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musical-shit-show · 3 years

Text

could have danced all night

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Reader Inspiration: Prompts #2 (“apparently all our friends have a bet going that we end up together.”) #14 (“when i’m not with you, it’s almost like…i can’t breathe.”) and #41 (“i may or may not have left some…marks.”) Warnings: sexual references, kissing, meddling siblings, fluffy fluff Word Count: 3,733 Author’s Note: This is my first request! Big shout out to @acmbooksandfilm for sending this in, I had a lot of fun writing it. Also, apologies on it taking a bit to get out, writing has gotten difficult as my real adult job has slowly turned my brain to mush. But, if you would still like to send in a request, feel free! My DMs and Askbox is always open, even though it may take a little longer to complete requests. And as always, check out my Masterlist, About Me page, and Prompt Lists. Thanks for all the love on my other one shots and enjoy!

“Colin, enough,” Benedict huffed as he threw on his shiny black tailcoat, “Surely you have better things to do than pester me about my love life.” Anthony, Benedict, and Colin often crossed paths when getting ready for the numerous events of the season, and now the younger Bridgerton brother was doing everything to get on his elder sibling’s last nerve.

“I’m merely pointing out the obvious, Benedict,” Colin said smugly, straightening his cravat as he looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t help but flash a mischievous smile at his reflection, “Practically everyone in the ton knows about you two, what’s the harm in proposing?”

“What on God’s green earth are you two talking about?” Anthony strode into the room, closing the door in the likely event that Colin said something inappropriate and scandalized one of their younger sisters or, heaven forbid, their mother.

Benedict couldn’t help but flush. Yes, he was close enough with his brothers to discuss all matters surrounding women, but it felt wrong for him to talk about you. Especially when your relationship wasn’t meant to be any sort of relationship whatsoever.

It had started out innocently enough; you had been close with his younger sister Eloise and Penelope Featherington for years, acting as surrogate older sister on account of you being several years older than them. You were also friendly with Daphne and Simon Bassett, and often had tea with the pair when they weren’t off performing their duties as the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

In truth, you knew Benedict the least out of the Bridgertons who had or were close to coming of age, and was shocked when he requested to have his name written on your dance card at the first ball of the season. When it came time to dance, you had expected Benedict to act shy at first; but after some coaxing from you, he won you over almost instantly with his wit and humor.

He only asked to dance with you once more at that particular event, not wanting to be improper. However, it was clear from the way the two of you looked at each other that there was a spark.

“No one,” Benedict said, almost too quickly, “Our brother is just sticking his nose into affairs that aren’t his own, as usual.” Anthony rolled his eyes, thoroughly unamused by his younger siblings’ bickering. The three of them strode down the stairs of their home and seized a carriage so that the conversation could continue in private.

“So…” Colin drawled, “It is an affair, then?”

“You know that’s not what I meant at all.”

“A slip of the tongue, perhaps? You know, brother, you must choose your words more carefully—"

“Mark my words, Colin Bridgerton; I will kill you in this very carriage if—”

“Will the two of you, please,” Anthony huffed, feeling a migraine coming on, “Benedict, is this about who I think it is about…?” Colin nodded fervently, but Benedict remained stone-faced. He hated keeping things from his family, especially his brothers. But he couldn’t risk tarnishing your name, not after what had transpired between you two.

It wasn’t meant to happen. When Benedict had snuck off one night to another one of Sir Granville’s soirées, he was shocked to see you there, wearing a tightly-laced corset, undergarments, and practically nothing else. As soon as you saw him, your eyes widened to the size of your mother’s best teacup saucers. Without thinking, you grabbed him and pulled him into the nearest empty room.

“Benedict, wha—what are you doing here?!” he remembered you asking him, utterly flustered. His eyes drifted to the sheer robe draped over your shoulders, the fabric floating gently with your every movement.

“I could very well ask you the same question!” he attempted to whisper, now distracted by how your corset pushed up your bosom considerably, “How do you even know about these, um, parties?” For a moment, you hesitated, unsure of what to say as Benedict’s pale blue eyes bore into yours.

You sighed, resigning to come clean, “Genevieve—Madame Delacroix—she told me about them. I confided in her about my father’s money troubles,” you felt the tears start to well up, but could not bear to cry in front of Benedict in the state you found yourself in, “I barely have any money for a dowry to find a suitable husband, and Genevieve and Sir Granville are familiar so…I work when I can and just make the guests feel comfortable—you know, offer them drinks, tobacco, the like—but I provide nothing more than hospitality.”

You felt that you needed to make that distinction to Benedict. Though you suspected that any chance with him was gone now that he had discovered your secret, you wanted to at least maintain part of your reputation, “Granville is generous enough and I could not be more grateful,” you continued, pulling the nearly translucent robe tightly around your body, “And these parties are so secretive that I thought, perhaps, I could scrounge enough money together before the end of the season before I was discovered. Clearly not.”

You couldn’t help but laugh dryly, but Benedict stared at you, his expression earnest, “You need not worry about that,” he breathed, “I won’t tell a soul.” You absentmindedly bit your bottom lip, chewing nervously on a bit of broken skin. Could he really be trusted? Yes, you had crossed paths over the last few weeks, exchanging pleasantries and the occasional flirtatious glance, but would Benedict be able to keep your secret?

“Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied coyly, deciding that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, “Perhaps I will be able to repay you one day.” A sly smile spread across Benedict’s face, his eyes flickering to the locked door. Though the party was continuing on the other side, you two had remained virtually undisturbed.

Feeling bold, he traced his fingers over your collarbone, instantly sending a chill down your spine, “Perhaps…you could repay me now?” he posited, trying his best not to sound like a complete and utter rake, “Only if you wish to, of course.” Despite your best efforts, you could feel a palpable spark that had been building between the two of you over the past few weeks. And you had grown tired of restraining your impulses any longer.

Gently, you placed a soft kiss on his lips. Your eyes fluttered shut and Benedict cupped your face with his hand, his grip surprisingly tender. His free arm wrapped around your body smoothly, pulling you flush against him. You frantically thought through the consequences of someone discovering you with a Bridgerton, but you were too preoccupied with removing Benedict’s clothing to pay much mind…

“Benedict!” Anthony snapped his younger brother out of his reverie as the carriage slowed to a stop, “Would you get your head out of the clouds and tell me what’s going on?” Benedict stared at him, utterly panic stricken. He had kept your secret for nearly a month now, and during that time the two of you had gotten even closer, both in the eyes of the ton and after nightfall in your bedchamber.

Benedict’s mind almost drifted to the night he had shared with you only hours before, but focused on the task at hand, “You needn’t worry your pretty little head, brother,” he said coolly, “I have it all under control.” Anthony looked as if he were going to be sick, and Colin smiled with devilish glee. The three brothers clamored out of the carriage and made their way into the bustling ballroom, more of their family trailing close behind.

Benedict could hear Eloise whine as Lady Bridgerton attempted to smooth down her hair, and he felt a small pang of guilt for not coming to his sister’s aid against their mother’s incessant prodding. But now, he had more pressing matters at hand; namely, what in the hell he was going to say to you now that his brothers were onto him.

He spotted you from across the hall, his heart fluttering with every step he took in your direction. He noticed that you were wearing an intricately laced shawl that was tied tightly across your chest, completely covering your collarbone and much of your breast. Benedict felt himself frown slightly, then immediately scold himself for being improper at a society function; surely, you need not show your bosom to the entire ton in order to draw the eye of him and a number of other suitors.

You were conversing with Penelope and Lady Featherington when he finally approached you, eyes wide with fear, “Hello,” he said politely, giving a slight nod to Penelope and her mother, “Is there a spot open for my name on your card?” You quirked an eyebrow, giving him a smirk as you removed the card from your wrist.

“Why of course, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied in an equally cordial manner. Heaven forbid Portia Featherington get a whiff of your affair; you’d be certain your name would be splashed across Lady Whistledown’s pamphlet before you’d wake the next morning, “In fact, you are the first gentleman to ask, so you may have the first dance. If you are not otherwise engaged, that is.” He shook his head and his eyes gleamed as he returned your card to your delicately gloved hand.

Despite his anxiety being astronomically high, Benedict was delighted that he was able to dance with you so early in the evening. He always thought of you as a fluid dancer, light on your feet as the two of you would glide across the ballroom. He often found himself not being able to take his eyes off you, the lively music and judgmental crowd fading away the moment he embraced you.

More importantly, he wanted to speak to you about the precarious situation you found yourselves in. It was only a matter of time until either Anthony or Colin pried the truth out of him, and he wouldn’t let the news spread across all of London society, besmirching your good name. He cared about you too much to allow such a wretched thing to happen.

A few moments later, all of the couples were signaled that the first dance was to begin. Benedict shot a glance to Colin, who had been talking Anthony’s ear off since they arrived. Now, the two of them were staring him down, whispering like schoolboys. He refrained from scoffing and instead took your hand gently, pulling you into his tall frame as the music began.

You instantly noticed the nervous and almost pained expression splashed across Benedict’s face, and you furrowed your brow in worry. However, you decided your best course of action was to try and alleviate the tension he must’ve been feeling, “I see you haven’t taken a liking to my shawl,” you remarked, a sly smile dancing on your lips, “I will have to tell my sister she has dreadful taste.”

Benedict ripped his eyes from his brothers’ stares and produced a small chuckle at your teasing. He realized he’d much rather converse with you than worry about what Anthony and Colin were up to, “No, it’s uh—it is, quite lovely,” he countered, lowering his voice, “Though I would prefer to see more of you, of course.” You raised an eyebrow, impressed by his boldness.

“I believe you saw plenty last night, Mr. Bridgerton,” you posited, weaponizing his own name against him, “In fact, I suppose you could blame yourself for my more…conservative attire, wouldn’t you agree?”

Benedict couldn’t help but flush, but cleared his throat to attempt to keep up with your rather scandalous banter, “Yes, well…I suppose…” he stuttered, “I may or may not have left some…marks.” He spun you, watching as your dress moved gracefully around your body and fluttered behind you as you gripped his arm once more.

You searched the panicked expression on his face. Surely, he only knew you were teasing, so why did he look like he was on the brink of sickness? “Benedict, why are you acting so strange?” you asked, attempting to keep the mood light while searching for information, “You’re not falling in love with me, are you?”

Benedict swallowed, attempting to maintain his composure. Besides the looming threat of every affluent family in Mayfair uncovering your secret, he was also painfully aware of how nervous you had been making him over the past weeks. The way your smile lit up every room, the way your eyes sparkled playfully, the way your laugh made his heart do a somersault.

“It’s just as well,” you continued, not waiting for him to answer your rhetorical question, “I overheard Colin and Pen whispering earlier, and Simon and Daphne as well. Apparently, all our friends have a bet going that we end up together.” He sighed, a little relieved that you had caught onto his family’s shenanigans before he worried you unnecessarily. He couldn’t help but appreciate your perceptive nature.

“Believe me, Colin and Daphne may be my siblings, but they are not my friends right now,” he joked nervously, only half-kidding, “And Anthony is on dangerously thin ice. It appears my family can’t help but get involved in matters that do not concern them.” You giggled, causing Benedict’s heart to swell. He was growing more infatuated with you by the second.

“I wish my family cared half as much as yours does,” you say, a twinge of sadness in your voice, “They are all so wonderful, and I’m sure they are just being protective.” Benedict nodded, heartened by the kindness and understanding you were showing to his siblings. You already got along quite well with Eloise and Daphne, and you were always courteous to his mother while still being able to hold your own when conversing with Anthony or Colin.

As the dance came to an end, Benedict had begun to realize his affection for you. Not just physically; yes, your first encounter at Sir Granville’s had brought you two together faster than he had ever expected. It was reckless, intimate, and completely wonderful, but getting to know you, without dozens of uppity members of high society leering at your every move, was more valuable than any nights you had spent together.

And he decided in that moment, as your hand released from his and you both bowed respectfully, that he could not bear to spend one more day without you by his side. But he could not profess his love in front of God and everyone, least of all his family; he quickly surmised that he must wait until a moment presented itself.

You were quickly whisked away by your mother, unable to even say a proper thank you and goodbye. But as your eyes met his blue ones, you couldn’t help but notice how they were sparkling in the candlelight, and you felt a twinge of melancholy. You cared for Benedict, but feared it was only a matter of time before your affair ended and he was married to another disgustingly wealthy aristocrat. You gave him a fleeting smile before getting dragged to the other side of the ballroom.

As you turned away from him, Benedict felt two hands grasping each of his arms, one hand belonging to each of his meddling brothers, “I knew it!” Colin whisper-yelled as he and Anthony pulled their love-struck sibling into a secluded corner of the lavish hall, “You know, you really aren’t fooling anyone, Ben.”

“How do you mean?” Benedict asked nervously in one last ditch effort to conceal the truth. He shouldn’t have bothered; his brothers had seen how smitten he was with you, and soon the entire ton would be abuzz with salacious gossip if he did not make his move that very evening.

“Benedict,” Anthony chided sternly, clapping him on the shoulder, “Please, do not deny it any longer. You’re clearly bewitched.” The eldest Bridgerton child could not help but smirk; it was almost entertaining to see his usually guarded brother so obviously in love.

Benedict sighed, defeated, “Alright,” he whispered, his face flush with embarrassment, “I apologize for thinking I could ever keep a secret from you two.” Colin smirked proudly, feeling as if he were London’s greatest detective, “I’ll tell you everything if you want, but for the love of Christ, it cannot be here.” He gestured to the room, which was growing more crowded with preening mamas, hunting for the slightest whiff of a scandal.

While Benedict and his brothers searched for a private room for him to regale your escapades, your night flew by, and hours later you found yourself chatting with Daphne and Simon on the gorgeously decorated outdoor terrace. The night was perfectly temperate, and although the noise had died down significantly as many guests had departed for the evening, your head was still swimming in thought. Specifically, you were overwhelmed by the thought of Benedict.

He was quite kind to you, and a very smart, charming gentleman, but you felt your heart lurch as you recalled the intimate nights you had shared over the last few weeks. Men of Benedict’s status would not wed a tainted woman, no matter how much you wished he would. It was only a matter of time before Lady Whistledown revealed your transgressions, and you would be marked as an undesirable to the entire upper echelon of society.

You shuddered at the thought. “Chilly, dear?” Daphne asked sweetly, noticing the unsettled look on your face, “I would think you’d be more protected from the elements with that beautiful shawl on.” Your heart jumped to your throat before you could cover for yourself; Benedict had appeared on the terrace, looking absolutely petrified. Simon and Daphne exchanged glances.

“Darling,” Simon said, turning to his wife, “It is quite crisp out here, don’t you think? Perhaps we should—”

“Go inside to warm up?” Daphne finished his sentence, that unmistakably mischievous glint in her eye that all Bridgerton children possessed, “Why yes, I think that is a fantastic idea, Simon.” She hooked her arm under her husband’s, and the two of them bid you and Benedict adieu, much to your dismay. You were certain he had been found out by his family and was here to end your affair before word reached the rest of the ton.

Still, you managed to smile politely. Simon was right, there was a slight chill that pervaded the terrace, mostly due to the lack of company that had populated the space only hours before, “Hello, Benedict,” you mutter, shifting your weight from one heeled foot to the other, “Will you be departing soon or—?”

“Erm, yes,” he answered a bit too quickly, and you raised an eyebrow. His strange behavior all night was another indicator that ending things was clearly as difficult for him to initiate as it would be for you to accept, “But first, I, well, I need to tell you something. Something I probably should have told you weeks ago.”

You felt a lump in your throat almost instantaneously. ‘Here it comes,’ you thought, more distressed than you hoped you would be. Benedict took your gloved hand, rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. If it were not slightly improper, you would almost find it comforting; his touch always seemed to soothe you, ever since your first night together.

“I never expected to…for us to become so close in such a short period of time,” he began, wondering at what point in this silly speech he would make a royal ass out of himself. Though he had gained a little brotherly insight from Anthony and Colin, he still felt as though he could vomit at any second, “And, well, truth be told, I have enjoyed every moment we have spent together.”

You smiled, pleased by his kind words, “Truthfully, I have felt the same,” you remarked, “But it’s quite alright, Ben, I understand—”

“You do?” he cut you off again, a bead of sweat forming on his brow, “Am I really so obvious about my affection for you?” You stared at him, confused. Was this not him ending whatever…relationship the two of you shared? Now you felt like the fool.

“Affection?” you repeated, your mouth twitching, “I thought you did not want to see me anymore.” Benedict’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t help but laugh dryly. You had mistaken his jittery behavior as a bad omen, when that could not be further from reality.

He shook his head, and you felt the pace of your heartbeat quicken, “My dear, I think there’s been a slight misunderstanding,” he joked, clearing his throat, “I know that our relationship has been a secret for some time, but I cannot hide how I feel for you any longer. You are kind, and witty, and strong, and incredibly adventurous, and when our dance came to an end earlier this evening, I…I felt like there was a part of me missing as soon as you left. I…when I’m not with you, it’s almost like…I can’t breathe.”

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat, taken aback by his doting and earnest words. “And it would be my honor,” he smiled, his gaze intense and impassioned, “If I could ask for your hand.” Your eyes sparkled back at his, and you nodded silently, attempting to conceal a squeal of girlish glee. You two were still, unfortunately, in public.

“Yes,” you exhaled, feeling foolish from your assumptions about Benedict only minutes before, “I would be equally honored to be your wife, Benedict Bridgerton.” You snuck him a quick kiss on his cheek, causing him to flush for what was probably the hundredth time that night, “I see our friends were right after all, weren’t they?”

“Yes, yes they were, and I doubt I will ever hear the end of it from Anthony and Colin,” Benedict mused, smiling sweetly as the corners of his eyes crinkled happily, “I’ll see to a proper visit first thing tomorrow morning, I promise.” He studied you, doing all he could to absorb the joyous look etched upon your radiant face. You smirked, turning in the direction of your family’s carriage.

“I shall hold you to that,” you said, pulling him towards the exit, “But don’t think this night is over, Mr. Bridgerton. I’m not done with you quite yet.”

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I hope you enjoyed reading! As always I would love to hear any comments or feedback! Like/comment/reblog, all that good stuff :)

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

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Pillow Talk (Poe x reader)

What is this? This is 4 of 14 short prompt requests I’ll be writing as part of my 500 follower celebration! See my call-out for requests (now closed… unless you’re desperate!) and credit for prompt list creators here.

What is the prompt? “Ow, oka- OW, CAN YOU STOP HITTING ME WITH YOUR PILLOW?!” I wasn’t sure where to take this at first and then it just came to me. So much fun to write- thanks so much for the request @asianravenpuff <3

Author’s note: AND THERE IS ONLY ONE BED. Everyone’s favourite trope, yah? Another bed-centric bit of fluff but pretty different to the last.

Word count: I’m just gonna pretend I never set any word limit for this challenge. This is 1767 words. OOPS.

Warnings: Fluff + bickering + mild sexual references. No Poes were harmed in the writing of this fic. It’s a very soft pillow, ok?

GIF: By @psychotic-psychadelic (I couldn’t find any appropriate Poe / Ocasr GIFs and I think this GIF is adorable, though sorry it won’t represent all readers. Please imagine the fic however you like! <3)

“Ow, oka- OW, CAN YOU STOP HITTING ME WITH YOUR PILLOW?!” Poe bites off, the narked, affronted edge in his tone fairly transparent.

“No! No, I won’t stop!” you exclaim, having leapt from your shared bed for the night to pummel him, still brandishing the pillow and looking ready to strike the Commander again. He raises his arms defensively as he continues to lay down. “What in the hell do you think you were doing, Poe?!” Your voice is stretched thin and high-pitched, your words flowing a little too fast. You’re seemingly in mild freak-out mode.

You lower your marshmallow-y weapon, eyebrows shooting up, expression pointed and inviting an explanation, foot tapping impatiently on the floor.

Poe drop his arms and recites your question under his breath, disbelieving. “What do I think I was doing?” And then loudly, propping himself up on his elbows. “Honey, you kissed me!”

You clutch your pillow more tightly, one hand on your hip as you wind up your rebuke “I certainly don’t think...” But your voice falters. A heat rises in your cheeks as you suddenly doubt your own version of events. Especially as the blanket slips down over his bare chest and it occurs to you that your ability to resist him might be somewhat... compromised, after all. “I’m... not sure that’s true!” Suddenly you are clutching the pillow to your chest for comfort rather than as ammunition.

This should never have happened. You are Poe were simply retiring after the day’s mission, getting some rest. Two colleagues, essentially. No matter that the one kriffing guest house had one kriffing room left. With only one kriffing bed. Surely, you could both control yourself for one night, couldn’t you? Well, turns out that perhaps you had overestimated yourself. There is distinct evidence of your failure in the way your lips continue to tingle from the feeling of his hot kiss.

Poe sits all the way up now, the sheet slipping down so far that you can see the elasticated hem of his boxers. Sleeping semi-nude hadn’t seemed such a terrible idea when you had both undressed in the dark, but now that there was plenty of moonlight flitering in... now that your eyes had adjusted.... Yikes, his underwear was certainly drawing your attention.

“Well, I’m definitely sure. Trust me, I didn’t kiss you. I would have asked for permission.” Poe states with conviction.

You think you might just be freaking-out a little more now. There’s that nervous, unnatural timbre to your voice coming out of you again. “I just kissed you?! Oh Maker, no. This is all your fault, Poe!”

You hit him again with the pillow. He throws his hands and his eyebrows up in utter disbelief, not understanding exactly how he’s still considered culpable. And, ok, this is pissing him off now. He swings his legs from the bed, his feet planting on the floor. “Would you please stop hitting me with that?”

Your thoughts swirl in panic as you try to concoct a way to remove yourself from the situation. Then it occurs to you. “I have to go.” you insist, as if with sudden clarity.

Poe looks around the compact room, face scrunching in confusion. There’s nowhere to go. “Where are you... ? Come on, don’t be silly.”

He takes a step towards you and, well, that’s just too much. You don’t think closing the distance is a good idea at all, in your current state. Or in his state of undress. So you opt to put a solid five paces between you and you lock yourself away in the adjoining refresher. The door in this crappy room is so thin that you hear Poe’s heavy sigh through it. Hating the feeling that you’ve exasperated him, you slide down the wall into a heap and bury your head in the pillow, wishing the floor might swallow you up.

Momentarily, you think you hear the mattress springs creak, and you guess that Poe has taken a seat on the bed. Or maybe he’ll just go to sleep and you can stay in here until morning and hope he magically forgets about this, somehow?

“Are you embarrassed?” he probes, his voice kind, but you give him no answer. Are you? You’ll say. How would anyone in the Resistance, how would he ever respect you again? You were here on a mission and you lost control of yourself after all of two minutes in a bed with him. Who does that?

“It was a good kiss.” he concedes -to the closed door- and your heart hammers in your chest. Did he mean that? There’s something about his tone though which sounds strained, and you hear another heavy sigh.

He comes at you with another tack. “Look, don’t you think you’re over-reacting? I don’t think anyone could blame you for kissing me, I’m pretty hard to resist. In fact, I’m not even shocked that you just couldn’t help yourself.”

You finally push the refresher door open, from your seated position. You lean forward until you have a clear view of him sat on the bed, just enough of a view to fling the pillow out and get a clear shot at his head. Oh, you could do it.

He nods, his mouth a thin line. “That’s about right. I thought that might be the one to get a reaction out of you.” His elbows are propped on his knees, his fingers tented together under his chin. “Can we just... talk about this?”

Poe Dameron. Apparently, quite a sensible guy, against all odds. You concede that he’s right. And it’s not as if you have anywhere to go, in reality. So, reluctantly, you stand and shuffle yourself back into the main room.

Boy, do you feel like an idiot. “I’m sorry, Commander. For freaking out. I’m sorry for hitting you with the pillow. And I’m sorry if I...” you look down at your feet. “...I’m really sorry that I kissed you. I’m such an ass.”

He stands again, the grumpy, sourpuss expression evaporating from his face as he senses your vulnerability. And it helps that you seem to have stopped attacking him. He shrugs, casually, his voice soft. “If it makes you feel better, I was a second away from asking you.”

“Asking me what?” you practically whisper.

He raises a suggestive eyebrow at you. “If I could kiss you.”

“Y- oh, y-.You?” you’re not forming words now, but you guess the string of sounds you’re making adequately displays your shock anyway. Your mouth forms an ‘o’, in lieu of any actual vowels. Or consonants. Or anything.

“Yeah. Something like that.” his mouth tugs up into a smile, his voice drops low into his throat. “You know, whenever I’ve imagined kissing you, there is usually a lot more actual kissing.”

Is the room suddenly really hot? Did it just get smaller in here?

“So,” Poe continues, stepping closer to you and entwining his fingers in yours (is this still real-life?). “Can you stop throwing pillows at me, and maybe we’ll just lie back down and try that again?”

Ohhh boyyyy, all the times you’ve imagined him propositioning you, not once have you turned him down. It takes every ounce of self-control you can muster. “I... I can’t. We shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You’re my Commander.”

He drops his hands from yours. “Right. No. You’re right. We... shouldn’t.”

“In fact, Commander, I can’t believe you would just go around kissing your subordinates like that. It’s so improper.”

He’s about to rebuke you until he recognises the playful glint in your eyes.You’re pleased to have him smiling again, at least.

“Ok. Fine.” He raises his hands defensively. “We’ll just sleep then. Sound good?”

“Ok.” you agree, and you clamber into the far side of the bed, holiding the covers open for him. “Sounds good. It was just a little kiss. We can just forget it.”

He hesitates, but then he tugs in a deep breath and climbs in next to you, shimmying down beneath the blankets. Immediately, you both close your eyes tightly and turn your backs on one another.

Except, you can’t forget it, of course. It’s all you can kriffing think about. There’s no way you can sleep now! After that kiss?! The kiss of your life. Just imagine how good it would feel if you had given him a chance to properly kiss you back. The crush of his lips up against yours, his supple tongue slipping in and...And maybe you need to get out of bed and take a cold shower.

“Goodnight then, Commander.” you say in a small, unconvincing voice.

You feel him spin around in the bed, evidently now facing you, his breath billowing over the nape of your neck as he plonks his head back down on the pillow.

“G’night, sweet cheeks.” he purrs, ever so deliberately.

Oh, that smug flyboy. He knows. He knows you’re going to cave. And, you do as well. You turn, kiss him again, and this time his lips respond, his tongue leading; insistent and sinful and everything you could have hoped for.

When you’re both breathless he pulls away, leaning his forehead against yours. “Ok, just to clarify. You definitely kissed me that time too. Can we agree on that?” Then, he quickly wraps his arms around his head in case you’re about to launch another pillow-centric affront on his face.

“I know, Poe.” you admit, not caring in the slightest anymore. “Just shut up and kiss me some more.”

He smiles, dipping his lips towards yours again. “Now that’s the kind of pillow talk I like to hear.”

His kisses spread a heat through you. Make you feel so good. You realise that if you keep this up any longer you just won’t be able to stop. So, with a concerted effort you manage to break apart from him and catch your breath.

“Poe. We can’t. Shouldn’t. We should stop. I’m gonna sleep on the floor. Before I get ideas about banging you.”

“Ok.” he says causally, as if unbothered, unaffected. He simply folds his arms behind his head and waits quietly for you to gather up your pillow and spare blankets and retreat to the floor.

And then, just as you settle, he launches his pillow at your head with perfect aim. You complain loudly.

“I hear you, honey, but counter-suggestion. How about you just sleep in the bed, after you bang me?”

“Yeah, ok.” you respond instantly, reaching and pulling him down on to the floor with you.

There is only one bed, and you don’t get much use out of it that night.

Nor do you do a whole lot of sleeping.

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fluff #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x y/n #star wars x reader #sw #tros #swcreators #poe dameron imagine #fic prompt #fic request #follower celebration #poe x you #poe x reader #and there was only one bed #fan fic tropes #poe dameron

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pack-the-pack · 5 years

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Any thoughts on the aftermath of mating bites? I have a headcanon that taking care of the other's bite until its healed is a huge part of strengthening a pair's mating bond. Do you think Alphas would take pride in changing the Omegas bandages every day? Or feel guilty for for causing them pain? Would Omegas fret over using the best salves and anti-inflammatory medicine?

Honestly I adore this idea. But as in most of the asks I answer my response is not just “yes, pretty much” or “No” lol Yeeea, sorry about that guys… I do think that overall the biting and the care for it is an intimacy majority of couples take pride on, but I also think the process and importance itself might change depending on personal preference of the couple, culture, time period and social and economic status. Yes We are going there again, fasten your seat belts kids, cause it’s time for a History lesson, Pack style!!!

Warning: Mentions of death, abortions, mental illness, sexual stuff and all sorts of ancient hi jinks in an incredibly lengthy post (cut possibly unavailable on mobile cause tumblr is garbage).

Disclaimer: A lot of what I’m basing these fictional concepts in is very eurocentric because that’s what I know best, I am not a historian, I am not an archaeologist or a biologist, I have no degree on no nothing let alone an specialisation on anything relevant enough to be used as educated sources for what I’m about to write. This is just for fun okay, guys? So no need to rub your years of hard work and experience on my face or be like “well actually-!”, cause it will be like just, cool to know? But very unlikely taken into account past that, so just, relax m’kay? Thanks…… Also a lot of my knowledge on these things just comes from the “History of the entire world I guess” video so yeaaa.

So first and foremost, the types of things one would use to treat mating bites. Again, I think there are variants regarding time period and culture, but I think every culture would end up coming up with rather similar things, or overlapping methods of treating such scarring, and I made a little drawing for it :3 Nothing, great, nothing awesome, but because this ask inspired me to draw something.

(Kind of messy, my pottery is kind of crooked and I totally intended for the background to be grey and didn’t just fuck up cleaning up on the wrong layers and had to pretend that was the original plan, you’re imagining, but it’s from the heart c’mon).

Before people had this fancy thing called modern medicine, they had to rely solely on instinct, anecdotes and superstition to make their medication, and of course, bite treatment wasn’t any different.

Whenever an Alpha would bite an Omega or a Beta or vice verse, the glands around the bite area would get irritated, itchy and achy. The most ancient method of soothing these aches was mud, just plain out wet dirt, applied to the area and left there to dry and reapplied only when the entirety of the first batch cracked and fell off naturally during daily activities. It was the hottest trend amongst packs 50.000 b.c. - Though there is also evidence of animal fat being used for the same purpose as well as snow.

With the end of the Paleolithic period and the invention of agriculture things started to get more advanced, now people have bowls, and lots of seeds… and grains! Grains and seeds that they can squeeze really hard and it makes residue come out of them. This is when various types of oils started to pop all around along with various simple mixtures of flour and water. Many clay statues and other rudimentary paintings from these periods show a variety of deities and rituals that existed around the manufacturing of these products and there are indications that the importance of treating bite wounds only then started to become somewhat of a significant part of mated couples’ lives. It was believed that these smaller human settlements created by the first sedentary packs, aka warrens, didn’t make distinction between the Eleusinian¹ and Asterian² dynamics when it came to mating bites and the treatments of such. Omegas would bite and care for the marks they inflicted on Alphas just as much as Alphas and Betas to one another or other Omegas. It was only when these warrens started to grow into full blown villages and subsequently distinctive cities that these differences started to develop.

Once these villages and cities started to gain shape and power, social hierarchy took on a new dimension beyond sole survival. Alphas no longer concerned themselves solely with the survival of their own small pack and hunting food to provide for their mates and children, Betas no longer concerned themselves with just assisting Alphas and Omegas in their daily activities as well as primarily caring for crops and animals, and Omegas no longer only cared to make sure their children and pack were in good health and cared for. Farming and the domestication of animals allowed everyone to have more time for architecture, writing, laws, politics, dancing, music, religion and most important of all: Figuring out how to divide people in a way that totally doesn’t benefit everyone equally, as one do. So now you got social classes and cultural diversity, and these come with different ways of treating mating bites. So around the period of the Bronze age to when the Greeks were like really important (specially cause a lot of the terminology and ideas about the dynamics carried nowadays comes from them and the Romans in western society) methods and materials started to shift a bit, but not drastically. Herbs like mint and parsley, flowers like lavender and aconite, roots like ginger and marsh mallow, and oils like that from olives, frankincense or sesame seeds as well as animal derived products such as wax from bees or blood and fat from animals and sometimes even metals like iron started to pop up all around from east to west as cures for all sorts of ailments and diseases. Brought through the sea or through land by merchants (rhizotomiki) who crossed nations and continents, carrying with them they brought all sorts of new superstitions and beliefs about mating bites. Flowers said to be born from rivers or lakes of eternal youth, roots and spices made of fire itself, honey directly from the mouth of deities or roots that’d kill any spiritual disease started gaining popularity quickly with pretty much everyone seen as a lot of these were said to provide for good fortune and happy and prosperous marriages if incorporated on biting rituals. Oracles and religious leaders would advise their followers and rulers to consume certain things before mating and to care for their bites and their partners with extra amounts of care because all of a sudden they started to become super important. Deaths, famine, bad luck, abortions and mental illnesses started to be blamed on the lack of care or the improper care of mating bites, said to either cause the body to perish in account of some malignant aspect of a specific plant or to have angered the gods in some manner.

The high mortality that could come with infected mating bites became more and more apparent the more society advanced, but they didn’t know it was because of the infection itself yet, so surviving these was not only a sign of strength or luck, but a sign of status, power, money and higher spirituality. Emperors, Empresses, feudal lords in the orient, etc. All took pride in having enough money to buy rare ingredients from merchants from far away lands as well as hundreds of slaves and servants to care for their gardens, plantations and animals which provided them with an immense diversity of always available plants, herbs and roots that gained favour in aiding with biting marks. To be the chosen mate of one of these people would grant one with a similar status and privileges, such as not dying and having better flavoured bread or something.

This also meant that they didn’t really want other people but them using these miracle medicines, because they thought that for the common people to use “divinely provided” forms of care would inevitably result in corruption of said methods and subsequently the fall of society. So now you had:

The rulers of nations and cities/nobles: Using and manufacturing refined powders from roots, grains and metals from far away nations in order to bind and cure mating bites. Rare Oils from plant eradicated anywhere but the palaces and gardens belonging to the highest circles, bandages made from the finest silks and sown and painted with all sorts of religious meanings. Concoctions that took hours, months or even years to be finished for a single claiming treatment, with recipes and processes kept secret and many times lost forever with trusted doctors/shamans that’d tend to royalty only.

Generals, Priestesses, Shamans, Politicians: Using plants and roots that were common, but difficult to come by, expensive, difficult to use or “required” a specific ritual that’d grant them some sort of untapped potential from these plants otherwise, providing them “enlightenment”, “strength”, “wisdom” and “spiritual clearance” in order to win all things from wars, to new knowledge and insight on the gods’ wants and needs to political feuds. Alcohol and other fermented blends such and wine and grape must with marsh mallow, made to clean and close wounds as well as soothing burns were prioritized here. The immediate pain was considered cleansing and efficiency. Mandrakes were rather popular as well, but for treating “deep spiritual diseases”, such as when ones mate falls ills some hours or a day after the bite is consummated, or to ensure healthy and strong offspring coming from the union since it was considered to aid on sexual prowess. However given its “immense” power and magical properties it was rarely ever given or prescribed to the masses without the supervision or blessing of a highly spiritual attuned authority.

Lords and wealthy merchants: Using, manufacturing and selling all sorts of blends, mostly creams and perfumes said to help with pain and itching. These would change depending on the city and the deities they worshiped and superstitions they carried as well as the plants naturally available in the lands (the ones that haven’t been eradicated or hogged by other classes of people). These were the ones usually gifted by acquaintances, and friends of the newly mated couple as offerings of good fortune, prosperity and fertility. These varied hugely in ingredients and price as well. Though there were other ingredients and recipes guarded with an amount of secrecy by these as well, gifted and used just by the family to other members of the same, these tended to be tended to and made with a higher degree of care, utilizing plants one would have at their disposal in their own home.

Common soldiers, artisans and lesser merchants, sailors and farmers: The people that didn’t really have much money, time or social status to dedicate to bite wounds would resort to simpler and cheaper methods of soothing their pains. Simply dousing the wounds with olive or fish oil was a common practice, as well as using salt water to wash the area. Clay of various kinds as well as coal and ground up seashells were popular on various cities as ingredients for lotions and creams and many times were offered to the gods as well as a form of prayer for good health and happy mateship. Lamb and goat fat was also very popular with the poor for its healing and relaxing properties, people would collect an array of herbs and flowers that’d fancy their partner or the both of them to incorporate into it, in order to symbolise their union as one as well as to mask the strong foul smell from the fat.

Slaves: Slaves were usually prohibited to mate by their masters, but the ones that happened to mate someone or being mated would be punished with not being able to treat their wounds. It was seen as a disgrace and distasteful to not treat ones bite wounds, and people thought only fitting that slaves who step out of line would have their favour taken from them entirely on the eyes of their gods or polite society. As a result slaves had to resort to only using water and cool mud, many succumbing to the infections and fevers that were attributed by most as a corruption of the spirit and not worthy of pity.

So as you can see, there was a divide in how they treated their wounds based on many things, and while some of these methods and rituals sometimes overlapped between classes the distinction was stark enough that you could clearly tell what type belonged to whom. It was around that time as well that the Eleusinian and Asterian dynamics started to get divided more and more as time passed. Omegas were treated as borderline property and in many places like Athens were not granted the right to mark their mate back, with exceptions occurring just in certain occasions (such as the soon departure to a losing war on the mate’s part, or to save the mate’s life though a spiritual treatment), Beta females and poor Omega females being forbidden to use certain plants and to take part in certain rituals by law claimed to be belonging solely to Omega females of higher social status, Omega males being prohibited of using any sort of soothing agents if not prohibited of being bitten altogether. Alphas having or not marks as a form of weakness or a show of strength varied ridiculously from city to city and from nation to nation (So much so that to this day there is not full agreement on that in society). And a whole lot of other rules and random crap just around mating bites alone.

With the invention of modern medicine, these things started to change obviously, people had a better grasp of what helped and what just made things worse, creams, pills, oils,,and ointments started being patented and people would gradually only look to more naturalistic methods of treating claim bites as an element of a different all-natural life style or a belief (misguided or not) that natural = better. With all that said one thing has remained true: Yes, caring for ones wounds is something that is and was believed to strengthen and solidify ones bond with their mate. People always tended to care a great deal for it, doing everything in their power to provide for their mates in the best way they knew how, if it were through giving them private care by more servants then they can count, with the best ingredients in the world at the moment, or simply by choosing smells and things that they’d like in order to show how much they care, they took and still take great pride in caring for that very fragile wound in their necks. As whether or not this is more an Alpha thing or a Omega thing, or if Alphas hate or take pride in causing pain to their partners, that varies in belief, culture and time period. I particularly think that overall it’d be a mixture of both. They don’t want to cause excessive pain to their partner but they also want their bonds to be solidified forever. The Eleusinian dynamics were always the ones more intimately connected with the production and rituals surrounding bite soothers so to me it makes sense they prioritize its quality more than Asterian dynamics, but that also is a highly individual thing.

Overall I hope this wasn’t a complete departure from what you asked >.> But I really wanted to explore this a bit more and your ask gave me the opportunity to. Remembering this is all just my interpretation and applies to my verse (PTPverse) which is completely open for creative use in fanfictions, RP sessions and others, so if you don’t agree with what I said here that’s 100% fine, to each their own, I just hope this somehow was able to help anyone ;) any lingering questions try checking out my other history posts such as the Ancient Greece Headcanons one or make another ask on my inbox for clarity. Peace.

¹ - Eleusinian dynamics: Referring to Omegas (of either gender) and Beta females.

² - Asterian dynamics: Referring to Alphas (of either gender) and Beta males.

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agentverbivore · 7 years

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Hello, my friend! For your ficlet giveaway, how about FS + THE CROWN :D (any scene/moment you want!) Thanks for doing this!

@whatlighttasteslike *heavy sigh* do I thank you or scold you for enabling me? XP I had so much fun writing this - but now it’s gonna end up being a full (if shortish) fic at some point when I finish my vastly delayed FSSV present. {Much of this scene includes dialogue from the first episode.}Anniversary Ficlet 3/8.Rated G. FitzSimmons. “The Crown” (Queen Elizabeth & Prince Philip) AU.

The room’s familiar gilding served as no distraction for Jemma as she paced the elaborate carpet that adorned the floor. Her dress swished around her legs, and she resisted the urge to curl her fingers into the cream-colored fabric. That would not be ladylike. Voices droned on in the room across the hall, and although she knew that it would be seen as very improper for her to be present or even eavesdrop, the latter was precisely what she was trying to do. It just didn’t seem fair for her to be excluded from such an important occasion; but, that’s just how things were done, and Crown Princess Jemma Simmons was excellent at following royal protocol. She’d been an expert ever since she was a child, and she wasn’t going to stop now. Still, she paced back and forth in front of the drawing room door, managing to catch a handful of words:

“…From henceforth, he will be known as Lieutenant Leopold James Fitz, Royal Navy. Leopold Fitz, I grant you and the heirs, male of your body, lawfully begotten, the dignities of Baron Greenwich, Earl of Meioneth and Duke of Edinburgh, and Knight Companion of our Most Noble Order of the Garter.”

Reserved applause sounded through the hallway, and Jemma realized that she was grinning in an entirely unseemly way, but she couldn’t convince herself to stop. When she accidentally caught the eye of a nearby butler, she quickly tried to school her face into an expression of polite contentment, and gave him a nod. Then she turned on her heel and paced back to the other side of the room, wholly impatient for the men’s congratulating to finish so that she could finally, finally see her fiancé.

Within a few minutes, as she stared pensively out the window onto the grounds of Buckingham Palace, she heard sharp footsteps cross the hall and become muffled as the person entered the drawing room. A bright smile spread across her face, and she twisted quickly around to see that the new person was, in fact, her Fitz. He looked so dapper in his dress uniform, ever-unruly curls barely tamed and blue eyes shining as they met hers, that she sucked in a small breath of pleased surprise. Even though she’d seen him like this before, everything in the next twenty-four hours was guaranteed to be heightened, routines and familiar dress becoming all the more exciting for the life that it was designed to usher in.

The movement of the other dignitaries, guards, and servants now passing through the hall caught Jemma’s eye, and her smile faltered. For although Fitz’s touch was not precisely foreign to her, now was not the time for her to run up and throw her arms about his neck as she had been about to do.

“Well?” she said quietly, slipping around the large table with an enormous vase of decorative flowers that separated them. “They got through it?”

Fitz chuckled, slipping one finger into his collar and tugging slightly. “Yeah. I got through it, which is probably more impressive.”

“Well done, you,” she murmured, taking another step forward. Someone in the hall made a distinct huff, and they both turned, although the noise-maker had disappeared by the time they did. Jemma sighed. “I think they’d have preferred a nice, pink-faced marquis with a grouse moor in the Welsh borders.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t’ve preferred one of those?” Fitz said, clearly teasing but a hint of insecurity hovering beneath his words. “Someone with a grand title, instead of a homeless Scot with a disreputable family?”

“No,” Jemma answered right away, her gaze clear as she met his. Tension leeched out of his shoulders, and the look he gave her was one of adoration that she knew quite well by now. A smile teased at the corners of her mouth. “That would have been much too… antiseptic.”

“You like antiseptic, if I remember correctly,” he said, and she laughed, raising one hand to hide her mouth.

“So do you,” she retorted, folding her hands primly in front of her skirts as she glimpsed someone’s disapproving glance from the hall. “Otherwise you’d never come into my lab again.”

“If you didn’t leave cat livers lying about,” Fitz groused, and she giggled again, “then it wouldn’t be as much of a problem.”

“The livers keep things interesting.”

“You do that well enough on your own.” Another fond smile spread across his face as he finished talking, and she felt fit to bursting with her own happiness.

With the way Fitz was looking at her, she knew that he was likely to throw propriety to the wind at any second. Oh, on any other day she would love for him to just sweep her off her feet; but there was too much riding on the next couple of days. After all, she’d had to spend months pressing her case for their marriage, had needed to convince everyone from Buckingham to sundry that Fitz was worthy of the titles that had just been bestowed upon him. With luck, it would be very many more years yet before she became queen and he became the queen’s consort, but marrying the crown princess was still not something permitted to just anyone in the kingdom. Jemma, however, having found the source of her future happiness in her best friend in the world, had refused to let anything in the world keep them from being together. The trade-off was that for the next little while, they had to behave as good as gold in order to convince the rest of the world – and the extended royal family – that the match had not been a complete mistake.

After a few seconds, he half-glanced behind him and then stepped towards her. Reluctant to seem like she was rejecting him and yet also wary of drawing the attention of the judgmental people around them, Jemma tensed, prepared to step hastily back if need be. But all Fitz did was lay his hand on the round table, reaching towards her, and she realized he’d just been angling them so that the flowers hid their hands from any outside viewers. Giving him an admiring smile, Jemma slid her hand along the gray and white marble until it met his, their fingers slipping gently over each others’, skin barely ghosting against skin lest they need to separate again soon, all too soon. It had been well over a week since they’d been alone, and truth be told it was driving Jemma mad. If they could even just dance together, chests pressed so close they could nearly feel each others’ heartbeats, at this second, that would be enough for her.

Her eyes caught a smudge of grease on the outer side of his palm, and she let out a sharp hiss of annoyance. “Oh, Fitz! Please don’t tell me you were mucking about in the garage again, not now. You know you can’t do work like that until things have calmed down. The queen thinks it looks common.”

At least he had the grace to look sheepish. “The engine just needed a quick fix,” he explained, bright blue eyes widening imploringly. “It only took a second, and I was really careful that no one saw. Other than the drivers. And my butler.” She raised an eyebrow, and he grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I just – I like helping. I’m good at that, you know, that’s what I do out on tour. It makes me feel useful.”

“And normally, I love that about you,” she murmured, smoothing her palm up so that it rested firmly over his hand. His mouth twitched up at the corner, half in surprise and half in affection. Sometimes, she had the impression that he didn’t quite believe how in love with him she truly was. “But you have to give it up for now. For a few weeks. Until things have settled.”

Fitz sighed, giving his head a chastened nod. “I do miss working when I’m not. But,” he continued, turning her hand over and grasping it tightly with his, “like a great many other things, I’m going to give it all up for you.”

Jemma nearly found herself stepping forward, but the sound of more voices passing by in the hallway kept her in her place. Instead, she gave her fiancé a warm smile. “Well,” she said, tilting her head mischievously, “you still have twenty-four hours to change your mind.” Glancing down at the slim-banded watch on her wrist, she let out a small hum. “Closer to twenty-one hours, actually.”

“Do you really,” Fitz started quietly, taking another half-step forward and entwining their fingers completely, “think I would ever change my mind?”

They stood there in silence for a few moments, energy spinning between them along with all the words they knew had to go unsaid for just a little longer. Tomorrow night, at the end of far too many hours of pomp and circumstance, they would be able to leave propriety at the door and be together as they should. Without artifice, without costume, without company – other than each other. To say that Jemma had been dreaming about that moment for months was something of an understatement.

“No,” he said at last, breaking the quiet spell that had woven between them, “much too late for that.” With a laugh, he gestured back at the room across the hall, which seemed to have finally nearly emptied. “I just signed myself away and everything.”

Watching as a last medalled dignitary exited the room and closed the door, Jemma’s smile thinned. “Or won the greatest prize in the kingdom.”

Fitz made a small noise of dissatisfaction, separating their hands and turning briefly around to follow her gaze. “I dunno. I mean, that’s what they’re all saying, but I’m not so sure.”

A brief laugh sounded from her throat, and she propped one hand on her hip. “Oh? You’re not, are you?”

“Nah,” he said, turning back to meet her gaze, his own expression a mix of amusement and adoration. “Greatest gift on the planet, maybe. Or in the galaxy.”

“Oh, Fitz,” she murmured, instinctively reaching up to tuck a nonexistent lock of stray hair behind one ear. He liked making these grandiose statements that, paradoxically, made her feel uncharacteristically small. Yet she still avidly tried to memorize each one.

After watching her for a few seconds, he glanced around again, noting – as she did – that the rest of the royal dignitaries and signatories and whatsatories had all finally disappeared down the hall, and they were left only with the guard at the entrance to the room.

“Watch out,” Fitz said in a low voice, and before Jemma could register his movement, he was cupping her jaw with both hands and kissing her as if it were the first time all over again.

A small huff of surprise sounded from her throat as their lips met, and although she knew now was a bad time, knew that anyone could walk in at any moment, she didn’t step away. Instead, she wrapped one hand around his wrist and rested the other on his arm, knowing she shouldn’t cling but clinging anyway. Fitz’s lips were warm and gentle and still passionate, pressing in over and over again until she was breathless. But with time being so short, she chose his mouth over air, heart skipping a beat when he broke away to brush their noses together and then capture her lips again.

Oh, damn propriety and damn reputation, Jemma thought, leaning further into her fiancé’s embrace. She and Fitz would be married tomorrow; they were allowed to be blissfully, unreservedly happy, and to forget what anyone else thought.

The full fic is now being posted on AO3!

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classicalrhetoric · 7 years

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Dissoi Logoi, Against the Sophists, and the Encomium of Helen

Dissoi Logoi

I had a little bit to say about the three readings above. First, I will deal with Dissoi Logoi, written between 403 to 395 BCE by an anonymous person, who was likely a Sophist, male, and possibly a student of Protagoras. I particularly liked this reading for the fact that, if nothing else, it shows many failures of language to get at reality.

One thing that I wanted to mention is that when the writer states, in Section 3 “On Just and Unjust” that deception can be a positive thing, especially in tragedies and painting, where the person is best who deceives the most in creating things that are like the real thing, that I am not sure I agree with the idea of art as an attempt to become like reality. Perhaps technology, particularly “augmented reality” has influenced my view, but I tend to think of fiction as improving reality, of making reality as it should be, rather than what it is, often. Or, perhaps, I see fiction as augmenting reality, as adding to it. Admittedly, it could also be my psychoanalytic readings that make me look at it this way. According to Slavoj Zizek, “Fantasy realized is nightmare.” I consider most pieces of art either the work of fantasy or a kind of hysterical act. For those that are fantasy, I draw a distinct line between them and reality.

In any case, I’m just not sure I agree with this particular example in Dissoi Logoi. As a whole, though, I really agreed with the reading, and I’d like to point out one thing in Section 4 “On Truth and Falsehood” before moving on.

About midway in Section 4, the writer states that if a group were to say, “I am an initiate,” but only one person in that group is an actual initiate, then the same set of words is both truth and a lie. Thus, it’s not the words that make the statement true or false, but rather the people. The true person can make the truth truth. The false person can make the truth falsehood. Truth has nothing to do with the words in this instance because the same words can be truth and falsehood, which means all words are both truth and lies.

The above reminds me a lot of authentication. Something as simple as password authentication proves this point. Password authentication’s purpose is to ensure that whoever is accessing, for instance, an e-mail account is the person who owns that e-mail account. The password, however, is just a password, and it authenticates, no matter who uses it. Thus, it can work, whether it is the truth or a lie, and it can be a truth or a lie (in the sense that someone can trick the account to let them in with the same word that the user might use to be authenticated).

Against the Sophists

I don’t have a ton to say about Against the Sophists, but I nevertheless wanted to mention that this text reminds me A LOT of potential arguments against televangelists or megachurches. It’s not an exact comparison, but it’s pretty close. One particular area made it click for me, and I am going to share it. This is the point at which I’m not sure if the version I am reading is the same as everyone else’s version, but I am nevertheless going to quote my version here. I will also include the link to my version below.

“But it is not these sophists alone who are open to criticism, but also those who profess to teach political discourse. For the latter have no interest whatever in the truth, but consider that they are great masters of an art if they can attract great numbers of students by the smallness of their charges and the magnitude of their professions and get something out of them. For they are themselves so stupid and conceive others to be so dull that, although the speeches which they compose are worse than those which some laymen improvise, nevertheless they promise to make their students such clever orators that they will not overlook any of the possibilities which a subject affords. More than that, they do not attribute any of this power either to the practical experience or to the native ability of the student, but undertake to transmit the science of discourse as simply as they would teach the letters of the alphabet...”

Link to this version: https://ryanfb.github.io/loebolus-data/L229.pdf

What really stood out to me is the idea that teachers who are improper teachers only believe in themselves and their speech, and they do not consider the practical experience or native ability of the student. In other words, it’s ALL about what the teacher is giving the student, and televangelists remind me of this. It’s all about what they can provide believers or customers, rather than ever considering that those believers or customers might have their own connections to what there is to be learned, or believed, or worshiped, that are completely private and have nothing to do with them. That, and the fact that numbers are most important for televangelists. They are, one could argue, less interested in truth, than in rhetoric that can get them more followers.

Gorgias’s Encomium of Helen

As for the last reading I will address, I wanted to say that Gorgias’s Encomium of Helen reminded me quite a bit of Jessica Jones.

Gorgias basically argues that Helen was potentially thoroughly violated through persuasion, as words are basically like magic and can constrain the soul. As most probably already know, Jessica Jones is about a (one might say godlike, or half-godlike) superhero named Jessica who is coming to terms with the fact that she was trapped beneath the powers of a super villain named Kilgrave. Kilgrave’s power is that he is able to force people to do whatever he tells them to. In other words, what he speaks is literally magic and constrains souls. Jessica, thus, is no more to blame for her actions under Kilgrave as anyone else is. In addition to this, though, there is of course another element in Jessica Jones that is also in the Encomium of Helen: that of rape. It is by being convinced that one wants something that one would not want without those magical, bewitching words that constitutes rape, in both the television series and Gorgias’s writing. I will add that I think there is much, much more worth analyzing here in terms of the Encomium of Helen and Jessica Jones, and that there may be more writings on rhetoric to compare to the television series as we go along.

That being said, I will also say that in the book Jude, the Obscure, an exact opposite sort of thing occurs: a man is bewitched by the beauty of a woman. It turns out that this is a false beauty (it is adornment), and I do wonder why Gorgias doesn’t go into the bewitching, magical nature of physical beauty (especially of Helen). Though, perhaps, since he is defending her, of course he wouldn’t go into that, and perhaps too many writings go into the bewitching power of her beauty. I just do find it interesting that he begins the writing by acknowledging that beauty to the sight is significant, yet he doesn’t argue that perhaps two people bewitched one another, rather than one bewitching the other.

#Dissoi Logoi #Encomium of Helen #Against the Sophists #Gorgias #Isocrates #Classical rhetoric #rhetoric

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