to is boy band trash pop,” he sneers, rolling his eyes as he turns back to his friends.

It felt like someone had punched you in the gut, any other words became lodged in your throat. Jeff and Grant throw apologetic glances your way, but continue on with the conversation as if nothing had happened.

Eddie returns shortly after, completely oblivious to what had just transpired. He plops down next to you on the sofa and passes you a can of coke. Due to your solemn appearance, he knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know what.

A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth as he wraps an arm around your waist, tucking you into his side.

“Hey, you okay?” He asks softly, replying with a shrug of your shoulders.

You let your eyes fall to the open can of soda clutched in your fist. You didn’t want to talk about it, especially not in front of them. The last thing you wanted was to cause a scene, or to give Gareth the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

So you sat quietly through the next half hour, letting Eddie enjoy the time with his friends.

But he couldn’t seem to let it go, far too focused on what had caused this sudden shift in your mood. So he ended the hangout early, claiming to be too tired from work. But all of you knew the real reason, guilt filled your chest as he walked you out to his van.

They must think you’re a buzzkill too.

The questions started the moment the door shut behind him, badgering you the entire way back to your house. You easily dodged his line of questioning, claiming to be tired. But Eddie wasn’t having any of that, he could see right through you. He always could.

“Baby, come on. Talk to me please,” he pleaded as he followed you up the stairs to your bedroom.

You continued to ignore him as you sat on the bed with a sigh. You felt embarrassed, knowing such a silly comment shouldn’t bother you as much as it did. All you wanted was for his friends to like you, but it was made abundantly clear that they didn’t.

All because you favored pop music? It all felt so trivial, like they weren’t even willing to give you a real chance. It hurt your feelings more than you cared to admit.

But Eddie being the sweet, doting boyfriend that he was— wasn’t giving up that easily.

“Just tell me what happened, sweetheart.” He says, kneeling in front of you, palms resting on either side of your thighs.

“It’s stupid,” you mutter, avoiding his curious gaze.

“Nothing that upset you this much is stupid,” he counters as you let out a groan, dramatically falling back onto the mattress and covering your face.

You hear his exasperated sigh, feeling the weight of his chest against yours as he leans over you. Eddie carefully removes your hands from your face, looking down at you expectantly.

“Your friends don’t like me,” you utter softly.

He frowns, confusion settling on his features.

“Why do you say that?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes which causes his frown to deepen.

“Well, just look at me…” you trail off, gesturing to yourself. “And look at you.”

It’s his turn to sigh now, taking your hands as he guides you back into a sitting position. Eddie cups your cheeks in between his palms, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I know what you’re insinuating, but I promise that’s the furthest thing from the truth.” He reassures you, his dark eyes utterly sincere.

And as much as you want to believe him, there’s still a small part of you that wonders if maybe they are right. Maybe you’re too different. He must be able to read the apprehension lingering on your features, as one of determination crosses over his.

“I don’t know what they said to make you think that,” he pauses to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “But I won’t hesitate to kick some ass, sweetheart.”

Despite the teasing lithe in his voice you know he’s serious, quickly shaking your head. The last thing you’d want is to cause more beef with his friends.

“It’s fine, Eds, I’m just too sensitive.” You give him a quick peck on the lips, “Let’s just drop it, yeah?”

You pull away to scoot further up the mattress, patting the spot beside you. But he shakes his head, remaining on the floor for a moment. His eyes dart contemplatively around the room, stopping on the shelf that held your extension CD collection.

A Cheshire-like grin tugs at his lips as he moves towards it, balancing on the balls of his feet. Your brows knit together in confusion as his ringed fingers graze over the plastic spines, stopping once he finds what he was looking for. Eddie pops the disc out of its case and into the clunky boombox before pressing play.

The beginning chords of Bye Bye Bye fill the once quiet space of your bedroom. Your boyfriend quickly jumps to his feet, spinning around to face you. He plants his feet on the carpet, head falling forward as his hands raise up in a marionette style.

Your eyes widen in realization as you crawl back towards the edge of your bed, suddenly intrigued. Eddie shoots a wink your way once he meets your gaze, beginning to sing along. His voice stood out amongst the others, the raspy quality brought a new edge to the track.

But he didn’t stop there.

You watched in amazement as he nailed all the choreography from the music video. You had no idea when he found the time to study all the moves. Between classes, work, hellfire and band practice he barely had time to think.

But knowing he took the time to do this, specifically for you— made your stomach flutter.

You can’t stop the smile from lighting up your features, giggling as your boyfriend continues to serenade you.

“I don’t want to be your fool, in this game for two…”

Eddie drops to his knees at your feet again, coaxing you onto the floor with him. He presses feather light kisses all over your face, the sensation causes you to giggle more. As hurt as you had been, the male always knew how to make you forget your problems.

At least for a little while.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled, grinning down at you.

He’s a little out of breath from his impromptu dance routine, bangs lightly sticking to his forehead.

“You’re an absolute dork, Ed,” you giggle, ruffling his curls in a playful manner.

But the way he’s looking at you has your heart racing. His head dips, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss as the song comes to an end.

“Now, admit it,” he chuckles against your mouth, nudging his nose with yours. “I’m a much better dancer than that Dustin Timberlake.”

You laugh loudly, fondly shaking your head at him.

“It’s Justin, baby…”

#the freak writes 🫧#eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #y2k!eddie munson #y2k!eddie munson x girly reader #eddie munson x girly reader #my series: opposites attract 🫧#early 2000s!eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days

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Winter's King 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: yo, work is driving me nuts.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Lady Jazlene, a queen by marriage, cries herself to sleep. You stay until she snores and snuff the candle as you leave her on her stomach atop the stuffed mattress. You emerge between the guards and wonder if they keep people out or keep her in.

They don’t react to you. No one really does. A shadow approaches. The thickset man grunts at you as the moonlight shines off his dark mail. Bryce waits patiently as you near him. He turns and walks beside you in silence.

Much of the camp is asleep. The only fires that remain are those of the soldiers on watch for marauders and bandits. Your soles kick loose pebbles and trample flattened grass further. You yawn as you reach the luggage carts and find the one you rode in. The grey horse is tie to the axle, dozing on its feet with puffing nostrils.

“The road will not get any less turbulent,” Bryce warns as he grabs his bedroll from across his mount’s rump. “You will need sleep, maid.”

“Thank you, sir,” you lift the canvas draped over the back of the wagon.

He grumbles and unfurls his roll across the dirt. You climb up and nestle down beneath the cover, pressed against a chest as you curl up. You hear the soldier lay down with a groan, “...too sweet...”

You close your eyes and rest your head on a bent arm. The darkness quickly swallows you up into slumber and the day fades into obscurity. You’re not conscious long enough to dread the one ahead.

As the sun rises, heat gathers in the cart. You wake in a damp sweat, nearly suffocating as you gulp up cool air. You slip down onto your feet and grab onto the cart to keep from stumbling. Bryce grunts as your soles crunch on the ground.

“Eh, where’re you off to?” He sneers.

You look down at him. His eyes are still closed as his grey steed sniffs at the dirt close to him.

“Sir, I... I haven’t... relieved myself since... erm, well...”

“Go on, but not too far,” he opens his eyes and sits up. “Holler if you meet trouble.”

The horse huffs into his steely hair and he pets its nose. He grabs onto its reins and hauls himself up. You quickly spin and flit away. You go off into the brush where its thick and squat down, your skirts gathered above your knees. You miss the springs behind the castle where you would bathe with the other maids, you could use a wash now.

You finish up and peer over the stretch of bodies, horses, and carts. You set off back toward the cart and as you come in sight of Bryce, he unties a dented kettle from his saddles. You feel much better without the pressure beneath your guts.

“I could fetch water,” you offer.

He looks over his shoulder. You think you surprised him.

“Quiet mouse,” he mutters and faces you, gripping the bent handle, “I can manage a potful of water.”

“Yes, sir, I only was being helpful.”

“You stay, take Daisy to find some fresh grass,” he points to the horse.

“Daisy?” You look at the beast, “is that her name?”

He shrugs and stalks off. You go to the reins and loose them. You glance around and lead her over to an unyellowed swath of grass. She dips her long neck and grazes, tearing the strands noisily as her teeth clack. You pet her ear as she comes rather close to the hem of your skirt.

Heavy steps tramp up behind you. You don’t bother looking as you assume it’s Bryce. Those who are stirring are barely able to lift themselves out of their rolls. The lazy rise of dawn does not inspire fastidiousness as the clouds haze amber and rose.

“Fine horse,” the king’s timbre rumbles over you.

You turn and bow your head, “your highness.”

He inhales through his nose before he speaks again, “are you a fast rider?”

“I’ve never... I don’t ride, your highness,” you reply, staring at his black mail, just at the center of his chest. “It isn’t my horse.”

“I know it, I thought perhaps...” he begins and shifts his weight in his boots, “you might’ve secreted away the mare. That you would be sick for your home.”

“Your highness? No, I wouldn’t--” You put your hand to your apron, “I am not a thief.”

He pauses and his thick fingers toy with his belt, fiddling with a leather purse, “that isn’t what I...” he blows out in exasperation, “I do not think you dishonest. In fact, you are the most honest creature I’ve met around here.”

You keep your eyes down, “I only mean to feed the horse.”

“Yes, I believe you,” he assures, his tone glum, “forgive my inference. Truly, it wasn’t intended as such.”

“I understand, your highness,” you say.

“It was a jape, a poor one, I suppose,” he hooks his thumb in his belt and turns to pace. “I wanted to thank you. I have yet to figure out how to handle Lady Jazlene but you keeping her company, I do appreciate it.” He stops and crosses his arms as he faces you again, “last night, what you heard and saw... we are strangers still, her and I.”

“I am a maid, your highness, I serve the lady and you now,” you reply, “that’s all I do.”

His arms bulge before he drops them, “yes, I suppose for you, the matters of nobility are dull.”

“It is not of my concern, your highness,” you say, “I am to see that all the wine and food and little things are taken care of.”

You peer up at the sky as the dimness slowly recedes. His figure looms below and he slowly treads closer. You squeeze the reins.

“You serve the queen, the king, and... a horse,” he reaches to touch its snout, dragging his knuckles along its grey fur. “Make certain we are fed and content.”

“Whatever is needed, your highness,” you answer and watch his hand stroke the horse.

“And what do you need?” He asks.

You quork your head and stick out your lip. It's an odd question. You have what you need. You have a place in the cart, you have some nuts left over from Bryce’s generosity, and you have some hours sleep behind you.

“Nothing, I think,” you say.

He scratches behind the horse’s ear, “and what do you want?”

You purse your lips. You think. Another strange inquiry. What should you want? That’s not something anyone ever worried for. You only troubled after what others wanted.

“I... I want to see the snow,” you say at last, “I think I dreamt of it but I can’t remember. I don’t really know what it would look like but I remember once Merinda spoke of it. She knew a stable hand who once lived in the north.”

He’s quiet. Your answer isn’t very interesting. To him, the snows must be so tedious. Nothing more than ordinary. He makes a clicking noise.

“I want to see the snow too,” he pulls his hand away from the horse and for a moment, he seems to reach for you, recoiling short of touching your grasp on the reins. He withdraws and presses his thumb to his teeth. He hums. “We have far to go before the snow...” he rasps, “should you require anything for the road ahead, you may ask.”

“That is kind, your highness, but I don’t expect I require much,” you assure, “thank you.”

“Mmm,” he drones as he faces the sunrise and sets his posture, “onward.”

He marches away as you stay and watch Daisy munch on the grass. You comb your fingers through her main, loosening the tangles. When another approaches, you glance over. Bryce tidies his own hair with his hands.

“Water is boiling, maid,” he declares, “I have some spare mint leaf for tea.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” you smile down at Daisy and move out of reach of her teeth. “I will stay with the horse until she is done.”

“Hm, aye, I understand,” his forehead lines, “she is much more pleasant than I.”

He nods and turns back the way he came. You watch after him as he goes to sit before the hanging kettle, a low flame burning beneath it. He rolls his shoulders and hunches forward as he plants his elbows on his knees. These people of the Hinterlands are not so cold as they pretend.

⚔️

The long train continues through the lands. Some days slower than others. There are some where progress stops at midday in favour of passing through a village or approaching a nearby farm. The king departs from the larger party, riding with his soldiers to greet the commonfolk. Lady Jazlene refuses to accompany her husband in favour of her silk tent and wine.

The pauses in your trek makes you curious; you only ever heard of King Waleran showing his face to the citizens during the harvest festivals and self-aggrandizing ceremonies. You never saw the king yourself, only heard Lord Dustan and his wife resentfully complain of how the king never made the journey to Debray. Did he not recall that once a duchess was married to his great-uncle?

You spend the hours in Jazlene’s company. She wants her wine and mutton. You notice that her appetite for the former has grown since the first day’s travel. She even requested that some casks be sought during one of the king’s visits. He acted as if he did not hear her entreaty. Their few encounters since that first night have been terse and short, neither offering much more than a word or two.

The queen swirls her cup, watching the motion of the wine within. She giggles and puts it down, picking up the looking glass and admiring herself. She sits on a wooden stool, her skirts dusted with the dirt of the road. Despite the filth, she insists on sporting a new gown each day, no matter how extravagant.

“What a fool? To think he is wasting his time on commoners,” she trills, “you know, he should be here, worried about his wife and queen. Not married a week and all we’ve done is ride anon. I’ve had no wedding, no feast. How I am neglected for these dirty farmers.”

You say nothing. You’re not certain she recalls you’re there. She speaks to herself often as if her mother is there. A few times, she has even called for the duchess. Often when she’s nearly finished the bottle.

She pouts and sniffs. She drains the cup completely and puts it down heavily on the crate next to her. She grips the mirror with both hands and looks at her reflection. She contorts her face, sucking in her cheeks, pushing out her lips, turning her head this way and that.

“Aren’t I beautiful?” She nearly whispers. You don’t flinch. You stare at your hem. She sighs and stomps her foot, “I’m asking you!”

You peek up at her, surprised.

“Yes, your highness, you are very beautiful.”

She frowns, “you lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t lie, your highness.”

“Don’t argue with me,” she snarls and slams the mirror down, cracking the glass on the crate. She stands and blusters around, her skirts catching between her legs, “if I am beautiful, what makes me so, hm? Tell me!”

You stare at her. She is beautiful. You always thought so.

“Your hair, your curls, your highness, they are beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes, “just my hair?”

She wobbles slightly as she struts towards you.

“Your eyes. They are pretty too. And you have a nicely set nose. And your lips are finely curved, your highness,” you explain as she looms closer and closer.

“Hmph,” she stops, slouching drunkenly as she leans in to consider you, “of course you would say so. Look at you. So plain. An ugly handmaid.”

You stare back at her, a strike in your chest, then drop your gaze. It is the wine. She huffs, her alcohol-laden breath tinging your nose.

“The king,” she babbles as she turns on her heels, swaying dangerously, “we’ve only lain together our first night. It was... quick. He didn’t want me to sleep with him,” she raises a hand and flutters her fingers, “he shooed me away like some whore.” She spins and falls onto the stool, “if I am so beautiful, why does he not want me?”

You watch her. She isn’t looking for your answer. She’s talking to talk. Lady Rezlyn isn’t there so she has only herself and stagnant air trapped in the tent.

“It is my duty to have his babies. To give him heirs. I cannot do that if he will not touch me. But perhaps when are in one place, he might try again,” she smiles and lifts the broken mirror. She tilts it and lets her hand drift down to your bodice. She pushes her chest up, “when he lets me take this off, he will see. He will want me.”

She convinces herself as she preens at her reflection, “perhaps it won’t hurt.” She looks around and sees the bottle of wine. She grabs it by the neck. She grips it and wiggles it at you in the air. “He’s even thicker than this,” she puts the mirror down and balances the bottle on her palm as she circles her fingers around the bottom of the bottles neck, just before it rounds out, “and longer.”

You stare at the silk wall, mortified by her words. She giggles and the movement of her hand draws your eyes up. You watch from under your lashes as she brings her hands up and down the bottle neck.

“Mother says, just like this,” she pumps it, “that he should like it very much.” She stops and focuses on the bottle, “mmm, he is a man underneath it all.” She tosses the bottle away, “and I am a beautiful woman. He will want me.”

You lower your eyes again and twine your fingers together. You can’t help but feel bad for her. You only wish you had some words of wisdom or comfort to offer her. Or that she would hear them. You can’t help but touch the fading bruise along your stomach as you languish in the tepid silence. It’s better to let her forget you.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king #dark fic #dark!fic

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agirlcandream84 · 2 days

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we need more hc!!!! they're amazing!!!! what about bf!frank when you're mad at him/you two have a fight??? 🤭🤭🤭

Truth is, I'm sorta never not thinking about a next batch of headcanons and you kinda read my mind with the theme! Except I'm thinking of all the times Frank has been mad at YOU.

Times When Boyfriend!Frank Has Been Mad At You

Well, of course, that time your car broke down and his reaction to finding out.

One of the times Frank got mad at you was actually before you even really started dating but that didn't mean Frank wasn't already in deep and when he discovered you hired a Task Rabbit to haul out some old dresser out of your apartment -- he was stompin' down the hall in three steps asking "who's this jerk?" and when you told him he gave you an incredulous look going on about how a "pretty girl like you can't invite some random asshole into your apartment. Gonna get yourself killed like that" before he has you sit in the living room while he tells the confused man that he's got it from here and hauls the damn thing out himself.

Ok so we already know about that time that some dude on a crowded subway car rubbed his junk up against you while you were both smashed in during rush hour but did I mention that you failed to disclose that information to Frank for a week before he overheard your sister ask you if you saw the guy who "rubbed his junk into your ass" again since it last happened. You hear Frank mutter "what the fuck" from the other room before he appears in the doorway and says "Sweetheart, can I talk to you for second?" as he nods his head in the direction of the bedroom. Of course you try to deflect but he's insistent and that's when Frank launches into 1) a check to make sure you're ok and 2) when he's confirmed that you are ok, a lecture about withholding this from him. You try to tell him that you didn't want to make a "big thing" about it because it sadly happens to a lot of women and this only enrages Frank more and he's suddenly mad at All Men™️ for being disgusting assholes and obviously theres very little subway in your future.

Frank somehow got retroactively mad at you for walking home drunk from bars dozens of times in your younger days, before he even knew you. You were telling him stories of your partying days, chuckling at your disregard for good decision making, when you see the smile slide off his face and his signature scowl settles in while he crosses his arms over his chest. "Now hang on a minute sweetheart -- I don't like this shit. You coulda gotten hurt," and you're all "No Frank, I know now, I just--" but he cuts you off, his mind already decided on the next course of action-- self defense classes, taught by yours truly. Your eyes couldn't roll further back in your head but he just says "roll 'em all you want doll-- this ain't negotiable"

There was only one time Frank actually yelled at you -- like he was MAD mad -- and that's when you had gone in search of a cool thrift shop you'd heard about on Tik Tok but walked up to the place and it was inside of an enormous and decidedly creepy warehouse with no particular signage. The address looked right but this place looked all wrong. Against your own better judgement, you went in searching for the shop but it was just endless dark hallways and unmarked doors and the faint sound of men's laughter somewhere in the building. Your heart pounding in your chest, you started to feel incredibly unsafe. You probably weren't in any real danger but the vibes felt so wrong and it was the first time in your life you felt genuine fear. Like the kind that made you think you made a very bad mistake. You finally decided to turn back around and called Frank to come pick you up, bursting into tears. Of course he was there in a flash and vert pissed that you ignored your own instincts. "Your gut tells you to get out, you get out! Jesus Christ sweetheart, I know I taught you better than that." He's right and you know he's right so you're just a hiccuping mess, mad at yourself for being an idiot. Frank can't see you so upset for long so he's quickly tugging you into his chest and murmuring on the top of your head, "S'alright sweetheart. Just gotta listen to your instincts. M'not mad, alright?"

Also that time you accidentally spilled bleach on his favorite hoodie. He was just plain ol' pissed at that.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle fanfic #frank castle x you #frank castle smut #frank castle x y/n #frank castle fluff

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notjuststardust · 23 hours

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"I love you more than meat!" Luffyxreader

You get ghosted and in a chaotic turn of events end up hanging out at the carnival with Luffy for the day! This was meant to be a short drabble about carousels that shamelessly turned into this. Mutual pining and fluff with a touch of angst!

TW: Mentions of abandonment issues.

This morning had been the start of a good day or what was supposed to be a great day. Instead, it had given birth to a spectacle of chaos, leaving you alone to wander what was thought to be a joyous event with nothing but a shackle of despair to partner. Settling in a quaint corner of the festivities, you seated at a bench, observing the sparkle of infinite auburn redden the iridescent leaves of Firesky island as festival goers came and went. You were looking for 2 faces. You just wanted to see 2 familiar faces yet from the crowd came only strangers, faces smeared in cotton candy, grins infinite on their faces from Firesky’s island's yearly sunsets festival.

It wasn’t until the entrance was completely devoid of life that you’d realized what exactly had happened.

You had been ghosted.

It had been obvious since the moment you’d docked but you were no pessimist. After all, your crew had gone out of their way to be sneaky about your arrival (much to your rubber captains dismay), heck, Sanji had even cooked you a small tray of treats for your friends but now the tray was empty and so was the fair's entrance. A sour taste ran through your gut. Maybe they had written that they couldn’t attend and you just hadn’t gotten it yet.

That’s when you heard the screaming.

It was a familiar ululation yet with the fog of your distress it took more than just a moment to pinpoint that the squawking wasn’t from some buzzard in the trees. Your head snaps in the direction of a food stand down the way, locking in on the unmistakable yellow straw of your captains hat. His presence pulls a smile. Then a frown. What if he asked about your friends? Or the absence thereof?

“Please! I swear ‘ll pay ya’! I just need t’ run back to my ship real quick-“ Luffy’s plea earns a snort from you. This wasn’t the first time he’d forgotten his wallet and from the swell of noise from the shopkeeper you could tell your captain was being threatened with a sentence of work to pay off his debt of funnel cake, again.

Before Luffy says another word you pull a 20 from your pocket and etch the most charismatic grin you can muster. Though Luffy thinks it’s an expression that could make Princes bow the knee the shopkeeper isn’t impressed, muttering a quiet, “Women these days and their choice of men,” before you drag the rubber man along with you into the mess of people. You turn to give the man a scolding but before you can muster a word Luffy pulls you into a bone crushing embrace, nuzzling his face freckled in powdered sugar to your own as he shouts a thousand thanks to you.

“Thanks’a bunch! You totally saved me back there-“ you pull back, shaking your face in an attempt to discard of the powder but Luffy just cackles, licking his pointer and smudging a smiley face bolden your cheek. “Come on’, a smile suits’ ya’.” He chimes before he sees the unmistakable glitch of anger in your brow, smoke nearly blowing from your nostrils as you step out of his embrace.

“You were supposed to give me an hour.” However much to your denial it had been an hour an hour ago and now your body was clinging to something to be angry at. You sigh, remembering yourself, and of course, Luffy doesn’t understand. He just cocks his head.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t wait that long, I was hungry!” He protests, crossing his arms with an annoyed pout. “S’ not my fault you haven’t told your friends about me.” He looks around, your step faltering a beat. A pit grows in his stomach. Paying no mind to the other bystanders Luffy ostriches his neck over the crowd, peering into the souls of passerby in search of your companions only to boomerang his head back into place and find you several paces ahead, tears threatening to ruin the small touch of makeup Nami had prettied you up with. Luffy’s flip flops smack behind until they’re as loud as thunderclaps, his grip lacing you in place as he turns you to look at him.

“Luffy what-“

“Where are they?” His throat tightens. Had his lack of self control really scared them off? Was Nami right when she told him that his presence would ruin your long awaited special day? You never once asked for anything on the crew. Your only request since joining had been to go to this festival and see your friends so of course Luffy granted that but had he unknowingly damned his promise? His eyes were taut with worry, a frown verging his face.

Your brain stutters at his seriousness.

Gosh, he was going to be utterly wrathful if you admit the truth. You take a big breath and it’s obvious Luffy is braced for impact, the news that he was the reason your silly smile was absent from your face but that’s not at all what leaves your mouth.

“… I think they forgot.” You settle for, not ready nor wanting to admit the entirety of the situation. Your captain blinks once. Then twice. Then you shrug it off and that’s what makes his heart ache and his fists clench.

“Who could ever forget about you?” His words are pure confusion. He sees your throat bob and your chest heave. Dark brows furrowed, it clicks into place.

They hadn’t forgotten.

“Too bad.” He doesn’t let you ruminate, interlocking his fingers with yours and tugging you along in tow. You consider protesting but Luffy has easied into a content skip, settling right back into his cheer. He leads you further and further into the festival until buzzers and the grind of roller coasters bleeds your ears near deaf.

“Luffy, I want to go back to the ship.” You murmur, plea almost imperceptible underneath the whistles and hollers of the festivities. He doesn’t even nod, just pulling you glued to his side with a huge grin plastered on his face.

“Nah, yer stayin’!” He snickers at how your eyes nearly buzz out of your head.

“Why do I have to be stuck with you?” You blatant, no hint of joking in your voice. Manifesting the soul of a distressed goat he bleeds with offense, rearing his head back and huffing and puffing about how no one ever wants to spend time with him. You were about to go on about how his boredom was just too expensive to satiate until the mere thought frees the very solution previously missing buckling into your nose from the confines of his hat.

You clap a hand over your nose. Luffy stares as his leather projectile plops to the floor. His wallet.

“Hey! Found my wallet!” The joy of his found firstfruits wipes the debate straight from the straw-hat’s psyche. You snort, a smile cracking at your lips.

“For once.” You retort and he sticks his nose up, a knowing laugh blurting out.

“K, fine. Tabs on me!” He declares, raising the leather satchel in perceived triumph. Little did you know there was only a mere 50 dollar bill in its confines.

Luffy tells himself not to worry about it and starts leading you along again, stare moving back and fourth along all the options of fun as you merely shrug at the mention of them. There had to be something that would cheer you up and he’d use the rest of the money on that if it levied the weight off of your shoulders.

That’s when he sees it.

Pixies of awe resuscitate hope in your eyes, an almost childlike wonder spinning his head to see exactly what you’d had your eyes on. Was it the goldfish game you’d carried on about to Nami as he sat on the head of the Sunny or was it a super tall rollercoaster? He’s thrilled by even the thread of possibility, locking eyes with-

A carousel.

You don’t even have to ask before Luffy is sprinting at the contraption, busting past 2 groups of little kids racing to the ride. He secures a spot for you at the head, waving like a loon, uncaring as he shouts for you to run for it.

“Luffy, they’re kids. We should let them go ahead.” You tell him as you apologetically budge past the littles to union with Luffy again.

“Mm’ nah. Finders keepers!” Oh, right. Luffy was a 21 year old man child himself. The gates veer open and Luffy hurries to the opposite side of the contraption, pointing at a well kept black stallion gild in a bridle of gold. You whisper to him as you catch up, stretching a rubber arm to carry you to his side. “That kids’ got h’s eyes on my hors’..” he says directly into your ear, before he mounts his extravagant steed, pointing to the partner equine beside. You gawk.

“Hey, thats a kids pony!” Your squeals only send Luffy into a rapture of cackles, machine groaning into motion.You lurch for the safety, seating yourself in the rusted saddle of an ancient pony, tutued in moth eaten pink. You snort, side eyeing your captain whom observes you with not an ounce of pity even when you look up to him utterly rejected. Instead he seems almost delighted to see you throned atop something so… weird.

“You’re so short.” He eggs on with a little giggle, slapping his thigh as if he is the grandest comedian to grace the grand line until your eyes stop sparkling. Your cheeks are hot with shame and a sadness that rivals your earlier depression comes to light.

“No, I look stupid.” You counter no remainders of your earlier enthrallment, glowering around as the carousel muses out some outdated song of melancholic violin as if to challenge your earlier miseries.

“C’mere,” Luffy tuts, refusing you the luxury of choice to pick the latter. His arms take a knowing gander, rubber limbs scooping you from the seat of your malformed ballerina horse to plop you down cozy at the pommel of his own steed. “S’ we look stupid together.” He chimes much too comfortably into the shell of your ear, stomach pressed flat against your back as he flashes you a winning grin. You’d could have called it romantic if his next words didn’t blast your eardrums from the inside out. “Cheese!” You bark out a laugh as he throws up a peace sign to some photographer in the crowd, uncaring that you both are probably violating a million safety rules during your artificial gallop.

After the ride is over you both get a proper scolding from the staff. “You put everyone in that ride in danger!” You almost retort that the ride itself was a threat to any semblance of society due to the obvious repairs it needed until you notice the silence. You’d thought Luffy would have said that for you but instead hes mumbling out some half baked apology, eyes grazing over the heads of the crowd for target. He’s looking for someone and he’s not going to find them standing here.

“Sorry, wont happen again sir!” You apologize profusely, whipping your head in the direction that Luffy had disappeared into to find him honed in on something in the distance. “Luffy-” You call, sprinting in the direction of a meat stand you assumed him to be running at but he darts past it without a second thought. Before you can register what exactly is happening Luffy has his arms around a screaming and squirming civilian. “Luffy, what the heck did he do?” But Luffy’s too far away and too focused to hear a word, clueless as to why his target is begging for his life.

“Why’re ya cryin’? I’m just tryn’a get one of those pictures you’ve got of us s’ all.” Luffy’s words are casual, unbothered and certainly not angry like you and the photographer had assumed. The photographer gawks at the realization and relief returns the color to his cheeks, looking to you of all people to clarify that your friend was indeed not a threat. You nod but a laugh bubbles over and its not because its funny.

“Oh, right. Yeah.. I can do that.” As the photographer prints the photo from his camera Luffy pops a look in your direction with a soft ‘hmm?’. You don’t dare tell him that you too had thought Luffy was about to jump the poor guy. The camera juts out a Polaroid and Luffy rips it from the mouth, primal joy blown celestial in the soft crinkle of his nose. He smacks the image around until he can view his bounty. Satisfied, Luffy starts to trod off with a jovial ‘thanks’ forgetting to pay the guy for the trouble.

That he does as soon you give him a reminding shout. 5 dollars for the photo and another 10 for the emotional distress he’d caused. A steal in Luffy’s opinion as he secures his trophy in the ribbon of his hat, trodding on his merry way as if nothing at all had just happened.

You snort and fall in step with one another, continuing your venture this time unncaring of exactly what activities commence for now your excitement is a charge, not a distraction and Luffy thanks whatever being knits the universe together for it. Luffy’s mood only halo’s along with yours. His untired chaos is a convincing beam persuading the tear stains to weigh a little lighter and the games you had earlier complained as being rigged to become challenges instead of inconveniences. Now you won’t stop playing any of them until you’ve beaten more than Luffy.

Thats until amidst your smack talk he realizes that his wallet is empty.

“10 to 10,” You grumble. “You have advantages anyway because of your haki, i’m sure one more and I’ll whoop your butt.” You nearly plonk over as you sway with newfound tiredness, stride a zig zag that your captain follows subconsciously until you release a gargantuan yawn right into his face. He snickers.

“M’ out v’ money, sorry.” He relents, observing you for any sign of disappointment but you just hum and straighten up to look his way. He nearly flatlines.

“My bad, speaking of which, we should get some food in you,” the words are muffled by the bronzing of your irises. They’ve adopted ethereal flame crowning him king in the reflection of your pupils. “Luffy?” You chime as his heart leaps into his throat.

He could just hear Zoro calling him an oblivious idiot and for once he wouldn’t argue. Couldn’t argue because the sunset had practically just claimed you his queen.

“Hmm?” He tries to casual before his stomach roars shamelessly. “Oops.” He scratches the back of his neck, cheeks pelting pink when your expression sours with guilt.

“No problem.” You burrow a hand into your dress and out comes a granola bar. He gawks, heart thundering as you remind him of why he started to like you in the first place: you always had food. “My bad.” You ruffle his hair as he vacuums down nearly both the wrapper and snack as one, making way the opposite of him. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything. I’ll grab you a burger.” You mutter, leaving Luffy to processing as you do some of your own by the burger stand.

There’s a feeling that verges guilt ebbing below the layers of festival dress you adorn, doubling your spending to appease the reminder soiling that turbulent peace that you had abandoned to feed. Luffy didn’t need to spend the day with you. He wasn’t supposed to anyway. You start to question his resolve, mulling over the details to count how many fake smiles he had shot your way.

The number comes to none as you pay and retrieve 2 meat lovers burgers from the attendant and make your way back to where your captain waits.

Where he was supposed to be waiting if he hadn’t decided that being somewhere else was more fun. You nearly drop his food. Nostalgic panic storming the calvary of flesh beneath.

Of course he’d left.

Tears threaten the floodgates before a boasting shout masters the nausea. You freeze and without a single ounce of warning you’re airborne with a rubber arm blown taut around your waist. Then you’re nose to nose with the missing moron.

You bark out a sound between a laugh and a sob.

“You could have told me you were going somewhere else!” Your hands reach to wipe a tear, intercepted by a telling grip.

“Who made ya cry?” You silence at his intense stare, biting your tongue as to keep your tongue from confessing. His grip loosens and trails to pull your forehead to his. “S’rry. I should h’ve told you.” He mutters, stupid from the lack of forethought about your earlier ghosting. You shove the burger to his mouth. Taking that as a sign of forgiveness, Luffy takes a chomp, hand cupping your cheeks to crank your neck to show you why he’d done it. His munching is drowned out by an amber cast reaching from the horizon to lap up the navy of the coming evening. The pelt of stars was in rival with the fire of the horizon, the island's name ringing blatant for all to see.

“Oh my gosh,” now tears threaten for a different reason and its certainly not because you’re upset. “How does it do that?!” You look to Luffy and he grins.

“Dunno, but its cool, right?” You nod, eyes catching the eternal autumn of this islands maples refracting crystalline against the aurora. You babble on about something to do with cone receptors and rods while Luffy nods in support of your hypothesis until the ferris wheel whines with movement. You lurch for your captain for some illusion of safety. He howls out a laugh and merely grins at your terror. “Are all of the rides on the verge of death here?” You complain as Luffy swallows the remains of his food, scooting you closer to him.

“S’ okay! I can protect you. Just hold onto me, k?” He snickers, quieting when you give him a soft glare.

“Why are you making that face?” Your snort does nothing to bay the laughter whispering in your gut as he tries to screw his face back to any ounce of normalcy.

“V’ got a surprise for you in a minute. Just you wait-” he hums with a too proud grin as you pale past death.

“I knew it! You better not toss me out of the ride or do anything crazy or I’ll kill you-” He revels with jest, slapping his knee that only sends the ferris wheel car swinging like a pendulum.. “Luffy-!” Your scolding does nothing to deter his delight, peaking as you hold onto him for dear life. He hums and cocks his head at your undoubtedly nervous giggles.

Did you seriously think he would do that with precious cargo on board?

“Oh come on, m’ not that crazy! I’m just gonna confess to you at the top is all!” He soothes, smoothing out a stray hair on your head to calm you but he's only sent you down a pit of overthought scenarios. He however, is innocent as ever, a pillar of calm despite the ebbing worm of anxiety inching your tummy. You’re quiet now but theres this weird look on your face like he’s just told you something he shouldn’t have. “You’re blushing.” Luffy points to your nose pelting red.

“No friggin duh Luffy!” You face palm and chortle, brain scrambled by his deafness to his own volume. “You just told me that you’re gonna confess. You know that, right?” You inquire and Luffy blinks.

“Okay?” His lips scrunch up into a pout, rehearsing a well practiced grumble. “I could just confess that Sanji whispered the fridge code out during the night and that's why we keep running low on meat-”

“Monkey D Luffy!” He explodes with laughter, slapping a hand over your mouth with a wicked mischief brewing behind his eyes.

“You can’t go tellin’ on me or its not’a secret anymore, k?” He leans a breaths length away, eyes lasering into yours. You nod in hesitant agreeance as the machine slows toward the top. His tongue ties itself into knots when you reach your destination. He removes his hand, remembering his purpose when your small port on sunset chugs past the peak, his mouth left open in pure shock. “Hey!” Luffy nearly throws himself out of the cart to search for the attendant below. “Stop the ride! You promised!” The skeleton of the ferris wheel trembles with his uproar, a tirade of desperate demands slipping past his lips as the romantic view slips away.

“Hey, look at me Luff-” He gives you a look that could kill.

“No, s’ not fine. He promised t’a wait.” The statement hits you like a projectile brick.

“You planned this?” Your brows hike, cocking your head. He doesn’t answer

“Kinda, like 4 minutes’ ago. Thought you’d like it’.”

“I would but it's not a big deal.” Your assurance does nothing to quell his unspent wrath.

“Yes it is! I need to tell you!” His certainty is inerrant, voice carrying no compromise as others rise up in protest. Of course he started a rebellion ‘for love’ on the ferris wheel.

“Do you not believe in love? Let the poor guy tell her how he feels!” You bite back a laugh as the man below shouts. “Take them to the top so they can kiss!” A group of little girls shriek from the cart above and Luffy joins their hollers. The phrase ‘for love’ trumpets throughout the surrounding area until peer pressure proves effective.

Finally.

Cheers surmount the wheel and Luffy tosses a look over his shoulder, gifting you a thumbs up.

“See? V’ got it all under control.” He plops backward beside you with a content hum. You sit in stiff stillness while Luffy lounges without a worry. He eyes you over and softly chuckles, poking your thigh. “Ya nervous?” He wagers, scooting a bit closer to you. Your mouth guppies, cheeks alight as you peek at the honeying horizon near blazon with the peak nearing once again.

“I don’t know. Isn’t this even a little bit nerve wracking for you?” You honest and Luffy considers the hypothesis.

“Nah.” he scratches the back of his neck with an easy shrug as if he didn’t just nearly ascend with the mere thought of this not going to plan.

“What do you mean ‘nah’?” You nearly laugh as his eyebrows swivel and he stares.

“Whats embarrassing about loving you?” You blank at his words. The ferris wheel eases at its noon and your heart flutters. You tried to think of an answer but the ones that came were less than satisfactory.

“I guess you’re.. Right.” You slowly admit, gracing him a teeny smile that makes him suck in his breath. Oh gosh. He fumbles for the proper words, his heart beating like its going to rip out of his chest. “It’s just you.” You murmur to yourself and the reminder is one that permissions him to take the leap.

It was just you. How embarrassing could it be?

“I love you more than meat!” His words blurt out like clumsy toddlers off a playground. He’s sweating buckets, bottom lip sucked dry between his teeth yet there is not an ounce of shame on his face. Even if it did pull groans from every bystander it was true and from the heart, undoubtedly Luffy.

The man is just about convinced that you brought him up here just to reject him when you break into an unrestrained cackle.

“I love you more!” The breath knocks out of him. A startled laugh ripping through the tension in his gut. He pulls you into a bone rearranging hug, burying his nose into the alcove of your neck to breathe in your scent.

Then he stops breathing and pulls back.

“Liar!” He bawks, pulling back to look at you like you’ve grown two heads. “I love you way way more!” He argues tone sober with conviction. You blink and a cheeky grin cements across your features.

You still had one order of unfinished business with him.

“Not enough to kiss me first-” Your mouth doesn’t give him time to even breathe a syllable. You crash into him in a passionate kiss. It's a clumsy dance of inexperience and it doesn’t help that Luffy is laughing in the middle of it but it's sweet and it's yours. You pull back and give him a sly grin. “10 to 10.” He processes a beat before betrayal marrs his features.

“No fair! A kiss isn’t a carnival game!” Though he bleets with annoyance he's quick to keep you glued to his side, head nosed up onto your shoulder even as he pouts. “You only kissed me for competition…” he whines as you get off the ride.

“That's not true-” You stop dead at the sound of a low whistle.

Zoro, smug as a cat thats knocked over a glass of water stands beside the rest of the other strawhats.

“About time.” Sanji says after a drag from his cigarette.

“I can’t believe it took all day, Luffy… she was probably so bummed.” Nami complains, referring to you as she shakes her head and motions to two of your own familiar faces. “If Luffy hasn’t told you already, your friends are coming to spend the night.” You turn to Luffy whose brows pop.

“Luffy,” You say so slowly as his cheeks flush with remembrance.

“Oh, ya. Forgot t’ tell ya y’r friends came by the ship to surprise you-” a vein pops in your forehead. “S’rry, kind f’ forgot havin’ ya all to myself.” He mumbles with his best innocent look. You gentle just a bit.

“I forgive you.” Thats a quiet 'shi shi shi' whisps his lips.

“Good, 11 to 10 then!”

“Monkey D Luffy!”

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